Kuroshitsuji Hypfix Strong

Because bratty kitties get punished. Case in point—

“Clark, c'mon. Stop playing around,” Bruce snaps. But it comes out more like a plea, his fingers desperately rubbing and circling his clit. It doesn't feel good because he's already so wet. His slick is making everything well, slick. No friction, no pressure. And he's still empty.

“I'm just doing what you asked for. You said you don't need me, that you can get yourself off.” Clark looks pointedly between his legs and Bruce chokes back a sob when just that heated glance makes his pussy throb with an intensity that rivals the sun.

Bruce is so tempted to just shove his fingers or maybe his toys inside himself but he already broke one rule today. He doesn't want Clark to spend the next week fucking a fleshlight, depriving Bruce of his thick cock because “obviously you don't deserve this if you're putting other stuff into my hole. That pussy is mine, B.”

“Clark.” He does not whine.

Clark leans back into the armchair, grinning when the other's hips buck up as if they're trying to chase him. “Go on, do it. I'm not stopping you.”

Bruce lets out a slew of curse words, less than effective when his hand is still between his spread legs, fingers tugging and pinching his clit.

It's not enough. Waves of pleasure are cresting over him with every touch but they're not enough to push him over. He's just edging himself endlessly and based on Clark's face and the hard bulge in his pants, he's doing it only for one person's pleasure.

Somehow that thought is the one thing that pushes him that much closer than he's been before. Just the realization that Clark is toying with him, that Bruce is simply putting on a show like a desperate slut pleasing his master. His thighs clench hard on empty air, fingers stuttering in their rubbing as he gasps at the rush of electricity through his core.

Opposite him, Clark casually tugs his pants lower, a large hand wrapping around an angry, red cock. One that's supposed to be inside him and Bruce wants to claw and hiss and bite the other so bad.

It's not enou—

His tail. Clark always plays with his tail and normally Bruce will flush hotly, batting away the clever hands, trying not to hump the other's thigh and show just how sensitive he is there.

Bruce reaches behind with his free hand. One stroke of featherlight fingers over the base of his tail and his hips jerk up. He moans wetly, getting a good grip and starting to rub himself. It's like the base of his tail has a direct line to his pussy, where every insistent touch makes him leak. Twin frictions on his clit and his tail, making his back arch as he chases that high.

Wetter and wetter, Bruce just soaks the sheets underneath him.

“Such a good kitty,” Clark's words wash over him and Bruce whines. “So desperate to be stuffed.”

The tip of his tail whips around, keyed up and so ready to come. It wraps around his wrist when he rubs at the base again, toes curling at the goosebumps breaking over every inch of flushed skin, hips rutting desperately into the air.

But no matter how much he needs it, the peak feels so far away.

“Clark, please,” he begs. Maybe he'll look back on this moment and scoff at how fast he caves.

Clark tuts. “You can come,” he says, slowly stroking himself. His thumb catches that trickle of precum from his tip, grinning when Bruce's lips instinctively part and his tongue lolls out. “Just do it yourself.”

He can't. He doesn't have to get himself off ever since Clark. Most times, he'll just lie back or stay on his knees and let the other pound him into oblivion.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bruce catches sight of Clark's pillow. Thick and firm—something that's apparently good for your neck that the super was so excited to buy even though he doesn't actually need it.

But importantly, it smells like him. It's his. Bruce snatches the pillow, stuffing it between his quivering thighs. It hasn't even touched him but the anticipation of what's coming makes him whine.

The moment his hot cunt touches the cool fabric, he nearly comes. He immediately starts humping the pillow, Clark's pleased groans fuelling the shaking, almost delirious thrusts of his hips.

“That's so good. You're being so good, baby,” Clark praises, eyes hungrily drinking the sight of his precious kitty humping his pillow.

The firmness of the memory foam is giving Bruce enough pressure to rut against, pressing up on his eager clit. One hand continues toying with the base of his tail, scratches and tugs mirrored by the freed hand now abusing his own nipples.

Everything hurts so good. His vision blurs with tears and Bruce feels himself climbing the edge. “Kal, Clark- fuck.”

“You might actually come. You'd like that won't you? Squirting all over my pillow and marking me as yours. Scenting me with your slick so all the other kitties know that I’m taken. That you belong to me.”

