Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The velvet curtain of normalcy felt tattered, threadbare, barely concealing the chaotic scramble of Bruce's thoughts. Maybe he's losing his mind. The thought, once a fleeting shadow, now clung stubbornly to the corners of his consciousness. Maybe it's... age? He ran a hand over his jaw, the faint stubble a tangible reminder of passing days. He couldn't tell anymore. The world, usually a meticulously ordered blueprint in his mind, had recently devolved into an unpredictable, disorienting mess. Important board meetings, once scheduled with military precision, now seemed to spring up with alarming spontaneity. The press, usually a distant, manageable nuisance, had become an inescapable presence, their lenses finding him even when cloaked in the most elaborate and thought-out disguises, a feat that should have been impossible. And Clark... Clark was just there, a constant, perplexing enigma, doing absolutely nothing to alleviate Bruce's growing anxieties.

The gnawing feeling in his gut was primarily attributed to Clark. He hadn't gotten a kiss from him in a week. A week! It felt like an eternity. His boyfriend was currently in Gotham, ostensibly for a "special investigative report" on the city's burgeoning tech scene, yet he made sure to see Bruce at least once a day. But those encounters were devoid of any real intimacy. Not one form of love, not even a casual hug, had passed between them. Bruce was much older than Clark, a fact he was well aware of, a fact that sometimes pricked at his ego. So why was he acting like a petulant child just because of a lack of affection? It was stupid, he told himself, trying to quell the rising tide of insecurity. He pushed his thoughts to the back burner, striving for the cool, collected composure expected of Bruce Wayne, just as the solid oak doors of his private chambers swung open.

Alfred, a beacon of unwavering calm, stepped in, his movements as fluid and silent as always, announcing that the guests for the annual Wayne Enterprises Charity Gala were rapidly arriving. He paused then, his gaze softening as he took in Bruce's appearance.

"You look lovely, my boy," he murmured, a rare tenderness in his voice.

Bruce, catching Alfred's reflection in the massive mirror, felt a flicker of warmth pierce through his apprehension. He turned away from the glass, offering Alfred a genuine, if slightly strained, smile as the butler quietly exited the room.

Bruce wasn't just wearing this outfit to look nice for anyone; it was for just one person, and he had personally ensured that they received an invitation to the gala tonight. He stared back at his reflection, a critical eye softening into something akin to self-satisfaction. He was clad in a custom-tailored open-chest blouse, a daring choice, made from the finest charcoal grey silk that shimmered subtly in the low light. The fabric flowed effortlessly over his broad shoulders, plunging in a deep V to reveal a tantalizing expanse of skin and the faint hints of muscle beneath, a deliberate statement of confident allure. It was impossibly tight at the waist, accentuating the taut lines of his physique before flaring ever so slightly, giving him a powerful, almost predatory silhouette. Complementing the blouse were sleek, obsidian-black dress pants, cut with an impeccable drape that elongated his powerful legs, and finished with a pair of highly polished, exquisite black leather shoes that whispered of quiet luxury. He bit his lip, a nervous tremor mixed with a surge of confidence. He looked undeniably, deliciously sexy.

He took one deep, focal breath, steadying his nerves, before descending to the party. His mind was a whirlwind of anticipation and trepidation as his eyes scanned the grand, marble-lined hallways, searching instinctively for any sight of his elusive lover. The hallways, however, came up empty-handed. He reached the top of the grand staircase, a majestic curve of polished stone and wrought iron, and paused, surveying the opulent scene below. The vast ballroom was a symphony of hushed conversations, clinking glasses, and the soft strains of a live orchestra.

His presence did not go unnoticed. He felt the shift, the sudden silence that rippled through the crowd, followed swiftly by a flurry of flashing lights as eager photographers captured his entrance. There were appreciative whoops and cheers for him from various corners of the room, punctuated by the sharp, melodic tink of guests tapping their champagne glasses in a toast.

He raised a hand, a gesture that effortlessly commanded silence, and a hush fell over the room as all eyes turned to him.

"Good evening, everyone," Bruce's voice, rich and resonant, carried easily through the expansive space.

"It truly warms my heart to see so many familiar faces, and indeed, so many new ones, gracing us with your presence tonight. Your generosity and unwavering support for the Wayne Children's Fund mean the world to me, and more importantly, to the thousands of children whose lives you'll touch. To all of you, I raise a glass..." He smiled, a charming, effortless smile that had disarmed titans of industry and charmed entire nations, and allowed a soft chuckle to escape him, a shared moment of levity with his guests.

"...thank you for making this evening possible." His words, fluent and practiced, began to slow, the smile on his face gradually fading, dying down as his gaze, sharp and unwavering, caught sight of a familiar figure in the dense crowd below. Clark.

Bruce finished his piece, the final words almost an afterthought, his eyes now locked onto his target. He began his descent, a path set directly for Clark. It was a graceful yet quick pace, a masterful blend of social ease and determined focus. The guests, their attention drawn back to their own conversations and champagne flutes, paid him no mind at his sudden, directed movement. He dodged a few outstretched hands, expertly sidestepped an overzealous reporter, and offered fleeting, noncommittal smiles to a few persistent socialites as he got closer to his target.

His heart fluttered, a wild bird trapped in his chest, as he finally stood directly behind the hunched, colossal back that was undeniably Clark. A vivid, almost electric memory flared in his mind – how he had, on more than one occasion, decorated that very back in a tapestry of red, a testament to their furious passion. He bit his lip, a strange mix of yearning and frustration bubbling within him.

He gently tapped the broad shoulder. Clark, momentarily lost in conversation with a politician, turned. The biggest, most radiant smile Bruce had ever seen bloomed on his face as he stared at Bruce, pure delight radiating from him.

"Bruce, hi, uh how are you?" His boyfriend stammered out, his voice tinged with a boyish nervousness that was both familiar and endearing, his grin splitting his face.

Bruce simply smiled back, a complex expression of longing and cautious hope, and took another step closer, sliding to Clark's side and gently, possessively, hooking his arm around Clark's.

"So glad you could make it," he murmured, his voice low, intimate, meant for Clark's ears alone.

Clark, however, went utterly still. Bruce felt the subtle ripple of tension in the arm he held. He noticed the way Clark's eyes darted around the room, nervously scanning the faces in the crowd, like he was looking for something... or someone? The subtle shift, the almost imperceptible withdrawal, struck Bruce like a physical blow. The tenderness in his own gaze hardened, replaced by a chilling clarity.

Bruce furrows his brows, the warm affection in his eyes replaced by a cold, cutting anger. With a sudden, decisive movement, he shoved Clark away. It wasn't a powerful, aggressive push, but it was firm enough to create an unmistakable space between them, sending Clark floating back a few steps into the throng of guests.

Behind him, Bruce could hear Clark's voice, usually so steady, now tinged with alarm as he called out Bruce's name, "Bruce! Wait!" But Bruce didn't care.

The betrayal, the sudden, sharp realization of Clark's discomfort with their simple display of affection, was an ice shard in his gut. He turned sharply, melting back into the crowd, leaving Clark bewildered and alone.

The opulent ballroom of the manor seemed to stretch endlessly before Bruce, each step echoing his desolate mood. He did not stop, his pace growing frantic, until he reached the discreet, mahogany-paneled bar, illuminating the centre of the second ballroom. Raw, hot tears pricked at his eyes, stinging with a fierce intensity, but he refused to let them fall – not yet. His jaw was clenched, a muscle pulsing beneath his skin, a testament to the iron will struggling to hold back a deluge of emotion.

With an almost practiced efficiency, he moved behind the polished counter, his fingers instinctively reaching for a bottle of something potent. His gaze fell upon a rare vintage, a Pétrus Pomerol, its label promising not just exquisite taste but a swift, numbing oblivion. Known for its rich, dark complexity and formidable alcohol content, it was precisely the kind of wine that could usher in a drunken haze with alarming speed. He grabbed the bottle and a single, heavy crystal tumbler. No one, not the silent, ever-present staff, nor the distant, muffled sounds of lingering guests, paid him any mind as he performed these solemn, desperate tasks. To them, he was simply Bruce Wayne; to him, he was falling apart.

He retraced his steps, ascending the grand, sweeping staircase, its marble gleaming faintly in the dim sconce light, then navigating the long, shadowed corridors of the residential wing. Ancestral portraits, their eyes seemingly following him from the walls, felt like silent judges. It was only as he reached the seclusion of his own private chambers, the quiet weight of the manor settling around him, that the dam finally broke. Hot, silent trails began to drop down his face, each tear a burning brand on his skin, a physical manifestation of the agony in his chest. They didn’t just fall; they burned his heart, searing a path of profound sorrow.

His mind was a maelstrom of cruel thoughts and crushing fears. Clark didn't want him anymore. He was too old, too broken, too much of a burden. The thought, a venomous whisper, burrowed deep, twisting the knife of perceived abandonment. It just became too much – the weight of the world, Clark's perceived distance, and the terrifying prospect of losing the one constant in his chaotic life.

"Fuck you, Clark," he mumbled, the words a choked whisper, thick with resentment and desolate love, as he pushed open the heavy French doors leading to his private balcony.

It overlooked the sprawling, manicured courtyard, where below, the distant laughter and murmur of guests still mingled with the soft clinking of glasses. The warm night air, scented with jasmine and honeysuckle, offered no comfort.

He sank into one of the plush, wrought-iron chairs nestled within the expensive outdoor set. With a defiant pop, he uncorked the Pétrus. Its rich, dark, earthy aroma – deep and potent like ancient earth and ripe berries – immediately filled the air around him as he poured a generous measure into his glass. He took a long, slow sip, then laid back, letting the complex liquid coat his tongue. Another sip, then another, the rhythm of his drinking growing more frantic, more reckless.

Eventually, sips turned into gulps, each one a desperate attempt to drown the ache in his soul. The first glass was down in an instant, the effects just as fast. A sudden warmth flushed his face, his ears burned in the cool night air, and a pleasant, fuzzy buzz began to hum in his veins, blurring the sharp edges of his pain.

The next glass vanished in a flash, leaving him in a quiet, heavy peace. He liked this. This numb, insulated state. It was just him and the alcohol, a temporary utopia where no one could bother him, no thoughts could plague him. All the outside noise, the expectations, the fears – they were gone, replaced by a dull, pleasant hum. But his quiet sanctuary was brutally interrupted when he heard the soft click and gentle creak of the balcony doors opening behind him. He rolled his eyes, a surge of irritation mixing with the rising tide of alcohol. He was ready to glare, to dismiss, to stomp away and lose himself further in his self-made oblivion. But then, his heart dropped, a plummeting stone in his chest, as his semi-blurred vision of the intruder cohered into the familiar, beloved (and currently infuriating) face of Clark. This was even worse.

He pushed himself up, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, to walk evenly, but the wine had already undermined his efforts.

"Bruce, what's going on?" Clark's voice, laced with weary concern and a hint of something unreadable, cut through the haze.

Bruce didn't answer him. He just trudged forward, intent on escaping, anywhere but here, anywhere but with Clark who felt so distant. He made a desperate move to dodge Clark, but strong arms met him, catching him firmly. Clark's grip was resolute, gentle but unyielding, holding him fast. Bruce fidgeted, fought weakly against the embrace, but his boyfriend was a rock. The last vestiges of his composure crumbled. He couldn't hold his head straight anymore; hot tears, a fresh wave, began to spill anew, wetting Clark's shoulder. His struggles died down in his lover's arms, transforming into helpless, shuddering sobs.

"Clark, please... just hold me," Bruce choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears and the fog of alcohol, a raw vulnerability spilling forth.

"You haven't... you haven't been here. Not really. You're always working, always distant. I feel like... I feel like I'm screaming into a void, and you can't even hear me. When was the last time you really looked at me? Really kissed me, not just a quick peck on the cheek as you rushed out the door? You don't hold me anymore, you don't even... you don't even touch me. I just... I just want you close, Clark. That's all I want. Just to feel you here."

He buried his face deeper into Clark’s shoulder, the confession tearing at him.

Then, Bruce pulled his head back, his eyes, though red and bleary, locking onto Clark's with a renewed, desperate challenge. He delivered the final, most painful blow, the raw core of his fear laid bare.

"You won't even fuck me anymore."

Clark’s face, already etched with concern, went a deep, mortified crimson. He involuntarily released Bruce, his hands dropping, and Bruce’s feet softly connected with the stone floor, now feeling strangely solid beneath him.

"B, you're drunk," Clark stated, his voice a low, hesitant plea, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning realization.

Bruce snapped his head up, his own face flushing a furious red, a fresh wave of defiant anger replacing the shame. He pushed Clark, with surprising force for his unsteady state, back into the exact seat he had just been drinking on. Without hesitation, he straddled Clark’s hips, settling himself firmly, and stared down at him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He was done with gentleness, done with pleading. Clark looked up at him, bewildered, eyes wide.

"Bruce?" Clark whispered, his voice laced with confusion and a nascent spark of something else.

Bruce didn't care about Clark's feelings anymore – not the ones Clark was showing now, anyway. "Since you won't do anything about it," he declared, his voice low and husky, threaded with a desperate resolve, "I will."

He leaned in close, his eyes never leaving Clark's, then drew even closer, his lips brushing against Clark's ear.

"Isn't that what you want, baby?" he whispered, his breath warm against Clark's skin.

Clark barely let out a stifled groan, a deep, involuntary sound, as Bruce began to grind slow and hard against his crotch. Clark tried desperately to hold his moans in, to resist this intoxicating assault, but he was failing terribly, his breath catching in ragged gasps. Bruce knew, intimately, that Clark was nowhere near quiet when they were together like this, and a dark, vengeful satisfaction bloomed in his chest as he continued to toy with him.

"Bruce, ngh— stop. Please?" Clark managed to choke out, the words ragged, his voice strained.

But Bruce didn't care. Not now. He continued his perfect, excruciatingly slow grind against Clark’s aroused cock, deliberately focusing his movements, his hips rotating with tormenting slowness, especially pressing against Clark's balls.

Clark cried out, a raw, uncontrolled gasp, as Bruce executed a quick, teasing little nudge, an unbearable shift of his weight. This was becoming too much.

Clark was panting, shoulders straining as he gripped Bruce's hips, pushing his own pelvis forward in a rhythmic, increasingly desperate grind.

“Faster, Bruce, please,” Clark choked out, his voice hoarse. Their clothes were still dressed tightly around their waists, damp and heavy.

Bruce, however, dictated the pace. Just as Clark felt the friction threaten to pull him over the edge, Bruce wrapped his hands around Clark’s wrists, slowing the movement until it was a low, agonizing drag.

“Not yet, darling,” Bruce murmured, his smile lazy, his eyes glittering with infuriating control.

Then, he stopped entirely. Bruce pushed up slightly, sliding out of the restrictive space between their bodies, and stepped away from Clark, who was left leaning against the chair back, chest heaving, a low groan of frustrated desire escaping him.

Bruce didn't rush. He watched Clark tremble for a moment, enjoying the sight, before he began the slow, deliberate work of undressing. First, the silk blouse, which was carefully peeled away—not ripped. Then, he unfastened the buttons of his trousers, easing the expensive clothing down his legs letting it drop to the carpet with a soft thud. Each movement was a calculated act of torture.

Clark couldn't stand the pace. He ripped his own shirt open—the sound of buttons popping seemed loud in the silence—and shoved his jeans down his thighs in a frantic heap. He took a staggering step toward Bruce, raw need written across his face.

“Now,” Clark demanded, reaching out to pull Bruce closer. “Get back here, Bru—”

“Ah-ah,” Bruce interrupted, holding up a hand, completely bare now except for the boxers barely clinging to his hips. “We’re trading the needy Kent for a little patience.”

Clark made a frustrated sound, but before he could argue, Bruce crossed the remaining distance. He didn’t kiss him gently; he took his mouth with a demanding hunger only moments divorced from the present desire. Bruce’s tongue slipped deep, exploring every corner, tasting the desperation he had engineered. Clark whined, a thick, needy sound that vibrated deep in his throat, and Bruce felt the immediate, hard response of Clark’s cock twitching against his inner thigh.

Bruce separated them abruptly, leaving Clark breathless, the sweet, lingering taste of wine from Bruce’s tongue still fresh in his mouth.

Clark watched, mesmerized, as Bruce knelt on the carpet between his unsteady legs. The motion was regal, dominant. He looked up at Clark, his eyes dark with predatory warmth. Bruce’s warm hand closed around Clark’s thick, leaking cock, gripping tightly as he slowly stroked up to the tip, running a thumb over the sensitive head. He squeezed, applying just enough pressure to elicit a sharp intake of breath, and leveled his gaze directly into Clark’s needy eyes.

“You’re going to be good, and loud for me, okay? I want to hear every sound, Kent. If not, I'll stop.”

Clark swallowed hard, the seriousness in Bruce’s tone undeniable. He knew this was an order, not a suggestion. "Yes, baby—"

His agreement was cut off by a sharp, involuntary moan as Bruce took him in a single, sudden motion. Bruce swallowed Clark whole, drawing him deep into his throat, hitting a level of depth that made Clark’s vision swim. Bruce didn't stop there; his other hand dropped, gripping Clark’s heavy balls, squeezing firmly as he set a quick, rhythmic pace with his mouth and throat.

Clark threw his head back against the chair back, a deluge of ragged, animalistic sounds tearing from him. The combination was too much—the insistent pressure on his sensitive balls, the wet, relentless suction. He was consumed.

Bruce accelerated the pace, pulling shallowly before driving deep, mimicking the insistent rhythm Clark had been craving earlier. Then, with a sudden, vicious change of tactic, Bruce pulled back just enough to rake his teeth lightly across the underside of the shaft, before applying intensely focused suction right at the base.

The sensation exploded through Clark. He cried out Bruce’s name, a sound ripped from the deepest part of his lungs, and his back arched violently as the orgasm took him. He shook uncontrollably, his hands instinctively covering his face, trying to shield himself from the blinding pleasure as he came deep into Bruce’s throat.

Clark slowly came down from the edge, his muscles quivering, the aftermath of the climax leaving him weak and shaking. He looked down at his lover as Bruce slowly dragged his mouth back up the length, gathering every last drop of the sweet release. Bruce gave one final, powerful suck at the tip before releasing Clark with a thick, wet pop.

Clark swore, impossibly, that the sensation only made him grow harder. He was already aching for more.

Bruce didn't wait for Clark to fully recover. He was done with the gentle preamble. With a swift movement, he shoved Clark's hunched body back. The chair was barely big enough for both of them as Bruce got into the opposite side.

"Enough of that," Bruce rasped, his voice low and thick, a sound of absolute command that Clark instantly obeyed.

Bruce’s legs came up, spreading wide, his knees splayed, exposing himself in stark, demanding invitation. The sight of his pale, muscular inner thighs and the shadowed entrance was a powerful trigger.

"Now, Kent," he commanded, his eyes burning into Clark’s kneeling form. "Come here and fuck me. Like a good boy who knows exactly what he earned tonight."

Clark swallowed the remnants of his whine and scrambled forward, his body moving without conscious thought. The word ‘earned’ was the highest form of praise. His chest heaved with gratitude, his hands trembling as he reached out to grip Bruce’s ankles.

"Thank you, sir," Clark choked out, the formality spilling past his lips before he could stop it. He lined himself up, the deep need overriding all caution.

Bruce watched him, a slow, predatory smile twisting his mouth. He offered no lube, made no move to prepare. He didn't care. He wanted the raw, immediate feeling of Clark’s hard entry; the pain was secondary to the possession.

Clark pressed forward, the head of his cock meeting Bruce’s slick, tight opening. He gasped, the friction immediate and intense. With a grunt of effort, he pushed, driving himself past the initial barrier and burying himself halfway in a rush.

It was too fast, too aggressive, and born of panic. Clark let out a hungry moan and started to pump his hips, ready to claim the release he had begged for.

A sharp, stinging smack cracked through the suite, echoing off the mahogany walls. Bruce’s hand had shot out, connecting hard with the soft, vulnerable flesh of Clark’s inner thigh.

"No!" Bruce’s voice was a whip. "You do not dictate the pace, sweet. You settle in. I want to feel every millimeter of you."

Clark froze, his muscles locking up in immediate compliance, a shudder passing through him. His lower lip tucked in and quivered.

"I’m sorry, sir," he whispered, tears wetting his cheeks again. He obeyed the silent order, relaxing his hips and slowly but surely sinking down the rest of the way.

The sensation was excruciatingly satisfying. Bruce was impossibly tight, gripping him like a velvet fist. Clark bottomed out fully, driving a long, shaky breath from his lungs.

Bruce let out a guttural, satisfied moan, arching his back slightly off the cushions. The sudden, agonizing fullness was intoxicating.

Clark remained still for a moment, letting the pleasure and the tightness wash over him, but the ache in his groin quickly became overwhelming. He needed to move, to pound, to earn the rest of the night.

"Bruce, sir," Clark begged, his voice rising in pitch, "Please, may I move? I need to..."

Bruce didn’t answer with words. He reached up, his hand hard and precise, clamping down on Clark’s jaw. He squeezed, forcing Clark’s face to look directly at him, shaking his head slightly.

"You may," Bruce authorized, his eyes blazing, "but hear me. Forget politeness. Forget slow. Fuck me good, Clark. And make it count."

The permission ignited the last shreds of Clark’s control. He was suddenly a loud, vocal mess, driven by the need to obey this ultimate order. He began to pound, rough and deep, the rhythm uneven and desperate.

The noise of their bodies colliding was deafening above Clark's frantic ramblings.

"Oh god, Bruce, thank you! I’m sorry—I’m sorry I wasn’t better earlier, I’m sorry I made you wait!" Clark cried out, his hips slamming down harder with every beat.

"I will be good, I promise, I’ll be so much better for you, I’ll take anything if you just keep punishing me like this—"

Bruce was in absolute heaven. The wine and the sea air filtered through the open balcony doors, creating a wild, beautiful background to the violence of their pleasure. He gripped the sheets, his hips bucking up to meet Clark’s deep, punishing thrusts.

Clark’s rhythm became faster, more desperate, and then, with one deep, lucky dive, he hit something internal—a specific, nerve-ending spot that made Bruce spontaneously scream.

Bruce’s eyes flew wide and he let loose a sound of pure, unadulterated release, his arms flailing wide. "Yes! Clark! Good boy!"

That praise, that single gasp of dominance and pleasure, was the final trigger. Bruce’s body seized, and he flooded his climax all over their torsos, the hot burst staining both their skin and the white cushioning beneath them.

Clark let out a high, ragged whine, his muscles shaking uncontrollably at the sight and feel of Bruce’s release, combined with the heady praise. He locked his hands onto Bruce’s hips, anchoring himself as he began pushing harder, faster, begging Bruce for the final release.

"Please, Bruce! I’m going to—I need it, sir, please!"

Bruce was overstimulated, breathless, his vision momentarily swimming. He didn't have the energy for a command, merely tilting his head back against the armrest and granting the silent permission with a broken, shuddering exhale.

Clark needed no more. He began to thrust with devastating speed and precision, his own ragged cries layering over the wet, slapping sounds of impact. Below, on the ground floor of the manor, Clark vaguely heard the faint, high-pitched whispers of guests who had clearly heard the commotion coming from the balcony suite, the realization of their public display making him whimper even louder.

"I’m close! I’m so close, Bruce!" Clark groaned, his back arching dramatically.

"Cum, Clark," Bruce managed, his voice hoarse and raw. "Cum inside me baby!"

With a series of ragged, explosive sounds, Clark burst inside Bruce, his body convulsing violently around the final, deep thrust. He buried his face in Bruce’s neck and repeated the word "Yes" over and over until his energy died down, and he collapsed onto Bruce’s chest, heavy, sweating, and silently weeping with exhaustion and satisfaction.

Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing. Clark eventually pulled himself out, dripping and slick, and collapsed beside Bruce, pulling an unused silk blanket over their entangled legs.

Bruce slid his hand into Clark’s damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp—a gesture of ownership and care that was far more comforting than any words.

Clark leaned into the touch, his voice small and muffled against Bruce's shoulder. "I think," he said, a shameful flush coloring his cheeks, "that the people having cocktails on the terrace definitely heard us."

Bruce paused his ministrations, a deep, easy chuckle rumbling in his chest. He pulled Clark tighter against him.

"Good," Bruce murmured, kissing the top of Clark's head. "Let them talk. It just means they know exactly who you belong to.”

To be continued....

Chapter Text

My muscles tensed, a familiar tightness settling in my gut as Clark’s presence loomed. Even blindfolded, I could feel the shift in the air, the subtle hum of his displeasure. He turned, and I didn't need eyes to know his face was etched with that quiet anger, that simmering irritation that always preceded an escalation.

‘Ah, here we go,’ I thought, a perverse thrill shooting through me.

I’d pushed him, yes, but wasn't that the point? To see how far I could go before he finally snapped and reminded me where I stood?

"You've been a busy little bat, haven't you?" Clark's voice was low, deceptively calm, but laced with a razor's edge I knew all too well. It wasn't a question, it was an indictment. And God, did it send a shiver down my spine.

I didn't flinch. I just stood there, naked and vulnerable, my arms glued to my sides, waiting.

‘Read my mind, Kal. You always do.’

I wanted him to see the defiance still burning in my eyes, even behind the silk. I wanted him to taste the insolence. But more than that, I wanted him to punish it. I looked at him, or rather, where I knew he was, searching for some clue to the exquisite torture he had planned. He must know, he must know that this wasn’t just a consequence for me, it was a craving.

Before, it had felt like a playful jab, a gentle poke at the boundaries of our… arrangement. A test of wills, a power struggle I always secretly enjoyed losing. But now, with my bare skin prickling in the cool air, with the blindfold pressing against my eyelids like a badge of my own carefully orchestrated sin, I knew better. Now, I had to suffer. And, god help me, a part of me was desperate for it.

"Clark, you don't have to do this," I managed, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

Was it a real apology? Or just another provocation, a soft plea designed to make him dig in deeper?

"I said sorry?" The last word was a whisper, a desperate little query.

He made no move, offered no pity for his lover draped before him. I imagined his eyes; cold, focused, probably gleaming with that terrifying, alien intensity. The blindfold felt heavy, as if it wasn't just blocking my sight but somehow holding the chaotic storm of my own thoughts in place, preventing them from spilling out, exposing the raw, aching need within me.

The air felt like ice against my skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with anticipation. My nakedness was both a symbol of shame and a raw conduit for an almost unbearable inner pleasure. The thought of what was to come made me hard, an instant, involuntary betrayal of my supposed contrition. This was always how it went. My body, ever the traitor, responding to the threat of his dominance with an animalistic surge of desire.

My loud, churning thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the piercing silence of the room. I no longer felt the cold texture of Clark's suit near me, that comforting, yet commanding, presence. Just solitary, vulnerable silence. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had he left? Was this a different kind of punishment? The absence of touch felt like a void.

"Clark?" I croaked, my voice cracking. "You… still here?"

A low sigh, heavy with what sounded like exasperation, then came the intimacy of his approach. I knew because I could feel the sudden rush of warm, intimidating breath against my ear, the subtle scent of his alien skin, a mix of ozone and clean laundry. He was right behind me, so close I could almost feel the phantom touch of his chest against my back.

"This is the fourth time, Bruce. Fourth," he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through my bones, sending shivers that weren't entirely from fear. "I don't get why you keep being disobedient."

I squirmed, my hips twitching involuntarily at the proximity, the sheer dominance in his tone. My body was betraying me, already melting into the submission it craved.

"It's not a big deal, I just want to be in charge, you know? Like I used to," I tried, my voice coming out breathy, weak.

It was a pathetic defense, utterly hollow. I didn't want to be in charge. Not really. Not when he could take it so effortlessly.

Clark let out a short, sharp huff of a laugh, and I felt him back away, the delicious warmth of his breath vanishing. I could practically feel the mocking expression on his face, the way his lips would curl, the slight tilt of his head.

"In charge? I take all the weight off your shoulders, I protect this world for you, and you disobey me because you want to be in charge?"

I ducked my head, my jaw clenching. A wave of shame, hot and thrilling, crept up my core. I stayed silent, knowing any further words would only deepen the hole I was digging for myself. Or perhaps, knowing that silence was exactly what he wanted.

"No words?" he mocked again, closer this time, his voice a delicious purr against my ear.

