There's just something about riding a big, strong man that hits different.
He’s so wide and tall that when you straddle his hips, your thighs are already forced apart, knees barely touching the mattress on either side. You have to spread yourself open just to sink down, and the stretch is immediate and obscene. His hands settle on your waist, not guiding, just holding you steady like he knows exactly how much you’re already trembling. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on where you’re taking him, inch by torturous inch. “Look at you… so fuckin’ pretty like this. All spread out for me.”
You whimper when you finally bottom out, hips flush against his, clit pressed tight to his pelvis. Your legs are splayed wide, muscles straining, no way to close them even if you wanted to. Every tiny shift of your hips makes you feel impossibly full, the pressure everywhere at once. He doesn’t thrust up yet. He just watches as you try to find a rhythm. Your hands brace on his broad chest, nails digging into thick muscle, but he barely flinches. Instead, his thumbs stroke slow circles over your hip bones, encouraging.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Ride me slow. Let me feel how deep I am inside you.” You roll your hips experimentally, and the drag is devastating—his dick pressing against every sensitive spot, stretching you open wider with every grind. Your thighs burn from how far apart they’re forced, but the ache only makes everything sharper, wetter. He groans low in his throat when you clench around him, hips jerking up once, reflexive, before he forces himself still again. “Fuck… you’re grippin’ me so tight,” he rasps.
“Can feel every little flutter. Keep goin’, sweetheart. Use me. Make yourself come on me.” Your pace quickens despite the strain in your legs. The position leaves you exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy, and he loves it. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, but his eyes stay glued to where you’re stretched around him, slick coating his shaft every time you lift. “Look how wide you’re opened for me,” he says, voice thick with awe. “Can see everything, how wet you are, how deep I’m hittin’… fuck, you’re perfect.”
Your thighs start shaking harder, the burn mixing with the pleasure until you’re gasping, grinding down frantically. He finally gives in, hands clamping on your hips, helping you move faster, deeper, using his strength to bounce you on his cock while your legs stay helplessly splayed. “Come on,” he growls softly. “Come for me, baby." You shatter with a broken cry, walls clamping down hard, fluttering around him as your whole body locks up. He follows right after, hips bucking up, burying himself deep with a low, guttural moan as he spills inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it leaks out around him.
When the aftershocks fade, he doesn’t pull out. Just wraps his arms around you, pulling you down to lie against his chest, your legs still forced wide over his hips. “Stay,” he whispers, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Just like this. Let me hold you.”
You melt into him, thighs burning, heart racing, completely surrounded by his warmth and size. He strokes your back in slow, soothing lines, murmuring soft praise against your hair until your breathing evens out. “Love feelin’ you like this,” he says quietly. “All open and soft and mine.” You press a sleepy kiss to his collarbone. He smiles against your forehead. And neither of you moves for a long, long time.
summary: A mission gone wrong leaves you, Superman, and Batman exposed to a pheromone weapon deep in a derelict LexCorp lab. The only way to purge it from your systems is release, and the haze makes hiding your hunger impossible. Between Clark’s worshipful devotion, Bruce’s ruthless command, and your own years of touch-starved longing, restraint doesn’t stand a chance.
words: 12k
t/w: 18+, MDNI, sex pollen, Threesome, DP Oral (m & f receiving), clit spanking, overstimulation, dacryphilia (crying), praise kink, degradation kink, brat play, brat tamer/brat enabler dynamics, Breeding kink (light), Rough sex, Biting, marking, scratching, Bruce is a bit of a sadist, clark is so good for u both, reader is a brat bc obviously, lots of unprotected sex
a/n: this is mostly just smut.... with a slight plot maybe if you squint reallly hard like probably 10k worth whoopsie. i haven't written bruce really much before and i am not entirely happy with his characterization here but it is what it is, if u hate it pls don't tell me im emotionally fragile rn lmao
You’d told yourself it wouldn’t matter. That going without touch this long was part of the job, part of being a Justice League member who spent more nights buried in shadows than in sheets. That loneliness was just another kind of endurance training, one you’d signed up for willingly. Still, you carried it in your body; every shift of your shoulders too tight, every exhale a fraction too shallow, your skin aching for something more than the press of Kevlar and reinforced plating.
Starving. That’s what it was. Starving in a way food couldn’t fix.
The worst part was how easy it was to hide. A sharper tone in your reports, a restless tap of your fingers against briefing tables, nothing that couldn’t be mistaken for vigilance. You thought you were safe behind the mask.
But Clark noticed. And you shouldn’t have been surprised. He noticed everything when it came to you, it seems.
On the Watchtower, before deployment, he’d tilted his head in that way of his, quiet, unassuming, but direct enough to make you squirm. Eyes steady, voice soft as summer wheat. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, like it was a question. “If you ever want to talk…”
You gave him a shrug and a half-smile, pretending his warmth didn’t press against you like sunlight through glass. Like you hadn't wanted to do more than talk with him for years. But you couldn’t admit it. Not when Clark Kent wore kindness like another cape draped over his shoulders. Not when Bruce Wayne stood nearby, all iron edges and silence, a man who would cut the word weakness out of you if you dared show it.
Now, boots scuffing across fractured linoleum, you regret pretending.
The lab reeks, stale air curdled with sterilizer, rust, something sharper underneath, metallic as old blood dried onto iron. The overhead lights stutter with each electrical pulse. Every time they flare, they catch on Clark’s profile, silver-blue carved from light, and on Bruce’s, jagged shadow sharp enough to cut. Icons made for worship and fear.
Clark keeps to your side, his cape whispering against your calves when you slow, a tether you didn’t ask for but lean toward anyway. He always keeps just close enough to catch you if you stumble. Bruce pushes ahead, silent, precise. His gauntlet hums as he sweeps it over warped bulkheads, his voice gravel-scraped when he finally speaks.
“Containment breach originated here.”
The chamber yawns open, wide and wrong. Tanks loom along the walls, glass fractured, edges glowing faintly where the fluid inside still seeps out in glistening rivulets. Gold, molten, alive. It clings to the floor in puddles that shimmer faintly with their own light, like spilled starlight caught in honey. The hum grows louder, resonant, a vibration in your bones.
You know better than to lean closer. Years of training scream at you to hold your breath, to stay back. But your chest aches with that familiar hunger, a hollowness you’ve lived with for too long. You want to feel something, anything, that doesn’t come with steel or blood.
You inhale.
It tastes sweet. Too sweet. Syrup-thick, like melted sugar poured down your throat. The burn comes next; first at the back of your tongue, then crawling down your throat, crawling deeper until it’s in your lungs, heavy and buzzing. It settles there like a live thing, pulsing, pushing against your ribs until the ache unfurls hotter, sharper, twisting low in your stomach and lower still, blooming between your thighs.
Your knees buckle. The sound you make is raw, too close to a sob.
Clark is there before you fall. His hands catch your arms, heat radiating through the suit as though his skin itself carries sunlight. His grip is too gentle, too careful, like he thinks you might break. He dips his head low, his voice wrapped in panic.
“Sweetheart, hey, hey. What’s wrong? What happened?”
You open your mouth, try to shape the warning, but he’s already too close, already breathing your air. His inhale catches. His pupils blow wide, his lips part like he’s been struck. His hands tighten, tremor running through his hold, and then you feel it. The furnace of him radiating outward, heat rolling off him like a noon sun with no shadows to hide beneath.
“What?" His voice cracks on the word, ragged and reverent all at once. “What is that?”
Bruce reacts last. His cowl filter blinks red, alert flashing across the lens. He curses under his breath, tries to retreat, but the air is saturated now. Every breath pulls it deeper, golden and cloying, impossible to avoid. He exhales sharply, jaw locking, shoulders drawing tight as a live wire. His scanner shrieks an alarm.
You all freeze in the haze. The gold drifts around you, clings to skin, sinks into the weave of your suit. It shimmers in Clark’s hair, sharpens the hard edges of Bruce’s cowl until he looks carved out of obsidian. The hum in the air grows louder, a low thrum under your heartbeat.
Bruce’s voice slices through it, flat, clipped. “It’s a pheromone weapon.”
The words drop into your chest like a blade, splitting the ache wider.
Clark sways on his feet, chest rising fast, each inhale too shallow. His color is high, cheeks flushed in ways you’ve never seen on him, not even in the most extreme of battles. “W-what do you mean, a weapon?”
Bruce lifts his gauntlet, displays the readout glowing across fractured glass. The analysis scrolls, sterile white text spelling out what your body already knows. His mouth hardens, though his voice falters around the edges.