His eyes has fallen close in the past few minutes, that he doesn't even realise Clark has gotten up from his seat. Bruce only feels the other's warm hand closing around his tail as a forewarning.

The hand tugs firmly at the exact moment sharp teeth sink into the side of his neck, and those twin bursts of pleasure and pain and pleasure sends him skyrocketing off the edge.

Bruce comes with a scream, back strung tight as his thighs clamp shut around the pillow, relentlessly grinding and grinding to soak the fabric.

The intensity of his orgasm blanks his mind and he comes back online to aftershocks making him tremble, endless waves of pleasure curling around him. His pussy flutters and clenches around nothing, lips dragging against the drenched pillow in a weak imitation of a kiss, his sensitive clit still thrusting and humping and making his jaw clench with every gasp of too much but he can't stop. Probably because his body recognizes the touch coaxing him to come again. Clark's hands are finally on him, strumming his body in the way only he can.

His tail valiantly hangs onto the super's hand, knowing he can't make it stop, riding the sparks of pleasure when Clark circles and strokes the base. His chest pushes up into the fingers strumming his red, abused nipples, begging for more even when Clark pinches and tugs and twists them.

His second orgasm is smaller and he's already wet enough that it doesn't make a difference.

Or it does. He can't really tell.

Because within another breath, Clark is manhandling him, picking him up and flipping him over and sheathing his cock in the puffy cunt in one swift move. Bruce's face is unceremoniously shoved into the soaked pillow and his gasp of surprise morphs into acute, needy pleasure when all he can smell is himself and Clark.

He's forced to lap up his own slick, his taste flooding his mouth. He needs to lick and swallow to be able to catch a single breath, his sobbing moans muffled but that's probably good because then Clark won't know how much he likes this.

Clark knows though. Because his hand pushes Bruce's face further into the pillow, cursing softly when it makes Bruce's walls flutter harder around his cock.

He begins pounding into his kitty, telling Bruce to put his back into it and make him come, that Clark won't lift him up to breathe until he's stuffed his kitty full.

Either Bruce uses all his Bat-willpower to clench tighter and make him come. Or—this. When Bruce isn't hearing him, whining and sobbing around each mouthful. The longer Bruce is deprived of air, except whatever little he gets from the soft give of the pillow, the more his body twitches and shivers, and his pussy still throbs around Clark. It's a win-win for Clark anyway.

Clark doesn't even need to think about it before he's picking Bruce up. The first time it happened, when they're far away from any battlefield so there's no reason for him to do that, it was automatic. Bruce was flipping pancakes for their breakfast and Clark had been bugging him to move over to the next stovetop —"I wanna heat up Ma's soup, B!" "Wait until I'm done." "Then it's time to eat and I'm starving!" "You don't even need food, Kal" "Doesn't matter" — The more he pleads, the more Bruce plants his feet on the ground, a smug smirk gracing those lips. So Clark just grabs him.

It was more awkward than not, his arms circling around Bruce's waist and lifting, the other squawking in surprise and immediately tried to smack him off with a spatula. Clark shuffles three steps forward with a flailing Bat in his arms and plops him down at the next stovetop, picking up and placing his batter-filled pan there as well —"See? It's easy. You can do it there and I'm here-B? Are you... Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry. " — Clark began to apologize profusely because he knew how much Bruce hates when people touches and manhandles him. He knew and he still did that. He's about to launch into the most depressing, sad, apologetic speech when Bruce simply... grunted and turned back to flipping pancakes.

Clark wanted to ask him if he's okay, if they're okay, but he should probably give him space. No, he couldn't. Bruce is his best friend and best friends need to respect each other's autonomy and— Clark stops mid-turn as he's about to face Bruce and beg for forgiveness. Because the back of the bat's neck is red. It's flushed the softest shade of red that runs right to the tip of his ears. And one shocked peek gave Clark a glance at a bright red cheek and the upturned edge at of those lips, undeterred by the efforts to bite back that smile. Oh.

Oh.

So Bruce didn't mind that. Probably. Likely?