"Okay. I'll just have to give you a reminder on who you belong to and where you stand next to me."

My brows furrowed under the blindfold, my mind racing, trying to predict his next move. What would it be this time? A new form of sensory deprivation? Restraints tightened until my muscles screamed? Would he press me against the wall, his sheer strength pinning me, leaving bruises that would mark me for days? Or perhaps something more deep, more debasing... I imagined his lips on my neck, trailing down my chest, stopping just above the ache in my lower belly, his fingers tracing the faint lines of scars I already bore. Maybe his rough tongue would tease, just out of reach, making my body thrum with a desperate, unfulfilled need.

The thought of Clark, my formidable Kryptonian, reducing me to nothing more than a gasping, whimpering mess, utterly exposed and at his mercy, sent a fierce, primal surge of heat through me, hardening my cock even further despite my predicament. I pictured him making me beg for release, for his touch, for any scrap of attention he deigned to give, my struggles only serving to intensify his amusement. I wanted to be broken, to be utterly his, and the mere thought of him fulfilling that desire made my breath catch in my throat.

My swirling thoughts were cut short, brutally yanked back to reality, when I felt a searing, stinging heat bloom on my upper thigh. It burned beyond anything words could explain, hot and mind-numbing. Clark was using his heat vision. On my thigh?!

A guttural moan tore from my throat, raw and involuntary. I threw my head back, my spine arching, gripping the sheets beneath my trembling hands with white-knuckled desperation. I knew better than to close my legs, knew that would only provoke him further, make the agony last longer. Clark moved agonizingly slow, the beam of heat tracing a deliberate, excruciating path across my skin. The burn felt like it was sinking deep, scorching not just my flesh but my very bones. I could feel the warm, slick sensation of blood beginning to run down my thigh, doing absolutely nothing to alleviate the stinging, searing pain. He gave me his house symbol again….

I hiccuped, tears finally escaping the confines of the blindfold, running hot tracks down my temples. I apologized, desperate, like a maiden on death row, words tumbling out in a broken litany of pleas and promises. When Clark finally lifted the beam, I was left a shuddering, hiccuping mess, every nerve ending screaming in protest.

"Clark?" I whimpered, the sound barely audible. "You still here... my Lord?"

The title, usually reserved for my internal, secret submission, slipped out, raw and begging. I was desperate for the touch of my lover, for any sign that this was not merely punishment, but a dark form of love. The pain, a throbbing inferno, was nowhere close to subsiding.

Then, the intense heat was replaced by a cool, wet sensation. Clark's tongue. He was on his knees, on me, cleaning up the mess of blood, but it just kept oozing, warm and coppery, down my leg. I arched my back again, a desperate, silent plea for him to just touch me properly, to bridge the gap between torment and tenderness, to hold me. To mark me. To make me truly his.

The incessant licking, a slow, deliberate caress tracing the bloody, bruised skin, was becoming too much. Each pass of his impossibly soft tongue, each brush of breath against my throat, sent a hum of anticipatory dread and something… something else, a flicker of unwanted warmth, coiling deep in my gut. My hands gripped the sheet, trembling, but even if they weren’t, I doubted I’d have the will to push him away. Not really. Not when this was Clark.

Quiet, restricted whines escaped my throat, a pathetic, almost tuneless melody that I knew, with a certainty that chilled me more than the cold air on my bared skin, was music to his ears. My breath hitched, a small, desperate sound. Every pore on my body felt hyper-aware, prickling with sensation, a volatile mix of fear and an undeniable, perverse yearning that shamed me.

“My Lord, please,” I pleaded, the words catching, hoarse and thin, in my throat. “Enough.”

He stopped. Just like that. The sudden cessation of the warmth against my thigh was almost a shock, leaving an empty, aching space that clamored for his touch even as my mind screamed for reprieve. The air in the room, which had felt thick and heavy with his presence, now seemed to crackle with an unspoken tension, an invisible weight pressing down on me. I felt the shift in his posture, the subtle tightening of his jaw, even without seeing.

I heard the soft rustle of movement, the nearly imperceptible shift of air as he stood, towering over me. A new wave of fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the dull ache in my chest. He reached forward, and I braced myself, expecting a blow, a harsh word, anything but what came next. His fingers, steel-strong yet surprisingly gentle in their initial grasp, closed around a handful of my hair – slick with sweat and probably tangled from restless sleep. Then, without a word, he dragged me off the bed.

A pained grunt ripped from my lungs as my body hit the hardwood floor, a jarring impact that sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through my hip. My head snapped back, the blindfold momentarily displaced, offering a blurry, fleeting glimpse of the opulent rugs, the shadowed furniture, and then, mercifully, plunging me back into darkness as the silk settled again. The taste of dust and copper blossomed on my tongue. Humiliation, hot and potent, washed over me, burning far worse than any physical pain. This was his way. Always. A reminder of who I was, and what he could do.

“Get up, Bruce.”

Clark’s voice was ice. It sliced through the pain, through the humiliation, through the buzzing in my ears, bringing me back to stark, brutal reality. There was no warmth, no trace of the tenderness he sometimes feigned, only a command that brooked no argument. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest, but years of this… this intricate dance, had forged a reflex within me. Obedience. Even when it chipped away at the last vestiges of my self-respect.

I stood up, pushing myself off the cold floor with as much normalcy as I could muster, a feat of sheer will. My hip throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that radiated through my side, but I pushed it down, burying it under layers of taught control. I kept my head down, a silent act of submission, even though I couldn’t see him. It was an instinct, a learned response, to avoid his gaze, to offer none of my own defiance.

I heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the rug as Clark came closer. The air around him suddenly crackled with a different kind of energy, less menacing, more… possessive. He reached out, and a large hand, warm and calloused, cupped my chin, tilting my head back. My blindfolded face was presented to him, a blank canvas for whatever he wished to project upon it. I felt his breath ghost across my lips, a shiver running down my spine.

Then, he kissed me. Slow and deep and impossibly loving. It wasn’t my type of love, if I could even remember what that felt like anymore. It was Clark’s. A love laced with steel, demanding and consuming, a love that broke you down to build you back up in his own image. And if Clark loved it, then I loved it. My lips parted, an automatic response, inviting him in. Our teeth clanked together, a sharp reminder of the power imbalance, a faint metallic taste already mingling with his unique flavor. His tongue, insistent and probing, explored every inch of my mouth, a thorough, unhurried invasion that left me breathless.

His hand snaked from my chin, moving with deliberate slowness up my side, a feather-light touch that left a trail of goosebumps in its wake. It finally settled on the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping firmly. He held my head still, utterly captive, as the kiss deepened, becoming more predatory, more forceful.

Then, he bit my lip. Hard. A gasp tore from my throat, raw and involuntary, as pain lanced through me. I flinched, my body instinctively recoiling, trying to ease away from the sharp, sudden sting. But the hand at my neck tightened, holding me in place, a silent, unyielding command to endure. The taste of blood was immediate, hot and coppery, mixing with Clark’s lingering taste in my mouth. It mingled with the scent of his skin, the sharp tang of my own fear.

A frantic, desperate energy surged through me. I reached out, my hands thrashing wildly, trying to scratch at Clark’s chest, to push him away, to make him stop. My nails, though blunted, scraped uselessly against the impossibly, unyielding steel of his chest. It was like hitting a wall, a futile gesture that only served to highlight my weakness. My feet, bare and vulnerable, stomped against the floor, a desperate, childish display of defiance. Sounds of pain, choked and inarticulate, escaped my throat, a pathetic whimper against his silent dominance.

Finally, he let go. The sudden release sent me stumbling backwards, my legs feeling like jelly. I swayed, leaning against the bedpost for support, my chest heaving. I could feel the drips of warm blood trailing down my chin, across my chest, a stark, visceral reminder of his power, his claim. He had bitten a large section of my lip, a savage, almost deliberate tear, and it burned, a searing pain that eclipsed all other sensations. My mouth felt full of iron, the coppery tang spreading across my teeth and tongue, nauseating and vivid.

“My Lord,” I whispered, the words slurred, thick with pain and the taste of my own blood. My pleas hurt as they formed, each syllable a fresh sting.

“I’m sorry, please, just stop.”

I stood there, head bowed, blindfold still firmly in place, blood trickling. The silence from Clark was deafening. It stretched, taut and agonizing, each second an eternity, filled only with the frantic pounding of my own heart against my ribs. I waited for his verdict, for the next twist of the knife, the next lesson in submission.

Finally, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest, a sound that, paradoxically, brought a strange sense of relief mixed with dread.

"Sorry, Bruce? For what, exactly?" His voice was softer now, dangerously so, a silken veil over the steel beneath.

"For trying to scratch your Master? For flailing like a common brute when I claim what is mine?"

I swallowed, the act itself a painful scrape against my raw throat. "For… for my defiance, My Lord. For losing control. I… I forget myself sometimes. Please, forgive me."

Each word was a struggle, tasting like pennies and sin.

He stepped closer, and I instinctively flinched, bracing for another touch, another sting. Instead, his fingers, impossibly gentle this time, brushed the blood from my chin, a feather-light touch that belied the power behind it.

"Forgiven," he murmured, the word a soft caress against my torn lip. "But not forgotten."

My breath hitched. "My Lord?"

"You forget, my dear Bruce," he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive purr, "I have to remind you of your place, don't I? Of my ownership. Small lessons, just to keep you pliable, to keep that beautiful, brilliant mind of yours focused on me. On us."

His hand moved from my chin, gliding down my throat, settling over my heart, the pressure light but insistent. I could feel the almost imperceptible tremor of his fingers, a silent testament to the control he wielded.

"You crave it, too, don't you? This… intensity. This breaking point. It's why you allow me these liberties."

I said nothing, a silent battle raging within me. Did I? Did I crave this? The thought was a sickening, terrifying truth that I desperately tried to deny. But the tremor in my own body, the way my heart hammered not just from fear but from a strange, rising anticipation, betrayed me.

"No answer?" he chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "Then allow me to help you remember."

He led me by the hand, gently, away from the bed, towards... somewhere. The blindfold amplified my other senses. I heard the rustle of sheets as he pulled them back, felt the cool air on my skin, then the sudden warmth of body heat radiating from a specific spot. He guided me back onto the mattress, pushing me down gently, but firmly.

"You've been a Judas, Bruce," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

"And you need to be disciplined. To be… loved, in the way only your Master can love you."

I felt the cool brush of his hand against my hip, drawing a groan from me that was half pain, half burgeoning desire, the strange, sickening blend that had become my reality. He knelt between my legs, his weight shifting, and I could feel the heat radiating from his body, even through the fabric. My mind was a dizzying kaleidoscope of sensations, each one heightened by the absence of sight.

"Are you ready to be loved, Bruce?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through my very bones.

"Yes, My Lord," I gasped, the words squeezed out, a desperate plea for both action and cessation. "Please. I'm ready."

Then, his fingers, strong and calloused, brushed gently against my inner thigh, sending a jolt through me.

"Such a beautiful body," he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive admiration that made my skin crawl and my heart ache.

"Made for me, weren't you?"

"Yes, My Lord," I whispered, the words automatic, conditioned. "Only for you."

He laughed, a low, satisfied sound that seemed to fill the entire room. "Good boy."

His touch moved higher, exploring, teasing, a deliberate, agonizing dance that pushed me to the edge of my control. I writhed against the restraints, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Please, My Lord… Clark… please," I begged, the shift from formal address to his name an unconscious, desperate plea for intimacy, even in this raw, exposed state.

"Ah, the forbidden name," he purred, his fingers now delving into a place that sent a shockwave of pleasure and pain through me.

"Such a dangerous thing, Bruce. Are you trying to provoke me?"

"No! No, My Lord, never!" I cried out, my head thrashing against the pillow. "Just… just needing you. So much. Please, I… I can't think."

"Good," he affirmed, his voice closer now, lips brushing my ear. "Don't think. Just feel. Just obey."

He prepared me, carefully, meticulously, yet with an underlying urgency that pulsed through his every movement. Each touch, each stretch, was a reminder of the impending invasion, a slow burn of anticipation that coiled tighter and tighter within me. My body hummed, a taut wire stretched to its limit.

"Open for me, Bruce," he commanded, his voice deep and resonant. "Show me how much you want this. How much you need your Master."

"I do, My Lord! I need it!" I whimpered, arching my back, trying to accommodate him, to offer myself more completely. "I need you to take me. To make me forget myself."

"And so I shall," he promised, a dark, rich timbre in his voice that sent shivers of both dread and excitement through me.

Then, the first glorious, agonizing push. It was slow, deliberate, each inch an eternity, stretching me, filling me, burning with a sensation that was almost unbearable in its intensity. A choked cry tore from my throat, raw and desperate.

"Did I hurt you, my love?" he asked, his voice dripping with feigned concern, but I could feel the smirk in his tone. He knows, I thought. He always knows.

"Yes! No! I… I don't know!" I gasped, my vision swimming behind the blindfold. "It hurts, My Lord, but… but it's good. It's you."

"Good. Embrace it," he commanded, and then he was fully within me, a deep, primal throb that settled into the deepest part of my being.

He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust a deliberate claiming, a grinding motion that pushed the very air from my lungs. My body, despite the pain, began to respond, a slow, inevitable loosening, an almost reluctant acceptance of his domination. My hips began to buck, not just in pain, but in a burgeoning rhythm that mirrored his own.

"Tell me, Bruce," he breathed into my ear, his voice rough with exertion, "tell me what you feel."

"Full… so full, My Lord," I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. "You… you own me. Every part."

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that thrilled me in a way I hated to admit. "Say it again. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours! Always yours, Master!" I cried out, the words ripped from me, raw and desperate. "Do what you want with me! I'm yours!"

His pace quickened then, the thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent, pushing me further and further. My entire body was a symphony of sensation, a discordant yet beautiful melody of pain and pleasure. The burning friction, the demanding thrusts, the way he pushed into me, driving me relentlessly, was all-consuming. I felt myself teetering on the edge, a precipice of sensation from which there was no return.

Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain tore through my lower lip again. He had bitten me, hard, in the throes of his passion, drawing fresh blood that mingled with the first, a familiar, coppery taste flooding my mouth. I cried out, a strangled sob, a mix of shock and agonizing pleasure.

"You bleed so beautifully for me, Bruce," he murmured, his voice husky, almost reverent, as he ground into me. "Always so willing to give me everything."

"My Lord, please!" I pleaded, the words half a protest, half an unholy prayer. "It burns! But… but I want it. I want you." The admission was a confession, a surrender, a final shedding of any pretense of resistance.

And then, something shifted. The pain, though still present, began to morph, to twist into something else entirely. A delicious, aching throb that resonated with every thrust, every deep, demanding plunge. My body, which had been tense and fighting, began to relax, to surrender to the rhythm, to the exquisite agony he inflicted. I felt myself becoming pliant, melting into the mattress, into his embrace, into his control.

"Yes, My Lord!" I began to chant, the words spilling from me, unbidden and true.

"Harder! Don't stop! Don't ever stop! I love this! I love you inside me! This pain… It's perfect! It’s ours!"

I arched my back off the bed, straining against his grip, offering myself more completely to him, to the unrelenting force of his possession. My hips rose to meet his, a primal, instinctive response.

"Give me more, Master! I can take it! I want it!"

My voice was hoarse, raw, strained, yet laced with an undeniable euphoria. My head thrashed against the pillow, tears of ecstasy and pain streaming from beneath the blindfold.

"Fill me! Break me! Make me yours forever!"

The pleasure was building, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to shatter me into a million pieces. Each thrust was deeper, more potent, pushing me closer and closer to the breaking point. My muscles tensed, my core clenching around him, desperate to hold onto the exquisite torture, to prolong the sensation.

"My Lord… Master… I’m… I’m coming!" I cried out, my voice reaching a fever pitch, an almost guttural scream. "Oh, God, thank you, Master!"

The climax ripped through me, a violent, shattering wave that left me gasping, trembling, my body bowing impossibly high off the bed, an arch of pure, unadulterated release. It was pure, unholy bliss, a complete obliteration of self, a moment where nothing existed but the blinding white-hot sensation and his presence, his absolute control.

Clark let out a low, satisfied growl, a truly animalistic sound that reverberated through my core, deep and primal, echoing my own release. He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and then, with a final, shuddering thrust, he too found his release, flooding me with his warmth, his essence, his claim. He collapsed against me, his chest heaving, his weight a heavy, welcome burden.

We lay there for a long moment, the only sounds our ragged breaths, the faint creak of the bed, and the frantic pounding of my own heart slowly settling back into a more regular rhythm. My body throbbed, every nerve ending alive, buzzing with the aftershocks of our brutal communion. The taste of blood was still strong in my mouth, mingled now with the heady scent of sex and sweat, a potent cocktail that I knew, with a sickening certainty, would forever be associated with him.

He shifted, rising up on his elbows, his breath still ragged against my ear. "Well, my love," he murmured, his voice hoarse, thick with satisfaction. "Did your Master make you remember?"

"Yes, My Lord," I whispered, my voice weak, spent, yet imbued with a strange, burgeoning devotion. "You always do. You… you make me whole, even when you break me."

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich against my back. "Such poetic words, Bruce. You truly were made for me, weren't you? This darkness inside you, this need for control, for absolute surrender… only I can truly satisfy it."

"Only you, Master," I agreed, the words coming easily now, almost effortlessly. The struggle was gone, at least for now. In the aftermath of such a profound submission, there was only a fragile peace, a temporary cessation of the endless internal war. "I… I belong to you. Completely."

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck, just below my ear, a stark contrast to the rough domination of moments before. "Good," he whispered, his lips lingering.

"Never forget it. Not for a moment. Because if you do, my love, we will simply have to remind you, won't we?"

He let go of my body, but the indelible mark he left on my soul, that would remain. I reached up, my still-trembling fingers moving to touch his arm, to trace the hard line of his bicep.

"Never, My Lord," I promised, the words a sacred vow in the quiet intimacy of the room. "I could never forget you. Never forget this."

It was a lie, and it was the absolute truth. I hated him for what he did to me, for the way he stripped me bare, for the pain and the humiliation. But in the next breath, I loved him, loved the way he claimed me, the way he saw through all my defenses and touched the raw, vulnerable core of my being that craved this exact kind of brutal, tender, toxic devotion. It was a love born of fear, of dependency, of a twisted, almost religious devotion to the man who held my leash. And tonight, as always, I had found a strange, dark salvation in his arms. I was Bruce, his Bruce, broken and mended by his hands, and in the quiet aftermath, that was enough. It had to be.

Chapter Text

The air in the Watchtower’s main observation deck crackled, not just with the usual hum of advanced technology, but with an almost visible tension between its two most formidable occupants. Bruce stood rigid, his jaw clenched, while Clark, usually a beacon of calm, had his shoulders set, his eyes ordinarily so warm, reflecting a cool resolve. They’d been circling each other for what felt like an eternity, the argument, initially about a minor jurisdictional overlap in Coast City, having spiraled into something far more personal, far more venomous.

“You always think you know best, don’t you, Clark?” Bruce’s voice was a low growl, edged with a bitterness that surprised even himself.

“Always the man with the plan, the moral compass, the one who knows what’s good for everyone.”

Clark sighed, a soft sound that, to Bruce’s frayed nerves, felt like a deliberate provocation. “Bruce, that’s not fair. I was suggesting a different approach, one that wouldn’t put civilian lives at unnecessary risk.”

“Unnecessary risk?” Bruce scoffed, stepping closer, his gloved hands balling into fists. “We’re talking about my methods, my city! You swoop in, cape flapping, and suddenly my years of experience are irrelevant?”

“You’re getting defensive,” Clark stated, his voice still maddeningly even, but a hint of steel entering it. “And that’s usually when you make mistakes.”

That was it. That casual, almost clinical dismissal of his judgment, his very being, sent a wave of white-hot fury crashing over Bruce. A primal, unthinking rage, born of exhaustion, stress, and a deep-seated insecurity he rarely allowed to surface. His hand, seemingly with a will of its own, shot out. Not a full-powered punch, not even a true blow meant to harm, but a desperate, uncontrolled lash, a clawing strike intended only to make Clark feel something, react to him. His nails, sharper than he realized, raked across Clark’s cheek, beneath his left eye.

For a split second, an eternity, nothing happened. Clark didn’t flinch. There wasn’t even a mark. The skin, a nanosecond after the contact, healed flawlessly. Bruce’s breath hitched. His arm fell limp to his side, his hand trembling. The fury vanished, replaced by a sickening cold dread.

Bruce’s eyes, wide with horror, darted from his own offending hand to Clark’s face, perfectly unblemished.

“Clark… I… I didn’t mean to…” His voice was a choked whisper, raw with immediate, corrosive shame.

“Oh god, Clark, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what… what came over me.” He tried to reach out, to touch Clark’s cheek, to offer some inadequate solace, but his hand froze in mid-air, afraid to make contact again.

Clark didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes, though still uninjured, hardened, the earlier steel now infused with a profound disappointment that cut Bruce far deeper than any blow could have. He simply stared at Bruce, absorbing the apology, weighing it, and finding it wanting.

“Please, Clark,” Bruce pleaded, stepping forward, his voice cracking. “Please say something. I just… I lost control. It was stupid, I was angry, but I would never…” He trailed off, the words dying in his throat as Clark’s gaze remained unwavering.

“You struck me, Bruce,” Clark’s voice was low, devoid of emotion, a flat statement of fact that resonated through the silent Watchtower like a pronouncement of doom.

“I know! And I’m so sorry! I swear, I don’t know why I did it. It was just… a moment of pure, unadulterated rage. I feel terrible, Clark, truly. Please, forgive me.” Bruce’s hands twisted together, a desperate, almost childlike plea.

Clark finally broke eye contact, turning his gaze towards the vast expanse of stars visible through the observation deck’s panoramic window. “It’s too late for apologies, Bruce. The act has been committed.”

“What does that mean, ‘too late’?” Bruce’s voice was edged with a rising panic. “Clark, don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.” He moved to stand in front of Clark, trying to force eye contact.

“Please, just talk to me. Let’s work through this. I’ll do anything.”

Clark slowly turned back, his expression unreadable. He reached out, not to Bruce’s face, but to his hand, gently taking it and intertwining their fingers. Bruce’s heart leaped with a flicker of hope, but the grasp was firm, possessive, not comforting. Clark began to walk, leading Bruce towards the Watchtower’s transporter.

“Clark, where are we going?” Bruce asked, his voice now a quiet tremor. “What are you doing?”

Clark didn’t answer. He simply led, his grip on Bruce’s hand unwavering. The transporter hummed to life, engulfing them in a familiar light, and then, in the blink of an eye, they were no longer among the stars but deep beneath the earth, in the cavernous expanse of the Batcave.

The sudden transition, the familiar scent of damp rock and ozone, usually a source of comfort, now felt oppressive. Bruce stumbled slightly, his gaze darting around the shadows, searching for an explanation, for an escape. Clark still hadn’t said a word since leaving the Watchtower, his silence far more terrifying than any shouted accusation.

“Clark?” Bruce whispered, tugging gently on Clark’s hand. “We’re in the cave. What’s happening? Why are we here?”

Clark’s only response was to tighten his grip, pulling Bruce deeper into the labyrinthine passages of the cave, away from the familiar hum of the supercomputer and the parked vehicles, towards a section rarely visited, concealed behind a cleverly disguised rock face.

“Clark, please,” Bruce pleaded, his voice growing more desperate. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. This silence is… it’s killing me.”

Clark stopped before a seamless section of rock. He placed his free hand on a barely visible seam, and with a soft whir, a section of the wall slid inward, revealing a dimly lit passage beyond. The air there felt different – warmer, softer, carrying a faint, subtle scent that Bruce couldn't quite place.

“Is this… the room?” Bruce’s voice was barely audible. He remembered the day they’d designed it, a space intended for shared vulnerability, for exploring the deeper, more unconventional facets of their intimacy. Now, it felt like a prelude to something far more severe.

Clark nodded once, a curt movement, and then pulled Bruce gently but firmly through the opening. The wall slid silently shut behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world, plunging them into a quiet that was both profound and menacing.

The room, though familiar, now seemed alien. Soft light emanated from hidden sources, casting long, dancing shadows. Plush rugs softened the floor, and a low, comfortable-looking couch curved along one wall. But Bruce’s eyes were drawn to the far corner, where a large, ornate throw blanket usually obscured something he tried not to think about too often.

“Clark, listen,” Bruce began, his voice still trembling, but imbued with a fresh surge of determination. “I know I messed up. Terribly. And I’m not trying to excuse it, but I genuinely lost myself for a moment. It won’t happen again, I swear. Just… don’t do whatever it is you’re planning.”

Clark turned to face him, his eyes finally meeting Bruce’s. They were still unyielding, but now held a flicker of something else – a deep, almost sorrowful intensity that made Bruce’s stomach clench.

“Silence, Bruce,” Clark said, his voice a soft murmur, yet it resonated with an authority that brooked no argument. He lifted a hand, not to strike, but to gently cup Bruce’s jaw, his thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.

“No more words. Not from you, for now.”

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but Clark’s thumb pressed lightly against his lips, silencing him effectively. His touch, though gentle, was absolute. Bruce found himself unable to move, unable to speak, transfixed by Clark’s gaze.

Clark’s fingers then moved from Bruce’s jaw to the collar of his uniform top, deftly unfastening the clasps. “Tonight, Bruce,” Clark murmured, his voice a low, sensual rumble that sent shivers down Bruce’s spine, “we will communicate differently. With actions. With understanding.”

Bruce watched, mesmerized and terrified, as Clark’s hands, so strong and capable, began to systematically undress him. Clark pulled the fabric of his top over his head, revealing the well-defined musculature of Bruce’s chest and shoulders. Bruce shivered, not from cold, but from profound vulnerability. He wanted to fight, to pull away, to regain some semblance of control, but he found himself utterly paralyzed, his body responding to Clark’s silent command with an unnerving compliance.

“That’s it, my love,” Clark whispered, his eyes never leaving Bruce’s. “Just relax. Let me take care of everything.” His voice was a seductive balm, even as his actions were stripping Bruce of his identity, piece by piece.

Clark’s touch was slow, deliberate, almost reverent as he continued. He unbuckled Bruce's belt, the leather sighing as it gave way. Then, with a practiced grace, he slid down the tactical pants, pooling them at Bruce’s ankles. Bruce stepped out of them mechanically, his gaze locked on Clark’s, a silent plea in his eyes.

“Are you cold?” Clark asked, his voice soft, almost teasing, as Bruce stood before him in only his underwear.

Bruce shook his head minutely.

“N-no.”

The word was a bare whisper, the first he’d managed since Clark's command for silence.

Clark knelt then, his eyes burning into Bruce’s as he reached for the hem of Bruce’s underwear. With a smooth, unhurried motion, he eased them down, over Bruce’s hips, past his thighs, until they joined the pile of discarded clothes on the plush rug. Bruce stood completely naked, exposed, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the burning intensity of Clark’s gaze.

“Perfect,” Clark murmured, standing again. His eyes roamed over Bruce’s body, lingering on the scar tissue, the evidence of a life lived on the edge.

“Flawless, as always.” He reached out, his hand gently stroking Bruce’s arm, a fleeting touch that was both possessive and oddly comforting.

“Now, my darling,” Clark said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding tone, “you’re going to get clean. The shower is through that door.” He pointed to another, smaller door Bruce hadn’t noticed before. “Thoroughly clean. And quickly.”

Bruce blinked, the command echoing in his ears. He glanced at the designated door, then back at Clark. “Clark, please, what are you doing?” he managed, his voice still fragile.

Clark gave him a stern, unwavering look. “No questions, Bruce. Just obedience. Go. Now.”

The authority in Clark’s voice was irrefutable. Bruce, despite his fear and confusion, found himself nodding. He turned and walked towards the shower, his naked form feeling utterly vulnerable under Clark’s unspoken scrutiny. He stepped into the pristine, tiled space. The water, warm and inviting, immediately began to run. He washed quickly, scrubbing at his skin as if trying to erase the anger, the shame, the helplessness, his mind racing, trying to anticipate Clark’s next move. Every splash, every soap lather, felt scrutinized, even if Clark wasn't physically present in the shower itself.