“No antidote. No filter. No suppressant.” His gaze flicks to you, then Clark, both of you flushed, sweating, trembling against the current that won’t stop climbing. His jaw tightens. “The only way to purge it is physiological reset.”
The word barely makes sense. The haze makes language a slow, slippery thing. “Reset?” you echo, voice already fraying.
Bruce’s eyes lock to yours. Cold, steel-gray, unflinching even as the faintest tremor cuts through his composure. His answer lands like a sentence passed down in court. “Release.”
For a moment, the world holds still. The only sound is the broken buzz of lights and the uneven cadence of three people breathing too hard.
Clark’s throat bobs as he swallows, Adam’s apple shifting. His lips part, and the stammer that escapes him is boyish, almost helpless. “Gosh, you’re saying we have to…”
“Yes.” Bruce cuts him off, flat and final. The syllable hangs in the golden air, heavier than the haze itself.
The burn under your skin blooms hotter, sharper, insistent now. For weeks you had been touch-starved. Now, you’re drowning. That word hangs in your air, release, and it cuts through you like a brand, searing your lungs from the inside. The ache you’d been swallowing down for months, maybe years, roars up all at once, impossible to bury. Every nerve raw. Every breath ragged.
You stumble back against the console, the edge biting into your hips, and the sound that slips out of you is humiliatingly small, a whimper, broken, needy. Heat curls low in your belly, unrelenting, and your thighs press together instinctively, searching for friction.
The shame hits next, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The haze is too thick. It’s in your bloodstream. You can’t pretend.
Clark moves first. He’s always the one who moves first to you.
“Sweetheart,” His cape flares behind him as he closes the distance, hands wrapping around your wrists like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His palms are huge, solid, burning hot even through your suit. His wide blue eyes search your face with naked worry. “Please, are you alright? Tell me what you need.” His voice shakes.
You bite back another whimper, chest heaving against his, but before you can answer, another voice cuts across, low and cold.
“Step back, Kent.” Bruce’s silhouette looms near the broken tanks, all jagged lines and shadow, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his stance. His arms are crossed, his jaw locked tight, scanner still glowing faintly in his gauntlet. He doesn’t even glance at you when he says it, his gaze pinned to Clark like a challenge.
Clark stiffens. “She’s in pain.”
“She’s compromised,” Bruce cuts in, gravel rough. “So are you.”
Clark’s lips part, indignation coloring his cheeks. “No, I’m fine.”
“Really?” Bruce’s head tilts just slightly, eyes narrowing under the cowl. “Your heartbeat’s accelerated. One-thirty, climbing.”
Clark swallows. Bruce takes a step closer, the sound of his boots heavy against the fractured floor. His gaze drops pointedly, and your stomach flips as your own eyes follow.
The bulge in Clark’s suit is unmistakable. Obscene, straining against the cling of fabric, pulsing in time with the labored rhythm of his chest.
Clark flushes so dark it burns down his throat, up to his ears. “Gosh, Bruce, I…”
“Save it,” Bruce snaps. His gaze flicks to you, lingering on the sweat slicking your skin, the tremor in your thighs, the way you’re pressing yourself back against the console like it might anchor you. Then back to Clark. “It’s a pheromone weapon. There is no cure. No antidote. The only way out is through.”
Clark shakes his head violently, curls damp against his forehead. His voice is ragged, pleading. “There has to be another way. There always is.”
“You think your optimism changes biochemistry?” Bruce’s words cut like a blade. “Look at her.”
You look down at yourself, your own body trembling, your thighs damp and aching, heat radiating from your core like a beacon. A wet spot, mortifying clear, strains against your suit, a clear please fuck me from your aching cunt. You don’t recognize yourself, not with this much need boiling under your skin.
And then you look at Clark. His chest heaving. Sweat beading at his temple. That breathtakingly earnest face twisted with panic and guilt. His lips pink and swollen from biting them. The shape of him, the sheer size of him, his erection pressing shamelessly against his suit.
Your head swims.
Bruce steps closer still, until the shadows of his cowl slice across Clark’s flushed face. They’re nearly chest to chest now, two titans locked in a standoff, and you can feel the static charge between them like it’s crawling over your own skin.
“You can lie to yourself,” Bruce murmurs, quiet and vicious. “But don’t lie to me.”
Clark’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to yours, just for a heartbeat, and it’s enough to betray him. Your breath hitches. The haze curls tighter around you, relentless, and you want to scream from it. Your skin feels too thin, every inch of you starving. And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that the sight of them arguing, heat clashing against cold, is devastatingly hot.
You drink them in shamelessly. Bruce, dark and imposing, voice like gravel dragged over steel. Clark, flushed and trembling, all muscle and sunlight straining at its seams. Their standoff sparks against your hunger, and all you can think is how badly you want to be between them, under them, claimed by them.
A sound slips out of you, desperate and humiliating. A half-whine, half-beg that makes both their heads snap toward you.
Clark is at your side instantly, crouching down, hands cradling your face like you’re fragile glass. His eyes are wide, frantic. “Sweetheart, what can I do? Just tell me how I can help.”
The question punches through you. The sweetness of it, the sheer Clarkness of it, makes you want to laugh and sob all at once. Your lips tremble. You can’t take it anymore. The hunger, the heat, the way they’re both standing there like living embodiments of everything you’ve denied yourself.
Your voice comes out hoarse, ragged. “I need you. Both… of you.”
The words hang between the three of you, heavier than anything Bruce or the scanners could pronounce. Clark goes still, like the world’s dropped out from under him. His eyes search yours, as if to make sure he isn’t mishearing. Bruce’s silence is colder, sharper. His eyes flick between you and Clark, calculating. Always calculating.
Clark doesn’t let go of your face. His thumbs brush over your cheeks like he’s trying to wipe away the heat searing you from the inside, his palms cupping you steady. He’s still trembling. The Man of Steel, trembling.
“Okay,” he breathes, voice cracking with panic, “I’ll help you. Anything you need. Just…just tell me what to do.”
The earnestness makes your chest ache. The pollen gnaws at every tender nerve and makes it unbearable. His sweetness, his softness, it’s too much. You need it twisted, need him bent, need proof that even Clark Kent can break. For you.
Your lips curve in something sharper than a smile. “If you really cared,” you rasp, the hunger shredding through your voice, “you’d put that pretty mouth to work, Kent.”
Shock flashes over his face. For one suspended second, he looks like a boy caught misbehaving, mouth parting, color flooding his cheeks. Then the words sink in, and something inside him buckles.
He sinks. Literally. Falls to his knees before you, red cape spilling like a wound across the broken tiles, broad hands sliding to frame your thighs. His eyes tilt up to you, blue, wide, shining with devotion that makes your breath stutter, and then his mouth is on you.
The first touch is tentative. Broad tongue pressing against the seam of your ruined suit, heat blooming where it licks over the fabric, soaking you through. He groans into it, shuddering, like the taste of you is too much and not enough all at once.
“Clark,” Your hand tangles in his hair before you think, tugging hard. He moans at the pull, and the vibration rips through you, makes your knees threaten to give out.
There’s no finesse at first. Just heat, pressure, desperation. He laves at you through the suit, each stroke wetter, hungrier, until the fabric is clinging to your skin and you’re gasping. He fumbles with the seam, thick fingers tugging, and then he tears it clean in two with a grunt, the sound embarrassingly loud in the chamber. Air rushes against your overheated pussy, and then his mouth is there, hot and wet and reverent.
He kisses your cunt like it’s holy. Like this is prayer, and you’re the altar. Your head falls back against the console with a silent cry. His tongue flicks, broad strokes dragging through your slick, his nose bumping your clit with every desperate push. He moans like he’s been starved of this for years, and maybe he has. Maybe you all have.
“Sweetheart,” he groans against you, “you taste… oh gosh, you taste so good. Why’d I ever wait so long to have you like this? Let me make you feel better.” The gentleness is unbearable. Every flick of his tongue sparks heat through you, but it’s not enough. The ache is bigger than his softness. You need more.
“Clark,” you pant, tugging his hair harder, grinding against his mouth. He groans, dizzy with it. “You call that helping? I thought Superman could do better than this.”
The sound he makes is obscene. Wounded, desperate, hungry. His eyes flash up to yours, blown wide and pleading, before he dives in harder. His tongue plunges deep, lips sealing over you, sucking. His big hands clamp on your hips like he’ll never let you go.
You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling around his head. He moans at the way you shake, doubles down, tongue fucking you mercilessly. His nose presses against your clit with every drag, relentless.
“Better?” he mumbles, breathless, voice muffled against you. “You want more, sweetheart? I’ll give you more.” He doesn’t stop. Even as you writhe, trying to jerk away from the overstimulation, he groans and shakes his head, holding you down with hands strong enough to crush steel.