Clark filed that information away into the depths of his mind, where he collects every little piece knowledge about Bruce—He's a very good listener who sometimes drive Clark insane because his advice always worked. He hates waking up in the mornings but he also hates not waking up in the mornings because "it's time wasted, Kal". He carries around lollipops for little kids. He looks perfect with a baby in his arms, even as Batman. Especially when he's Batman. He doesn't seem to mind when Clark manhandles him — Clark knew he shouldn't take advantage of this new piece of knowledge but he surmised that it's time Superman gets a little bit selfish.

So it started out small and casual. Superman diving in the midst of battle to swipe Batman off his feet, away from the laser beam directedly on him. Batman still yelled at him, like those early days of their rocky partnership, but he didn't disinvite Clark from dinner so Clark counts that as a win.

When Batman stalks off to the watchtower lab or his cave because he just needs to check something out, the final clue that will help them take down villain-of-the-week, without any care that he's bleeding all over the floor, Superman takes it upon himself to wrestle that man to the medbay. He'll try to pick Batman up and the other will put up a worse fight because "We can solve this, Kal! Just give me five minutes!" So Superman just grabs him in a fireman carry and physically hold him down on the medbay bed.

They'll come back to Clark's apartment just at the sun breaks above the horizon, tired but happy that the world is saved for one more day. Clark will nudge Bruce to get into the shower first and when the other inevitably fights him on it, just scoops him up with a sleepy yawn and deposits him right in front of the bathroom. "Relax, B. I got breakfast this time."

Most times it's an echo of that first morning. Breakfast or dinner, it doesn't really matter. They'll be moving in sync, shrouded in the steady calmness of the kitchen. And when Clark needs to scoot to the other side of the kitchen or grab something that is on the bat's side, he doesn't need to say anything anymore. A simple hand on Bruce's waist, the gentlest pressure that Bruce just moves with.

When they get together, Clark finds out that he gets to do all that and more.

Bruce will be surrounded with his case files and a million checklist of things to do. But Clark can just pick him up and fly him to bed. "I'm not done, Kal" "Those can wait for tomorrow, sweetheart"

Bruce will be sneaking out of bed in just a few hours. Clark usually lets him get as far as the stairs before he comes over and swipes him up in a bridal-carry, putting him in bed and laying down on him. "Ugh, you're heavy. Get off of me" "You weren't complaining last night" "... shut up, Kal"

Bruce can't say he hates it. He knows okay? That Superman is, well, super. He can lift anything with barely a finger. But to experience it himself? Again and again? Every time it happens, Bruce feels another piece of his heart melt and be molded into something that is indescribably Clark's name.

He's a big man. 6'2 and with muscles he spent years building. Next to the average person he would look huge. And he doesn't think an average person could lift him a few feet off the ground, let alone casually scoop him up and hold him up. Clark just does it effortlessly and God, if that didn't make Bruce wet. He makes Bruce feel small, like he's someone easy to hold and care for. And Bruce can admit that he likes the casual display of strength.

Bruce Wayne will be taken hostage during a heist gone wrong at a gala, for what felt like the fifth time that month. But Superman will be there, clearing out the goons in just a few minutes before rushing over. "Mr.Wayne! Are you feeling alright?" It's for show, as it always is, but Bruce can hear everyone ooh-ing and aah-ing at how Superman simply carries The Bruce Wayne. That makes something proud unfurls in his chest, like look at my man, look at how strong he is. He preens inwardly and to the cameras trained on them, he swoons. "My hero! You saved my life." If he uses that opportunity to run his hand across firm, thick muscles and listen to the jealous awe of other people, that's no one's business.

There are times when Clark is lounging in bed or in the armchair when Bruce will pass by him. One single arm will stretch out and snag his waist, effortlessly pulling Bruce closer and into Clark's lap. He loves when Clark does that. Sometimes he will fake a struggle, telling the other that he has other, better things to do, which just makes Clark tighten his hold while Bruce feels himself slick up. Sometimes he just curls closer into the broad chest, smiling softly when a face nuzzles into his hair, letting himself fall asleep to kisses to the crown of his head. If Clark is particularly engrossed in his reading and doesn't seem to notice Bruce, of course there's a reason why Bruce Wayne is making multiple trips across the room. He has a lot of billionaire stuff to do that requires walking back and forth on that specific path. Don't question him.