When he emerged, damp and fresh, a fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, Clark was waiting. He held a small stack of clothes in his hands. Not his usual attire, not even the comfortable loungewear they sometimes shared.

“Come here,” Clark said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. He gestured for Bruce to stand directly in front of him.

Bruce hesitated for only a moment before complying. Clark took the towel, gently unwrapping it and tossing it aside. Bruce shivered slightly, feeling the cool air against his still-damp skin.

“You’re going to wear these tonight,” Clark explained, holding up a pair of soft, black silk panties. They were undeniably sensual, exquisitely comfortable, but also… not Bruce.

“Panties?” Bruce asked, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. “Clark, why…?”

Clark’s eyes flashed, a sudden intensity in their depths. “No questions, Bruce. We agreed. Put them on.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Bruce swallowed hard and did as he was told. He stepped into the silk, the fabric cool and smooth against his skin, feeling oddly restrictive precisely because it was so un-Bruce. Next, Clark offered a black, close-fitting top made of a surprisingly soft, stretchy material that hugged his torso. It felt more like a second skin than a shirt.

“And this,” Clark said, his gaze lingering on Bruce’s chest as he helped him pull the top on. “It will keep you warm.”

Finally, Clark knelt again, producing a pair of thick, soft cotton socks. “And these, my love. For your feet.”

Bruce sat on the edge of the low couch as Clark gently pulled the socks onto his feet, the warmth a strange comfort amidst his growing unease. He looked down at himself: silk panties, a form-fitting top, soft socks. He felt utterly out of place, somehow diminished, strangely feminized. It was a bizarre, unsettling costume.

He looked up at Clark, a silent question in his eyes. He still didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand.

Clark slowly rose, his gaze sweeping over Bruce, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “There. Perfect.”

And then, Clark’s gaze drifted past Bruce, towards the corner of the room. Bruce followed his line of sight, and his blood ran cold. The large, ornate throw blanket that usually covered the object in the corner was gone. It lay neatly folded on a nearby stool. Exposed, in all its terrifying glory, was the cage.

It wasn't a crude, rusty animal cage. This was a custom-built structure, elegant yet undeniably solid. Dark, polished metal bars formed a spacious enclosure, large enough for a man to stand, sit, or lie down comfortably. Inside, there was a thick, plush mattress with soft pillows, a small, built-in shelf, and a water dispenser. It was designed for a human, specifically for him, and the sight of it, uncovered, illuminated by the dim, sensual lighting of the room, sent a wave of pure, visceral panic through Bruce.

“No,” Bruce whispered, his voice barely a breath. His eyes darted from the cage to Clark’s face, a desperate plea forming.

“Clark, please. Not the cage. You wouldn’t.” He tried to push himself up, to scramble away, but Clark’s hand clamped gently but firmly on his shoulder, keeping him seated.

“Oh, but I would, Bruce,” Clark’s voice was soft, laced with an unnerving calm. “You know our rules. You know what happens when you lash out, when you lose control. Especially like that.”

“But I said I was sorry!” Tears welled in Bruce’s eyes, hot and stinging. “I apologized! I begged! I’ll do anything, Clark, anything! Just don’t put me in there.” He struggled against Clark’s grip, a frantic, desperate attempt to escape what he knew was coming.

Clark simply shook his head, a look of sorrowful determination on his face. “Apologies are not enough for that kind of transgression, my love. Actions have consequences. Tonight, you learn a lesson in control. Yours, and mine.”

Before Bruce could react further, Clark’s free hand reached out, his palm connecting with the soft, silk-clad curve of Bruce’s rear. Smack. It wasn’t a harsh blow, but it was firm, sharp, and stung through the thin fabric. Bruce gasped, his eyes widening in shock.

“That’s one,” Clark murmured, his grip on Bruce’s shoulder tightening.

Smack.

Another sharp sting. “For your outburst.”

Smack.

“For laying a hand on me.”

Smack.

“For making me doubt your control.”

Bruce cried out, a pathetic, wounded sound. “Clark, stop! Please! It hurts!” His cheeks flushed crimson, not just from the sting, but from the raw humiliation of being spanked.

Clark delivered two more firm, deliberate swats, each one leaving a burning imprint on Bruce’s tender skin.

“That’s enough to get your attention, isn’t it?” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, yet utterly unyielding.

Then, to Bruce’s utter astonishment, Clark leaned down, his lips brushing against Bruce’s ear. “Now that I have it,” he whispered, his breath warm and intoxicating, “let me remind you of how much I cherish you, even in your defiance.”

And then Clark kissed him. It was a deep, possessive kiss, full of a strange mix of tenderness and dominance. Bruce’s mind reeled, torn between the sting of the spanking and the searing heat of Clark’s lips. It was a cruel, beautiful contradiction, a clear message of ownership even in punishment.

When Clark finally pulled away, Bruce was breathless, disoriented. His eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears and a terrifying confusion.

“Now,” Clark breathed, his eyes glittering with an unreadable emotion, “it’s time for you to truly reflect on your actions.” He reached out, his hand tangling in Bruce’s damp hair, not gently, but with a firm, inescapable grip.

“Come, my darling. Your new home awaits.”

Bruce cried out, a guttural sound of fear and desperation, as Clark dragged him off the couch. He stumbled, his feet slipping on the plush rug, but Clark’s hold was absolute. He was pulled across the room, his bare feet scraping against the fabric, his protests dissolving into helpless whimpers.

“No! Clark, please! Let me go! I can’t! I can’t be in there! I’ll be good, I promise! I’ll do whatever you want! Just please, don’t lock me up!” Bruce’s pleas were frantic, his voice cracking with pure terror. He clawed at Clark’s arm, his nails useless against the unyielding strength.

Clark ignored him. With a powerful, effortless motion, he maneuvered Bruce to the open door of the cage. Bruce braced himself, digging his heels in, but it was futile. Clark lifted him, pushing him bodily through the opening. Bruce landed on the plush mattress inside, scrambling back against the bars, his eyes wide with horror.

“Clark! No! Please!” he screamed, reaching through the bars, his fingers grasping wildly at empty air.

Clark’s expression was unreadable as he reached for the cage door. With a soft click, the lock engaged, the sound echoing with chilling finality through the silent room.

“You’ll be safe here, Bruce,” Clark said, his voice devoid of any warmth, a stark contrast to his earlier kiss. “You’ll have time to think. Time to understand the gravity of your actions.”

Bruce pressed himself against the back of the cage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Clark, please! Don’t leave me! Please!”

He rattled the bars, his voice rising to a raw, desperate sob. “I can’t be alone! Not in here! Clark, please… I need you! You can’t leave me like this!”

Clark simply stood there for a moment, his gaze unwavering, taking in Bruce’s trapped, desperate form. Then, without another word, he turned and walked towards the secret door, leaving Bruce’s cries echoing behind him. The door hissed open, and then closed again, plunging Bruce into a profound, terrifying solitude.

Bruce was alone. Utterly, completely alone in the silent room. He scrambled from the back of the cage to the front, clutching at the bars, straining his ears for any sound from beyond the sealed door. Nothing. Only the deafening silence of his own terror.

“Clark?!” he screamed, his voice hoarse, raw.

“Clark, are you still there? Please! Say something! Anything!” He shook the bars, a pathetic, futile gesture of defiance against the unyielding steel. His tears flowed freely now, hot rivulets carving paths down his cheeks. His chest ached with a suffocating loneliness. He hated being alone, despised it. And to be alone like this, imprisoned, was a special kind of torment.

He collapsed to the floor of the cage, burying his face in his hands, shuddering with repressed sobs. His silk-clad body felt frail, exposed. The soft top offered little comfort, and the panties, instead of being sensual, felt like another layer of humiliation.

After what felt like an eternity, the initial surge of panic began to subside, replaced by a dull ache of despair. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes red and swollen. He looked around the room, his gaze still clouded by tears. He scanned the low table situated just beyond the cage, the one with the remote control and a few other innocuous items. And there, nestled subtly among them, was a small, almost imperceptible red light. It glowed steadily.

A webcam.

Bruce’s breath hitched again. A fresh wave of shame, mingled with a strange, undeniable thrill, washed over him. The red light wasn’t just a signal that it was on. It meant Clark was watching. He was watching now. Every tear, every shudder, every pathetic whimper – Clark was seeing it all.

“Clark?” Bruce whispered, his voice catching in his throat. He stared at the tiny red light, feeling an invisible connection, a direct line to his captor.

“Are you watching me, you bastard?” The insult was quickly swallowed by a choked sob. “Of course, you are. You always watch.”

He dragged himself closer to the bars, pressing his cheek against the cool metal. “You like this, don’t you?” His voice was a raw, desperate plea, directed directly at the unblinking eye of the camera. “You like seeing me like this, broken? Humiliated?”

He dropped his head, leaning his forehead against the bars. “I’m so sorry, Clark,” he whimpered, the earlier apology now infused with a deeper, more desperate sincerity.

“I truly am. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to touch you like that. It was wrong. So, so wrong.”

He lifted his gaze back to the camera, his eyes pleading. “Please, Clark. You can see how sorry I am, can’t you? You can see how much I regret it. Please, let me out. I can’t stand being in here. I miss you. I miss you so much.”

A profound loneliness settled deep in his bones. He hated being alone. Always had. Clark was his anchor, his light. And now Clark was deliberately denying him. The thought twisted his gut.

He looked around the cage, then down at his body, clad in the soft, revealing fabrics. Feeling exposed. Feeling watched. He imagined Clark, wherever he was, observing him, listening to his every sound. A shiver, both of fear and something else, something deeply repressed, ran through him.

He bit his lip, his mind racing. What did Clark want from him? What was the purpose of this prolonged torment? To break him? To make him compliant? Or was it something else? Something more… intimate?

He looked at the little red light again. “You want to see me suffer, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice laced with a strange mixture of resentment and a rising, insidious urge to please. “You want to see me grovel. To beg.”

He sank back onto the mattress, his legs drawn up, his arms wrapped around his knees. The silence of the room was heavy, oppressive. He was trapped. Alone. But not truly alone. He was a performance, a spectacle.

His hand, almost unconsciously, drifted downwards, settling on the silk-clad curve of his inner thigh. The skin beneath the fabric felt warm, sensitive. He imagined Clark’s gaze, sharp and knowing, focused on him.

“You’re watching me now,” he murmured, his voice husky, barely above a whisper. “You can see me, can’t you? You can see how much I want you. How much I need you.”

His fingers began to stroke, a slow, tentative movement against the silk. The sensation was unexpectedly potent, magnified by the vulnerability, the exposure, the certainty of Clark's unseen eyes.

“I’m so lonely, Clark,” he confessed, his words tumbling out, raw and unfiltered, his voice growing breathy. “I can’t be here without you. Please, come back. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Clark’s face, etched with that potent mix of sternness and underlying affection. He imagined Clark’s hands, strong and gentle, on him. The thought, combined with the desperate longing, was intoxicating.

Slowly, deliberately, Bruce’s hand slipped beneath the silk, finding the warmth of his own skin. He began to stroke himself, a hesitant movement at first, then growing more confident, more desperate. He watched the webcam, imagining Clark watching him, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Look what you’ve done to me, Clark,” he gasped, his fingers tightening, finding the rhythm. “Look how you’ve broken me. I’m doing this for you. Only for you.”

The shame battled with the rising tide of sensation. He was exposing himself, not just physically, but emotionally. Every moan, every gasp, was a direct communication to Clark, a plea, an apology, a desperate attempt to reconnect.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “I’m so, so sorry. Please, forgive me. Please, come back.”

He sped up, the need overwhelming him, the raw vulnerability of the act amplified by the unseen audience. He imagined Clark’s eyes, fixed on him, judging, perhaps even approving. The thought pushed him further, deeper into the dizzying spiral of sensation.

His climax came quickly, sharply, a wave of intense pleasure that momentarily washed away the fear and loneliness. He cried out, a strangled sound that was half sob, half moan, his body arching, trembling. He collapsed back onto the mattress, breathless, his hand still tangled in his silk-clad groin.

For a moment, he lay there, gasping, the residual tremors shaking his body. Then, the shame returned, colder and sharper than before. He had just debased himself, on camera, for Clark.

“Oh god,” he choked out, pressing his free hand over his mouth. “Oh, Clark, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I couldn't help myself. I felt so alone. Please, please forgive me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

But the loneliness persisted, the need to feel connected, to feel anything other than utter despair. He opened his eyes, staring at the omnipresent red light of the webcam. Clark was still watching. He had to be.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bruce’s hand began to move again. He didn’t want to. He felt disgusted with himself. But the desperate need for contact, for an outlet, for a way to communicate his profound longing and apologies, was overwhelming.

“I’m still so sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw and thick with exhaustion. “I’ll do it again. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me you’ll come back for me.”

He repeated the act, each stroke, each desperate moan, a renewed plea, a testament to his brokenness and his yearning for his partner. He cried out again, a quieter, more exhausted release this time.

“Please, Clark,” he panted, his body weak, his mind fading. “Please, just come back. I’m so tired. I can’t… I can’t be alone anymore.”

He did it one more time, his body protesting, his mind numb, driven only by that primal urge to connect, to apologize, to somehow appease the silent, watching presence. Each climax was less satisfying, more desperate, until finally, utterly spent, he simply lay there, his breathing shallow, his body limp.

His apologies became slurred, indistinct murmurs, trailing off into silence. The adrenaline, the fear, the intense physical release, all combined to drag him down into the depths of exhaustion. His eyes fluttered, the red light of the webcam blurring, then fading into darkness. He passed out, a crumpled, silk-clad heap in the corner of his elegant prison.

The quiet click of the secret door opening once more barely registered in the deep, dreamless sleep Bruce had fallen into. Clark stepped back into the room, his eyes immediately assessing the scene before him. He saw Bruce, curled on the plush mattress of the cage, utterly spent, his breathing soft and even, but his face still tear-stained, a testament to his ordeal. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Clark’s lips.

He walked over to the cage, his gaze lingering on the still-glowing red light of the webcam on the table. He reached out, his finger gently tracing the cool metal bars. He saw the marks Bruce had left on his own thighs, the evidence of his desperate, solitary pleas.

“My poor baby,” Clark murmured, his voice thick with a complex mixture of regret, tenderness, and an undeniable, possessive satisfaction. He reached for the lock on the cage door, the soft click this time a sound of release, not confinement.

He opened the door and stepped inside, kneeling beside Bruce. He gently ran a hand over Bruce’s sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his forehead. Bruce stirred slightly, a soft whine escaping his lips, but he remained asleep.

Carefully, tenderly, Clark slipped his arms beneath Bruce’s sleeping form. He lifted him, cradling him bridal style, Bruce’s head resting against Clark’s chest, his silk-clad body feeling impossibly light and fragile. He carried him out of the cage, out of the secret room, and through the winding passages of the Batcave, the familiar darkness now feeling safe, protective.

Clark ascended the stairs into the opulent quiet of the manor above, bypassing the grand halls and heading straight for their shared bedroom. He gently laid Bruce down on the soft sheets of their king-sized bed. Bruce was still deeply asleep, his exhaustion complete.

Clark moved with a quiet efficiency, fetching a warm, damp cloth. He sat on the edge of the bed, gently wiping away the tear tracks from Bruce’s face, then cleaning the lingering evidence of his desperate release from his inner thighs and silk panties. As he cleaned, Bruce stirred, a soft groan escaping him.

Bruce’s eyes fluttered open, blinking against the soft light of the bedside lamp. He was disoriented, his mind swimming in a hazy fog of sleep and residual fear. He looked up, seeing Clark’s face, etched with a gentle concern.

“Clark?” Bruce’s voice was a groggy whisper, thick with sleep. The memories, sharp and painful, began to flood back. The argument, the hit, the cage, the webcam, the desperate, lonely acts. His cheeks flushed crimson with renewed shame.

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. “I… I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, the words a raw, broken plea. “Clark, I swear, I’ll never… I didn’t mean it. Please, forgive me.”

Clark leaned down, his eyes soft, searching. “Shh, my love,” he whispered, pressing a light kiss to Bruce’s forehead. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.” He gently brushed a thumb over Bruce’s cheek. “You’ve proven your remorse. You’ve shown me the depth of your understanding.”

“But… the cage… I…” Bruce stammered, his eyes welling up again.

Clark silenced him with another tender kiss, this one lingering on his lips. It was soft, forgiving, full of the warmth Bruce had so desperately craved. “I know, B. I saw. I heard. And I forgive you. It’s over now.”

Bruce’s breath hitched, a wave of profound relief washing over him, leaving him weak. He reached out, his hand trembling as he clutched at Clark’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Thank you,” he whispered, tears finally escaping, but these were tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Clark.”

Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce, holding him close, pressing him against his warm, powerful body. “Always, my love. Always.” He held him until Bruce’s sobs quieted, until his breathing evened out, until the last vestiges of fear and shame began to recede.

Bruce clung to Clark, feeling the comforting strength of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart. He felt utterly exhausted, but also, for the first time in hours, truly safe. Clark, after a moment, released his embrace just enough to pull back the duvet. He slipped into the bed, pulling Bruce with him, spooning him close, one arm wrapped securely around his waist, the other cradling his head against his shoulder.

“Sleep now, B,” Clark murmured, pressing a final kiss to the top of Bruce’s head. “Rest. Everything is as it should be.”

Bruce nestled deeper into Clark’s embrace, feeling the warmth, the solid presence, the unwavering love that underpinned even the harshest of disciplines. He closed his eyes, the memory of the cage, the webcam, the shame, still present, but now softened, folded into the complicated tapestry of their relationship. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his exhausted soul, that he would never strike Clark again. Not ever. And as he drifted off to sleep, held securely in Clark’s arms, he also knew, with a thrill that resonated deep within him, that Clark would always be watching.

Chapter Text

The night in Gotham was often shrouded in a particular kind of oppressive silence, broken only by distant sirens or the flutter of bat wings. But tonight, within the hallowed, archaic walls of Wayne Manor, a different tension hummed. Clark, usually having a quiet composure, was anything but.

He slipped into Bruce’s cavernous study, a space usually reserved for strategic planning and cloaked contemplation, with a hesitant, almost furtive air. Bruce was hunched over a holoscreen, the shifting blue light casting stark shadows across his defined jaw, his mind miles away, dissecting a complex cybersecurity threat. Clark approached slowly, each step sounding unnaturally loud on the polished oak floor. He stopped a few feet from Bruce’s chair, then, with a subtle shift of his weight, slid into the adjacent leather armchair, not quite sitting, more like perching on the edge.

Clark then leaned closer, a movement so uncharacteristically shy and tentative it immediately snagged Bruce’s attention. Usually, Clark would barge in, a warm, easy smile on his face, perhaps a light touch on Bruce's shoulder. This… was different. Bruce paused his work, his fingers hovering over the holographic interface, and slowly turned his head, his sharp gaze locking onto Clark.

"Clark?" Bruce's voice, usually a low rumble of authority, was edged with a touch of curiosity, perhaps even a hint of concern. "Is everything alright? You're… hovering."

Clark flinched, a full-body tremor that sent a ripple through his frame. He couldn't meet Bruce’s eyes, his own fixed somewhere on the intricate patterns of the rug. A deep flush, a vibrant crimson, bloomed across his cheeks, creeping up his neck and dusting the tips of his ears. Bruce watched, a silent observer. He’d seen Clark face down intergalactic despots without a bead of sweat, yet now he looked like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And, impossibly, Clark was sweating. Tiny droplets beaded on his forehead, glistening under the soft lamplight. It was a phenomenon so utterly alien to Clark’s Kryptonian biology that Bruce felt a chill slither down his spine.

"Clark," Bruce repeated, his voice now sharper, cutting through the heavy silence. "Answer me. What's wrong?"

Clark finally risked a glance up, then immediately darted his eyes away. "N-nothing, Bruce. Nothing at all."

His voice was a strained whisper, entirely devoid of its usual booming warmth. He shifted again, squirming in the large armchair, his posture one of immense discomfort. His left hand, almost unconsciously, dropped to his crotch, pressing tightly against the front of his sweatpants. As he shifted, he leaned further into Bruce's space, as if seeking an unspoken anchor, a silent petition for comfort despite his obvious distress.

Bruce’s brow furrowed. This was unlike anything he had ever witnessed from Clark.

"Nothing at all?" he echoed, his tone laced with skepticism.

He pushed back from his desk, the ancient leather chair groaning in protest, and rose to his full height. He wasn't overtly threatening, but his presence, tall and formidable, commanded attention. He walked around the desk, stopping beside it, bracing his hands on the polished surface, his arms folding across his chest, a clear signal of his unwavering focus.

"Clark, look at me."

Clark’s head remained bowed, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "Please, Bruce, it's… it's really nothing. Just a long day. I'm tired."

"Tired?" Bruce scoffed, a dry, disbelieving sound.

"You haven't slept in weeks, you operate on less than an hour's rest, and yet you've never looked like this. Every fiber of your being is screaming distress. Now, you will look at me, and you will speak. Clearly."

It was an order, calm but unyielding, a command Bruce had perfected over decades of dealing with the obstinate and the terrified.

Slowly, reluctantly, Clark raised his head. His eyes, usually a sparkling robin's egg blue, were clouded with a deep embarrassment, almost shame. He still couldn't hold Bruce's gaze for more than a second, his eyes flitting away. But as he lifted his head, Bruce noticed his hands. They were clasped tightly together, almost violently so, his knuckles white, his fingers pressing into his palms, as if he were trying to contain something, to prevent something from escaping.

Bruce’s gaze narrowed, a single eyebrow raising in a silent question. "Your hands, Clark. What are you hiding?"

Clark swallowed hard, a visibly painful gulp. He looked at Bruce over the rim of his glasses, his eyes wide and vulnerable, a raw, primal emotion swirling within their depths. Then, in a voice that was barely a breath, eerie and hushed in the quiet room, he uttered a single word.

"Bruce…"

It wasn't a question or a plea, but an invocation, a desperate, warning whisper that sent another shiver down Bruce’s spine. It was the sound of a man on the precipice, teetering on the edge of revealing a profoundly transformative truth.

"Move your hands, Clark," Bruce commanded again, his voice softer, but no less firm. The slight tremor he felt wasn't fear, not exactly. It was an anticipation of the unknown, a thrill that always accompanied the unraveling of a mystery.

Clark hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at his clasped hands, then back at Bruce, a profound agony etched on his face. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to deflate him, he slowly unclasped them, dropping them to his sides.

Bruce's eyes immediately dropped. And there it was. A prominent, unmistakable bulge distorted the front of Clark’s sweatpants, pulling the fabric taut. And beneath it, a dark, damp patch had bloomed against the grey material, a visible wetness that confirmed the depth of Clark’s arousal and distress. Bruce’s analytical mind quickly processed the implications: a physical manifestation of extreme sexual arousal, combined with an intense psychological strain. This wasn't just 'tired.'

Clark started to mumble, a string of incoherent sounds that were less words and more a desperate, embarrassed plea. His hands, now released from their clasp, still trembled. He still looked as if he was holding onto something, his fingers curling and uncurling as if grasping at thin air, a Phantom sensation that Bruce couldn't quite decipher.

Bruce stared, his confusion deepening into a complex mix of concern and a strange, almost magnetic curiosity. He didn't press on as harshly now. The visual evidence was too compelling, the emotional distress too raw. This was his lover, his partner, the man he trusted implicitly, in undeniable agony. He stepped towards Clark, his movements slow and deliberate, designed to project calm. When he was close enough, he reached out, his hand gently cupping Clark’s cheek, his thumb stroking softly over the sweaty skin.

"Clark," Bruce murmured, his voice now a low, soothing balm. "My love. What's wrong? What is it you're so afraid to tell me?"

Clark’s eyes, blue and wide and glistening like shattered sapphires, finally locked onto Bruce's. His lips trembled, struggling to form words. He pulled Bruce's hand away from his face, holding it tightly between his own, his grip surprisingly strong, almost desperate.

"Bruce," Clark began, his voice barely audible, thick with unshed tears. "Please… you have to promise me something." He squeezed Bruce's hand, his gaze pleading.

"Promise me you won't… won't freak out. Promise me you won't laugh. Or… or be disgusted. Or hate me. Please, Bruce. Promise me."

Bruce’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over Clark's knuckles. He knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever Clark was about to reveal, it was something monumental, something that had been eating at him, something he believed could shatter their bond.

"Clark," he said, his voice firm with absolute sincerity, "I could never hate you. Never. And I would never laugh at your pain. Whatever this is, we face it together. Always. You know that. Now, tell me. I promise. I promise I won't freak out. I promise I'll listen. Just… please, tell me."

Clark took a shaky breath, his chest heaving. "It's… it's not what you think, Bruce. Not entirely. It's… I'm changing. Or, I have been, for a while, and it's… it's coming to a head, it's temporary at least."

He gestured vaguely to himself, his hand still clutched around Bruce’s.

"This isn't… this isn't just about me wanting you right now, though I do, God, I always do. This is… primal. It's ancient. It's my heritage, Bruce. My true heritage, not just Kryptonian. Or a part of it, one I never… one I couldn't acknowledge before. One that's… tied to this." He gestured vaguely to the persistent bulge beneath his hand.

Bruce's analytical mind raced. Kryptonian heritage? What part of Kryptonian biology could cause such a visible, visceral physical change and such profound emotional distress? He remained silent, allowing Clark to continue, sensing that interruption would break the fragile dam Clark was holding back.

"There are… there are off-shoots," Clark whispered, his eyes darting around the room as if fearful of unseen listeners. "Sub-species. Ancient lines. Some of us… we manifest, differently, when we reach a certain… point. A maturity. A state of readiness. It’s usually triggered by… by intense emotional and physical longing. For a mate. A partner. You. Specifically, you, Bruce."

His voice cracked on the last word, choked with a mixture of terror and desperate adoration. "It's… it's a mating cycle, Bruce. A very, very aggressive one. And it’s not… pretty. And it’s… demanding. And I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t… I can’t stop it anymore. The longer I try, the more painful it gets. My body… it's screaming."

Bruce’s grip tightened on Clark’s hand. He could feel Clark’s immense internal struggle, his deep-seated fear of rejection.

"Clark," he said, his voice unwavering, "I’m a man who dresses as a bat and fights gods. I've faced the Joker, Darkseid, Doomsday. What could possibly scare me more than the thought of losing you, or seeing you in pain? Tell me what's happening. Tell me what I need to prepare for. And tell me what you need from me."

Clark’s eyes, still glistening, filled with a fragile hope. "You mean… you're not… disgusted?"

"Disgusted?" Bruce scoffed, a genuine, if brief, flash of his usual sardonic humor.

"Clark, you're the most beautiful, pure-hearted man I know. Whatever form you take, whatever part of your being is revealed, it's still you. And I love you. Now, tell me. What is it? What's going to happen?"

Clark let out a shuddering breath that sounded like a sob of relief. He nodded, slowly. "Okay. Okay, Bruce. Just… don't… don't pull away. No matter what."

"I won't," Bruce promised, his gaze unwavering, his hand still firmly clasped with Clark’s.

Clark stood then, his movements still stiff, his body humming with a deep internal vibration that Bruce could almost feel through their joined hands. As he rose to his full height, his hands, which had been clenched so desperately, finally dropped to his sides.

The moment they did, as if a dam had burst, Clark’s skin began to ripple. Not just a tremor, but a visible, flowing undulation beneath the fabric of his sweatpants and t-shirt. It was like watching water moving under a thin sheet of silk, a fluid, disturbing motion that shifted the contours of his body. A low, guttural growl rumbled in Clark’s chest, a sound entirely alien to his usual voice, more animal than man. His eyes, fixed on Bruce, began to change first. The familiar, warm blue intensified, deepening, becoming a startling, almost electric sapphire. It wasn't just the iris; the entire sclera, the white of his eyes, slowly, inexorably, began to turn a brilliant, glacial blue, until two luminous, entirely blue, alien orbs gazed out from his face.

Bruce watched, transfixed, a primal fear clutching at his gut, but his promise to Clark held him rooted. He wouldn't look away.

Clark’s growl deepened into a pained groan, a sound that tore from his throat as if forced. His frame began to elongate. He grew taller, inches stretching into him, his muscles straining against the fabric of his clothes which now seemed too small, too constricting. A terrible, wet CRACK echoed through the silent study, followed by another, and another, the sound of bones breaking and reforming, twisting and contorting within his body. Clark cried out, a raw, primal roar of agony and release, his face contorted in a grimace of pain.