The orgasm rips through you so hard it feels like tearing. You sob, fingers clawing at his curls, riding his mouth shamelessly. He swallows every sound, moaning into you like he can drink it down.
“Perfect,” he mumbles between licks, worshipful. “You’re so perfect, give me another, I know you can.”
Tears sting your eyes, streaming hot down your cheeks. Humiliation and need blur together until you’re gasping his name like a prayer. And still, he doesn’t stop. His tongue is relentless, worshipful and desperate, wringing more and more from you until you’re shaking apart.
Your gaze drags upward, helpless, searching for something to anchor you, and catches on Bruce. He hasn’t moved from where he stands. Arms folded across the armor of his chest, shadow cutting over his cowl, but his eyes are burning steel, locked on the sight of Clark Kent worshipping between your thighs. His jaw is tight, nostrils flared, control like a vice around him.
The haze makes you bold. Bold enough to hold his gaze as you break apart again on Clark’s tongue, sobbing, hand fisted in Clark’s hair, tears streaking your cheeks.
“Bruce,” you choke, the word raw. Then, louder, more desperate, you pant, “I said… I needed you. Both of you.” The confession echoes in the chamber, heavy as the haze.
For the first time, Bruce Wayne flinches. Just for a moment. His restraint cracking, the pollen eating at his edges same as yours. You see it clear as day, the way his chest rises too fast, the tremor in his jaw, the fists he keeps clenching at his sides. He’s fighting it, but he’s losing.
His voice cuts across the sound of your sobs, sharp and merciless, “Pathetic.”
Clark jerks against you at the sound, but Bruce doesn’t look at him. His eyes are on you, pinning you in place. His voice is gravel dragged over steel.
“You’re dripping all over him.” His gaze drags between your thighs, where Clark’s face is slick with you, still groaning like he’s dying. “Spread wider.”
The command hits your body like lightning. Your knees part before your brain catches up, trembling, baring yourself further. Clark whimpers at the access, burying himself deeper, lips sealing over your clit and sucking hard enough to make you scream.
You choke on the sound, your eyes locked to Bruce’s as another orgasm tears through you, violent, humiliating, raw.
And you don’t look away.
Bruce doesn’t rush. He rarely does. His steps are deliberate as he closes the distance, each one a weight dropping into your chest. He’s slow enough to make you squirm, slow enough to let you realize what’s coming, that he’s finally stopped standing on the sidelines.
Clark lifts his head, face wet, lips swollen, eyes dazed from where he’s been buried between your thighs. He looks up like a man caught in the middle of something holy. “Bruce?”
“Move,” Bruce orders, flat, and Clark actually falters. His hands hover on your hips, torn between defiance and obedience.
“Wait, she needs–,”
“She’ll get it,” Bruce cuts him off, voice gravel-rough, sharp as a blade. “Stand her up.”
The authority in it leaves no room for argument. Clark swallows hard, then nods like he can’t help himself. He rises, hands gentling around your waist, tugging you upright even as your legs tremble. Your body sways, hazy and overwhelmed, but you can’t look away from Bruce as he approaches.
The cowl shadow makes his eyes burn darker, sharper. He doesn’t touch you at first. Just looks at you intensely. That cold gray gaze drags over your flushed face, the sweat at your temple, the way your thighs are slick and trembling. Every inch catalogued, every weakness mapped.
Your lips twitch into something daring, a last gasp of bratty boldness. “What, finally decided to stop watching?”
The world flips before you can gasp. Bruce’s hand clamps on your shoulder, and in the next breath you’re bent forward against the console, the metal biting into your hipbone briefly before you slam against solid heat. Your cheek presses into Clark’s shoulder, his broad chest braced behind you suddenly. His startled gasp brushes your ear, hands immediately steadying you, cradling your arms so you don’t crumple. You wonder briefly if Mr. Quicker-Than-A-Speeding-Bullet realized he was moving when Bruce pushed you over, body reacting before his lust-addled brain. Now you’re sandwiched cleanly between the men.
Behind you, Bruce’s grip is merciless. He wrenches your hips back, aligning you where he wants you, spreading you open with gloved fingers on your thighs. His presence is a wall, inescapable and all-consuming.
Your voice cracks on a laugh. “That all you’ve got, Bats? Shoving?” The air leaves you in a scream when his fingers drive inside you. Two at once, thick and unyielding through the leather of his gloves, plunging deep without warning.
“Count yourself lucky I’m not breaking you in half,” he rasps against your ear. His free hand presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, your cheek still crushed to Clark’s shoulder.
Clark’s arm curls around your body instinctively, protective, his hand rubbing frantic circles into your skin. “Easy, sweetheart, breathe for me, you’re okay.”
You shudder, half sob, half moan, your nails raking helplessly against Clark’s suit. The duality makes you dizzy: Bruce’s hand fucking you ruthlessly open while Clark murmurs praise like he’s trying to glue you back together.
Bruce curls his fingers, deliberate, cruel. “You think this is a game?”
“Maybe,” you pant, whimper catching in your throat.
The sharp crack lands before you see it coming. His gloved hand pulls out of you and smacks directly against your clit, a brutal sting that shoots white through your vision. You cry out, tears springing instantly, hot streaks down your face.
“Bruce!” Clark snaps, outraged, but it doesn’t stop him.
“Better,” Bruce growls in your ear, twisting his fingers inside you at the same time. “That got your attention.”
Your sob breaks the air. Clark turns his face toward yours, forehead nearly pressing to yours where you’re pinned. His voice is ragged, begging. “Sweetheart, look at me, it’s okay. You’re doing so good. You can take it, I promise.”
Your eyes flutter to him, blue blurring with tears, but Bruce isn’t done. His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head up, forcing your gaze back over your shoulder. His eyes burn under the cowl, merciless.
“No. Look at me.” His voice cuts like a whip. “When you cry, you do it for me.”
Another sob rips out of you, louder this time, as his fingers slam harder, faster, scissoring you open while his thumb grinds cruelly against your clit. Your hips buck helplessly back into him even as your face crumples.
Clark kisses your temple, desperate, his lips brushing over the tears streaking your cheek. “Don’t listen to him, listen to me, sweetheart. You’re perfect, you’re so perfect for us.”
Another slap, sharper this time, cracks against your clit. Your scream tears the air.
“Pathetic little brat,” Bruce hisses, satisfaction curling in the corner of his mouth as he watches your body jolt. “Mouthing off when you’re already coming apart on my fingers.”
And you are. The orgasm rips through you, savage, unrelenting. Your whole body convulses between them, your cheek crushed to Clark’s shoulder, your hips held wide by Bruce’s iron grip, sobs spilling freely now.
Clark’s praise and Bruce’s cruelty weave together in your ears, a symphony that drags you deeper, “Sweetheart, yes, that’s it, let go for us. So good, so good.” Juxtaposed with, “Cry for me. Show me how much it hurts. You wanted my attention, now you have it, sweetheart.”
You can’t hold yourself up anymore. Your body sags against Clark, his arms cradling you even as Bruce’s hand keeps working inside you, unrelenting. Every curl of his fingers drags another sob out of you, another plea, another sharp whimper.
“Stop, no wait don’t stop, I…fuck, I can’t!”
Bruce smirks, lips pulling tight. “You can. And you will.”
Clark’s face presses against your hair, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just a little more, just let it happen.”
Another orgasm crashes through you, brutal and unbearable, your body wrung dry and pushed further still. Tears blur everything, soaking Clark’s suit where your face presses against him.
Through the haze of sobs and overstimulation, you realize what’s happening: Bruce isn’t just fucking you open. He’s dismantling you, piece by piece. And Clark? Clark is there to hold the wreckage.
You don’t know which part drives you crazier.
Your body is wrecked against Clark, tears streaking hot down your face, hips still held wide in Bruce’s grip as his gloved fingers thrust and curl inside you without mercy. You’ve come more times than you can count already, each wave blurring into the next until you’re nothing but sobs and shivers, clinging to Clark like a lifeline.
And still Bruce hasn’t stopped. Every drag of his fingers scours another sound out of you. Every sharp grind of his thumb against your clit makes your thighs quake harder, your body strung taut between pleasure and pain.
Clark strokes your arm helplessly, lips pressed to your hair, murmuring soft, frantic praise, “Sweetheart, you’re so good, you’re so strong, I know it’s a lot, I know, I’ve got you.”
But Bruce doesn’t relent. His breath saws harsh in your ear, the ragged edges betraying the same hunger you’re drowning in. Finally, his hand wrenches free, leaving you empty and trembling. You gasp at the loss, body clenching around nothing, aching so badly you could scream.