When they're on monitor duty together, Clark will just pull Batman into his lap. "C'mon, B, no one is here," he'll whisper, mouth trailing along the side of the other's neck. At first, Batman did put up a semblance of a fight because this is just unprofessional. But then he stopped with the theatrics and let himself be held. With a disapproving frown because it's still unprofessional. "You're still cute when you pout. Gosh, I really, really like you." Lately Batman and Superman will make their way together into the monitor room and as soon as the door closes, Batman sits himself in Superman's lap, not bothering to hide the little smirk gracing his lips when Superman's arm naturally curls around him. It's for productivity reasons obviously.

In the kitchen, when it's Clark's to turn to cook, he start his routine by picking Bruce up and placing him on the counter. "You just sit there and look pretty, B," Clark says with a kiss on his forehead. Bruce didn't even know that that's something he had been missing in his life. Nobody ever did that and he certainly didn't think he could, but there was Clark wuth zero spatial awareness regarding Bruce.

When it's Bruce's turn to cook, Clark simply plasters himself to his back, keeping his head buried in the crook of Bruce's neck. Obviously he can't move with a giant octopus restricting him from even taking two steps to the side, or focus when Clark feels so good and smells so heavenly, so close to him. But he can't bring himself to get out of the embrace so he just leans back and takes an extra twnety minutes to prepare their meal.

Clark just likes pulling Bruce into his lap for cuddles, no matter when or where they are. It's a sight that's commonplace in the manor to the horror of th batkids. It's a constant in Clark's tiny apartment where he just refuses to let Bruce down. Bruce just gets carried everywhere, from the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen. He holds him like he's something precious and Bruce lets himself revel in it. There's finally someone who can bear the weight of everything that he is.

It does not need to be said that the way Clark can effortlessly hold him up extends to the bedroom. Bruce can ride that dick for hours without worrying that he might hurt Clark, quivering thighs working on milking every ounce of pleasure from them. And when he felt his burning legs giving way, after having Clark come so many times in him that every thrust has cum bubbling out around the thickness, large hands will wrap around his waist, almost covering the entirety of it, as Clark begins pounding into him. Bruce is jostled and bounced, made to meet every snap of his hips, scratchy, almost soundless moans interspersed with the slap of skin on skin. Clark can go for a few more rounds like that. When Bruce is finally laid back on the bed, his gaping, fucked out pussy leaks, pearly white cum dribbling between puffy lips.

Clark can lift him up against the wall as he fucks Bruce, holding him in place as he takes his fill. Bruce can't even get mad when they're moving towards the bed and Clark keeps getting distracted, stopping in place as he bounces Bruce on his cock. Because even then, he's getting dicked down so good and Bruce is desperately clawing and scratching at his back, his moans swallowed by the hungry mouth against his. They usually end up on the floor, with Bruce bent in half as Clark drills into him, taking him again and again until he passes out, coming so hard that his minds white out. He comes to already in bed, clean and warm in Clark's arms, and the thought that Clark could easily do anything to him when he's unconscious has him grinding back on Clark, grinning when the other stirs with a soft curse and one hand automatically reaching between his thighs.

Clark doesn't even have to hold him up. Bruce has never been with someone who technically doesn't need to breathe and it's wonderful. Mindblowing. He can ride Clark's face for hours, his pussy throbbing with overstimulation but still clenching tight around the tongue licking into him. Clark practically makes out with Bruce's cunt, spit and slick trailing down his chin as he laps and mouths at his puffy lips, tongue diving back into the heat to coax more wetness into the greedy mouth.

And when Bruce orgasms again, body slumping forward in exhaustion, Clark doesn't stop. He doesn't even try to lift him up, in fact he hooks his arms around Bruce's thighs and pulls him down, making him rest his weight entirely on Clark's face. Clark knows this must be what heaven feels like, surrounded by the scent of Bruce, a taste that is uniquely the bat's flooding his mouth. He can stay here for days, feeling Bruce tighten hard before going slack, squirting against his face. Clark is drenched by the time he's satisfied, hours later. Bruce's limp body still twitching with aftershocks, his tight pussy now fluttering weakly around Clark, so slack that Clark can easily flip him onto the bed and sheath himself in one smooth thrust.