His hands, the ones that had been so desperately clutching nothing, began to thicken, to pulsate. The skin on his palms and fingers began to stretch, soften, and then, with a sickening squelch, elongated. They didn't just grow larger; they began to divide and branch, each finger thickening into a prehensile limb, twisting and coiling into sentient appendages. What were once ten fingers were now ten slick, powerful tentacles, glistening and writhing, each tipped with a delicate, sensitive suction cup. They flexed, exploring the air, tasting it, their movements graceful despite their terrifying genesis.

A louder, more visceral snap reverberated as his pelvis shifted, his hips broadening, his spine extending. And then, the most dramatic and shocking change: the large, visible bulge in his sweatpants began to writhe and swell with a life of its own. The fabric stretched to its breaking point, and then tore with a soft rip. What emerged was no longer a human penis, but a thick, multi-limbed appendage. It was a mass of writhing, pulsing tentacles, far larger and more intricate than his hands, each one unfurling, slick and dark, the glistening tips crowned with clusters of exquisite suction cups. It pulsed with an undeniable, monstrous life, radiating heat and an almost visible aura of raw, untamed power.

Clark groaned, a sound that was now less pain and more a deep, resonant rumble of release, of satisfying a profound, ancient urge. His ears, usually human and unremarkable, stretched and sharpened, elongating into elegant, subtly pointed forms. Finally, from his temples, with another series of sickening CRACKS and tearings of skin as they burst forth, two majestic, tree branch-like horns erupted. They were dark, gnarled, and intricate, like polished mahogany, twisting upwards and outwards, adding a formidable, almost demonic grandeur to his already transformed visage.

His clothes, what remained of them, hung in tatters. His t-shirt had ripped across his impossibly broadened shoulders and chest, revealing sculpted muscles that corded and flexed, rippling with the same strange fluidity that had first marked his skin. His sweatpants, shredded at the crotch and along the seams, barely clung to his hips. He was no longer just Clark, but something ancient, something alien, something… primal. A creature of raw power and untamed desire.

Bruce had stepped back, an unconscious movement, his mind reeling. He stared at the creature before him, a terrifying amalgamation of human and something utterly other. His training, his instincts, screamed threat, abnormal, dangerous. His heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs. He was shocked, undeniably terrified of the monstrous form that now loomed over him, filling the space with its immense, alien presence. The air itself seemed to crackle with the raw energy radiating from Clark.

But then, despite the horrifying transformation, despite the grotesque majesty of the tentacles and horns, Bruce saw them. The glasses. They had somehow remained perched on the bridge of Clark’s nose, slightly askew, but still there. And through their familiar lenses, Bruce saw those same, worried, furrowed brows beneath the newly sprouted horns. He saw the distress, the lingering fear of rejection in those impossibly blue, alien eyes. He knew, with a certainty that pierced through his fear, that his lover, his Clark, was still right there, trapped within this magnificent, terrifying form.

His fear didn't vanish entirely, but it receded, replaced by an overwhelming wave of profound concern and an almost possessive protectiveness. He wouldn't break his promise. He wouldn't abandon Clark.

Slowly, deliberately, Bruce reached out, his hand trembling only slightly, extending it towards Clark’s new form. He did not flinch when one of Clark's larger, thicker facial tentacles, sensing his approach, twitched, then gently, tentatively, brushed against Bruce's outstretched fingers. Clark, with a soft, almost plaintive growl that reverberated deep in his chest, leaned into Bruce’s hand, the rough-hewn horns just grazing Bruce’s arm. The skin of his cheek, where Bruce’s palm now rested, felt warm, almost hot, and incredibly soft, contrasting sharply with the terrifying grandeur of his new form.

"Clark," Bruce whispered, his voice hoarse, his thumb stroking the smooth curve of Clark’s cheek. "It's… it's really you."

Clark let out another rumbling growl, a sound that conveyed a wealth of relief and desperate affection. His impossibly blue eyes, still filled with vulnerability, searched Bruce’s face. One of his smaller facial tentacles, a slender, curious tendril, snaked out and gently, hesitantly, brushed against Bruce’s lips. It was soft, cool, and exquisitely sensitive, a delicate exploration.

Bruce leaned into the touch, his eyes closing for a moment as he processed the profound shift.

"Yes," he breathed, opening his eyes and locking gazes with Clark again. "It's you. My Clark." He then gave a slight, wry smile.

"Though, I must admit, 'Kryptonian mating cycle' was a bit of an understatement, wasn't it?"

Clark let out a low huff, a sound that might have been a laugh, if his new vocal cords could manage it. His facial tentacles rippled with what Bruce could only interpret as an embarrassed blush. He reached out with one of his new tentacle-hands, a thick, muscular arm of writhing flesh, and gently, with astonishing delicacy, wrapped it around Bruce's waist, pulling him slightly closer. Another tentacle-hand came up, tracing the line of Bruce's jaw, then ghosting over his lips.

"So," Bruce said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive register, his own body beginning to hum with a slow-burning heat, a mix of awe and burgeoning desire.

"This is what you've been hiding. This… magnificent creature. And this… intense longing. You said it was triggered by… by intense emotional and physical longing for a mate. For me." He let the words hang in the air, a question and a statement, an invitation.

Clark’s tentacle-penis, still exposed and slick, gave a powerful, almost convulsive throb, growing even thicker at Bruce's words. The sheer scale and intricate dance of its many parts were mesmerizing. The air around them grew heavy, charged with raw, undeniable sexual energy. Clark gave another deep, rumbling growl, a possessive sound that sent a thrill straight to Bruce’s core.

"Yes," Clark’s voice rumbled, deeper now, resonating directly into Bruce’s chest as the tentacle tightened around his waist.

"For you, Bruce. Only you. It’s… it’s been building for so long. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was so afraid."

"Afraid of this?" Bruce murmured, his gaze sweeping over Clark’s transformed body, lingering on the multitude of sinuous tentacles. "Afraid of what you truly are? Or what you truly desire?"

Clark’s blue eyes widened, a flicker of pain in their depths. "Both. I thought you would… recoil. That you would see me as a monster. That I would lose you."

"Never," Bruce stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. He reached up, his fingers threading through the gnarled horns on Clark's head, feeling their strange, organic warmth.

"You are not a monster, Clark. You are… extraordinary. And as for what you desire… Tell me. Show me. What does this… new body, new self… what does it crave?"

Clark’s tentacles, both on his face and hands, began to trace patterns on Bruce’s body, explorative, curious, and undeniably tender. One of his hand-tentacles, delicate and strong, snaked down Bruce’s side, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt, then brushed lightly against his hip, sending shivers through Bruce’s frame. Another wrapped around his arm, possessing him gently.

"It craves… you," Clark rumbled, his voice thick with raw emotion. "To touch you. To bind you. To pleasure you. To sink into you, completely." His gaze dropped to his tentacle-penis, which throbbed again, its cluster of tendrils flexing and unfurling as if in anticipation.

"This… this part of me… it screams for you."

Bruce felt a shiver ripple through him, a delicious frisson of excitement mingling with the potent fear. His mind, ever the strategist, began to process the implications, the possibilities. Clark’s overwhelming desire, his new, powerful form. Bruce, the eternal controller, felt an unusual, exhilarating surrender coiling within him. But even in surrender, he would find his own form of control.

"And how does it want to do that, Clark?" Bruce asked, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper, his eyes sparking with a dangerous challenge. He took Clark’s hand-tentacle that was tracing his jaw and kissed its slick tip, tasting a faint, musky sweetness.

"What do you want, my magnificent creature?"

Clark’s breath hitched, a guttural sound. "I want… I want you bound, Bruce. Helpless beneath me. Consumed by me. I want to feel every part of you against every part of me. I want to mark you as mine, with every brush, every suckle, every thrust."

Bruce’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. This was it. The raw, untamed desire he’d always sensed beneath Clark’s gentle exterior, now unleashed in its full, terrifying glory. "Bound, you say? With what?" He gestured to Clark’s writhing, sinuous limbs. "With these?"

Clark gave a low, throaty growl of affirmation, his cock pulsing once more. "Yes. With these. My ropes. My devotion."

"Good," Bruce purred, his eyes glinting. "But understand this, Clark: I am never helpless. Even when bound, my will is my own. And I still set the terms. You may be the monster, but I am still the beast tamer."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the smooth, warm skin of Clark’s cheek.

"So, let's explore this. Let's see what these new parts of you can truly do."

He pulled back slightly, his gaze falling on the massive, floor-to-ceiling reinforced window that dominated one wall of the study. It offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Gotham skyline, a sparkling, distant tapestry of lights. It was usually a private space, but the city, in its infinite sprawl, was always watching, always a potential audience.

"And Clark," Bruce continued, his voice taking on a new, almost reckless edge, "I want the whole city to know who owns my pleasure tonight. I want every shadow in Gotham to feel the ripple of our… communion. We stay right here. In front of this window. Let them wonder."

Clark’s blue eyes widened even further, a mixture of shock and incandescent desire swirling within them. The suggestion of exhibition, of baring their most intimate act to the impersonal gaze of the city, was a jolt, but seeing the dark, dangerous delight in Bruce's eyes, he knew he couldn’t refuse. This was Bruce, in his element, demanding control even in absolute surrender.

"You… you want to be seen?" Clark rumbled, his voice thick with awe. His dick throbbed, pulsing against Bruce's thigh as the tentacle around his waist tightened, pulling their hips flush.

"Not seen, Clark," Bruce corrected, a sharp glint in his eyes. "Acknowledged. Felt. Do you think I've spent all these years cultivating a terrifying persona just to keep secrets from the city? No. This is ours. But Gotham… Gotham will bear witness tonight. And no one will forget it."

He paused, then softened his tone, his gaze tender. "Do you understand? This is a choice, Clark. My choice. I want this. With you. All of you."

Clark let out a profound, almost heartbroken growl of understanding. He lowered his head, gently nuzzling his new horns against Bruce's temple. "Yes, Bruce. Your choice. Your will. I… I understand. And I want to give it to you. Everything."

Bruce nodded, a flicker of true, deep satisfaction gracing his features. "Good. Now, the binding. I want to feel these… ropes of yours. I want to be held. Tightly. But precisely. I want to feel their strength. Their texture. Wrap me, Clark. Tie me to this moment, to this desire."

Clark's tentacles, responding to Bruce's direct command, began to move with a renewed, almost zealous purpose. Two of his hand-tentacles gently maneuvered Bruce’s arms behind his back, crossing them at the wrists. Then, with surprising speed and dexterity, a third, thicker tentacle emerged from his forearm, slender yet immensely strong, and began to wrap around Bruce’s wrists. It wasn't rough, but firm, the slick, smooth surface of the tentacle pressing against Bruce’s skin, binding his arms securely. The suction cups, tiny and almost imperceptible on the binding tentacles, created a subtle, clinging pressure that was both strange and intensely erotic.

"Tighter," Bruce commanded, his voice a low, throaty rumble, his eyes never leaving Clark’s. "I want to feel the absolute impossibility of escape."

Clark obeyed, his deep blue eyes burning with an eager-to-please intensity. The tentacle tightened, cinching Bruce’s wrists together, making his muscles strain. It was a unique sensation – not rough, abrasive rope, but a living, flowing, pulsing bond.

Then, more tentacles emerged, flowing from Clark's back, from his waist, from the dense musculature of his torso. They were like a living, breathing network, extending, stretching, reaching. They wound around Bruce’s torso, crossing his chest, then dipping to bind his thighs and ankles, securing him to his very core. The sensation was exquisite, the smooth, cool, yet subtly textured feel of the tentacles pressing into his skin, molding to his form, leaving no space for resistance. Each suction cup, though small, created a tiny, sensual vacuum, a gentle tug and release that sent electric currents coursing through him.

"You are beautiful, Clark," Bruce gasped, his breath coming in ragged pants as the tentacles completed their work, binding him completely, leaving him upright, but utterly unable to move, a prisoner of living rope. He was secured firmly, his back to the window, his body silhouetted against the glittering expanse of Gotham. He was exposed, vulnerable, yet utterly in control, orchestrating his own capture. The thrill of it was intoxicating.

"So beautiful."

Clark, now free of the internal torment and delighting in Bruce's explicit direction, rumbled with pleasure. His face, still bearing the formidable horns, was etched with pure, primal contentment. He moved closer, his massive, multi-limbed tentacle-penis throbbing against Bruce’s bound thighs. Its individual tendrils writhed, slick and engorged, pulsing with a raw, insistent desire. One of its smaller tendrils, incredibly sensitive and dexterous, snaked out, gently parting Bruce’s tight ass, a delicate, exploratory caress that made Bruce gasp.

"Good, Clark," Bruce praised, his voice thick with desire, his hips instinctively thrusting forward, a silent invitation. "Explore. Get to know me. Feel every inch of my submission. Feel how much I crave this. How much I crave you."

Clark’s blue eyes filled with an almost reverent adoration, mixed with a deep, hungry passion. The smaller tendril from his tentacle-penis continued its meticulous exploration, slick and warm, tracing the sensitive folds of Bruce’s entrance. Another, thicker tendril joined it, gently probing, stretching, preparing.

"I need to tell you," Clark rumbled, his voice low and vibrating through Bruce’s chest as he leaned in, his face close to Bruce’s. "This form… It makes me sensitive. More than ever. I can feel everything you feel. Every gasp, every shiver, every tightening of your muscles. And I want to make it perfect for you."

"Then do it, Clark," Bruce breathed, his eyes half-lidded, his head tilted back slightly against the cold glass of the window. "Show me how sensitive you are. Show me how much you feel. Sink into me. Fill me. I want to feel every single one of your tendrils inside me. I want to be stretched and filled until I can't remember where I end and you begin."

With a soft, almost reverent sigh, Clark began to press forward. The first tendril, thick and incredibly supple, slid into Bruce’s wet entrance, stretching him slowly, exquisitely. Bruce gasped, a sharp intake of breath. The sensation was utterly unique – not the hard, singular pressure of a human shaft, but a multi-faceted invasion, a gradual stretching by numerous, individual limbs that seemed to move with their own intelligence, gently easing their way inside.

"Ah… Clark," Bruce moaned, a sound dragged from deep within his chest, a testament to the profound pleasure and slight edge of pain that accompanied the initial penetration. "Slowly, my love. Let me feel every inch of you."

Clark obeyed, his every movement dictated by Bruce's gasps and moans. His cock, a magnificent, writhing entity, continued to slide deeper, its multiple tendrils coiling and uncoiling within Bruce, each one finding its own space, its own pressure point. The suction cups, tiny and myriad, created a soft, internal tugging, a sensual pulling that intensified the pleasure to an almost unbearable degree. Bruce’s inner muscles, clenched tight in anticipation, began to relax, allowing Clark’s unique form to fill him more completely.

"More," Bruce urged, his voice now a desperate whisper, his nails digging into his own bound wrists, the only movement his body could make. "I want more. Don’t hold back, Clark. Take me. Take it all."

Clark’s growl deepened, a sound of absolute triumph and burning desire. He pressed forward, slowly but relentlessly, until his incredible dick was fully sheathed within Bruce, a pulsing, twisting mass of alien flesh that stretched Bruce to his absolute limit. Bruce cried out, a loud, undeniable sound of pure ecstasy that echoed in the vast study, a sound that could have, perhaps, been heard even faintly by the distant city lights.

With Bruce fully taken, Clark began to move. His hips, still undeniably powerful, began a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending ripples of sensation through Bruce. But it wasn't just the thrusting motion. The individual tendrils within Clark’s penis were moving, flexing, twisting, each one seeking out a new nerve ending, a new point of intense pleasure. It was an internal dance, a symphony of sensation that made Bruce’s entire body tremble. The suction cups within, now fully engaged, created a continuous, soft, pulling sensation, latching onto his sensitive internal flesh, then releasing, only to find another spot.

"Oh, God, Clark," Bruce gasped, his voice ragged, utterly consumed. His head arched back, his eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed.

"This is… this is beyond anything. You are beyond anything."

Clark leaned in, his horns gently brushing Bruce's neck, his facial tentacles stroking Bruce's cheek, then his lips, licking away a bead of sweat.

"You feel incredible, my love," he rumbled, his voice thick with unbridled passion. "Every inch of you. I can feel your pulse quicken. I can feel your muscles clench around me. You’re mine, Bruce. Utterly, completely mine."

Bruce’s body, bound and exposed, was now a canvas for Clark’s alien pleasure. The exhibition was secondary now, a distant thought, lost in the overwhelming tide of sensation. He was aware of the window, of the city, of the faint, blurred lights beyond, but his world had shrunk to the exquisite torment and delight of Clark’s tentacles within him, around him.

Clark continued his slow, deliberate rhythm, deepening the thrusts, allowing the multi-limbed penetration to work its magic. He was watching Bruce, his blue eyes burning, attentive to every nuance of Bruce’s expression, every gasp, every moan. He shifted his hips, sending a particularly thick tendril deep inside, eliciting a choked cry from Bruce.

"Yes," Bruce commanded, his voice a desperate plea for more, even as his body threatened to shatter. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Make me scream your name, Clark. Make me lose myself."

Clark responded with a ferocious growl, picking up the pace, his massive tentacle-penis becoming a blur of twisting, thrusting power. The combination of the deep penetration, the internal tendril dance, and the suction cups created an intensity Bruce had never imagined possible. His body arched, straining against the tentacle bonds, every muscle taut, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure.

His climax came suddenly, violently, a wave of sensation that crashed over him, stealing his breath, his voice, everything. He cried out, a primal, guttural roar that tore from his throat, echoing against the glass of the window and through the silent study. His body convulsed, bucking against Clark’s form, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He came hard, intensely, floods of pleasure washing over him, making him shake from head to toe.

Clark, feeling every tremor, every spasm of Bruce’s pleasure, let out his own deep, guttural roar. His cock surged one last time, emptying himself deep within Bruce, the tendrils tightening and releasing in a final, exquisite dance. He leaned into Bruce, his transformed head resting on Bruce’s shoulder, his entire monstrous form trembling with the force of his own climax. The tentacle ropes binding Bruce pulsed with residual energy, still holding him captive in the wake of their shared release.

Bruce, disoriented and satiated, slowly opened his eyes. He was still bound, still exposed, still utterly consumed. But the fear was gone, replaced by a profound sense of awe and connection. He looked past Clark’s shoulder, out the window, at the indifferent, glittering city. He could almost imagine them watching, knowing. A secret shared, made public in the dark of night.

"Clark," he rasped, his voice still hoarse from his cries, "My God. That was… incredible." He reached up, his bound hands straining, but Clark’s facial tentacles gently curved around his head, allowing Bruce to rest his forehead against Clark’s.

Clark let out a soft, satisfied growl, his tentacles slowly beginning to retract, relaxing their binding grip, though not fully releasing Bruce yet. "Did I… did I make you happy, Bruce?" His blue eyes searched Bruce’s face, still filled with that deep, vulnerable worry, despite the power he had wielded.

Bruce gave a slow, languid smile, his lips swollen from kisses and his body tingling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

"Happy, Clark? You made me feel things I didn't even know existed. You took me to the edge of madness and back. You showed me a side of yourself, of us, that is utterly captivating."

He paused, then his eyes, sharp and commanding, met Clark’s. "But don't think for a second you're off the hook. This is just the beginning, my magnificent monster. There's so much more to explore. And remember, darling… I'm still the one who gives the orders."

Clark, still in his magnificent, tentacled form, gave a low, rumbling chuckle, a sound filled with adoration and a deep, abiding contentment. He knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter how monstrous his form, how primal his desires, he was loved. And he would happily obey, for all eternity.

Chapter Text

The polished steel of the grappling hook rested beside the worn leather of the gauntlets. Bruce peeled back his cowl, the sweat gluing his hair to his temples. He was exhausted. Not just physically, through two fractured ribs and a night spent dodging gunfire, but deep down, in the pit where vulnerability lived.

He felt heavy, the weight of Gotham’s endless night settling on his shoulders. He walked into the penthouse, the silence of the large space swallowing him whole. It was the familiar, comforting smell of ozone and Clark’s faint, clean scent—like fresh laundry and sunshine.

Clark was waiting. He floated down from the ceiling, shedding the blue and red for a comfortable, oversized grey t-shirt. His face registered the immediate stress etched around Bruce’s eyes.

“Rough night, baby,” Clark murmured, closing the distance and gently pulling Bruce into his arms.

Bruce leaned into the embrace, a low, tired hum leaving his chest. Clark guided him toward the sofa, letting Bruce settle his head against his shoulder. They didn't speak for a long time. They just breathed together, the slow, steady rhythm of Clark's heart a quiet anchor.

“I hate when you come back like this,” Clark finally whispered, his fingers tracing the definition of Bruce’s jaw.

“It’s the job, Clark.”

“No. It’s the sadness. The kind that sticks to you.”

Bruce sighed, shifting slightly. “You know I hate being….open, but tonight, I felt everything. Like I was standing there, fighting, and all I could think was how much I didn’t want to come back as just Bruce Wayne.”

Clark pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “You never are just Bruce Wayne, not to me.”

“I mean… the Bat. The control. The intensity.” Bruce pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Clark’s in the dim light.

“Our life is so honest, so good. Our sex is… honest. Vanilla. And I love it, I do. But sometimes, when I’m out there, I feel that edge. That need to dominate. I want to bring that home.”

He swallowed, the admission feeling terrifyingly exposed. “Hypothetically speaking, Smallville. If I wanted to be a little rougher. If I wanted you to take direction, to let me be the one who strips the control away. How would you feel?”

Clark didn't flinch. His gaze was steady, deep, and utterly open. He reached out, taking Bruce’s hand and holding it firmly.

“Baby, you’re the most controlling man I’ve ever met. It’s why you’re the best at what you do. Of course, I’m interested. I trust you, Bruce. If you need that release, that roleplay… I’m your boy. Just tell me what you need me to be, and I’ll be it.”

Clark lifted Bruce’s hand, kissing the knuckles. “You need to be the Bat in bed? Then I’m the mission. Yours completely.”

The intense relief Bruce felt was physical. He smiled, a genuine, rare show of light. “Good. We’ll talk more. But tonight, just…hold me.”

___________________________

Weeks passed with quiet anticipation. The conversation had shifted the dynamic subtly, adding a layer of thrilling tension to their everyday life. Bruce was looking for the right moment, the perfect storm of adrenaline and need.

That moment arrived on a Thursday night.

The mission was high-stakes, the adrenaline rush pure and unforgiving. Dealing with a new, highly sadistic cult that used chemical warfare, Bruce had spent hours in pure combat mode, his mind a razor’s edge, his body running on fumes and fury. He hadn't felt this aggressively dominant in months. By the time he was back in the cave, the rage hadn't dissipated; it had coagulated into pure, demanding lust.

He didn't bother with the shower in the cave. Still smelling faintly of smoke and ozone, still vibrating with the aggressive energy of the Bat, Bruce made his way straight up to their shared bedroom.

Tonight.

Tonight was the night he stopped asking hypothetically.

He pushed the door open quietly, intending to strip down, walk over, and reclaim the control he felt coursing through his veins.

But the room wasn't empty.

Clark was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows in the center of the bed, the blankets tangled around his waist. He was focused entirely on his own pleasure.

He hadn't heard Bruce approach. He had the kind of intense focus that muted the world, and he was working expertly, quickly, and silently on his own arousal. Clark's wrist was slightly bent, drawing smooth, powerful strokes up and down the enormous length of his cock.

His eyes were squeezed shut, his breath hitching slightly with each rapid thrust of his hand. His chest was rising and falling quickly under the grey t-shirt, taut with the effort of holding back. A low, throaty groan finally escaped him, immediately snatched back as he tried to muffle it against the pillow. His muscles were corded, his neck slightly arched, a testament to the sheer physical need driving him.

Bruce stood frozen in the doorway, the residual aggression softening into pure focus. This wasn't just arousal; it was raw, uncontrolled need from the man who could stop a speeding train. The sight hit Bruce like a physical blow—the raw intensity of Clark losing control, desperate for release.

It was the perfect opening.

As Clark’s hand sped up, drawing closer to the edge, his eyes snapped open. He looked up, his jaw slackening in shock as he finally registered the dark, imposing figure of Bruce standing over him, leaning against the doorframe, still fully armored.

Clark gasped, yanking his hand away from his wet, glistening erection as if it had burned him. He flushed crimson, frantically grabbing at the corner of the duvet and pulling it up to shield his exposed lower body.

“Bruce! I—uh. Hi. You’re home early,” Clark stammered, his voice thick with unspent urgency. He tried to sit up, adjusting the sheet awkwardly.

“I was just… a little riled up. Long day at the Planet.”

Bruce didn't move. He let the silence stretch, his gaze cold, commanding, and assessing. He noted the sheen of sweat on Clark’s forehead, the frantic pulse leaping at his throat, and the clear bulge straining against the sheet.

A slow smile, predatory and terrifying, stretched across Bruce’s face. He finally pushed off the doorframe, the movement deliberate and slow.

“Riled up, Smallville? While Daddy was away?” Bruce’s voice was low, rough, and entirely new. It wasn't the tired voice of Bruce Wayne, or the compassionate tone of his lover. It was the voice of the Bat, in control.

Clark’s breath hitched again, but this time, it was a sound of nervous excitement.

Bruce crossed the room in three purposeful strides, stopping right beside the bed. Clark instinctively pressed himself further back into the pillows, his blue eyes wide.

“Move the sheet, Clark.”

Clark hesitated for only a second, the heat of his erection overpowering the embarrassment. He slowly lowered the duvet, his exposed cock springing out immediately, thick and magnificent, slick with pre-come and still dripping from his sudden cessation of activity.

Bruce didn't touch him yet. He looked, letting the slow, heavy assessment fuel the atmosphere. He reached out and placed a single, firm hand on Clark’s chest, pushing him gently, but unmistakably, back down onto the mattress.

“You didn’t wait for me, did you, boy?” Bruce leaned down, his voice dropping to a near whisper that was pure gravel.

He grasped Clark’s still-hot cock, his strong fingers wrapping near the base. He began to apply a slow, excruciatingly gentle stroke upward, stopping just short of the sensitive tip.

Clark moaned, a helpless sound. His hips involuntarily bucked up into Bruce’s hand.

“N-no, sir. I’m sorry. I won’t… I won’t do it again.” Clark’s voice was strained, already dissolving under the new pressure.

Bruce laughed, a short, dark dismissal of the apology. He began a slow, agonizing rhythm of jerking Clark off, pulling back whenever the moan became too loud, teasing the tip with his thumb, then resuming the heavy, intoxicating friction.

“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? Tell me, boy,” Bruce whispered into Clark’s ear, pulling him closer by the jaw. “What are you going to do to earn your release? Look at you. Leaking all over my sheets. Being so naughty.”

“Anything, Daddy. Just… tell me,” Clark pleaded, his mind scrambling, already lost in the roleplay and the pure physical sensation.

Bruce pushed Clark’s head back into the soft pillows and smiled again, that dangerous, focused smile. He pulled his hands off Clark’s cock, leaving him throbbing and abandoned.

“Get comfortable. You have work to do first.”

Bruce swiftly stripped out of his armored gear, tossing the heavy pieces carelessly onto the floor. He wore nothing but tight black boxer briefs beneath his uniform. He shed those quickly, his body lean and powerful.

Clark watched, transfixed, as Bruce stood over him, entirely naked. Bruce was like a demigod, his body a carefully curated landscape of muscle, definition, and scars. But between his legs, the delta where pleasure resided was already glistening, wet and inviting. The lips of his pussy were swollen and slick, catching the ambient light. His desire was undeniable.

Bruce grabbed a handful of Clark’s dark hair, pulling his head forward so their eyes locked. Clark’s mouth was dry, his arousal pounding.

“You want to finish, Clark? You want that big, naughty cock in me?”

“Yes, please,” Clark breathed.

“Then you listen. You are going to eat me out, Clark. You are going to use that skilled, alien tongue until I am screaming your name and shaking. And for every second you take too long to make me cum, I will edge you for five minutes. You are entirely under my control. You understand?”

“Completely, Daddy,” Clark instantly agreed, his eyes shining with feverish consent and obedience.