Bruce drags his glove off slow, methodical, and tosses it aside. The sound of leather hitting the floor is obscene in its finality.
His voice rumbles low against your ear, sharp as a blade. “She’s ready for us.”
The words cleave the air in two.
Clark’s head jerks up. His arms tighten around you like he’s trying to shield you with his body. “Us?” His voice cracks on the word. His blue eyes are wide, frantic, color high in his cheeks. He looks between you and Bruce like he’s on the verge of begging for another way out. “Bruce, no way. She…golly, look at her, she’s exhausted, she can’t take that.”
Bruce’s hand clamps on your hip, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, and his answer is flat, merciless. “She can. She will. Can’t you, darling?”
Clark’s chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temple, lips parting to argue again, but then your voice cuts through, ragged and wrecked.
“Please…” The single word silences both of them. It’s not clever. Not bratty. Just raw need, stripped bare, your voice shredded down to nothing.
Clark’s breath stutters, his jaw trembling as his gaze drops to your face, tearstreaked, swollen-lipped, eyes hazy and pleading. The sound you’ve just made burns straight through him. And Bruce… Bruce’s control fractures entirely. His eyes blaze steel, his mouth pulling into a grim line as though the last of his restraint has finally shattered.
He leans close, voice rasping against your ear, final and inescapable, “Then beg properly.”
Your throat works, sob catching, but you do it. You tilt your face toward Clark, then back to Bruce, and the words tumble out broken but true, “Please, boys… I can take it. I’ll be so good for you both. Please.”
Clark’s head drops against your temple with a groan, his whole body shuddering as though the last thread of his resistance has snapped.
And Bruce? His utility belt hits the floor with a brutal clatter.
The air is too thick to breathe. Golden haze, sweat, the raw scent of arousal layered heavy over steel and dust, it drowns you, seeps into every nerve. Clark’s chest is a furnace against your cheek, his breath ragged where it shudders past your ear. His arms are tight around you, cradling, steadying. His lips brush frantic, worshipful kisses against your temple, your damp hair, your jaw.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice cracking. “We’ll take care of you. I swear, we’ll take care of you.”
But it’s Bruce who holds you open still. Bruce who drags you back against his body, the faint rasp of his suit pulled low. His bare hand grips your hip, steady, unyielding.
And then, right as your heart races and you think that finally, finally your aching cunt will be filled, he pauses.
The silence is louder than the hum of the lab. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask. He just waits, his presence pressed tight to your back, his chest rising sharp against you. You turn your head, and your eyes catch his through the haze.
Field partners don’t need words. You’ve always known his rhythms, the way one glance could mean move left or take the shot. Now, the language is different but no less fluent. The steel in his gaze softens just slightly, but enough. Are you sure?
You nod. The ache in your chest blooms raw, unhidden. Your lips part. Yes.
Something flickers across his face, an understanding, bone-deep. That this is more than neutralizing a weapon. That none of you will walk away from this untouched.
His jaw tightens. Then he bends, rough hand threading into your hair, pulling your mouth to his.
The kiss is brutal at first, teeth and heat, control even here, but it cracks fast. The groan he lets out when you kiss him back splits him open, raw and human, nothing between you but heat and need. You drag him closer, greedy, but he tears away just enough to reach up and rip the cowl back. The sound of tearing leather is feral. He throws it aside, jaw and throat bared now, eyes unshadowed, sharp and devastating.
“Better,” he mutters against your mouth. His voice is gravel, but softer than before. “No barriers.”
And then he kisses you again, and it’s different. Hungrier, yes, but also vulnerable, like he needed your mouth on his bare skin to prove this isn’t just strategy, isn’t just mission. That he’s yours, at least here, at least now.
Clark makes a broken sound, like he can’t bear to watch and can’t look away. His big hand cups your cheek, turning your head toward him. His mouth finds yours before you can catch your breath.
It’s whiplash, the bruising hunger of Bruce, then the aching sweetness of Clark. Clark kisses like a man who thinks you’re made of light, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you. His lips are soft, reverent, trembling.
You moan into his mouth, your hands fisting in both of them now, torn between steel and sunlight, shadows and sky. You kiss Clark until you’re dizzy, then turn and bite into Bruce’s lip, and both of them groan like they’re breaking.
“Sweetheart,” Clark gasps against your lips, forehead pressed to yours. His hand slips down to cradle your throat, not squeezing, just grounding. “You’re so perfect. We’ve got you. Just breathe for us.”
Behind you, Bruce shifts, lining himself up. The blunt head of him presses against your weeping entrance, hot and unyielding, and your whole body jolts.
You gasp, clutching Clark tighter. Bruce’s breath saws out of him, harsh against your ear. He doesn’t move, just holds you there, stretched at the edge, waiting for the smallest sign. His eyes lock to yours when you glance back, unflinching. Tell me when.
You swallow, every nerve screaming with need. Then you nod, desperate, whispering, “Now.”
He pushes in slow. Agonizingly slow. The stretch burns, sharp enough to make your jaw drop on a moan. He’s thick, bigger than you can take all at once, and he knows it, his pace deliberate, each inch claimed with ruthless control.
Clark peppers frantic kisses over your face, your temple, your jaw, whispering praise like a litany. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart, so good, I’m right here, we’re both right here.”
Bruce hisses through his teeth, the sound raw, like he’s barely holding on. His hand fists in your hair, forcing your head back so he can watch your face as he sinks deeper. “Look at me,” he rasps, voice fraying. “Don’t you dare look away.”
Your eyes lock on his, steel-gray, sharp, but softening as he sees your tears, your trembling lips. His jaw clenches, his chest heaves, but he doesn’t stop. Inch by inch until he’s seated deep, filling you to the brim.
The sob that breaks from your throat is equal parts pain and relief.
Clark’s hands tremble on your face, stroking your hair back. “Sweetheart, you’re taking him so well, you’re incredible.”
Bruce’s mouth finds yours again, swallowing the sob. It’s fierce, demanding, but when you kiss him back through the tears, something shatters in him. The kiss gentles, just barely, a softness no one else alive would ever believe he’s capable of.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is ragged, unsteady. “Ours.”
The word detonates in your chest.
And then he moves. The first thrust rocks you forward, your body slamming into Clark’s chest. He catches you instantly, his arms wrapping around you, his mouth at your ear.
“That’s it,” Clark moans, wrecked and desperate. “Let him have you, sweetheart.”
Bruce growls low in your ear, the sound vibrating down your spine. “Feel how full you are. That’s me. Taking what’s mine.”
Your body convulses around him, another sob breaking free. You clutch Clark tighter, kissing him through it, then twisting back to crush your mouth against Bruce’s again, both of them stealing your breath, both of them consuming you.
And it’s too much. It’s everything. Two men who’ve lived in your orbit for years, one made of sunlight, the other of shadow, both of them inside you now, one with his cock, one with his voice, both breaking you open in ways no weapon ever could.
And you know, deep in the marrow of you, that this isn’t just work. This isn’t just the mission. That maybe… it never was.
Bruce’s cock drags inside you with ruthless precision, every thrust slow and deliberate, the kind of control that feels crueler than if he’d just pounded you senseless. He wants you to feel it, every inch, every clench, every sob you can’t hold back.
Your cheek presses against Clark’s chest with each drive, the bright blue of his suit soaking your tears. He bends over you, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth whenever Bruce lets you turn your head enough to reach him.
Clark breathes your name, his voice trembling, “I can feel you shaking. He’s inside you and you’re still the most perfect girl I’ve ever seen.”
The praise makes your body clench tighter around Bruce, and he groans low in your ear, pace jerking rougher for a moment.
“Dirty girl,” he rasps, though his voice is frayed with hunger. “You get off on him saying your name like that. Don’t you?”
You moan, choking on the sound, your hand fumbling forward until it presses against Clark’s chest, then lower and lower, sliding down the bright red-and-yellow crest until you find the hard line straining beneath his suit.
His whole body jolts. His eyes go wide, blue and desperate, his lips parting like he might protest, but then your fingers curl, stroking him through the fabric. The heat of him is obscene, the thickness undeniable even through the fabrics weave.
“You shouldn’t,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours as Bruce drives deeper. “You don’t have to, sweetheart, I’m okay.”
“Shut up, Kent,” Bruce growls, snapping his hips harder, dragging another sob out of you. “Let her.”
And for once, with no arguing, Clark does as Bruce says. He lets you. His hips buck into your hand helplessly as you stroke him, his face collapsing into your shoulder, his lips finding the curve of your throat. His moans vibrate against your skin, high and desperate, so unlike the steady Clark Kent you know.
