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“I must be certifiably insane to have agreed to this,” Bruce says as he finishes lacing up his boots and straightens to his full height.
“Well. That argument can and has been made,” Jordan says, his mouth quirking up in that infuriating, cocksure way that tests Bruce’s self-control. It makes him want to close his teeth around that bottom lip until it’s red and swollen. It’s a pretty effective way of shutting Hal up, he’s found. “Besides,” Hal continues, stepping closer, “you drive the batmobile like you’re trying to break the sound barrier. Don’t even try to tell me this doesn’t get you hot.”
Bruce hums and looks over at the aircraft they’re about to board, imagining what Hal’s sure, steady hands will look like on the controls, bare of his ring. A shiver runs down his spine.
“Gorgeous,” Hal whispers right into his ear.
Bruce meets his eye, arching one brow. “You talking about me, or the plane?”
“Either,” Hal smirks, tugging down the zipper on Bruce’s flight suit. The button-down he’s wearing underneath has already been partially unbuttoned by these same hands, leaving a strip of skin exposed to the biting cold air. “God, you look hot in this thing. Maybe I’ll dress you up in my suit, when we’re done here. Rub you off until you come in it, so I can smell you next time I wear it. Think about what you taste like when I reach Mach 3.”
The words cause Bruce to shudder, any remaining self-composure he’s deluded himself into believing he possesses completely dismantled. He allows himself to look Hal up and down, appreciating the way the flight suit hugs his thighs, the easy confidence in his every movement. His pants are tented at the crotch, and Bruce would bet money on the fact that Hal spends every flight with a raging hard-on. It makes Bruce want to get down on his knees, unzip that suit and worship Hal’s cock until his jaw is sore.
Hal’s fingers trace along his clavicle, thumb moving against his throat. He bends his head to tongue at the divot between neck and shoulder before reaching to button the shirt back up, fumbling with the strip of fabric around Bruce’s collar, the bow-tie he loosened the moment they stepped into the airfield.
“You have no idea how to tie it, do you?”
“Not a damn clue,” Hal admits before balling Bruce’s shirt in his fist and yanking him forward, smashing their mouths together. His lips are hot and urgent, tongue mapping every corner like it’s hoping to find treasure in Bruce’s mouth. When he pulls back, Bruce very nearly chases his mouth. “Alright, enough distractions. You ready?”
Bruce frowns when Hal hands him a helmet. “I don’t see why you believe I’ll find this exciting. I’ve flown before. I own several aircrafts. It isn’t exactly a novel experience.”
“Oh, but Spooky,” says Hal, a mischievous glint in his eye, “you haven’t flown with me.”