Bruce released his hair and settled back onto the bed, pushing Clark’s knees apart, straddling his waist. He positioned himself perfectly, his slick, wet entrance hovering inches from Clark’s face.

“Good boy. Eat.”

Clark needed no further instruction. He was a man with boundless stamina and a laser-like focus, and when given a directive, he executed it with dedication. He lowered his head, his lips immediately engulfing Bruce’s outer labia, applying deep, velvety pressure.

Clark’s tongue was incredible. It was strong, flexible, and seemed to possess an almost superhuman awareness of where to apply the perfect pressure. He didn’t just lick; he mapped the entire structure of Bruce’s cunt, paying devoted attention to the delicate, sensitive tissues.

Bruce gasped, his back arching instantly. “Oh, God, yes.”

Clark began a slow, rhythmic suction, drawing Bruce’s wetness deep into his mouth. He used the flat of his tongue to press gently against Bruce’s perineum, creating a deep internal pressure that made the pleasure reverberate straight through Bruce’s core.

Then, Clark found his clit.

He didn't attack it; he treated it with reverence and precision. He used the very tip of his tongue, rapid and controlled, circling the hood, tracing the sensitive ridge before zeroing in on the pearl beneath. Clark's movements were so fast, so precise, that the sensation built instantly, overwhelming Bruce.

Bruce hissed, his fingers gripping the sheets near Clark’s head.

“Faster, Clark. You know what you’re doing,” Bruce demanded, his voice thick with building pleasure. “Don’t stop there. Good, god, that’s so good.”

Clark responded by switching his technique, pressing his nose deep into the juncture, his tongue swirling around the clit, applying just enough suction to pull it against the roof of his mouth. The sensation was maddening—powerful, sustained, and relentless. Bruce’s hands moved instinctively, finding Clark’s rigid cock.

He wrapped his fingers around Clark’s hard-on, feeling the heat, the power, and the frantic pulse beneath his skin. This was the promised 69, but the focus was entirely on Bruce’s release.

As Clark’s mouth worked magic, Bruce began to jerk off Clark, mirroring the aggressive pace of Clark’s tongue. He used a heavy, focused grip, generating blistering speed.

“You feel how hard you are for me, love?”

Bruce whispered, leaning down. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You know I could make you scream right now. But you earned this wait.”

Clark responded with a grunt, his tongue never pausing, never losing focus on the task. He understood the game. He swallowed Bruce’s moans, pressing deeper, harder, his jaw aching but his resolve absolute.

Bruce felt the familiar, tingling sensitivity spread through his nerves. His cunt was flooding with wetness, slick and heavy against Clark’s face. The clit was now screaming, every touch a bolt of pure electricity. He couldn't hold still.

“Right there, Clark. I’m almost there!” He cried out, his voice cracking.

He decided that Clark had proven himself. He wanted the release to be absolute, overwhelming. Bruce raised up slightly, shifting his weight.

“Now, boy. Show me how bad you want it.”

Bruce sat back down, planting his wet, slick pussy firmly over Clark’s face. He wrapped his legs around Clark’s head, pinning him between his thighs, seizing the driving control. He began to ride Clark’s face, grinding his wetness against Clark’s mouth and tongue with violent, needy force.

Clark took the sudden, deep pressure beautifully. He kept his tongue flat and firm, pressing up into the sensitive nub of Bruce’s clit, supporting Bruce’s frantic movements. He let out a muffled sound of encouragement, praising his lover with guttural intensity.

“Yes!Use me, Daddy! Give it to me!”

“You’re so good, Clark! You’re getting me so close, you perfect boy!” Bruce screamed, his body shaking violently. The pleasure was too much, too high-pitched, too consuming. He was on the brink, falling off a cliff of pure sensation.

He felt the deep, agonizing clench in his core, the pressure building, building, collapsing into a tidal wave of release.

Bruce cried out Clark’s name, a long, primal scream that was wholly Bat and completely his own. He convulsed, his body shuddering as he squirted, releasing the explosive, hot wetness directly onto Clark’s tongue and into his mouth.

He rode the climax until the last tremor subsided, his body heavy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on Clark’s own, slick with sweat and his own release.

“Good. God. Clark. That was incredible.”

Clark let out a cough, adjusting his jaw, but he never complained. He simply swallowed, his eyes meeting Bruce’s with a deep, proud intensity. “Anything for you, sir.”

Bruce slowly rose off Clark’s face, pulling back the sheet that had been tangled around Clark’s legs. He was spent, but the commanding energy still pulsed under his skin.

He looked at Clark’s face, still wet from Bruce’s slickness, and then down at the impressive, aching hardness of Clark’s cock. It was throbbing fiercely, leaking heavily, screaming for attention after the ordeal of being edged.

“You were a very good boy, Clark. You were obedient, focused, and you made Daddy cum exactly how he wanted,” Bruce murmured, his voice softer now, laced with profound satisfaction.

“Now, it’s not just your turn to finish. It’s your reward.”

Bruce settled back between Clark’s legs, taking his place fully. He took Clark’s cock into both hands, cradling the thick, heavy shaft.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Clark whispered, watching every move Bruce made.

Bruce started the rhythm slowly, tenderly, building the friction back carefully. He focused on the details he knew Clark loved: the heavy, sustained pressure at the base, and the delicate, teasing strokes along the underside.

He leaned forward and kissed Clark deeply, tasting himself on Clark’s mouth.

“I’m going to make you come so hard, Clark. You’re going to lose every shred of control you have left.”

Bruce increased the pace. His focus was absolute, his grip intentional. He introduced a new element: he used his thumb to rub small, fast circles right on the frenulum, the most sensitive spot beneath Clark’s tip. He pulled back slightly, letting the head of Clark’s cock swell and shine, then drove his hand down again, generating intense, rapid friction.

Clark’s control was visibly fracturing. His back strained, his vocalizations turning from praise to desperate, breathless pleas.

“Bruce! Oh, God, Bruce! Don’t stop… please…”

Bruce didn't stop. He pushed him right to the absolute limit, using a heavy, unrelenting grip until Clark’s face was squeezed with the strain of holding it back.

“Come for me, baby. Right now. Give me everything,” Bruce commanded, squeezing the base of Clark’s cock one final time.

With a powerful, shuddering bellow, Clark broke. He arched his back off the mattress, his muscles taut and trembling, his release violent and magnificent. He shot his cum in thick, heavy ropes, covering Bruce’s chest, neck, and splattering across Bruce’s face.

Clark groaned, sinking back into the bed, completely exhausted. His eyes fluttered shut, but almost instantly reopened, focused on Bruce’s face, which was now smeared and glistening with his own hot release.

“Daddy,” Clark gasped, breathless and satisfied. “Thank you. Oh, thank you. I love you.”

Bruce smiled, wiping a smear of the thick cum from his own cheek with a proud, possessive gesture.

“I love you too, Clark. And you were perfect. Just perfect.”

Clark’s lop-sided grin spread from ear to ear.

“But we're not done yet,” came Bruce’s voice from his ear.

Before he could blink, Bruce had already positioned his hole over Clark's cock.

Bruce slammed down again, the sheer resistance of Clark’s hips pushing back against his thighs, a powerful, shuddering anchor beneath him. He was riding completely blind, leaning forward to keep his spine straight, letting the angle of his hips maximize the relentless friction against his deep, sensitive core.

“Oh God,” Clark wheezed, the sound a ragged breath ripped from his impossibly strong lungs.

Bruce grinned, a flash of something feral crossing his face, though Clark couldn’t see it. He only felt the merciless tempo. “Talk to me, baby. Is it good?”

“Yes! Bruce. Daddy, I feel everything you’re doing.” Clark’s voice was strained, hoarse. “The way you move… it’s killing me. It’s too good.”

Bruce bounced, a quick, punishing upswing, then settled deep. “Too good isn’t enough, is it? You asked for this, didn’t you?”

“Yes! Always. God, Daddy, right there… Can you feel how much I’m leaking already? It’s coming out of your cunt, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Bruce leaned farther back, using the leverage to grind his hips in a slow, torturous figure-eight. “I feel you slick and hot inside me, baby boy. You can’t hold back from me, can you?”

“No. I can’t hold anything back from you.” Clark shifted his hands, finding purchase on Bruce’s waist, trying to stabilize the beautiful, violent ride. “Don’t stop that, Daddy. Don’t you dare stop.”

“If you grip me that hard, I might break the rhythm,” Bruce murmured, his voice low, a promise and a threat tangled together. He increased the speed, demanding a louder reaction.

Clark gasped, throwing his head back against the pillow. “I don’t care! Bruce! Oh God, it’s hitting that spot… every time you pull up just a little, and then sink it back down, it’s just—”

“What is it, Clark?”

“Perfect. It’s perfect, Daddy. That deep stretch. I love how you take all of me. I love it.”

Bruce felt the heat rising beneath him, the thick, unyielding core of the Kryptonian swelling against his entrance. He knew exactly where Clark was internally—right up against the back wall of his passage, stretching him taut.

“You’re getting greedy, aren’t you? You want more than just this,” Bruce challenged. He shifted his hips suddenly, not bouncing, but pivoting, twisting the friction across a new angle.

“Yes! I want you to ruin me, Bruce. I want you to drive me crazy inside you.” Clark’s fingers dug into Bruce’s skin. “You’re doing it. You’re driving me crazy. That squeeze, Daddy, please do that again.”

Bruce obliged, slowing the motion until it was almost agonizingly deliberate, then repeating the pivot. “Like this, baby?”

“Oh God, yes. I can feel myself in your tummy. Don’t stop moving like that, Bruce. Don’t stop taking me.” Clark let out a long, shuddering moan that vibrated deep in his chest.

“I’m already so close to drowning in how good this is.”

“Drowning is fine,” Bruce replied coolly. He lifted himself high on his knees, holding the pause for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, letting the gravity of his own body press the tip of Clark’s cock against the very edge of his depth before he slammed down with punishing speed.

“FUCK!” The exclamation was raw, an unfiltered burst of sound that rattled the bedposts. Clark arched violently. “Daddy! It's so good when you do that! I can’t—I can’t think!”

“Good. I don’t want you thinking, Clark. I want you to feel.” Bruce initiated a fast, shallow bucking motion, restricting the depth but maximizing the speed, grinding the head of Clark’s cock relentlessly against the G-spot.

“It’s too much, it’s too much.” Clark was panting now, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps.

“You can do it,” Bruce whispered, the confidence in his tone unmistakable. He reached his hand back, sliding it down his own curve, tracing the line of his spine to the lush curve of his ass. He lifted his hand slightly, then cracked his palm sharply against his left cheek.

Smack.

Clark groaned, a deep, immediate sound of primal attraction. “Oh, God. Daddy, you’re so beautiful.”

Smack.

Bruce hit the other cheek, harder this time. “I look beautiful, baby boy?” He risked a quick glance back, twisting his torso just enough to see Clark’s face.

Clark’s eyes were rolled back, pure white showing beneath the lids, his teeth biting fiercely down on his bottom lip, a thin line of spit running down his chin. He looked utterly destroyed by pleasure.

“Yes! You look like everything I want to worship, Bruce. That sound—God, I want to hear it again.” Clark’s voice was barely a coherent plea. “Do it again, Daddy. Please.”

Bruce hit himself again, hard, the sting immediate and sharp, feeding his own rising heat. He maintained the grinding motion, refusing to slow the violent tempo. “You like watching me hurt myself for you, Clark?”

“No. Yes. I like watching you take what you want, Daddy. I like knowing that power is all yours. The impact… I can feel it vibrating through your hips and into me.” Clark’s hands, still locked on Bruce’s waist, tightened further, his grip nearly superhuman. “I’m so close, Bruce. I’m leaking everywhere. I need more”

“Not yet, baby boy.” Bruce stopped the frantic bucking and planted his ass flat on Clark’s pelvis, sinking the entire length of Clark’s cock fully into his passage, resting the weight of his body down on him. He held that absolute stillness, the friction replaced by profound, unyielding pressure.

Clark whimpered. “No! Bruce, don’t stop….I–Please, move!”

“You need discipline,” Bruce corrected, his voice a low, steady command. He began to pulse his hips, the movement only millimeters deep, agonizingly slow, just enough to rub the ridge of Clark’s head against the tightest part of his anatomy.

“Daddy, please… I’m begging you. Don’t do this to me. I need to cum. I need to feel it again.” Clark’s hips tried to buck upwards, but Bruce’s weight was absolute, pinning him down effortlessly.

“Beg harder, darling.”

“I can’t take it, Bruce. Every twitch you make… it’s building and building and I’m going to lose it if you don’t move.” Clark swallowed hard, his voice thick with desperation. “Move. Slam down on me, Daddy. Please, I need you to come.”

“You want me to cum?” Bruce finally resumed motion, a slow, deep rock forward, then back.

“Yes! I want to feel your release around me. I need to feel that squeeze. I need to know you’re mine.”

Bruce inhaled sharply, the intense pressure of Clark’s cock hitting the perfect, deep nexus point. He accelerated the rocking motion, driving his hips down, then up, then down again, faster and faster, ignoring the ache in his own lower back, focusing only on the escalating sensation.

“There it is,” Bruce panted, the control starting to fray around the edges of his voice. He felt the familiar, wonderful tremors begin to pull his muscles taut. “I’m gonna— Clark. I’m cumming!”

He dropped his weight entirely and slammed down three times, brutally fast, the impact echoing through the mattress.

“Daddy!” Clark roared, his grip on Bruce’s hips becoming painful, desperate. “Yes! Cum! Cum for me!”

Bruce’s body seized, a deep, resonant contraction that tightened mercilessly around Clark’s cock. He felt the rush wash over him, a blinding, physical release that stole his breath. He pitched forward, letting his chest rest on Clark’s knees, shuddering.

Clark didn’t wait. The moment Bruce’s body went slack with climax, Clark’s expression shifted from tormented need to savage fulfillment. He wrapped his powerful arms around Bruce’s waist, pulling him up and backward, flush against his chest, flipping the power dynamic in an instant.

“My turn,” Clark growled, his voice deep and dark, vibrating against Bruce’s back.

Clark gripped Bruce’s hips, locking them in place, and began to thrust upward. The motion was deep, relentless, and explosive. No more riding; this was pure, focused claiming.

“Oh! Clark!” Bruce cried out, the shock of the sudden shift in pace and depth hitting his post-climax sensitivity like a tidal wave. “Wait—I just—”

“No waiting,” Clark insisted, driving upwards again, hard enough to lift Bruce slightly off the bed. “You ruined me, Daddy. Now let me ruin you.”

“God. Yes. It’s so deep, Clark. You’re too much.” Bruce gasped, clutching at Clark’s arms. The thrusts were immediate, filling him completely, every upward drive hitting the very throat of his passage.

“You love being filled, don’t you?” Clark’s voice was rough with his own building climax. “You love taking all of me. Tell me you feel my balls slapping against your cunt, Bruce.”

Bruce was reeling, the sensation of the hard, heavy slap of Clark’s scrotum against the sensitive skin of his entrance with every powerful thrust—a dizzying, secondary assault of pressure and heat.

“Yes! I feel them! Clark! Every hit!” Bruce was unable to form coherent sentences, only visceral reactions. He was already spiraling downwards into a second, unexpected climax, the sheer force of Clark’s possession too overwhelming to fight.

Clark didn’t slow. He hammered into Bruce, a rapid-fire series of thrusts that pushed both of them further into the frenzy. “I’m going to make you scream my name, Bruce. I’m going to make you forget everything but this.”

“Oh God, Clark! The keep fucking inside me! Right there!” Bruce’s back arched violently, his body tightening in preparation for another wave.

“Tell me how tight you are, Daddy. Tell me you’re squeezing me.”

“So tight Clark, I'm cummiing again! It’s too much—it’s too fast!” Bruce shouted, his voice cracking with the intensity. He felt his second climax tear through him, a deeper, longer wave than the first, fueled entirely by Clark’s brutal possession.

As Bruce shuddered uncontrollably, Clark let out a final, guttural shout, throwing his head forward, burying his face into Bruce’s shoulder. He thrust one last, final, profound time, the immense pressure of his release flooding deep into Bruce’s passage, burning hot and thick.

“Daddy,” Clark whispered, his entire body convulsing against Bruce’s back, his grip tightening until Bruce felt the air squeeze from his lungs. “Mine.”

Chapter Text

The air in the secure sub-level chamber was thick, not just with humidity but with a specific, electric anticipation that always preceded their deepest dives into negotiated vulnerability.

Clark stood centered in the room, his stance deceptively casual but his core tension palpable. He was wearing precisely nothing—a vulnerability Bruce always insisted on when the roles were flipped drastically.

"You look good, Clark," Bruce murmured, his voice low and edged with a command that was usually reserved for the cowl. Bruce was dressed in heavy black silk, allowing him mobility but obscuring the true extent of his preparation.

Clark watched him approach, a faint sheen of sweat already covering his chest. He knew the source wasn’t entirely physical exertion. It was the thrill. The deep, terrifying trust implicit in what was about to happen.

"I’m yours, B," Clark replied, the words soft but weighted with commitment.

Bruce stopped just inches away, close enough for Clark to feel the cool air radiating off him. Bruce lifted one hand, trailing two fingers lightly over Clark’s jaw.

"Tonight is mine, entirely," Bruce corrected him, his eyes dark with purpose. "You remember the boundaries."

"Every single one," Clark assured him. "Safety first, always. And you promised to tell me everything when I wake up."

"I did," Bruce confirmed. He stepped back slightly, then presented the cuffs. They were custom-made, heavy, wrought from darkened steel. Set into the metal, barely visible, were small, brilliant green studs.

Clark swallowed hard. "They’re beautiful, frighteningly so."

"They had to be perfect," Bruce said, his tone flat. He lifted Clark’s left arm first, gripping the wrist firmly. "Stand tall, Clark. I need you to be steady."

"I am," Clark breathed. He watched the metal click into place, the studs resting directly against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. The feeling was immediate but subtle—a light, pervasive weakness, like a fleeting dream.

Bruce moved quickly to the other wrist, locking the second cuff. Clark immediately felt the change in his blood flow, his strength beginning to ebb, but slowly. The studs were small. Just enough to ensure compliance, just enough to prepare him.

Bruce stepped back, observing the initial effect. Clark angled his neck weakly, looking up at the metal bands above his head where Bruce had positioned him against a structural beam. His hands were held together, wrist to wrist.

"How do you feel?" Bruce asked, the question professional, detached.

"A little fuzzy," Clark admitted, his voice already losing resonance. "The static is getting louder."

"Good." Bruce smiled—a satisfied, triumphant flash that turned Clark’s stomach over with a heady mix of fear and excitement. "Now the next step."

Bruce reached into his pocket and withdrew two larger, polished stones of Kryptonite. They were smooth, elongated ovals, perfectly sized to slide into concealed slots within the cuffs.

Clark watched the larger stones approach, a sudden, frantic beat in his heart overriding the growing numbness. This was the moment. The agreed-upon boundary crossing.

"Bruce," Clark managed, the sound a wavering whisper.

"Trust me, Clark," Bruce instructed, his voice ringing with absolute, necessary authority. "Let go. I’m right here. I will not let you fall."

He inserted the first stone into the left cuff.

The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Electrical energy seemed to drain from Clark’s core like water from a sieve. His eyesight blurred, the vibrant green hue of the stone dominating his vision. He could hear his own heartbeat accelerating wildly, then slowing, thinning out.

Bruce slid the second stone home.

The world dissolved into white noise. Clark tried to hold onto the image of Bruce’s face—the dark hair, the intense eyes—but the edges frayed. The last thought Clark registered was the deep, confusing understanding that this was exactly what he had wanted, this surrender.

Then, the lights went out.

Bruce watched the powerful frame slump forward, held upright only by the tightly secured cuffs. Clark’s head dropped to his chest, his breathing shallow and even. The Green K had done its work precisely as calibrated: quiet, comprehensive incapacitation.

Bruce let out a slow breath, the tension in his own shoulders finally releasing. He had been rigid with anticipation, ensuring the compliance protocol was perfect. This level of power exchange—the total, unseeing trust Clark had just invested—was the most exhilarating form of vulnerability Bruce had ever witnessed. It was intoxicating.

He gently reached forward and pressed two fingers to Clark’s carotid artery. Pulse steady, if subdued.

"Good boy," Bruce whispered, his voice catching with emotion. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the reverence he felt for Clark in this state was overwhelming.

Bruce slid around to face Clark’s back, then carefully unhooked a leather sling from the wall, securing it beneath Clark’s shoulders. He released the cuffs and then secured Clark’s wrists directly above his head using wider, leather restraints that had no toxic elements. Clark was hanging slightly, his weight mostly supported by the sling, his body limp and receptive.

Bruce stepped back, taking in the canvas. The silence of the room, broken only by the hum of the ventilation and Clark’s soft, even breathing, was profound.

He sat back on the edge of the examination bed near the wall and allowed himself a slow, satisfied grin. The grin felt alien, purely predatory, yet born of deep, mutual love.

"We talked about this, darling," Bruce murmured to the unconscious man, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "How much you needed to feel entirely out of control, entirely taken."

He rose slowly. Tonight was not about anger or punishment; it was about the deepest form of caretaking: fulfilling a boundary-pushing fantasy rooted in absolute, shared trust.

Bruce knelt before Clark. He reached out and stroked the rigid length of Clark’s arousal, which had sprung to attention despite the kryptonite-induced sleep.

"You’re already so hard for me, even like this," Bruce whispered, admiring the heavy curve and the slick pre-come already glistening on the tip.

He began to stroke Clark, slow and deliberate, using his hand like an extension of his will. His gaze never left Clark’s face. He knew his lover couldn’t see him, but Bruce needed to see the expression—the unfurrowed brow, the peaceful, yet aroused vulnerability.

"I need to watch you come while you’re floating somewhere else," Bruce confessed, his voice thick with the intimacy of the moment. "Just for me. Unaware. Unfiltered."

His movements picked up speed, maintaining a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Clark’s hips began to twitch faintly, a purely physical reflex against the stimulation. A low, involuntary whine escaped his lips—a sound of deep, buried pleasure.

"That’s it," Bruce encouraged him quietly. "Just let it happen, my love. You don’t have to do anything."

Bruce continued the precise, relentless rhythm, watching the flush deepen across Clark’s chest. The whines grew louder, transforming into low, guttural sounds of distress and release, the body protesting the overwhelming pleasure it couldn't consciously process.

Bruce drove him harder, faster, loving the loss of control, the total surrender.

"Clark," Bruce spoke his name, a sharp, commanding sound that cut through the silence.

Clark convulsed violently, his back arching against the restraints, his hips bucking in a desperate, unconscious attempt to climax. A strangled, primal sound tore from his throat as he erupted, thick waves of cum pulsing across Bruce’s hand and onto the floor below.

Bruce held the contraction until the last tremor subsided.

He stepped back and looked at the mess, a triumphant satisfaction settling deep in his chest.

"Filthy," Bruce purred. He took a cleansing breath, then reached for a nearby cloth, gently wiping his own hand clean.

The next part of the process was the negotiated humiliation, the proof of the taking.

Bruce knelt again, tilting Clark’s face up gently. He lowered his mouth, licking the sweat and salty residue from Clark’s lips, a gesture of ownership and devotion. Clark’s skin tasted like arousal and the sharp mineral tang of the Green K.

He moved lower, tracing a line down the center of Clark’s pristine stomach, tasting the faint stickiness of the overspill. Bruce felt the heat of Clark’s skin beneath his lips, a profound connection established in the dark.

Finally, he paid careful attention to the hands, licking the palms and fingers that had been soiled by the climax, reclaiming the evidence. He made sure every trace was gone. He cleaned his lover with the same obsessive thoroughness he applied to his gadgets.

Bruce rose, his body burning with a desire that was complicated by the sheer power of the dynamic. He was hungry for more.

He had promised Clark the full experience: total use, total power.

Bruce positioned himself over Clark’s lap, settling his knees on either side of Clark’s muscular thighs. Clark’s cock was still swollen, slightly softening but ready.

Bruce took hold of the heavy shaft, guiding it carefully. He lowered himself onto the rigid length, taking Clark deep inside him with a slow, grinding movement.

A sharp gasp escaped Bruce’s throat as the fullness stretched him. This connection, while one-sided in terms of consciousness, was perhaps the most intimate they shared. Bruce felt the weight of Clark’s body against him, the heat radiating off the alien skin.

"You’re mine, Clark," Bruce breathed out, resting his hands on Clark’s chest, leaning into the contact. "You don’t get a say right now. You just take me."

Bruce began to grind, slowly at first, establishing a devastatingly deep and consuming rhythm. He watched Clark’s face again. The lips parted slightly, breath hitching with the purely physical sensation.

Bruce closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the intense friction build. He gripped Clark’s chest, his fingers digging into the muscle, connecting him physically to the man beneath him.

"Clark," he gasped, pushing himself down, demanding everything the unconscious body could give. "Clark, look at what you do to me. Look what you let me do."

He sped up the rhythm, driven by the need to complete the fantasy, to take the submission to its inevitable conclusion. He felt the tightening deep inside him, the rush of climax approaching, sharp and overwhelming.

He threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut, his voice a ragged roar in the quiet chamber.

"Clark!"

In that same instant—the moment Bruce threw his body back and cried out Clark’s name in the throes of his own overwhelming orgasm—Clark’s body shuddered violently. His eyes fluttered open, thick and unfocused.

Clark could barely register the light, the blurred ceiling, the intense green haze fading from the corners of his vision. He saw a shape above him—Bruce, head thrown back, mouth open, his skin slick with sweat, eyes shut in ecstasy.

Clark felt the intense pressure and the grinding heat deep inside. He registered the feeling of being taken, completely, while he existed only on the periphery of sensation.

His body responded instantly, a crushing, powerful orgasm seizing him, a raw, deep sound escaping his chest as he came hard, waves upon waves of muscle contraction locking his body rigid against the restraints. The intensity of it—coming from a place of near-total physical incapacitation—was too much.

As Bruce’s body softened on top of him, collapsing onto his chest, Clark felt the last vestiges of strength drain away, the green static washing over the edges of his sight once more.

He passed out again, the last sensation being the slick, cool weight of Bruce’s satisfied body settling against his.

Clark woke slowly, not to the harsh sting of cold metal or the burning weakness in his limbs, but to a profound sense of warmth and comfort.

He blinked, the harsh lights of the sub-level chamber replaced by the muted, natural light filtering through the blackout curtains of their shared bedroom in the Manor.

He lay on his stomach initially, stretching luxuriously, noting the complete ease of movement. He felt no weakness, no residual Green K fatigue. He was clean. The sheets were crisp and laundered. The air smelled faintly of ozone and expensive soap.

He pushed himself up, noticing his body was perfectly clean. He was tucked under the comforter, naked.

Clark looked down at his hands, turning his wrists over. No cuffs. No residue. The skin was smooth.

"What the..." he whispered, the sound rough from sleep.

He turned his head to the side.

Lying next to him, deeply submerged in sleep, was Bruce. Bruce’s face was soft, devoid of the usual tension lines, turned toward Clark. A faint, serene smile was curled around his lips. He looked utterly satisfied, completely at peace.

Clark stared at him, memory slowly dripping back: the ritual, the cuffs, the horrifying, electric weakness, the brief, chaotic moment of waking up inside an orgasm that wasn’t his own.

He pushed up on one elbow, looking at his lover.

"Rao," Clark whispered silently, watching the slow rise and fall of Bruce’s chest.

Clark lay back down, settling in the silence, waiting. He knew Bruce. Bruce wouldn't have just dumped him here. The entire cleanup, the transport, the tucking in—it was all part of the aftercare, meticulously planned.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the subterranean chambers of the Kryptonian citadel was thick, humid with the scent of expensive oils, exotic pheromones, and the undeniable musk of exertion. Clark, King Kal-El, sat at the center of the expansive room, a towering figure draped in silks and cushions that formed his makeshift throne. Tonight, as on many nights, the chamber was packed with willing supplicants, workers imported from dozens of subjugated worlds, all vying for the attention of their god.

But tonight, Kal’s attention was monopolized by a single figure.