You’re drowning in both of them. Bruce splitting you open from behind, every thrust tearing you apart, and Clark trembling against you in front, lips and praise spilling nonstop.
Your voice cracks into the air, broken, “I-I can’t…”
“Yes you can,” Bruce cuts in, his voice jagged. He yanks your hair back, forces your head up so he can see your face as his cock slams deeper. “You’ll take it. Every inch. You wanted this.”
Clark’s hand covers yours on his cock, guiding your strokes even as he whimpers into your hair. “Sweetheart, I’m close. Oh gosh, I’m so close, don’t stop.”
You sob, torn in half between them. Every thrust of Bruce’s hips pushes you forward, grinding your palm harder against Clark’s cock. Every moan from Clark makes you clench tighter around Bruce. It’s a spiral, a feedback loop, until you’re shaking violently, vision blurring with tears.
“Look at me,” Clark cups your face, dragging your lips to his. The kiss is messy, wet, trembling with need. “I’m gonna come…gonna–,” He spills hot against your palm, the suit fabric no barrier to the heat that pulses beneath it. His whole body shakes, his forehead dropping against yours as he gasps your name like a prayer.
The sound of it tips you over. Your orgasm rips through you, brutal and unstoppable. You sob into Clark’s mouth, clutching him tight as your body convulses around Bruce’s cock. The stretch, the fullness, the way he won’t let you look away, it’s too much. You shatter on him, again and again, until you’re nearly limp in Clark’s arms.
Bruce snarls low in your ear, his control finally fracturing. His thrusts grow rougher, more erratic, his teeth gritting as he slams deep one last time. His groan tears out of him, raw and guttural, as he spills inside you.
The heat of it floods you, dripping down your thighs, soaking you both.
For a moment, the lab is nothing but panting. Three ragged heartbeats in sync.
Clark blinks down at you, dazed and flushed, his curls damp against his forehead. His hand lifts to stroke your cheek, trembling. His voice is wrecked, shaky with awe and lust:
“Bruce… can I…” He swallows, cheeks burning red, eyes flicking down between your thighs. His voice drops to a whisper, needy and unguarded. “Can I taste it?”
Your body clenches at the thought, another whimper tearing from your throat. Your own voice comes out hoarse, but just as desperate as you look into Bruce’s eyes. “Me too.”
Bruce pulls out with a wet sound that makes all three of you groan. His cum drips hot down your thighs, slicking your skin, obscene in the golden haze. He grabs a chair nearby and slumps into it, his chest heaving, sweat streaking down his temple.
His gray eyes are sharp, cutting through the fog. He jerks his chin toward the floor in front of him.
“Then… crawl.” The command slices through you, leaves your stomach flipping. Clark makes a sound low in his throat, half whine, half groan, but he obeys instantly. His big frame folds down, cape pooling, and you follow, both of you sinking to hands and knees on the fractured tiles.
The broken tiles bite into your knees as you crawl, your hands flat against the ruined floor. The air still hums with gold, sweet and suffocating, every inhale pulling you deeper. Clark moves beside you, his cape dragging, his shoulders hunched in submission that looks wrong on him and yet, God, it makes your pulse skip.
Bruce sits back in the chair like a king on a throne, broad chest rising slow and steady as if the haze doesn’t touch him, though you know better. His eyes track every crawl, every inch you and Clark close, sharp as knives. His thighs spread wider as you come to kneel between them, his cock still heavy and slick, flushed deep, glistening in the low light.
“Good,” he rasps. Just the one word. Approval and command tangled together.
You swallow hard, your body aching, trembling, but your hunger gnaws louder than your exhaustion. You rise up, palms braced on his thighs, and bend to take him into your mouth.
The taste hits instantly: salt, musk, the faint metallic tang of leather and sweat where his skin still holds the imprint of the suit. Your tongue laves over him, tracing thick veins, tasting the residue of your own slick. You moan around him, desperate, and Bruce exhales a low growl that vibrates straight through you.
At the same time, Clark moves. His big hands curl around your thighs from behind, spreading you open as his mouth dives between your legs again. You jolt, choking around Bruce’s cock as Clark’s tongue presses flat to your clit, hot and wet and eager.
“Sweetheart,” Clark moans against you, “you’re dripping even more now. You two taste so good, I can’t stop,” His voice dissolves into a groan as he sucks harder, tongue flicking relentless against you.
Your body convulses. Bruce’s cock fills your mouth, his taste heavy on your tongue, while Clark devours you from behind, his nose bumping your clit, his tongue plunging inside. It’s too much. Too much stimulation, too much sensation, every nerve burning alive.
Your whimper vibrates down Bruce’s cock, and his hand closes in your hair, forcing your head down further. “Don’t you dare stop,” he snarls, hips flexing once, sharp.
You gag, eyes watering, your hands clutching at his thighs. Clark moans against you at the sound, his tongue plunging deeper, as if your desperation is his fuel. It spirals fast, your throat full, your cunt drowning in Clark’s tongue, your whole body trembling with overstimulation until tears blur your vision. You choke, sob, trying to pull back from Bruce’s cock for air, but his grip in your hair is unyielding.
“Pitiful girl,” he growls, tugging hard, forcing your gaze up to him. His gray eyes burn down at you, steel and fire both. “Crying already.”
You sob around him, muffled, your body jerking as Clark’s tongue flicks hard against your clit again. Your legs quake. You’re unraveling.
“I-I need,” you choke, pulling off Bruce with a gasp, saliva dripping down your chin. Your voice is wrecked, hoarse. “Too much, I need a break.”
For a heartbeat, the room is silent except for your ragged breathing. Bruce releases your hair. His eyes narrow, assessing, and then he nods once. Permission.
Clark lifts his head from between your thighs, his lips and chin slick, eyes glazed with devotion. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I just…you taste so good, I couldn’t stop.”
You clutch his curls, pull him up, and kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his whimper.
Bruce leans back in the chair, cock hard and waiting, eyes sharp. “Then both of you. Now.”
Clark’s chest heaves. He glances at Bruce, then at you, color high in his cheeks. His voice is wrecked, boyish, desperate. “Together?”
Your lips curve into a trembling smile. “Together.”
You both sink down between Bruce’s spread thighs. The sight must be obscene, Superman and you kneeling side by side, hands on Bruce’s thighs, mouths open, eyes hazy with lust. Bruce watches with steel control, but his jaw ticks, his chest rising harder. He wants this. He’s losing just as much as you are.
You take the head of his cock into your mouth again, tongue swirling, while Clark leans in from the other side. His lips close around the shaft lower down, sucking, his tongue dragging alongside yours.
The two of you tangle instantly, tongues sliding over each other, both of you licking Bruce at once, your mouths meeting in wet, desperate kisses against the thick length of him. Saliva slicks everywhere, drooling down his cock, dripping over his balls, coating both your chins.
Bruce’s groan rips out of him, low and brutal. His hands fist in both your hair, forcing you closer, grinding your mouths together over him. “That’s it. That’s what I want. Both of you.”
You moan around him, and Clark does too, his eyes fluttering shut, his cheeks flushed deep. He pulls back just long enough to kiss you messily, his tongue sliding against yours, Bruce’s taste shared between you.
“Sweetheart,” Clark gasps against your lips, voice breaking, “you’re so good at this, gosh, you look so beautiful.”
You cut him off by shoving your mouth back down Bruce’s cock, taking him deep until your throat spasms. Clark whines at the sight, diving lower to suck Bruce’s balls into his mouth, his hand stroking the base.
Bruce throws his head back with a groan, his control fracturing. “Fuck. Look at you. Both of you on your knees for me. I could keep you here forever.”
Your eyes flick up, watery, mouth stretched wide around him. Clark lifts his gaze too, his lips shiny, his expression wrecked and reverent. Both of you, staring up at him with his cock in your mouths, and Bruce’s composure finally shatters.
He yanks you off his cock with a wet pop, then Clark, dragging you both up by your hair until you’re panting against each other’s mouths, his slick still on your lips.
His voice is low, guttural. “Don’t stop until I finish.”
You and Clark nod together, desperate. And then you’re both back down, tongues tangling, mouths worshipping him as one.
The sight alone could kill gods.
And Bruce Wayne looks down at it like he finally has everything he’s ever wanted.
Your mouths work together like you’ve done this a thousand times, your lips wrapping the flushed head of Bruce’s cock, Clark’s tongue laving the thick vein along the shaft, both of you meeting in the middle to kiss messily before diving back down again. Drool coats everything: your chins, your hands, Bruce’s cock glistening obscene in the golden haze.
Bruce’s grip in your hair is iron, controlling your rhythm, forcing both your mouths down together. “Filthy,” he rasps, jaw tight, chest heaving. “My little brats, on your knees, gagging for me. Don’t you dare stop.”
You moan around him, and Clark does too, the vibrations feeding into each other, pulling a guttural growl out of Bruce’s throat. His hips flex, sharp, forcing his cock deeper until your throat convulses. Clark whimpers at the sight, his tongue curling lower, sucking Bruce’s balls hard enough to make him snarl.
The sound tears through the chamber, low, brutal, shattering his control. His thighs tense under your palms, his breath stutters ragged, and then he’s groaning loud and guttural, spilling hot and thick into your mouth.
You choke on it, gagging as his cock pulses heavy against your tongue. Clark’s lips seal over the base at the same time, moaning as he swallows everything he can get. It’s messy, filthy, cum spilling past your lips, dribbling down your chin, coating Clark’s tongue when you meet him in a wet, desperate kiss.
Bruce doesn’t let you pull back. His hands fist tight in your hair, forcing your mouths together over his cock, slick dripping down both your faces as you lick into each other. You taste him on Clark’s tongue, Clark’s moans vibrating against yours, the mingled salt and musk coating your mouths.
“Good,” Bruce snarls, voice shredded. “Share it. Every drop. Show me how much you want it.”
You and Clark do, trading his taste back and forth between your mouths, tongues tangling, saliva and cum smeared everywhere. Your tears mix with it, streaking down your cheeks, but you don’t stop. The haze won’t let you.
Bruce finally releases your hair, slumping back in the chair with a ragged groan, sweat dripping down his temple. For a moment he just watches, chest rising and falling hard, gray eyes sharp even through the exhaustion.
Then his hand lashes out, the sound of leather cracking against your clit sharp and sudden.
You scream, body jolting, collapsing into Clark’s arms. The sting burns, unbearable, and you sob through the pain.
Bruce smirks, cruel. “Pathetic. One little slap and you’re crying again.”
Clark’s arms wrap tight around you instantly, protective, rocking you back against his chest. His lips cover your temple, frantic kisses pressed against your skin. “Shh, sweetheart, you’re okay, you’re perfect, you’re so strong, I’ve got you, I promise.”
But your body isn’t finished. Not even close. The haze swells again, heavier, hotter. Your skin feels too tight, your thighs slick, your body thrumming with empty, clawing hunger.
You paw at Clark’s suit desperately, tugging at the S on his chest, down to his belt, your voice broken and wild. “Please, Clark, I need you.”
His blue eyes are wide, dazed, his mouth falling open on a ragged gasp. “Sweetheart are you sure? After all that…”
“Please.” Your voice shreds on the word, tears streaking your cheeks, hips grinding helplessly against his thigh. “Fill me. I need you. Now.”
Bruce watches from the chair, his cock still glistening with spit and cum, his eyes narrowed but burning hotter with each second. His voice cuts through the haze, low and hoarse, “Do it, Kent. Give her what she’s begging for.”
Clark groans, broken, torn between guilt and need. Bruce sits back in the chair, watching with fire in his eyes, knowing the night has only just begun.
Clark’s hands shake as he grips your waist, blue eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like he can’t catch his breath. His suit clings tight, damp with sweat, and the hard line of him beneath it presses against your thigh, obscene and undeniable.
“Sweetheart,” he chokes, voice wrecked, “I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t… I don’t know if I can hold back the way I need to right now.”
Your nails claw at his chest, dragging over the bright crest of his family’s symbol. “You won’t. I need you, Clark. Please.”
The word snaps him. His mouth crashes to yours, frantic, messy, tongue sliding deep. His kiss tastes of salt and tears and Bruce’s cum still lingering between you. His arms crush you close, so tight your ribs ache, but you can’t get enough.
He spins you, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and sets you down hard on the edge of a cracked lab table. The metal groans under the impact, but you don’t care, you spread your thighs instantly, desperate, your slick and bruce’s cum from earlier dripping down your ass.
Clark groans at the sight, low and guttural. His big hands cup your knees, pushing them wider until you’re open for him completely. His cheeks are red, curls damp with sweat, lips swollen from kissing you raw.
He murmurs your name, almost reverent, “you’re so beautiful like this. I can’t believe I get to…” His voice cracks. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
“Quit talking and give her what she needs.” Bruce’s voice cuts across the room like a whip. He’s still slouched in the chair, legs spread, watching with steel-gray eyes sharp and merciless. His cock is semi-hard again, glistening with spit, and he doesn’t look away as he growls, “Fold her in half, Kent. Show her what you’re really made of.”
Clark flushes crimson, torn between shame and obedience. “Bruce, you know I can’t just do that.”
“You can,” Bruce cuts in, flat. “You’re already half feral. Look at yourself.”
You glance down at Clark, his chest heaving, his cock straining obscenely against the suit, stains from his cum clear as day on the fabric, the flush across his throat, the tremor in his hands. He looks every inch the boy who’s lost control, trying to hide behind kindness.
“Clark,” you whisper, cupping his face in both hands, your voice trembling. “Please.”
That’s all it takes. His restraint shatters. He grabs your ankles and shoves them up over his shoulders in one smooth motion, folding you nearly in half. The table bites into your spine, the metal creaking under the pressure, but all you can focus on is the way he looms over you, massive, flushed, and more desperate than you.
The sound of tearing fabric fills the room as he yanks his suit open. His cock springs free, flushed deep, thick and heavy, the sight of it pulling a gasp from your throat.
“Baby,” he groans, trembling as he lines himself up. “I’ll be gentle, I’ll go slow, I’ll…”
“Don’t you dare,” you cut in, voice sharp, bratty. “Fuck me, Clark.”
The sound he makes is guttural, feral. His hips snap forward, and suddenly he’s inside you, stretching you open inch by inch until your cry rips through the chamber. “You wanted it,” Clark’s head drops, forehead pressing to yours as he groans loud, broken. “You’re gonna, oh, you’re so tight. Tightest I’ve ever…”
Bruce’s low voice cuts in from across the room. “Don’t stop now, Kent. Bury it.”
And Clark does. He drives all the way to the hilt, bottoming out with a sharp thrust that leaves you gasping, nails raking bloody crescents into his shoulders. The fullness is overwhelming, tearing you apart, your body spasming around him.
Clark moans into your mouth, kissing you frantically between ragged breaths. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop now. You feel so good, I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”
Your body convulses under him, another sob ripping free. “Clark please!”
His hips find a rhythm, relentless, pounding into you with more force than you thought possible. The table screeches across the floor with every thrust, metal scraping against tile, the sound drowned beneath your cries and his groans.
Bruce’s voice cuts in again, calm and brutal, “That’s it. Use that farmboy strength for something useful.”
Clark flushes darker, whining against your throat. “Don’t say it like that, Bruce. I don’t want to… treat her like she’s an animal.”
“You already are,” Bruce snaps, his eyes sharp, locked on the sight of you folded beneath Clark. “Listen to her.”
Your voice breaks on every thrust, sobbing pleas into Clark’s mouth. “More, harder… fill me up, please, I need it, I need you so bad Clark.”
Clark groans loud, desperate, hips snapping harder. The sweet farmboy tone cracks, replaced with something deeper, needier, more feral. “Sweetheart, I’ll fill you up. I’ll give you everything, okay? I’ll put a baby in you if that’s what you want.”
The words detonate in your chest. Your whole body convulses, orgasm ripping through you hard enough to make your vision white out. You sob against his mouth, clenching around him, and Clark cries out like he’s breaking.
“You’re so perfect, so good.” His voice shreds into a groan as he slams deep, spilling hot inside you, cock pulsing, filling you until it overflows. The heat drips down your thighs, pooling beneath you, and Clark collapses against your chest, trembling, still kissing you between sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop. I’ll give you more, I’ll give you everything.”
Across the room, Bruce exhales a low laugh, dark and sharp. “Pathetic. Breeding her like a good little mutt.”
Clark groans, burying his face against your neck, too lost in the haze to argue. You clutch him tighter, your body still quaking, and for the first time, you don’t fight the truth clawing at your chest: You want both of them now. But Clark doesn’t stop. It’s really more like he can’t stop. Even after spilling hot inside you, his cock stays hard, his hips keep slamming into you like he’s bound by something deeper than willpower. Kryptonian stamina, pollen frenzy, his own bottomless need: it all blurs together into a rhythm that feels like it might break you.
The table shrieks under the assault, metal legs screeching against cracked tile. Your body convulses with every thrust, tears streaming down your cheeks, your voice raw from screaming his name.