Bruce, a recent acquisition from the notorious, crime-ridden sphere known as Gotham, was unlike the others. While the rest of the workers were languid, soft, and overly eager, Bruce was a tensile wire of controlled strength. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and though he wore the mandatory, revealing silks of the night’s entertainment, he moved with the banked, dangerous confidence of someone who had never needed to beg. He exuded wealth, woven intricately into the very fiber of his desperate situation. He was a prisoner, yes, but he carried himself like a captured king.

Bruce was currently positioned behind Kal-El, his strong, knowing hands kneading the powerful muscles of Kal’s shoulders and neck, trailing heat down his spine. Unlike the others who engaged sporadically or fully in the chaotic orgies swirling around them, Bruce remained focused, his caresses proprietary, almost challenging in their intimacy. Clark, or Kal-El as he preferred in this setting, felt the low thrum of possessive need churning in his gut.

“That is good, little bat,” Kal-El purred, leaning back slightly, testing the yield of Bruce’s grip. “Your skill is wasted on my mere back, though. I have other, far more deserving regions that require your focused attention.”

Bruce’s hands paused briefly before resuming the massage, his touch precise. “My King is well aware of the terms of my service tonight. I am here to ensure the relief of tension in the musculature. This is what you requested, Kal. Nothing more.”

Clark’s eyelids fluttered open, a dangerous, crimson spark flaring momentarily beneath the surface of his icy blue gaze. He rotated his head sharply, catching Bruce’s eye over his shoulder.

“And you believe you are in a position to dictate the scope of my requests, captive?” Kal’s voice dropped, gaining a razor-sharp edge that cut through the low moans and laughter of the room.

“I feel a demanding emptiness, right here,” he articulated, placing a hand possessively over the burgeoning hardness tenting his thin silk shorts. “And that emptiness requires the warmth of your mouth, Bruce.”

Bruce did not flinch. His expression remained stubbornly cool, a slight downturn to his lips that Clark recognized as pure, unadulterated defiance.

“I am performing the task I was initially assigned,” Bruce repeated, his voice low and steady, not quite a challenge, but certainly a refusal. “If my King requires a mouth, there are two dozen willing mouths in this chamber eager for the honor. My current task is paramount.”

The refusal, delivered with such cold authority, was a brutal affront to Kal-El’s absolute dominion. Kal-El was not accustomed to negotiation, especially not from a chattel he had personally selected for his bedchamber.

“Oh, you are paramount indeed,” Kal growled, the muscles in his jaw clenching. He pushed himself off the cushions, the movement sudden and terrifying. The music died abruptly; the laughter ceased. Every eye in the cavernous room snapped to the central conflict.

Clark stood, massive and intimidating. The sheer force of his displeasure caused the nearby Kryptonian and Earth workers to instinctively recoil.

“The night is concluded,” Clark announced, his voice echoing, cold as deep space. “Vanish. All of you. Now.”

There was a frantic scramble as the workers—men and women alike—rushed to gather their belongings and depart. They moved swiftly, knowing better than to delay a dismissal issued in the King’s fury. As they passed Bruce, glances of sheer hatred were shot his way. Whispers followed, hissed in various tongues.

“That pampered brute! He ruined everything!”

“He thinks he’s too good for the King’s needs.”

“A Gotham disgrace! They should send him back to the cages.”

Bruce remained immobile for a long moment, watching the receding backs of the others. A sneer of pure contempt curved his mouth. He met the eyes of the last retreating figure—a slender, nervous alien—and offered a faint, dismissive shrug.

“What are you looking at?” Bruce muttered, loud enough for Clark to hear clearly. “Crawl back to your hovels. At least I have a spine. I wouldn’t stoop that low.”

Clark’s rage, already a volcanic pressure behind his sternum, solidified into a dangerous, crystalline calm. He watched Bruce’s unyielding posture, the arrogant tilt of his chin, the utter lack of fear.

“Did you hear that, Bruce?” Kal-El asked softly, turning slowly toward the Gothamite. “That was your freedom walking out the door. And you spoke ill of those who hold it dear.”

Bruce finally turned to face the King, folding his arms across his impressive chest, an expression of detached impatience settling on his features. “I heard their desperation, Kal. And their obedience. It’s pathetic. I don’t confuse servitude with dignity.”

“Do not move,” Clark commanded, his voice shaking with restrained power. “You are ordered to remain.”

Bruce paused, then, with a heavy sigh that conveyed his absolute boredom with the situation, he dropped his arms and stood still. He looked entirely unimpressed, the picture of weary condescension in the face of absolute power.

Clark strode toward him, his footsteps deliberate and heavy on the polished floor. He stopped mere inches away, close enough for Bruce to feel the radiating heat of his body, the intensity of his glare. Clark’s eyes were narrowed, focusing intently on the defiant set of Bruce’s shoulders, the way he held his waist rigid, the subtle muscular tension that signaled his readiness to spring or fight.

“Look at you,” Clark hissed, his voice dangerously low. “Standing there, folding your arms, displaying insolence like a tavern brawler. This is the presence of your King, Bruce. Fix your body in respect. Now.”

Bruce swallowed hard, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but his posture remained fixed. He met Clark’s gaze, his own eyes challenging the command.

“Respect is earned,” Bruce murmured, his lips barely moving.

“Respect is commanded under my roof, Gothamite,” Clark snapped. “Move your arms. Straighten your spine. Drop your chin. Show me the due reverence, or I will correct your anatomy until you are physically incapable of insubordination.”

Bruce rolled his eyes—a flicker of annoyance that was clearly meant to mock the very concept of Clark’s authority.

“You sound like a parody of a drill sergeant, Kal. I’m not playing soldier. Why fix myself when I clearly don’t respect you enough to care about—”

The words were brutally cut short. Clark’s hand moved with Kryptonian speed and force, connecting with jaw. The sound of the slap cracked through the otherwise silent chamber like a thunderclap. Bruce stumbled sideways, his head snapping back, the sheer velocity of the impact rattling his teeth. A thin line of crimson immediately bloomed at the corner of his lip, trailing down his chin.

His eyes, wide with shock, prickled instantly with unshed tears—tears born not of pain, but of pure, white-hot fury and humiliation. He blinked rapidly, fighting them back, his chest heaving.

Clark watched the blood, the tears, the visceral reaction, and felt a cold satisfaction.

“You will never mock me again,” Clark stated, his voice now calm, terrifyingly collected. “You will never roll your eyes at your sovereign. Fix your body. Now. Show me the respect owed to the ruler of this sector.”

Bruce pressed his bleeding lip with his tongue, tasting copper. The primal instinct to fight, to lash out, was overwhelming, but the force of the blow had been a definitive reminder of the physical disparity between them. Resiliently, Bruce shoved his shoulders back, straightened his spine into an unnaturally rigid line, and dropped his hands to his sides, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. His chin dipped slightly.

“Fixed,” Bruce rasped, the word tasting of shame.

Clark nodded once, a gesture of cold approval. He turned and walked back toward his mountainous pile of cushions, settling back onto his throne. The red blood stain on Bruce's chin stood out starkly against his pale skin, a vivid trophy of their initial confrontation.

“Come here,” Clark ordered, inclining his head toward the space directly before his seat. “Approach me, Bruce.”

Bruce began to walk forward, his stride stiff, still radiating defiance despite his corrected posture. He had taken only two steps when the air beside his left foot suddenly ignited. A searing beam of concentrated crimson light lashed out from Clark’s eyes, missing Bruce’s foot by a fraction of an inch, scorching a deep, smoking furrow into the impenetrable floor plating.

Bruce stopped dead, his breath hitching. The smell of burning metal filled the air. He looked down at the near-miss, then slowly raised his terrified gaze to meet the King’s.

“Did I authorize the act of walking?” Clark inquired, his tone deceptively casual. “Did I issue the command to approach casually, Bruce? Or did I merely say ‘Come here’?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his throat—a sound of frustrated, trapped aggression.

“Kneel,” Clark commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, immutable power. “Kneel, and crawl before your King.”

The word kneel struck Bruce like a physical blow. It was the ultimate gesture of submission, a position he had sworn he would never assume for anyone, regardless of the consequences. His jaw worked silently.

“Bruce,” Clark warned, his voice hardening, “do not make me repeat myself. Assume the posture of submission, or I will melt the flesh from your stubborn knees and make you crawl regardless.”

With a ragged, defeated exhale, Bruce dropped. The movement was sharp, not yielding. He didn’t sink; he fell. His knees hit the hard floor with a thud that echoed his wounded pride. He balanced there precariously, hands pressed flat against the ground, his head bowed only slightly. The shame was a boiling tide in his veins.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to crawl forward on his hands and knees, traversing the floor that separated them. Every inch felt like a mile, every movement a confirmation of his current status. He stopped precisely where the scorched line marked the near-miss of the heat beam, his body centered before Clark’s powerful feet.

Clark looked down at the kneeling man, his gaze predatory and pleased. Bruce, forced into this position, suddenly seemed smaller, more vulnerable, despite the broadness of his shoulders.

“Good, obedient boy,” Clark praised, a cruel smile touching his lips. He lifted his hand, casually tracing the sharp edge of Bruce’s jaw. He then moved his hand lower, gripping the back of Bruce’s neck, applying a gentle, irresistible pressure to force his head lower, until Bruce’s forehead almost touched the floor.

“Now,” Clark whispered, leaning forward, “I want you to tell me what I require. I want you to worship the source of my power. I want that beautiful, defiant mouth of yours wrapped fully around my cock. Tell me you desire to please me, Bruce.”

Bruce resisted the pressure on his neck, raising his head just enough for their eyes to lock. Even kneeling, he maintained a flicker of defiance.

“No,” Bruce whispered, the single word a defiant shield against the tidal wave of Clark’s will.

Clark’s expression darkened instantly. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled back his hand, reaching instead for a thin, braided whip made of hardened Kryptonian fiber that lay coiled beside his cushions. The whip was sharp and stiff, capable of leaving deep, burning welts.

“You refuse a direct command, Bruce?” Clark asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You refuse the honor of service? A service that would grant you reprieve, comfort, and perhaps even release? Unacceptable.”

The whip snapped out, thin and wickedly fast, catching Bruce squarely across the upper thigh, just above the knee, where the silk was thinnest. The pain was instant and searing, a white-hot line across his skin. Bruce gasped, his body jolting, trying to spring out of the kneeling position from reflex.

“Stay down!” Clark roared, and the whip cracked again, landing on the opposite thigh.

Bruce cried out this time, a sharp, choked sound of agony. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain on his knees, trembling violently.

“Tell me you want to worship me,” Clark demanded, his voice relentless. Crack! The whip cut Bruce’s skin again.

Bruce writhed, biting back a scream. “Stop it, Kal! That hurts!”

“Pain is a tool for refinement, Bruce! It teaches obedience faster than mercy!” Crack! Crack! Two swift, merciless lashes landed close together on the already reddening skin of his thighs. “Tell me the command! Tell me what my cock requires!”

“I won’t!” Bruce gasped, tears finally streaming freely down his face, though he still fought the compliance. “I won’t beg for that!”

Clark stood, towering over the kneeling man, his fury now fully unleashed. The whip was tossed aside carelessly. Clark reached down, grabbing Bruce’s hair with one hand, yanking his head back sharply, exposing his throat. With the other hand, he slapped Bruce, hard, across the cheek where blood already stained his skin.

“You will comply!”

Slap!

“You will learn the pleasure of obedience!”

Slap!

“You are mine! You belong to Krypton and to me!” Slap!

The repeated blows were concussive, the sound sickeningly wet. Bruce’s head swam; the world tilted, his ears ringing. He tasted more blood, his lip splitting further. The humiliation, the pain, the exhaustion of fighting the invincible force finally broke his resolve.

“Y-yes,” Bruce choked out, his voice a broken, wet sob. “Y-yes, I will! I’ll worship you! Please, Kal, stop the hitting! I’ll do anything!”

Clark instantly ceased the assault. He released Bruce’s hair, allowing the man to collapse forward slightly, catching himself on his hands, panting raggedly, his cheekbone throbbing.

“Good. Now, tell me, who am I?” Clark instructed, his voice now dangerously calm again.

Bruce lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed and miserable, focusing on the powerful structure of Clark’s body hovering above him. He crawled forward slightly until his face was positioned directly before Clark’s silk-covered arousal.

“My King, Kal-El,” Bruce whispered, the words thick with tears and blood. “My mouth… will worship your cock. I will lick, I will kiss, I will caress your strength. Please, allow your captive this honor.”

Clark chuckled, a deep, satisfied rumble. He reached down and smoothly stripped the thin silk shorts from his body, revealing his immense, fully hardened cock. It sprang free, thick and veined, pulsing with anticipation.

“The honor is all yours, little bat. Worship now.”

Bruce stared at the erection—the focal point of Clark’s power, the very instrument of his subjugation. He forced himself to move, the shame momentarily superseded by the necessity of compliance. He reached out a trembling hand, tracing the heat of Clark’s shaft. He leaned in, his bloody lips seeking the tip.

He began the worship.

Bruce licked and kissed the head of the immense cock, forcing himself to be thorough, meticulous, trying to use skill to stave off the raw shame. He caressed the smooth, sensitive skin, running his tongue along the length of the vein, drawing a moan of pleasure from Clark. He worked harder, faster, attempting to show his mastery of the act, even in this position of utter defeat.

Clark watched the transformation—the proud, defiant Gothamite reduced to a weeping supplicant kneeling and servicing his King. It was intoxicating.

“Deeper, Bruce. I want to feel your throat working around me,” Clark commanded, his voice muffled by pleasure. “Show me how pliable you are. Show me how much you yearn for this position of servitude.”

Bruce obeyed, opening his mouth wide, drawing as much length as he dared, gagging slightly at the sheer impossible width and volume, the rhythmic action of his throat controlled by the pressure of Clark’s hips. Clark let out a guttural sound and thrust forward, burying Bruce’s face in his groin, a hard, demanding face-fuck that denied Bruce any space to breathe or catch himself.

Bruce felt his brain spin. The world narrowed to the musky scent of Clark’s body, the relentless pressure on his palate, the burning in his chest from the lack of oxygen. He gripped at Clark’s thighs for leverage, his arms trembling from the strain of holding his own weight while being used so violently. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat and drool lubricating the act.

“Suck it! Devour me, whore!” Clark commanded, reveling in the control, driving his cock deeper and deeper. “That’s it! Swallow your pride! Breathe my pleasure!”

Bruce fought for air, his vision blurring. He was dizzy, faint, on the brink of passing out from the constant, overwhelming physical pressure. The sounds he made were purely involuntary, high-pitched whines and choked pleas that were silenced immediately by the next powerful thrust. In his daze, he lost track of time, lost track of the room, lost track of everything but the rhythmic pressure overwhelming his senses.

The relentless assault finally eased, Clark extracting himself slowly, leaving Bruce kneeling and gasping, drooling and panting, forehead resting on the floor, momentarily defeated. Bruce’s mind was still spinning; he could barely process reality.

“My air…” Bruce mumbled, the words slurred and confused. “King… may I stop kneeling? I need to sit… I’m dizzy.”

Clark looked down at the pathetic figure, amusement glittering in his eyes. He reached out a booted foot and nudged Bruce gently in the ribs.

“No, little bat. You are not permitted to stop kneeling. You are only permitted to change the function of your kneeling. You will maintain this posture until I permit you release from it. Do you understand the command?”

Bruce whimpered, pushing himself up slightly. “Y-yes, Kal. I understand. But please, the room is spinning…”

“The spinning is proof of my dominance,” Clark stated, pulling Bruce’s wrist gently and turning him, arranging the captive so that he was still kneeling, but now facing away from Clark, his broad, inviting ass directly presented to the King. Bruce’s spine was arched slightly in the restrictive posture, presenting his hips perfectly.

“You are still on your knees, Bruce. You are still in supplicant posture,” Clark explained, his voice falling to an intimate, demanding rumble. “But now, you will sit on your knees, and you will attend to the next phase of your instruction. Lift your ass for me, Bruce.”

Bruce tried to protest, but the command was inescapable. He pushed his hips upward slightly, trembling. Clark reached out a hand, his fingers long and strong, lightly tracing the sensitive seam between Bruce’s tense ass.

“You are beautifully tight, my little captive,” Clark murmured. “But you are too tense. Relax. I have need of this aperture.”

Clark pressed a thumb firmly into Bruce’s tightly clenched opening. Bruce cried out, a high, startled sound, tensing further as the sensation of invasion began.

“Relax, Bruce,” Clark commanded, his voice stern. “If you fight me, I will be rougher. Do you require more punishment to learn your place?”

“N-no! Please! I’m trying!” Bruce gasped, fighting the instinctual urge to clench shut.

Clark inserted a finger carefully, then a second one, stretching the tight, resisting walls. Bruce cried out, whining at the pace and the sheer roughness of the invasion, the pain sharp and intrusive. The vulnerability of the kneeling position, buttocks exposed and elevated, compounded the shame.

“That’s it, Bruce. Open for me,” Clark instructed, his fingers swirling, finding responsive spots within. “I want to hear you scream my name. Tell me you adore this violation.”

“Ah! Kal! Too rough! Slow down! Please, Kal-El!” Bruce’s voice was broken, tears streaming down his face again as he was internally stretched and prepared. He pushed his hips back involuntarily, a small, desperate movement into the source of the sensation.

Clark worked Bruce intensely, driving his fingers in and out with relentless speed and force, ignoring the captive’s whines and pleas for mercy. Bruce was soon a mess of choked sobs and gasps, his skin flushed crimson, his whole body trembling in the humiliating, compliant position. His muscles screamed from the prolonged kneeling.

Clark continued the savage rhythm until Bruce was a single, sustained moan of pure anticipation, feeling the unmistakable, building pressure of imminent climax nearing. Then, suddenly, Clark pulled his fingers out, the sharp, empty sensation leaving Bruce aching and betrayed.

“No, little bat. You do not climax until I permit it,” Clark stated, his voice flat. “Your pleasure is my property.”

Bruce dropped his head, shaking uncontrollably, fighting the crashing wave of unreleased tension.

Clark’s voice lowered, becoming seductive, yet infinitely more dangerous. He positioned the head of his massive cock against Bruce’s wet, abused entrance.

“Look at this salvation, Bruce. It is salvation from your pain, from your shame, from your pride. Tell me you want it. Tell me you yearn for the fullness of your master.”

Bruce looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and desperate, fixed on the sheer size of the cock threatening his resistance.

“Yes!” Bruce cried out, the single word torn from his throat. He pushed back slightly, an involuntary, pleading movement. “Yes, I want it, please! Kal, I beg you! Fill me! Fuck me, my King!”

Clark smiled, a savage, conquering expression. He grabbed Bruce’s hips firmly, dragging the kneeling man backward onto his erection with ruthless force.

A loud, strangled gasp escaped Bruce’s lips as the massive head breached his tight entrance. The stretch was agonizing, overwhelming, a deep, tearing sensation that made him cry out in genuine pain. He arched his back, hands clenching at the floor, drool spilling from his open mouth.

“My King!” Bruce shrieked, the pain quickly giving way to an incredible, demanding fullness.

Clark paused, enjoying the sheer intensity of Bruce’s reaction, the way the captive’s body stretched taut over his cock. He watched the tears roll down Bruce’s cheek as he swallowed the remainder of the length slowly, inexorably.

“You begged for this filling, Bruce,” Clark whispered into his ear, his voice rough with triumph. “And your King obliges. Now, show me your gratitude.”

Clark began to move, a slow, deep pump that stretched Bruce beyond his perceived limits. Bruce quickly adapted, the pain receding into a ferocious, demanding need. He stopped fighting the posture, stopped fighting the moment, and instead began to fuck himself back onto Clark’s cock, matching the King’s brutal, demanding rhythm.

He was a broken, beautiful ruin, his body arching in agony and ecstasy, still on his knees, still in the posture of utter submission.

“Who do you belong to, Bruce?” Clark commanded, thrusting harder, pushing Bruce to the precipice.

“I belong to you!” Bruce cried out, his voice hoarse. “I am your captive! Your possession! I belong to Kal-El, the King of Krypton!”

“Who is forcing you onto his cock, deep and hard?”

“You are, my King! You are my master! My husband!”

Clark drove in one final, shattering thrust, feeling the internal clenches of the man gripping him. Bruce screamed his release, a long, drawn-out cry of complete surrender, his body convulsing violently around Clark’s shaft. Clark held him tight, feeling his own climax approaching swiftly, a powerful rush of heat and triumph that flooded the Kryptonian.

“You are mine,” Clark growled, spilling his seed deep inside the kneeling man, his own roar of pleasure echoing Bruce’s surrender.

They remained locked together, Bruce kneeling and broken, Clark standing above him, still utterly dominant. The silence that followed was heavy with the definitive mark of ownership. Bruce slowly collapsed forward, resting his forehead against the ground, his body slick with sweat, his knees burning from the strain, his submission complete.

“Rest now, little bat,” Clark commanded, his voice softer, but carrying the unmistakable weight of absolute control. “But remember this posture. You will remain on your knees until I permit you to rise. That is where you belong. Forever.”

Chapter Text

The air in the facility was a perpetual assault. Bruce didn't merely hate the sterile surroundings; they felt actively hostile, designed to neutralize human warmth. The walls were not just white, but a relentless, unforgiving surgical glare that seemed to leach the color from his own skin. The lights hummed with a high-pitched, insistent frequency, acting as a constant, subtle irritant against the deep-seated rage he kept caged. And the smell—a cloying chemical cocktail of sharp antiseptic and ozone, overlaid by the metallic tang of state-of-the-art security systems—made his throat seize up in perpetual disgust. Every corridor was an echo chamber for the heavy, synthetic soles of his mandated slippers, creating a rhythm of isolation that only amplified his captivity.

It had been precisely ninety-two days. Three months marked by the cold rotation of personnel. Eight highly credentialed physicians had attempted to "recalibrate" him, each failing more spectacularly than the last. Three months of mandatory restraint sessions, forced observation logs, and a crushing routine intended to break his volatility.

His last physician, Dr. Thompson, had been dismissed after Bruce had executed a textbook defensive maneuver, nearly dislocating the man's shoulder for daring to apply a wrist restraint with excessive (though technically permissible) force. The memory provided a bitter, lingering satisfaction: the man’s panicked, spluttering retreat and the knowledge that Bruce had, yet again, terminated the session on his own terms. The facility administration was exhausted. They saw him as a liability, a dangerously unpredictable variable that defied all protocol. He was an anomaly no standard psychiatric professional felt equipped—or sufficiently compensated—to handle.

And yet, there was Clark.

Bruce remembered the first, non-verbal encounter with absolute clarity. It had been nearly two weeks ago, during one of his most violent outbursts. He had gone feral, throwing his entire body against the reinforced walls, turning himself into a human cannonball of frustration. He had expected the immediate deployment of sedatives and reinforced teams. Instead, Clark had appeared. He moved with a startling, almost unnerving quietness, observing the chaos from the periphery. He hadn't rushed, hadn't judged, hadn't even flinched. And somehow, through sheer force of stillness, he had managed to ground Bruce. Bruce hadn't understood it; he maintained an impenetrable psychic and physical barrier, yet Clark had bypassed it without effort.

Now, Clark stood in the threshold of Bruce’s primary observation quarters. He was tall, filling the doorway in a way that managed to feel protective rather than imposing. His posture was utterly still, radiating a strange, resolute calm. His dark eyes met Bruce’s without wavering, absorbing the residual defensive hostility without the slightest hint of fear or professional condescension. Bruce felt the familiar, reflexive tightening in his chest, the automatic crossing of his arms—a subtle retreat.

Clark lifted one hand, the gesture slow and deliberate, a silent promise of non-aggression. His voice, when it came, was low and resonant, a frequency that cut through the institutional hum.

“Bruce,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of the clinical pity Bruce usually endured. “I know the previous practitioners have been… ineffective. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to establish a working partnership. You will see that soon enough.”

Bruce blinked, the composed steadiness of the voice momentarily overriding his paranoia. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. “You’re going to be helping me… now?” he asked, the sentence laced with suspicion, yet undeniably tinged with a deep, starved curiosity about the man.

Clark offered a smile that was less a facial expression and more an internal light—a careful, confident curve of the lips. “Yes,” he confirmed. “I am your new attending physician. And we are going to do things differently.”

A profound shift occurred within Bruce. He took a hesitant step forward, studying Clark’s lack of reaction. There was no flinching, no overly formal, stiff stance designed to maintain professional distance. Just quiet, unwavering assurance. Bruce found himself relaxing, the tightly clenched knots of his mind beginning to loosen, his hypervigilance softening.

“This is your space,” Clark said, gesturing to the floor of the stark, tiled room, treating it with a strange reverence, as if inviting Bruce to sit in a sun-dappled garden. “Let’s sit down.”

Bruce watched him settle easily on the cold floor, leaning his back against the sterile wall—a deliberate, profound dismissal of facility protocols, which demanded formal seating arrangements and distance. They began the process of laying down ground rules. Bruce was utterly unused to being consulted. Usually, the protocols dictated everything: the timing of his medication, the direction of his gaze, the length of permitted interactions. No one had ever paused the machinery of his confinement to ask him anything.

“Anything you feel is counterproductive, anything you don’t want to do—you tell me,” Clark continued, his voice softer now, almost intimate in the quiet room.

“I need to know what works for you, and what doesn’t. You won’t be punished for asserting that control.”

Bruce retrieved the small, mandated notepad he used for journaling and began to scribble furiously, cataloging Clark’s words as he spoke. He couldn’t stop himself from scrutinizing the physician as he wrote—the strong, unfussy set of his jaw, the dark, almost unruly wave of hair falling across his forehead, the quiet, analytical intensity in his gaze. There was something profoundly magnetic about Clark, a center of gravity that made Bruce forget, momentarily, the oppressive whiteness of the walls and the constant, maddening hum of the surveillance systems.

For the first time in months, Bruce didn’t feel entirely trapped. Not yet. Not while Clark was there, offering him the illusion—or perhaps the reality—of agency.

And somewhere deep beneath the layers of suspicion and self-preservation, Bruce felt an unfamiliar, dangerous stir. It was a sensation he ruthlessly suppressed, the unwelcome precursor to vulnerability. He had boundaries to set, rules to test, and a new physician to break. But for now, he simply listened.

___________________

The sterile, impersonal environment of the facility, once a suffocating cage that amplified Bruce’s isolation, began to shift its character. Time itself seemed to move at a different pace within those walls, no longer a relentless march of measured minutes, but a fluid, almost viscous passage. Days bled into weeks, each one indistinguishable from the last save for the quiet, deliberate routines that Clark meticulously maintained.

It was Clark, in his understated presence, who seemed to be the architect of the small comforts that gradually threaded their way into Bruce's bleak existence. The formerly oppressive humming of the medical machinery, a constant reminder of his confinement and vulnerability, softened into a dull, almost ambient drone, surprisingly soothing when Clark was near, his proximity a quiet anchor in the disorienting expanse of Bruce's recovery.

Bruce found himself experiencing a sensation he’d almost forgotten: laughter. These were not boisterous outbursts, but small, surprised chuckles that would bubble up unbidden, often at the sheer dry wit of Clark’s observations or the peculiar, almost childlike way he would tilt his head, eyes crinkling at the corners, as he intently observed Bruce’s progress during his physical therapy sessions. A subtle shift occurred in Bruce’s physical demeanor as well. He’d find himself unconsciously gravitating towards Clark when the man entered the room, his steps faltering slightly, lingering in his orbit a beat longer than strictly necessary. Each shared glance, each barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment from Clark, ignited a warmth within Bruce’s chest, a strange, unfamiliar current that coursed through him, defying logic and his own deeply ingrained defenses.

This burgeoning connection began to chip away at the hardened shell Bruce had meticulously constructed. It made him feel… soft. Not vulnerable in a way that invited attack, but soft in the way a person is soft, stripped of the armor of his former identity. He was no longer the prototype, the weapon being honed, the project under constant scrutiny. He was simply Bruce, a man navigating the uncharted territory of his own healing, and this profound sense of self, this glimpse of his own humanity, was a direct consequence of Clark's unwavering, gentle influence.

One particularly demanding afternoon, Clark had brought in a heavy-duty pull-up bar, a new challenge designed to test the recovering strength in Bruce’s arms and fists. The exercise itself was familiar territory, demanding and rigorous, yet the strain felt… different. Lighter. Clark's quiet presence seemed to dissipate some of the physical anguish. His hands, when he adjusted Bruce’s stance or offered a stabilizing touch, were surprisingly gentle. His fingers would brush against Bruce’s forearms in small, careful motions, each brief contact sending a startling flutter through Bruce’s chest, a distraction he actively fought to ignore as he focused on the burn in his muscles.

"Almost there," Clark murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that resonated with a deep, reassuring calm. "Just a couple more."

Bruce gritted his teeth, channeling every ounce of his resolve, pulling with all the force he could muster. But as he neared the apex of his effort, a sudden, sharp cramp seized his right arm. A searing pain shot up from his bicep, an agonizing jolt that stole his breath and made him cry out involuntarily, his grip faltering.

"Clark…," he gasped, his voice strained, ragged. "I—I can’t… Come help me!"

Without a flicker of hesitation, Clark was there. He moved with an almost preternatural speed, appearing behind Bruce, his hands landing on Bruce’s sides, steadying him with a silent, reassuring strength as Bruce attempted to lower himself safely. Bruce's body was wracked with tremors, his muscles screaming in protest. Instinctively, he pressed back against Clark's solid form, molding himself against his rescuer as Clark gently supported and then began to stretch the afflicted arm, his touch feather-light but firm, working to ease the agonizing spasm.

The proximity at that moment was dizzying. Bruce’s pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, his chest pressed flush against Clark’s unwavering frame. The sterile confines of the exercise room seemed to dissolve, the world outside ceasing to exist. There was only Clark, this intimate space, and Bruce, utterly dependent and undeniably present.

As the cramp finally began to recede, its grip loosening, Bruce slowly shifted, pulling back just enough to see Clark’s face. Their eyes met, and for a long, suspended moment, the intensity of the shared experience hung heavy in the air between them. Bruce swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, acutely aware of his own rapid heartbeat, of how close they had been, and, strangely, of the profound sense of safety that had enveloped him despite his pain.

"I’m… sorry," Bruce whispered, his voice betraying a slight tremor. "For what I’m about to do…"

Then, with a deliberate slowness that felt both agonizing and exhilarating, Bruce leaned forward and closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips to Clark’s.

There was a beat of stunned silence, a brief, suspended breath held between them, before Clark responded. His kiss was gentle at first, then sure, and utterly unflinching. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but one of profound affirmation, a grounding force that confirmed something Bruce had been too afraid to acknowledge, even to himself. When they finally drew back, their foreheads almost touching, the silence that settled between them was not empty, but filled with a quiet, potent understanding that needed no words.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Bruce – a dizzying blend of embarrassment and overwhelming relief. But the unfamiliar warmth that had begun to bloom within him didn't fade. Clark's hand remained near Bruce's, a steady, comforting presence. And in that quiet, shared space, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Bruce felt a profound sense of belonging. He felt seen, truly seen, not as a weapon, not as a project, but simply as Bruce.

“Bruce,” Clark began, his voice a low, comforting rumble that always managed to soothe something restless within the urban legend, “do you… do you have any idea how much I care for you?”

Bruce simply nodded, a slight furrow appearing between his dark brows. He didn’t need words for most things; his intuition and observation skills were unparalleled. He knew. He always knew, even if he rarely acknowledged it aloud.

Clark sighed, a soft sound. “Honestly, words… sometimes they just don’t cut it, do they?” He gestured vaguely, his gaze sweeping over Bruce, taking in the subtle worry lines around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. He knew Bruce was perpetually exhausted, running himself ragged.

Bruce finally turned, his gaze meeting Clark’s with an intensity that could disarm lesser men. “Words, Dr. Kent, are often inadequate for true sentiment. You’re trying to say something more, aren’t you? Beyond your usual, albeit appreciated, concern for my well-being.” There was a hint of amusement in his tone, a sly challenge.

A genuine smile, wide and unburdened, spread across Clark’s face. “You always see right through me, don’t you?” he chuckled, setting the mug down. He moved closer, the warmth of his presence a stark contrast to Bruce’s carefully maintained distance.

“It’s just… I’ve been looking over some of the, ah, health screenings you reluctantly submitted to. And some of the results… well, they’re a little concerning.”

Bruce stiffened, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “What results, Clark? My iron levels? My sleep-wake cycles? My bone density, perhaps from the latest run-in with an oversized egotistical doctor?” He listed them off with a practiced flippancy, clearly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was heading.

Clark’s smile softened, losing its earlier mirth. “No, Bruce. Nothing quite so simple. It’s… well, it’s a little more personal than that.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Your hormone levels. Specifically, there’s a noticeable dip in certain… indicators related to your libido. A rather significant one, in fact. It suggests a profound lack of… enjoyment, perhaps? A general disinterest in physical intimacy, even the most basic forms. It’s not healthy, Bruce. Not for anyone, least of all for someone under your level of constant stress and psychological pressure.”

Bruce’s face, usually reserved and unreadable, flushed a deep crimson. The color crept up his neck, staining his cheeks and temples. He lowered his head, his gaze fixed on a spot on the polished floor, as if willing the conversation to disappear into the elegant rug.

“Clark, I… I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled, his voice tight with embarrassment. “My schedule is… demanding. My commitment to my recovery and training leaves little room for… frivolity. This is a non-issue.”

He bristled, a defensive wall quickly rising around him. “It’s a symptom of my devotion, nothing more. An efficient prioritization of resources.”

Clark didn’t respond with words. He simply watched Bruce, a mixture of concern and a quiet, almost mischievous determination in his gaze. After a long moment of silence, he walked past Bruce, his movement deliberate and unhurried. Bruce remained frozen, a statue of self-conscious discomfort. Clark reached the hallway, then paused, turning back. Without a word, he reached out, his warm, strong hand gently enveloping Bruce’s.

Bruce flinched, a surprised gasp escaping him, but Clark’s grip was firm, reassuring, yet utterly undeniable. With a gentle tug, Clark began to lead him. “Come on, Bruce,” Clark’s voice was soft, persuasive, leaving no room for argument. “Just… Come with me.”

Bruce offered no resistance, his mind reeling. He was being led, dragged, by Clark Kent, the most earnest man he knew, and he found himself surprisingly compliant. His logical mind screamed protests, but a deeper, more vulnerable part of him, starved for genuine care, found itself yielding. The hallway was hushed, the plush carpet muffling their footsteps. Bruce felt the subtle warmth radiating from Clark’s hand, a comforting anchor in the sudden shift of control.

Clark didn’t stop until they reached a door at the far end of the corridor. He pushed it open, revealing a room that was unmistakably his bedroom. It was a space that exuded warmth and comfort, a stark contrast to the utilitarian elegance of the rest of the facility. A massive, king-sized bed dominated the center, arrayed with soft, inviting linens in shades of blue and cream. Bookshelves lined one wall, overflowing with well-loved novels and scientific journals. The air held a faint, pleasant scent of cedar and fresh laundry.

Once they were inside, Clark gently released Bruce’s hand and moved to the door, quietly turning the lock. The click echoed in the sudden silence, a definitive punctuation mark. “Please, Bruce,” Clark said, his voice imbued with a gentle authority that Bruce rarely heard, “sit on the bed.”

Bruce hesitated for only a fraction of a second, his mind still trying to process the rapid turn of events. But the exhaustion, the lingering effects of the drug conversation, and a deep-seated trust in Clark, however unwillingly acknowledged, urged him forward. He walked to the edge of the bed and, with a sigh, sat down. The mattress yielded beneath him, softer than he expected, almost cradling.

Clark approached, his expression a mixture of tenderness and earnest resolve. He sat beside Bruce, close enough that their knees almost brushed. He took Bruce’s hands again, this time holding them gently, palms up.

“Bruce,” he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “I… I really do love you. More than words can say, actually. And it hurts me to see you… to see you neglecting such a fundamental part of yourself. You deserve joy, pleasure, intimacy. You deserve to connect with someone, not just as a study, but as Bruce Wayne. As the man I know beneath all the masks.” His thumb stroked Bruce’s palm soothingly. “I want to help you. Truly. I just want you to feel better, to live more fully.”

Bruce looked at Clark, his usual guardedness slowly beginning to melt under the unwavering sincerity in Clark’s eyes. A spark, almost imperceptible, flickered in his own, a familiar glint of mischief. He knew what Clark was doing, and if he was being honest, a part of him was intrigued. He had never been one to shy away from experimentation, especially if it promised an edge, even a personal one. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, transforming his features into something impossibly alluring. It was a devilish look, an invitation to a challenge.

“And you think you can help with this… libido issue, Kent?” Bruce purred, his voice regaining some of its usual gravelly charm, yet laced with a dangerous undertone. He leaned in slightly, his eyes half-lidded, a silent dare. He then tilted his head, his gaze piercing.

“Tell me, Clark,” he asked, his voice a low rhetorical challenge, wanting to egg Clark on, to push his boundaries just a little, “do you even know that Bruce Wayne loves you?”

Clark met his gaze unflinchingly, a soft, confident smile returning to his lips. There was no hesitation, no doubt. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice firm and steady, a silent promise. “Yes, Bruce. I do.”

With that, Clark released Bruce’s hands and stood, moving to a small, nondescript briefcase he had placed on a nearby table. Bruce watched, his curiosity now fully piqued, apprehension warring with a growing sense of anticipation. Clark unlatched the case, retrieving an item, his body briefly blocking Bruce’s view. For a moment, Bruce’s imagination ran wild, conjuring images of intricate medical devices, strange potions, or maybe even… something more esoteric.

Then Clark turned, and Bruce’s curiosity, for a fleeting moment, vanished, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. In Clark’s hands were two objects: a vibrantly aquamarine dildo, a smooth, elegant curve of silicone, and a small, glass tube filled with a shimmering, iridescent fluid.

Bruce’s breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping him. His eyes widened, fixing on the objects. He wasn’t entirely afraid, not with Clark here, not with that look of gentle conviction on his face. But an intense wave of heat washed over him, a potent cocktail of embarrassment and a strange, undeniable flicker of desire. He gulped, his throat suddenly dry.

“W-what’s… what’s in the glass bottle, Clark?” he managed to stammer, his voice a little hoarser than usual.

Clark’s grin reappeared, deeper this time, more knowing. He moved towards Bruce, his steps slow and deliberate, the dildo and tube held carefully in his free hand. He reached Bruce, then gently cupped Bruce’s chin, his thumb stroking the rough stubble on his jaw. His eyes, usually so open and honest, held a playful twinkle. He leaned in, his lips brushing Bruce’s in a soft, tender kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through Bruce’s body.

When Clark finally pulled away, his voice was a low murmur against Bruce’s lips. “It’s to make you feel better, Bruce. It’ll help with… your arm.” There was a subtle emphasis on ‘arm,’ a slight narrowing of his eyes that gave away the thinly veiled lie.

Bruce felt a ripple of unease, a flicker of his analytical mind trying to dissect the deception, but the kiss, the warmth of Clark’s hand, and the strange, intoxicating anticipation rendered him momentarily speechless. He knew, instinctively, that this wasn’t about his arm. He also knew he was going along with it anyway. He nodded, a silent agreement, and leaned back on the bed, bracing himself.

Clark, still smiling, retrieved a small, sealed needle from a hidden compartment within the nightstand cabinet. With practiced ease, he uncapped the needle and carefully drew some of the shimmering fluid from the glass tube. He then sat down on the bed again, positioning himself at eye level with Bruce, his gaze unwavering.

Bruce watched him, a healthy dose of suspicion returning to his eyes. He bit his lip, his gaze darting from the needle to Clark’s face, searching for any hint of malintent. There was none, only a reassuring calmness that was almost unnerving.

“Just relax, Bruce,” Clark murmured, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. He gently took Bruce’s arm, turning it slightly, exposing the pale skin of the inner elbow. Bruce barely flinched as Clark swabbed the area with an alcohol wipe.

Then came the sharp prick. Bruce bit his lip harder, a slight shudder running through him, but he held still. He felt the cool, liquid sensation as the substance was injected into his bloodstream. It was over in seconds.

“There,” Clark whispered, pressing a small cotton ball to the injection site. “All done.”

For a moment, Bruce felt nothing. “I… I don’t feel any different,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism, a subtle challenge.

Then it hit him.

It began as a subtle hum, a tremor deep within his core, like a dormant engine suddenly sputtering to life. The world, previously muted and grey, suddenly expanded, colors intensifying, sounds sharpening. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in his ears, accelerating with terrifying speed. Everything became a blur, a whirlwind of sensory input. The scent of cedar and linen in the room became overpoweringly real. The texture of the bedsheets beneath his fingers felt incredibly soft, almost sensual.

“You feel it, B?” Clark’s voice cut through the burgeoning symphony of his senses, close to his ear, as he ran a gentle hand along Bruce’s flushed face.

Bruce looked at Clark, his eyes wide and unfocused, his pupils dilated to enormous, inky pools. He swallowed thickly, his throat constricted. The room seemed to tilt, and Clark’s face, so close, seemed impossibly beautiful, impossibly vibrant.

“Clark?” Bruce breathed, his voice raw, almost a moan. “What’s— ungh! What’s going on?”

A wave of intense heat washed over him, originating deep within his loins, spreading like wildfire through every nerve ending. His body suddenly felt too confined, too restricted. He writhed, a soft groan escaping his lips, a primal sound he hadn’t known he was capable of.

Clark didn’t respond directly. He simply watched, his gaze fixed on Bruce, a strange, almost clinical fascination in his eyes, tinged with a deep, pervasive concern. Bruce was sweating, his body arching and twisting on the bedsheets, a desperate dance against an irresistible force. Clark knew Bruce Wayne would never beg, not truly. But he wanted to see how far this would push him. He needed to document the experience.

Reaching for the voice recorder he kept in his briefcase for various… field notes, Clark turned it on. The small red light blinked.

“Date: October 14th,” Clark’s voice, calm and measured, filled the small device, “Patient: W01. Has taken fluid within five minutes ago and is showing normal side effects. Increased heart rate, sensory overload, significant neural pathway acceleration, heightened emotional responses, and… primary physical arousal indicators.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over Bruce’s struggling form.

“Subject is experiencing the expected onset of the psychotropic compound, intended to bypass emotional and cognitive inhibitors leading to a heightened state of pleasure and receptivity.”

Bruce looked at Clark, his eyes now pleading, glistening with unshed tears, though from the drug or from genuine distress, he couldn’t tell. He whined, a low, guttural sound that tore from his throat, utterly unlike his usual controlled self. His mind, usually a fortress of logic and reason, was dissolving under the onslaught of sensation. What was happening? Why was Clark treating him like a prototype, an experiment? The thought was barely coherent, lost in the overwhelming tide.

But one thing, one undeniable truth, cut through the haze: he was hard. Unbelievably, painfully hard. Every inch of his skin felt alive, hypersensitive. The air brushing against him was a caress, the subtle friction of the sheets against his thighs sent shivers through him. Everything felt too close, too intense, too vital. The pressure in his groin was excruciating, demanding release. His body, no longer his own, obeyed a primitive command. With clumsy, fumbling fingers, he began to strip, desperate for the cool air against his feverish skin, desperate to alleviate the overwhelming sensation. His mind, utterly consumed by the drug, forgot, for those fleeting moments, that Clark was even there to witness his raw, uninhibited display.

Clark watched, a scientific detachment warring with a rising heat in his own body. Bruce, usually so guarded, so untouchable, was utterly vulnerable, a magnificent creature consumed by pure sensation. The sight was undeniably arousing, but Clark maintained his composure, for now. He knew what Bruce needed.

"Bruce," Clark's voice was a low hum, soft despite the hammering in his chest, "Do you want me to help you with that? With the… discomfort?"

Bruce, still writhing, his trousers now pooled around his ankles, looked up, his eyes unfocused, a desperate whimper escaping his lips. He vaguely understood the offer, his body screaming yes even if his mind couldn’t articulate it. He pushed his hips up intuitively, an unspoken plea.

Clark set the recorder down carefully on the nightstand, making sure it was still on. He then picked up the aquamarine dildo. It felt smooth, weighty in his hand. He took a moment, applying a generous amount of personal lubricant from a discreet tube he had also retrieved from the briefcase. The artificial light glinted off the slick surface.

"Good," Clark murmured, moving to kneel between Bruce's spread legs. "Just relax. Let me take care of you." His touch was gentle as he guided Bruce’s legs wider, settling himself for optimum access.

Bruce groaned, a low, animal sound of anticipation and raw need. He watched Clark, a drugged fascination in his eyes, as the dildo, slick and gleaming, approached him. His hips twitched, his body arching into the space Clark created.

Clark took his time, teasing the slick tip against Bruce’s straining opening. He felt Bruce’s muscles clench around the silicone, heard his sharp intake of breath. He pushed, slowly, deliberately, allowing Bruce’s body to adjust to the intrusion. Bruce cried out, a mixture of pain and profound pleasure.

"Clark… oh god… Clark…" Bruce gasped, his hands blindly gripping the sheets, knuckles white. The sensation was overwhelming, a burning inferno that spread through his core.

Clark continued, working the dildo deeper, his movements precise and controlled. He was intimately familiar with Bruce's anatomy from their years of shared proximity, patching up injuries. He knew where to find the prostate, that elusive spot that promised such intense release. He angled the dildo just so, pushing forward.

A guttural roar tore from Bruce’s throat, louder, more primal than anything Clark had ever heard from him. His back arched off the bed, his head thrashing against the pillow. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.

"Yes, B. That's it," Clark encouraged, his voice husky, his own arousal mounting as he watched Bruce's unabashed display of ecstasy. He knew he’d found the spot. He began to thrust with the dildo, rhythmically, steadily, hitting the tender spot with each stroke.

"Fuck… fuck, Clark! Oh, yes! Don’t stop… please!" Bruce begged, his voice hoarse, desperate. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, purely from sensation. His body spasmed, trembling uncontrollably.

Clark listened to Bruce’s pleas, his own heart pounding. He quickened his pace, the aquamarine dildo sliding smoothly in and out, the sounds of wet friction filling the room. Bruce was practically screaming, his hips bucking against the pressure. His climax was building rapidly, an unstoppable force.

"Almost there, B," Clark whispered, leaning down to kiss Bruce's forehead, his lips brushing against the damp skin.

With a final, shattering thrust, Bruce stiffened, his entire body convulsing in a violent orgasm. A torrent of semen burst from him, coating his belly and thighs. He cried out, a long, drawn-out wail of pure, unadulterated pleasure, his body shaking uncontrollably as the waves of sensation crashed over him. He lay there, trembling, gasping for air, utterly spent.

Clark, watching the raw, powerful release, felt a profound sense of… success. He carefully withdrew the dildo, setting it aside, then reached for the voice recorder. Bruce was still panting, his eyes half-closed, the drug-induced haze still clinging to him, but the immediate intensity had subsided.

Clark picked up the recorder, its red light still blinking. “Patient W01, post-orgasmic response noted. Euphoria appears to be highly pronounced. Initial objective achieved. Subject responsive to stimuli, displaying significant… adaptability.” Clark’s voice was clinical, almost academic, as he rapidly dictated his observations.

As Clark spoke, Bruce’s eyes, though still dilated, began to focus. The post-orgasmic haze, combined with the potent drug, was a peculiar cocktail. He became aware of the recorder in Clark’s hand, the small red light, the detached, almost cold tone of his voice. A flicker of something cold and sharp cut through the lingering euphoria – Bruce Wayne, the detective, the strategist, was reasserting himself, albeit in a highly altered state.

His hand shot out, surprisingly swift and strong, snatching the recorder directly from Clark’s grip. Clark gasped, startled, his eyes widening.

Bruce held the recorder up, his gaze now sharp, piercing. His pupils were still enormous, giving him an unsettling, predatory look. He pressed the record button.

“Ahem.” Bruce cleared his throat, a low, rumbling sound that somehow managed to convey both amusement and menace. His voice, though still slightly hoarse from his recent exertions, was chillingly calm, imbued with a newfound authority that sent a shiver down Clark’s spine.

“Date: October 14th. Patient Designation: W01… is introducing himself. My name is Bruce Wayne, and I believe Clark Kent has been a very, very sneaky bastard.”

Clark stared, utterly taken aback. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. “Bruce! Give that back!” he pleaded, reaching for it. “That’s… that’s for my notes! It’s important scientific data!”

Bruce, however, simply raised the recorder higher, his eyes gleaming. He pushed himself up, a sudden surge of strength in his drugged limbs, and shoved Clark away with a surprisingly forceful hand. Clark stumbled backward, caught off guard, losing his footing on the plush rug. He landed with a soft thump, his head hitting the edge of the nightstand with a dull thud. A wave of dizziness washed over him, blurring his vision, his glasses askew.

Bruce paid him no mind, watching Clark sprawl on the floor with a detached, almost analytical gaze. He then sat on the edge of the bed, the recorder held firmly in his hand, and pressed record again.

“Observation,” Bruce’s voice was crisp, clear, and terrifyingly precise, “Subject: Clark Kent, currently sprawled on the floor. Appears disoriented, possibly concussed. Exhibiting signs of surprise and mild distress. Glasses askew. Hair mussed. Rather… appealing, actually. Note: Subject exhibits an unexpected vulnerability to physical surprise. Further testing required.”

Clark, rubbing his head, scrambled to sit up, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and bewilderment. He had seen Bruce do unexpected things, but this… this was on another level. The drug had stripped away Bruce’s inhibitions, but it had also unleashed an intensely dominant, almost feral side.

“Bruce, please!” Clark begged, his voice strained. “Give me the recorder back! You don’t understand, this is… this is sensitive research! My reputation! My ethics review board!”

Bruce merely tutted, a low, dismissive sound that sent another shiver through Clark. He clicked off the recorder, then looked down at Clark, his immense pupils giving his gaze an unsettling intensity. “Get to your feet, Kent,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that left no room for disobedience.

Clark, surprisingly, obeyed instantly. He scrambled up, brushing imaginary dust from his pants, his posture stiff, almost submissive. His glasses were still askew, and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks under Bruce’s unwavering gaze.

Bruce approached him, moving with a languid grace that belied the drug’s effects. He paused directly in front of Clark, his gaze lingering on the crooked glasses. With a surprisingly tender gesture, he reached out and gently pushed Clark’s glasses back into place, his fingers brushing against Clark’s cheek. The touch sent a jolt through Clark, a confusing mix of care and control.

Then, with no warning, Bruce grabbed Clark by the tie, a firm, possessive grip. He tugged, pulling Clark forward, forcing him to stumble towards the bed. Clark went willingly, his mind too awash with confusion and a growing, undeniable thrill to resist.

Bruce pushed him onto the bed, then, with a feral glint in his eyes, he ripped Clark’s clothes. The buttons on Clark’s shirt flew, fabric tearing with a satisfying sound. Clark gasped, his eyes wide, as Bruce tore at his trousers, the denim giving way with surprising ease. Soon, Clark was naked, vulnerable, beneath Bruce’s intense stare.

Bruce then lay back on the bed, spreading his legs wide, an open invitation. His pupils were still enormous, reflecting the soft light from the bedside lamp, giving his eyes an almost alien quality. He looked up at Clark, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

“Now, Kent,” Bruce purred, his voice a low, husky command that sent a delicious shiver down Clark’s spine, “come fuck me.”

Clark stared, his breath catching in his throat. He had never seen Bruce like this. Never imagined it. His own erection, surprisingly hard and insistent, sprang to life, pressing against his belly. He climbed onto the bed, his hands trembling as he reached for Bruce. He found himself unable to resist, captivated by this dominant, unleashed version of the man he loved.

He reached down, his fingers circling his surprisingly hard shaft, stroking it once, twice, before aligning himself. Bruce looked up at him, eyes wide and expectant, a wordless demand. With a deep breath, Clark pushed, slowly, deliberately, into Bruce's waiting body.

Bruce gasped, a sharp, breathy sound that electrified Clark. Clark’s hips staggered, his muscles clenching as he eased himself fully inside. Bruce was tight, incredibly so, but also incredibly wet and ready. He let out a low moan, his fingers digging into Clark’s shoulders.

Clark began to move, slowly at first, his hips rocking gently. Bruce’s legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. The drug was still coursing through Bruce, making every sensation impossibly vivid. He pressed his hips back, meeting each of Clark’s thrusts with an eager demand.

Clark matched his rhythm, finding a steady, deep cadence. The bed creaked softly under their combined weight, the only sound apart from their ragged breathing and the soft, wet slap of skin on skin. Clark leaned down, pressing his forehead against Bruce’s, their eyes locked in an intense, wordless exchange.

“Who’s my good boy?” Bruce’s voice, a low, possessive murmur, cut through the sounds of their lovemaking, a challenge, a command.

Clark’s eyes flashed, his body surging with a renewed wave of arousal. He pulled back slightly, then slammed back into Bruce, deeper than before. He let out a primal scream, a raw, guttural sound of utter submission and fervent devotion.

“Mm– I am!” he shouted, his voice hoarse, thick with passion.

“I’m your good boy, Bruce! Always!” He pounded into Bruce, hips driving relentlessly.

“Kiss me,” Clark begged, his voice desperate, pulling back just enough to look at Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce, with a sly smirk, obliged. He met Clark’s lips in a fierce, open-mouthed kiss, devouring him, tasting the raw passion and devotion. Clark moaned into the kiss, his body vibrating with pleasure.

Then, Clark pulled all the way out, a sharp, sudden separation that made Bruce cry out in protest. But before Bruce could fully react, Clark slammed back in, slowly this time, roughly, pushing to his absolute limit. They both moaned loudly, a shared cry of intense, unbearable pleasure. Clark’s hips picked up speed, driving into Bruce, their bodies a blur of motion, a symphony of need and fulfillment.

The climax hit them simultaneously. They both cried out, a loud, ragged roar of release, their bodies convulsing together. Clark came in Bruce, a warm, thick flood, his body shaking uncontrollably. He collapsed onto Bruce, breathless, spent.

Bruce, still trembling, his lungs heaving, reached up and cupped Clark’s head, pulling him close. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Clark’s ear, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that was both a threat and a promise.

“Clark,” he breathed, the drug-induced haze beginning to recede, leaving behind a sharp, cold edge of resolve, “if you ever, ever try that drug shit on me again, I will personally kill you.”

Clark, exhausted and blissful, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of orgasm, could only manage a quiet, heartfelt murmur.

“I won’t, Bruce. Never again. I won’t ever be bad again.” His voice was muffled against Bruce’s neck, heavy with sleep and satiety. Within moments, his breathing deepened, evening out into the soft snores of slumber.

Bruce lay there, holding the sleeping scientist, his mind slowly, painfully, returning to its usual razor-sharp clarity. The effects of the drug were finally fading, leaving behind only the lingering warmth of Clark’s body, the scent of sex and sweat, and a memory of raw, unbridled pleasure. He sighed, a complex emotion, a mixture of anger, profound satisfaction, and a strange, undeniable fondness, swirling within him. He certainly felt better. And he had a good boy to keep in line.

He reached a hand out, his fingers brushing against the still-running voice recorder on the nightstand. He paused, then picked it up. A faint smile touched his lips, a truly devious one this time, as he envisioned the implications of this particular recording. Clark had opened a Pandora's Box, and Bruce Wayne had just discovered a new, exhilarating level of control.

Chapter Text

The steam, thick and fragrant with lavender and ylang-ylang, clung to the polished marble of the bathroom, creating a soft, ethereal haze that blurred the edges of the opulent space.

Bryce relished the warmth seeping into her bones, dissolving the residual tension of a day spent battling villains and boardroom sharks alike. Her muscles, accustomed to strain, now softened, yielding to the embrace of the water. She languidly stretched a long, elegant leg, nudging a bright yellow rubber duck that floated idly beside her. The duck, a whimsical gift from Claire, let out a soft, almost plaintive squeak at the contact, a sound that brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to Bryce’s lips. It was a stark contrast to the grim silence she usually inhabited, a small, vibrant splash of color in her otherwise perpetually shadowed world.

She slowly turned her head, her dark, almost fathomless eyes drifting towards the expansive window that overlooked the sprawling metropolis. Metropolis at night was a breathtaking spectacle, a glittering tapestry of electric light woven against the velvet blackness of the sky. From this vantage point, high above the bustling streets, Claire's apartment offered an unparalleled panorama, a private kingdom carved out of the urban wilderness. Bryce appreciated the solitude, the illusion of being untouchable, even as she knew the city’s pulse thrummed beneath her, a constant, demanding presence. The height of the apartment also provided a crucial veil of privacy, ensuring her rare moments of vulnerability, like a quiet bath, remained hidden from the prying eyes of the world. No one, not even the most persistent paparazzi, could breach this sanctuary.