“Sweetheart,” Clark gasps, voice cracking on every word, lips lapping at your delicate ankle over his shoulder, “You keep pulling me back in. It’s like she doesn’t want me to pull out.” His mouth presses frantic kisses to your foot, his hands cradling your face like he can soothe you even as he pounds you senseless.
Your nails dig into his arms, sobs breaking from your throat. Every thrust drags you over another edge, another orgasm tearing through you until your body is wrung out and still he fucks you like he’s chasing something more.
“Please, Clark!” you gasp, your words strangled by the sobs.
“I’ve got you, I promise I’ll fill you up until you can’t take anymore,” His hips snap hard, driving so deep you scream. “I’ll make you mine forever.”
The words melt your bones, make your whole body clench tight around him again, another wave tearing through you.
You’re wrecked, body quaking beneath him, when you hear it: the scrape of a chair, the heavy tread of boots.
Bruce. His presence looms at your side, a shadow across your trembling form. His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet his steel-gray gaze through the haze of tears.
“You’re not done,” he growls, voice jagged. “Neither of you.”
Clark jerks, his rhythm stuttering, panic flashing across his flushed face. “Bruce, I don’t know if she can.”
“She can,” Bruce snaps, his tone a blade. His eyes cut to yours, cold but burning. “She wants it.”
Your throat works, sobs catching, but your voice is raw and desperate when it spills free, “Yes, please, all I want… both of you.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens. His gaze drops to where Clark is buried to the hilt inside you, your cunt stretched and dripping, slick staining the table beneath you. He growls low, his cock thick and flushed in his hand.
“Then take us both.”
Clark freezes above you, still shaking.
“Look at her.” Bruce leans low, his breath hot in Clark’s ear, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Clark’s ass. “You can feel it, Kent. She’s clenching down on you harder now that I’m talking about filling her too, isn’t she.”
And it’s true. The ache in you has swelled unbearable, your whole body trembling, desperate to be split wider, fuller, ruined completely. Your voice cracks, high and pleading, “Please, both.”
Clark’s lips crush to yours, frantic, apologetic, trembling with devotion. “Anything my girl wants.”
Bruce doesn’t waste time. He clamps a hand around Clark’s shoulder, the other on your hip, and growls, “Move her.”
Clark obeys instantly, shifting with Kryptonian strength. He hauls you up off the table without pulling out, his cock still buried deep, until you’re perched in his lap. Your back arches against his chest, your thighs trembling as he supports your weight easily, keeping you full.
Bruce steps in behind, one hand spreading you open, the other steadying your hip. The blunt head of him presses against your ass, hot and unyielding.
The stretch is brutal. White-hot, tearing you apart inch by inch as Bruce forces his way inside. You scream, your whole body jolting, clenching down hard around Clark.
“Oh heck,” Clark cries out, his head dropping to your shoulder, his lips pressing frantic kisses to your damp skin. “You’re squeezing me so hard.”
“You’ll take it,” Bruce snarls, his voice jagged steel as he pushes deeper. “Both of you. You’ll learn how to share.”
Clark whimpers, kissing your throat, your jaw, your ear with every ragged breath. “Sweetheart, you can do it, I promise.”
And then Bruce bottoms out. The fullness is obscene. You’re split wide, stuffed beyond capacity, every nerve a live wire. Tears stream hot down your cheeks as your body convulses, another orgasm tearing through you like lightning. You scream into Clark’s mouth, clenching violently around both of them.
Bruce groans low in your ear, his hand bruising on your hip. “There. Look at that. You took us both.”
The room spins. Your body convulses again, sobs shredding your throat.
Clark moans loud, broken, hips stuttering helplessly inside you. “You’re so good, baby.”
“Don’t you dare finish yet, Kent,” Bruce snaps, his hips already grinding against yours. “Not until she does again.”
And then they move.
Together.
Clark thrusting up into you, Bruce pounding from behind, both cocks dragging against each other inside you, stretching you to breaking. The rhythm is brutal, relentless, a perfect storm of praise and punishment.
Clark’s voice spills constant against your ear, cracked with devotion, “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. You’re mine, ours, I can’t believe you’re taking us both. You’re perfect, so perfect.”
Bruce’s voice is darker, rougher, curling like barbed wire: “Look at you. Stuffed full, dripping, sobbing like a little slut. You’ll take it until I say stop.”
The contrast shreds you apart. Worship and degradation colliding, both of them inside you, and your body spirals into overstimulation so sharp it feels like you might split in two.
Bruce’s hand lashes down, cracking against your clit. You scream, your body collapsing forward into Clark’s chest, convulsing violently. “Focus,” Bruce growls in your ear, his voice like jagged steel. “Look at me when you come.”
You force your tearstreaked eyes open, meeting his burning gray gaze. Sweat drips down his temple, his jaw locked tight, every brutal thrust driving you open wider as Clark whimpers praise against your throat. The contrast of it, the ruthless dark, the desperate light, shreds you.
And then your body breaks. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and endless, every nerve on fire. You sob their names, your body convulsing so hard it locks around them both.
Clark groans ragged, his rhythm stuttering. “Sweetheart, gosh, I love you. I can’t take much more.”
Bruce snarls, hips slamming once more. “Take it.”
The three of you collide in the same heartbeat. Clark spills hot inside you with a guttural cry, his cock pulsing deep. Bruce grinds in from behind, groaning low as he releases too, heat flooding until it overflows, dripping down your thighs. And you, caught between them, convulse violently, another scream tearing from your throat.
Clark’s mouth crashes to yours, desperate, sobbing into the kiss like he can’t survive without it. Bruce’s hand fists in your hair, dragging you back, and then his mouth claims you too, lips crushing yours over Clark’s. It’s messy, wet, brutal, a three-way kiss that tastes of sweat and salt and breathless need, tongues tangling, moans swallowed, no separation left.
You all fall apart together, locked in that kiss, gasping into each other’s mouths as your bodies shudder in unison.
When the haze finally lets the moment ease, silence swallows the lab, just your sobs, Clark’s ragged moans, Bruce’s guttural breaths, all still tangled together.
You’re ruined. Stuffed, dripping, trembling, your body slack in Clark’s arms, Bruce still heavy against your back.
“Sweetheart,” Clark whispers, voice raw, forehead pressing to your temple. He kisses you there, then again at your hairline, then lower, his lips trailing across your damp cheeks. “Gosh, you’re incredible. You did so good for us, I’m so proud of you.”
You can’t do more than whimper, throat shredded, body trembling in his arms. You clutch weakly at his chest, your cheek pressed against the warm column of his neck. He smells like sweat and sunlight, salt and skin, familiar and foreign all at once.
His big hands stroke down your spine, tender, steady. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, again and again like a mantra. “I’ll always have you. You’re safe with me.”
It makes your chest ache more than the haze. That promise, gentle, earnest, and so Clark, lodges deep in your ribs.
A movement shifts the air.
Bruce.
He’s stepped back, already putting space between the three of you. His chest still rises sharp, sweat glistens at his temple, but he schools his face into steel. He leans against the console, arms folded, gray eyes sharp but unreadable.
For a moment, you think he might leave. But his gaze lingers, on your tearstreaked face pressed against Clark’s chest, on Clark kissing you like something precious, on the wreckage of both of them written across your skin. His jaw flexes.
“Don’t fool yourself, Kent,” he rasps finally, gravel rough. “It’s the pollen.”
Clark lifts his head, blue eyes wide, still shining, his arms tightening around you. “No,” he says, steady despite the wreck in his voice. “It’s not just that. You know it too.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches, half a smirk, half a grimace. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t soften. But he doesn’t look away either.
You meet his gaze through the curtain of your damp lashes, your body slack in Clark’s hold, too tired to hide the truth that trembles in your chest. You don’t say it. You don’t have to. The understanding passes between you and Bruce wordless, as it always has: this was more than work.
His eyes flick away first, down to the cracked tile. He exhales once, sharp, then pushes off the console, turning his back. Pretending distance.
But you experienced it, the fracture in his restraint, the way he lingered one second too long.
Clark kisses the crown of your head again, humming softly like he might rock you to sleep right there, his hand cradling the back of your skull. “Rest, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
And for a breath, you believe it.
Clark’s chest is a furnace beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady despite the wreckage of what you’ve just done. His arms curl around you tighter, like he can shield you from the haze, from the hunger, from the weight of it all. His lips press one last kiss into your hairline, warm and trembling.
Your lashes flutter shut. You’re too tired to fight it, the ache in your muscles, the stretch in your bones, the softness of Clark’s chest beneath your cheek. For the first time in weeks, months maybe, you let yourself be held.
The last thing you see before darkness takes you is Bruce.
He hasn’t moved from where he leans against the console, half in shadow, his jaw sharp, his eyes unflinching. He stares at you through the dim, gray steel and faintly burning. Something passes between you, wordless and weighty. You don’t know if it’s possession or promise.
And then your eyes close.
-
When you wake, the world is quiet.
The golden haze is gone, at least for now. The lab smells like sweat and sex, musk and smoke, but the air is no longer humming.
You’re lying on the floor amid ruins. The console is shattered, the table broken, glass glittering across the tile. Everything looks like a storm tore through it. Maybe you were the storm.
Clark is behind you, curled around your body, spooning you like a man who refuses to let go. His chest presses to your back, his breath slow and even against the crown of your head. One massive arm hooks around your waist, holding you snug against him. His suit is torn to the waist, curls damp, lips parted in sleep. He looks heartbreakingly soft.
You’re wrapped in fabric that smells of leather and smoke. Bruce’s cape. Heavy, too big, tucked around you without ceremony but with intention. Your head rests on Clark’s cape, folded into a makeshift pillow.
Beneath both, you are covered in marks. Your skin is a map of bites and bruises, scratches and kisses, evidence of every place their hands and mouths claimed you. You feel ruined. You feel seen.
You shift faintly, wincing at the soreness, and your eyes catch movement.
Bruce.
He’s awake. Half-dressed, his cowl abandoned still, armor stripped down. He sits on the wreck of a chair, forearms braced on his knees, watching you. His chest rises slow, steady, like he’s mastered his breath again, but his eyes betray him.
Steel-gray, locked on you.
You swallow, your throat dry. “You stayed.”
His mouth twitches. “You two needed watching.”
It’s deflection. Habit. But it lands softer than usual, like the edges have dulled. For a long moment, you just look at each other. No growls, no commands, no sharp retorts. Just the truth, quiet and raw, stretched between the two of you in the wreckage of a lab.
Clark stirs behind you, nuzzling into your hair, murmuring something soft in sleep. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer.
Bruce’s eyes flick to him, then back to you. And for the first time, he doesn’t hide it, the faint, almost imperceptible softness that threads through his gaze. Not weakness. Not surrender. Just… understanding.
You breathe in, shaky but steadying. The cape around your shoulders smells of him, of everything he pretends he isn’t. You close your eyes again, holding it tighter.
And Bruce lets you.
-
The Watchtower’s med bay is quiet. Quieter than it should be, after what happened.
The golden haze is gone, scrubbed from your blood by what you all endured. But its echo lingers in your bones. The soreness in your muscles, the marks on your skin, the memory of their mouths and hands, it’s all carved into you deeper than any weapon ever has.
You sit on the cot with Clark’s cape folded around your shoulders, still faintly smelling of him. Clark leans against the wall near the door, freshly showered but still exhausted, curls damp, his glasses sliding low on his nose. He keeps glancing at you, cheeks flushed, biting his lip like he’s reliving everything in flashes.
Bruce hasn’t even changed. He stands by the console, armor stripped down, but his shirt still half-open, cape draped over one arm. His cowl is nowhere in sight. He’s watching the monitors with too much focus for someone who doesn’t need distraction.
It’s been hours, maybe more. None of you have said what you should.
Clark breaks first.
His voice is soft, almost sheepish, “I… I’m sorry.” He shifts, shoving his hands in his pockets like a farmboy caught with dirt on his shoes. “I shouldn’t have… well. Not like that at least. Not in those circumstances.”
Your throat tightens. You remember it too clearly, his mouth on your throat, his words breaking apart as he spilled inside you. Sweetheart, gosh, I love you. I can’t take much more.
Your voice comes out hoarse, but steady, “But you did say it.”
His eyes snap up to yours, wide behind his glasses. “You.. no chance you could forget?”
“You told me you love me. I’m not going to forget it just because we were… you know.”
The silence is sharp. He swallows, color flooding his cheeks. He doesn’t deny it or try to play it off again. “I meant it,” he says finally, his voice breaking like he can’t help it. “I’ve always meant it.”
Your chest aches, and before you can answer, Bruce cuts in.
“Pollen,” he rasps, gravel flat. His eyes don’t leave the monitors. “None of it was voluntary. Don’t cross these lines and confuse biology with chemistry.”
Clark bristles, pushing off the wall. “Don’t do that, Bruce.”
“Don’t do what?” Bruce’s voice is steel. “Tell the truth?”
Clark’s jaw tightens, his hands fisting at his sides. “That wasn’t just chemistry or biology, Bruce. You know it. You felt it.”
Bruce doesn’t flinch or turn. “What I felt is irrelevant.”
You watch him, the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He says it like a blade, but you remember the way he kissed you when he ripped the cowl away. How his forehead pressed to yours, soft and wordless. How his hand had lingered when he took his cape from you when you were all leaving the lab.
Your voice cuts through the stalemate. Quiet. Certain. “You can lie to him. But not to me.”
Bruce’s eyes flick to you then, sharp and unflinching. For a second, just a second, the mask slips, the gray burns softer, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something he doesn’t know how.
Then it’s gone. His gaze drops back to the screens. “We move forward. We don’t discuss it again.”
Clark exhales, frustrated but too kind to push further. He turns his gaze back to you, and this time it’s steady. Certain. “I don’t care what he says. I meant every word.”
You swallow hard, your chest tight. You don’t answer, not yet. The truth is too big, too sharp, too dangerous to hold in your mouth right now.
The three of you sit in the quiet. The hum of the Watchtower’s systems fills the room. The marks on your body throb, reminders of everything you did, everything you said without meaning to say it.
Maybe Bruce is right. Maybe the silence will hold it for now. But not forever. And all three of you know it.
tags (all the people who commented and said they wanted this... this one is for you lol): @unclearblur @canyon-moon-carly @worshiphoseok @lostinheavensworld @hun3ysuckl3 @meowmeowmeowmeowmeowmeowsblog @gripreapah @rosierocket @stegosaurussims @pinkstonerslut
kind of crazy that the sun is the closest thing we have to an unholy seething vortex of magical energy, a pulsating orb that is periodically ripped by screaming flares that lash us with incredible ferocity from a hundred million miles away, and we're like mmm what a nice day! 😊
one of my favorite Sun Facts is that if sound could be transmitted through the vacuum of space the intensity of sound power emitted from the sun that reached the earth would be roughly as intense a noise as a jet airplane taking off a couple hundred meters away. The Sun is really loud!
Another one of my favorite Sun Facts is that the actual nuclear fusion occurs in roughly the innermost 25% by radius and the actual energy output is on the order of the amount produced just by your body keeping itself warm. But the Sun is very very big and very very old so it gets very very hot despite how absurdly slow fusion is.
It's a good thing that fusion is so slow, otherwise the sun would've burned through its fuel way too quickly for us to evolve
It's also wild to me to realize that most of the hydrogen in the sun will never be fused, despite the sun's full life span being something on the order of 10 billion years
“I think I was born to give flowers even if it leaves my garden empty. To give more of myself than I’ll ever get. To offer what blooms in my chest, even when the soil feels barren, even when the petals fall too soon. I give without thought of return, because in the giving, the world feels fuller, even if I stand here, a little less than before.”
"But it's not FOR them!!!" The biggest military power in the world belongs to a christofascist nation overseen by a felon found guilty of 34 federal crimes and has greenlit a gestapo with more direct funding than the entire military of Canada for the purpose of ethnic cleansing. Let Hetero Jessica throw some biodegradable glitter at a municipal parade
At this point if anyone is trying to exclude anyone benignly pro-queer from a pro-queer space I'm just going to assume you're a fed or something idk like something something destabilize the movement from within or whatever
You can't gatekeep LGBT events, for two main reasons:
You can't clearly define who's LGBT. Even someone who could pass as 100% cishet in their everyday life could be LGBT. Someone in an opposite gender relationship could be bisexual. Someone could be questioning their sexuality, even slightly, or maybe they did in the past or will in the future. It also isn't just people who identify as a non-assigned gender or have romantic or sexual attraction to the same gender that are oppressed. Even those who simply deviate from gender roles while still technically being cishet can be oppressed for it.
Requiring LGBT status as a condition for entry to LGBT events requires LGBT people to be out. And being out can be dangerous, so it should never be required.
The only people who shouldn't be welcome are those who are harmful to LGBT people. Examples include people who are openly anti-LGBT, all cops, and Christians who aren't actively trying to take Christianity back from bigots.
areudirty
stormborns
kaledo-art
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