A sudden, jarring sound, the distinct click and groan of the front door, pierced the tranquil silence. Bryce’s senses, always on high alert, registered it instantly. Claire was home. A tiny, shift in the air, a subtle change in the apartment’s ambient scent signature, confirmed it. The crisp, clean scent of concrete and coffee, remnants of Claire’s long day as a reporter fighting for truth and justice, began to mingle with the softer, sweeter tones of home. Bryce waited, patiently, a silent, predatory stillness settling over her. She knew the ritual. Claire, for all her incredible power and unwavering courage, was a creature of habit, especially when returning to her omega after a grueling day. There would be a moment of fumbling, a soft sigh of exhaustion, and then, the familiar, beloved call.

“Bryce! I’m home now!” Claire’s voice, a melodic blend of warmth and relief, finally echoed through the apartment. It was a sound Bryce always anticipated, a small anchor in her often chaotic existence.

A faint, private smile played on Bryce’s lips, deepening the subtle dimples that rarely made an appearance. She heard the soft thud of Claire’s work bag hitting the floor, the rustle of clothing being shed, and then the steady progression of footsteps, punctuated by the soft creak of awakening floorboards. Claire was moving through the apartment, patiently, determinedly, opening each door, a silent query hanging in the air, until she reached the bathroom. The door swung open with a gentle sigh of hinges, revealing Claire in the doorway.

Bryce’s dark eyes, shimmering with unshed affection, lifted to meet her lover’s gaze. Claire, even after a long, undoubtedly exhausting day, was a sight that never failed to stir something deep within Bryce’s omega core. Her usually impeccably styled fluffy brown locks were escaping their confines, falling in endearing disarray around her face, framing it with a soft, inviting halo. Her glasses, usually perched so precisely, looked a little wonky, adding to her charmingly disheveled appearance. But it was her smile, wide and genuine, that truly captivated Bryce. It was a smile that promised warmth, safety, and unwavering devotion, a smile that could chase away the shadows Bryce carried.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Claire zipped across the polished floor, oblivious to the water glistening on the tiles, and sank to her knees beside the tub. Her arrival brought with it a stronger wave of her alpha scent – a comforting blend of clean linen, fresh rain, and an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of sun-warmed earth. It was a scent that spoke of strength, protection, and an unyielding commitment to her omega.

“Missed me? I missed you! How was your day? I brought takeout,” Claire rattled off, her words tumbling over each other in an almost breathless rush, her eyes wide and earnest, searching Bryce’s face for any sign of recognition or affection. She reached out, her fingers hovering tentatively over the water’s surface, as if seeking permission to touch.

Bryce’s smile deepened, a slow, languid blossoming that transformed her features. She watched Claire ramble, her dark eyes, usually so guarded and assessing, now softened with an undeniable tenderness, a profound, almost achingly beautiful love. There was no need for words from Bryce; her gaze, weighted with centuries of unspoken affection, was more than enough. It was an ancient, primal acknowledgment, an omega’s silent claim on her alpha.

Claire felt a blush creep up her neck, staining her cheeks a vibrant beet red as their eyes finally locked in a prolonged, intimate stare. Despite her second gender, Claire often found herself flustered by the sheer intensity of Bryce’s gaze, especially when laced with such potent emotion. It was a testament to Bryce’s inherent dominance, a silent power that transcended even the rigid norms of omegaverse designations. Bryce held that gaze for another beat, letting the unspoken emotions hang heavy in the humid air, before her eyes drifted, deliberately, sensually, to Claire’s lips. They were full, soft, and a natural shade of rosy pink, perpetually inviting.

A low, primal hum resonated deep within Bryce’s chest. She slowly bit her own lip, a deliberate, tantalizing gesture, before leaning forward, closing the small distance between them. Her lips, cool and wet from the bath, met Claire’s in a soft kiss.

It began gently, a testing, a seeking, but quickly deepened into something more profound, more demanding. As their mouths melded, Bryce’s omega scent, rich and intoxicating with the alluring musk of warmed arousal and satisfied contentment, flooded the room. It was an unmistakable declaration, a silent challenge that swiftly, effortlessly, subsumed Claire’s own alpha scent. It was always like this, had always been like this. Bryce, the omega, was the undisputed dominant one, a force of nature that eclipsed Claire in every aspect of their shared life, both in the bedroom and out of it.

Claire, usually so composed, so powerful, whimpered softly into the kiss, a low, guttural sound of pure submission that thrilled Bryce to her core. Her hands, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, involuntarily tightened their grip, and she instinctively rose higher onto her knees, pressing herself closer, yearning for more. The kiss deepened further, tongues intertwining, an exquisite dance of possession and surrender. Claire’s breath hitched, her body already responding to the potent cocktail of Bryce’s scent, her dominant touch, and the overwhelming wave of primal desire.

With a sudden, almost desperate urgency, Claire tore her mouth away, her eyes glazed with a desperate hunger. Her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, then with the zipper of her trousers. Clothing was an unnecessary barrier, cumbersome and restrictive. She stripped them away with a speed born of intense longing, letting them fall in a heap on the polished floor. Her powerful body, toned and muscular, was quickly revealed, a testament to her superhuman strength and rigorous discipline. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she climbed into the tub, displacing a cascade of water over the rim, settling herself carefully behind Bryce, enclosing her omega in a warm, protective embrace.

Bryce leaned back into Claire’s embrace, her back pressed against Claire’s chest, the water swirling deliciously around them. Her hand, long and slender, reached back to cup Claire’s jaw, her thumb brushing over the soft skin beneath her ear. Her voice, a low, sultry growl, sent shivers down Claire’s spine.

“Dirty girl, do you know what I’ve been doing all day?” she purred, her teeth gently nipping at Claire’s lower lip in a possessive, teasing bite.

Claire, still breathless from the kiss and the sudden intimate proximity, could only shake her head, a soft, almost inaudible,“N-no,” escaping her lips. Her mind, usually so sharp and analytical, was a blissful fog, consumed by Bryce’s presence, her scent, her touch.

Bryce’s smile was predatory, a flash of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “I’ve been training all day today,” she confided, her voice a seductive whisper, “got really sweaty, baby. So I came here to wash off.”

The mere thought of Bryce, drenched in exertion, her sweet scent intensified by sweat, her body glistening and slick, was enough to send a wave of exquisite torment through Claire. She nearly imploded, her alpha core thrumming with a primal need to consume, to worship every inch of her powerful omega. Her thighs involuntarily squeezed together, a desperate attempt to contain the burgeoning heat and throbbing ache that was rapidly building between them. The sensation, raw and intense, was both agonizing and utterly thrilling.

Claire’s hands, guided by an instinctual hunger, began their worship. She started by kissing the smooth expanse of Bryce’s shoulder, her lips pressing against the delicate dip just beneath her collarbone. Her tongue traced a path, tasting the remnants of salt and omega musk, a heady, intoxicating flavor that drove her wild. She licked, she nipped, she suckled, drawing out soft moans from Bryce. Her hands, strong and sure, moved with an almost reverent touch, gliding over Bryce’s wet skin. They reached up, cupping Bryce’s full, heavy breasts, squeezing and rubbing them gently, rhythmically. Bryce’s nipples, already hard and erect from the heat and arousal, pressed against Claire’s palms, sending an electric shock through both of them.

Bryce arched her back, a soft, drawn-out moan escaping her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Mhm, good puppy,” she purred, the compliment a sweet caress, an affirmation of Claire’s devoted service. She let out a satisfied sigh, her body relaxing further into Claire’s touch, granting her unspoken permission to continue.

Claire, emboldened by Bryce’s pleasure, descended further, her lips trailing a path down Bryce’s chest, over her stomach, until her head was submerged beneath the warm, fragrant water. The sudden silence was broken only by the gentle lapping of water, as Claire, unhindered by the human need for air for extended periods, went straight to work.

Her Kryptonian genes, usually reserved for feats of heroism, were now being put to an entirely different, intensely personal, and deeply dirty use.

Her tongue found Bryce’s sweet little clit, already throbbing and swollen from arousal. Claire’s senses sharpened under the water, the taste, the scent, the feel of Bryce’s wet, hot flesh consuming her entirely. She began with slow, deliberate licks, teasing and circling, drawing out soft, muffled gasps that vibrated through the water. Bryce’s body, exquisitely sensitive, trembled under Claire’s skilled ministrations. Claire increased the pressure, her tongue becoming more insistent, drawing long, sweeping strokes, occasionally flicking with a sharp, pinpoint accuracy that sent shivers directly to Bryce’s core.

Bryce’s hands, previously gripping the edge of the tub, now tangled in Claire’s wet hair, pulling gently, demandingly. Her legs spread wider, inviting deeper access, her hips instinctively rising to meet Claire’s rhythmic assault. The water, a sensual medium, enhanced every sensation, every nuance of Claire’s mouth on her. Bryce’s scent, now thick and heady with impending release, bloomed in the water, a silent, potent signal to her Alpha.

Claire responded instantly, her pace quickening, her lips suckling, her tongue delving deeper, consuming Bryce with an almost desperate hunger. She heard the small, guttural cries that Bryce couldn't hold back, muffled by the water, but resonant in Claire’s very being. The world outside the tub ceased to exist, replaced by the symphony of water, skin, and raw, pleasure. Bryce groaned, a long, drawn out sound of pure ecstasy, as her body convulsed, a wave of intense, shattering pleasure washing over her. Her muscles clenched, her hips bucked, and a surge of hot, slick omega cum flooded Claire’s mouth, a sweet, potent reward for her devotion. Claire swallowed reverently, savoring every drop, her alpha soul utterly satisfied at having brought her omega to such a profound release. She continued to lick and suckle for a few more moments, ensuring every last ripple of pleasure had subsided, before slowly, reluctantly, rising from the water.

Claire emerged without a gasp, her head breaking the surface, water streaming from her hair, her face glistening with soap suds and the remnants of Bryce’s cum. Her eyes, usually so clear and blue, were now clouded with a triumphant, possessive haze, reflecting the primal satisfaction of her nature. She leaned in close to Bryce’s face again, her breath warm against Bryce’s skin. The air around them was thick and heavy, saturated with Bryce’s post-orgasmic scent, now mingled with Claire’s own alpha musk, a potent, almost tangible aura of shared pleasure and profound intimacy. Claire’s scent, in these moments, when she was high off of her omega, was truly magnificent, radiating fierce pride and unwavering devotion.

“I saw you today,” Bryce started, her voice a low, even purr, laced with an undercurrent that subtly shifted the mood, hinting at a darker, more possessive edge. “On the news. And I have a question.”

Claire, still basking in the glow of Bryce’s pleasure, looked at her omega in confusion, her brows furrowing. The change in Bryce’s tone was almost imperceptible, yet it sent a tiny shiver of apprehension down Claire’s spine. Her face contorted from bewilderment into surprise, and then a dawning fatigue, as Bryce’s hand shot out, quick as a viper, and caught her by the neck. Not a painful grip, not yet, but a firm, undeniable assertion of control, her long fingers elegantly encircling Claire’s throat, pressing lightly on her pulse point.

Bryce’s dark eyes, which had softened with affection moments before, now hardened, glinting with a cold, almost predatory light.

“You were interviewing Alexa Luthor again,” she stated, her voice devoid of its previous warmth, each word a carefully placed stone.

“Why? Do you like her or something? Am I not a good enough billionaire omega for you?” Her fingers tightened infinitesimally, a subtle warning, a silent threat.

“Is my cunt not enough for you, huh?” The word, crude and primal, hung in the air, weighted with possessive anger and raw, sexual challenge.

Claire’s eyes widened, her entire body rigid with shock and alarm. A soft cry, a sound of distress and fear, escaped her lips, and she shook her head frantically, desperately trying to articulate her denial, her unwavering loyalty. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drum against the elegant fingers at her throat. This was Bryce’s dominance, raw and unyielding, a stark reminder of their established dynamic, a dynamic she cherished even in its most terrifying manifestations.

Instinctively, reflexively, Claire’s hand reached down, fingers brushing against her own throbbing clit, a desperate attempt to both ground herself and to quell the rising tide of anxious arousal that Bryce’s possessive anger ignited within her. The friction, even through the water, was a sharp, exquisite sensation.

“Never, ma’am,” Claire gasped, her voice thick with genuine terror and unwavering devotion, her plea almost choked. “You’re the only one I want.”

As she spoke, her fingers pressed harder against her clit, a small, involuntary movement, a futile effort to find solace in the burgeoning pleasure amidst the fear.

Bryce tracked the movement, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly. Her lips curled into a disdainful sneer.

“Oh, really?” she purred, the sound dangerous. Her hand, the one not currently encircling Claire’s neck, shot out and slapped Claire’s hand away from her crotch with a sharp, stinging crack.

“Needy bitch,” she spat, the words a whip. “Maybe you need reminding on where you stand beside me, you stupid Alpha.”

With a sudden, decisive movement, Bryce grabbed the offending yellow rubber duck that had been innocently floating nearby. Without a moment’s hesitation, she shoved it firmly into Claire’s mouth. The plastic, unyielding and unwelcome, forced Claire’s jaws apart, stretching her lips, and pressing painfully against her teeth and gums. Claire choked, a muffled cry escaping around the makeshift gag, her words now completely unintelligible. The duck, so recently a symbol of playful affection, was now an instrument of Bryce’s merciless control, silencing her alpha, cementing the omega’s absolute command.

Bryce’s grip on Claire’s neck didn't loosen, but she shifted her weight, her movements fluid and powerful. With surprising ease, she began to lift Claire, who was still straddling her in the tub. Claire’s legs, strong and muscular, were slowly, inexorably pulled up and out of the water, until her back was pressed against the cold, smooth tile of the wall directly behind the tub. Her powerful body, usually so unyielding, was now pliant and utterly at Bryce’s mercy. Bryce’s thighs shifted, hooking under Claire’s, supporting her weight. Claire’s feet dangled, unable to reach the floor, reinforcing her helplessness. Her back arched awkwardly against the wall, her hips now perfectly aligned with the edge of the tub, positioned at an agonizingly tantalizing height.

“Look at you,” Bryce whispered, her voice a low, venomous caress, her dark eyes glittering with a dangerous amusement.

“So vulnerable, so exposed. Just how I like my toys.” Claire whimpered around the rubber duck, her eyes wide and pleading, glistening with tears of humiliation and raw arousal. Her instincts, deeply ingrained, were screaming in a desperate conflict of fear and profound desire. Her body, hyper-aware and exquisitely sensitive, was already beginning to squirm against the cold tile, a frantic, desperate effort to escape, yet simultaneously, to press deeper into the burgeoning phantom sensations.

Bryce’s hand finally released Claire’s neck, only to snake around and cup Claire’s ass, her fingers digging in, gripping the firm, wet flesh. With a powerful, deliberate movement, Bryce lifted Claire completely onto the wide ledge of the bathtub, perching her there precariously, her omega’s legs still wrapped around Claire’s waist, locking her in place. Claire’s back was now flat against the wall, her legs spread wide, her wet cunt now exposed, glistening, and aching for touch. The air, cool against her exposed skin, only intensified the throbbing below.

“Such a needy Alpha,” Bryce purred, her voice dripping with disdain and a chilling possessiveness. “Always running off, chasing pretty faces on the news. Don’t you know where your true loyalty lies?”

Her fingers kneaded Claire’s buttock, a soft torture. “Don’t you know this is your home? This,” Bryce articulated, her voice dropping to a seductive growl, “is where you belong.”

She leaned in, her lips hovering just inches from Claire’s ear, her omega scent, now thick with dominant arousal, enveloping Claire completely, rendering her almost senseless. “And this,” Bryce breathed, pulling back slightly, her gaze raking over Claire’s exposed, quivering body, “this needs reminding.”

Claire whimpered again, the sound muffled and desperate, her body twitching uncontrollably. Her entire being was a coiled spring of tension, oscillating between the exquisite torment of Bryce’s psychological dominance and the burgeoning physical demand for release. Her clit, swollen and engorged, pulsed relentlessly, a silent cry for relief.

Bryce’s fingers, still gripping Claire’s buttock, shifted, repositioning her alpha just so. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that was agonizingly tantalizing, Bryce slotted herself between Claire’s legs. Her own omega cunt, slick and hot from her earlier release, now fully re-engorged with fresh arousal, pressed firmly against Claire’s. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation that made Claire cry out, a raw, primal noise escaping around the gag.

Bryce moved, a slow, deliberate grind, her hips rotating, pressing their wet, throbbing flesh together. It was a sensual, intimate dance, the skin-on-skin friction intensifying with every subtle shift.

“You like this, don’t you, puppy?” Bryce whispered, her breath hot against Claire’s ear, her words a venomous caress.

“Feeling my body pressed against yours, knowing I’m the only one who can make you feel this way? Knowing I’m the only one who truly owns you?” She pressed harder, their clits aligning, rubbing, teasing, building an unbearable pressure. Claire’s hips, independent of her will, began to buck, a desperate, animalistic rhythm against Bryce’s.

“Such a good girl,” Bryce praised, her voice a low, satisfied hum, each compliment a delicious degradation. “Whining for me, aren’t you? Begging for your omega to take you apart.”

She leaned forward, using her body weight to increase the pressure, their friction becoming more intense, more rapid. The exquisite agony built, a searing heat that consumed Claire from the inside out. Her legs trembled violently, threatening to give out, her body straining against the wall, desperate for purchase, for relief, for more. Every touch, every rub, every breath Bryce took, was a conscious act of dominance, a reinforcement of her unwavering control.

“N-no… ma’am…” Claire managed to whimper, the words garbled, her body shaking uncontrollably. The rubber duck pressed uncomfortably against her tongue, yet even through the pain and humiliation, her core was screaming for more. She was utterly lost in the sensations, in the power dynamic, in Bryce’s absolute possession. The raw friction, the clits rubbing together in perfect, agonizing synchronicity, pushed her closer and closer to the edge. Her vision swam, blurred by the intense pleasure and the tears that now streamed freely down her temples.

Bryce watched her, her dark eyes alight with a triumphant, predatory gleam. She savored Claire’s desperate struggle, relished the sounds of her muffled whimpers, observed the tremors that wracked her powerful body. It was a potent affirmation of her own omega strength, her ability to bring an alpha, even one as formidable as Claire, to her knees.

“Almost there, aren’t we, little Alpha?” Bryce purred, her voice laced with cruel kindness. “So close to breaking. But do you want to break alone?” She paused, holding Claire agonizingly close to the precipice, their bodies pressed together, trembling on the verge of release.

“Tell me, Claire,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharper, more demanding, “do you want to cum?”

Claire’s eyes snapped open, wide and desperate, fixed on Bryce’s face. She couldn’t speak, the duck still muffling her pleas, but her entire body, every muscle, every nerve ending, screamed its assent. Her hips accelerated their bucking, a frantic, primal dance.

Bryce’s lips curved into a wicked, triumphant smile. With a sudden, swift movement, she reached up, grabbed the duck, and yanked it out of Claire’s mouth. The suction released with a soft pop, and Claire gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, before a loud, guttural, utterly undeniable

“YES!”

tore from her throat, a raw cry of surrender and overwhelming need.

The word was a signal, a catalyst. Bryce immediately leaned into the friction, adjusting their angle, pressing their clits together perfectly, exquisitely. She matched Claire’s frantic pace, their bodies moving as one, a seamless, ferocious rhythm. The sensation was immediate, overpowering, a blinding flash of white-hot pleasure. Claire's body seized, a violent, full-body spasm that racked her from head to toe, as she cried out Bryce’s name, her voice raw and hoarse, a desperate plea and a triumphant roar all at once. Her powerful alpha cum, thick and hot, poured from her, a testament to her complete surrender and profound release.

Bryce, too, cried out, her own orgasm washing over her in a powerful, wave-like cascade, her omega body convulsing against Claire’s. The final thrusts, the perfect alignment, the sheer intensity of their shared release, sent them both soaring, utterly consumed by the climax. Their bodies locked together, slick with water and sweat and cum, shuddering in the aftermath of their shared explosion.

Slowly, as the tremors subsided and their breathing began to normalize, Bryce moved, pulling back slightly, allowing their bodies to separate. Claire slumped against the wall, breathless and utterly spent, her eyes glazed, her body still quivering. Bryce, her own body still tingling with the powerful aftershocks, simply stared at her, a satisfied, albeit still dominant, expression on her face.

Then, with a gentle but firm slap, Bryce's palm met Claire's wet ass cheek. The sound echoed softly in the steamy bathroom. "See?" Bryce purred, her voice soft, almost affectionate again, but still imbued with an undeniable authority. "I told you we should do this more often."

Claire, still struggling to catch her breath, nodded, a dazed, utterly blissful smile spreading across her face. "Mmmph... anything... you say, ma'am," she managed to whisper, her alpha completely, utterly enthralled and subjugated.

Bryce smiled, a genuine, soft smile this time, seeing the absolute devotion in Claire’s eyes. With a final, gentle squeeze of Claire’s ass, Bryce released her, allowing her alpha to slide down the wall and back into the still-warm water of the tub. The moment of intense dominance had passed, replaced by the familiar intimacy of their shared existence. They lay there for a few more moments, floating in the pleasant afterglow, before Bryce shifted, pulling Claire gently towards her. “Come on,” she murmured, her voice laced with a soft tenderness, “let’s actually get clean now.”

They separated, the residual tension and adrenaline slowly dissipating, and Bryce led Claire out of the tub and into the expansive, luxurious shower, where the cascading jets of warm water washed away the remnants of their fervent, primal encounter, leaving them clean, sated, and profoundly connected, ready to face whatever the next moment, or the next day, might bring.

Chapter Text

Clark stared at the news, utterly dumbfounded, a cold tendril of dread coiling in his stomach. He wasn’t just praying; he was begging Rao, the very deity of his birth world, that his ears were actually deceiving him, that the crisp, authoritative voice of the Gotham reporter was nothing more than a localized hallucination brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep. But the images flashing across the flat-screen TV in the corner of the Daily Planet bullpen were starkly, horrifyingly real. A shattered chandelier, a vibrant, unnatural green haze still clinging to the opulent ballroom, and paramedics, dozens of them, moving with grim efficiency. Rao help him.

"Last night," the reporter’s voice cut through the background hum of the newsroom, each word a hammer blow to Clark’s fragile composure, "an elite Gotham gala, held at the prestigious Monarch Ballroom, was attacked by the notorious villainess, Poison Ivy. The ecological extremist, known for her deadly flora and potent pheromones, reeked havoc upon the unsuspecting guests, transforming the lavish event into a scene of botanical terror."

Clark felt his blood run cold. Poison Ivy. At a Gotham gala. Bruce. Bruce would have been there. He always was, the dutiful socialite, the charming, if slightly aloof, host.

"The villainess, in a display of what witnesses described as almost playful malice, brought along an arsenal of special gasses and, disturbingly, human-eating plants, which created a truly nightmarish scene. The Gotham City Police Department is still assessing the full extent of the damage and injuries, but initial reports indicate several guests required immediate medical attention for exposure to potent neurotoxins and severe botanical lacerations."

Clark’s vision blurred at the edges. Human-eating plants? Neurotoxins? This wasn't just a garden variety villainous attack. This was Ivy at her most unhinged. His mind raced, calculating how quickly he could shed his mild-mannered reporter persona and fly to Gotham. But then, the reporter's voice dropped, tinged with a salacious hint that made Clark’s gut clench.

"However, the most sensational development of the night involves one of Gotham's most prominent figures. The villainess was unequivocally seen leaving the scene, not alone, but with Gotham's Prized Prince, Bruce Wayne."

A collective gasp rippled through the newsroom. Lois, who had been engrossed in her own article, looked up, her brow furrowed in concern. Jimmy dropped his camera lens cap. Clark felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Bruce. With Ivy. His Bruce.

The screen cut to grainy surveillance footage, clearly from a security camera positioned outside the Monarch Ballroom. The chaos was evident – police cruisers, flashing lights, fleeing guests. And then, there he was. Bruce. Dressed in a tuxedo, miraculously mostly intact, but moving with an unsettling, dreamlike grace. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't resisting. He was… floating. And then, he turned his head, a languid, almost languorous smile gracing his lips. He blew a kiss. Not to the camera, not to a person, but seemingly at the lens itself, a gesture dripping with a strange, uncharacteristic theatricality that sent shivers down Clark’s spine. Then, with a casual shrug, he willingly entered a sleek black vehicle, undeniably Ivy’s, and it sped away into the Gotham night.

Clark stared in shock, the news report confirming his worst fears and then some. The "willingly entering the car" part was the worst. Bruce never "willingly entered" anything that wasn't under his control, especially not a villain's getaway vehicle. He was a master of self-possession, of control. This was a violation of his very essence, a complete subversion.

"The billionaire," the reporter continued, a note of speculative gossip creeping into her tone, "seemed to have been under the influence of the gasses, as evidenced by his unusual demeanor and that… rather public display of affection towards the surveillance cameras."

The implication hung heavy in the air: Bruce Wayne, compromised, controlled, and now, gone.

Clark rubbed his eyes, the gesture heavy with stress. His usually bottomless cup of coffee, now half-empty, no longer held any appeal. It tasted like ash in his mouth. He needed to move. He needed to find Bruce. He reached for his phone, tucked deep in his pocket, his fingers fumbling in his haste. Before he could even retrieve it, a notification chimed, loud in the sudden silence of his dread.

It was Bruce.

A new wave of cold dread washed over Clark, quickly followed by a strange, desperate hope. Bruce was okay, then? He had his phone? He was communicating?

Clark let out an audible sigh that was more air escaping his chest than actual relief. He tapped the notification, his thumb trembling slightly. His heart sank, plummeting like a lead weight, when he saw what the video entailed. It wasn't a text, nor a voice message. It was a video call. A live video feed. Thank Rao, his headphones, which he’d absentmindedly left connected after an early morning interview, were still in his ears. Because Bruce was naked.

Not just naked, but… artfully posed. Reclining on what looked like a plush chaise lounge, body gloriously exposed, every sculpted plane and curve highlighted by soft, indirect lighting. Clark’s mind, despite the panic, registered the sheer, breathtaking beauty of his boyfriend, a man who usually guarded his vulnerability with an iron fist. Now, he was utterly open, utterly uninhibited.

Clark quickly, almost violently, made his way to the nearest restroom, ignoring the curious glances from Lois and Jimmy. He practically flung himself inside, locking the door with a loud click that echoed in the small, tiled space. He gulped, the sound loud in his own ears, before pressing play on the video.

Bruce’s face filled the screen, framed by tousled dark hair, his eyes a little too wide, a little too bright, glittering with an unholy mischief. His lips, usually pressed into a stoic line, were now parted, a soft, inviting curve. He had a faint flush on his cheeks and collarbones, and his chest rose and fell in slow, dramatic breaths.

"Clark, darling," Bruce purred, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent shivers down Clark's spine, "you eventually picked up. Good boy."

He ran a hand slowly over his stomach, fingers trailing down past his navel, making Clark’s breath hitch. "You know, I’ve been thinking… a lot." His gaze was intensely focused, yet unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the lens, beyond Clark. "About you. About… us."

Clark felt a blush creep up his neck. This was new. Bruce was usually reserved, even in their most personal moments, his passion an undercurrent rather than an overt display. This was… blatant.

"Specifically," Bruce continued, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face, "I’ve been thinking about Superman." He leaned closer to the camera, his eyes sparkling.

"Oh, Clark. The things I wish we could do. The things I wish I could do with Superman."

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "Have you ever seen him up close, Clark? Truly up close? He must be… magnificent. All that power. All that strength. Just imagine… lying beneath him. Feeling that incredible power pressing down… completely enveloped by him."

Clark felt his jaw clenching. He knew this was the pollen talking, the potent pheromones twisting Bruce’s deepest desires, making them manifest in uncharacteristic ways. And apparently, Bruce’s "deepest desires" included… him. As Superman.

"He’s so strong, Clark. So virtuous. So… tight in that suit." Bruce chuckled, a low, throaty sound that was both alluring and deeply unsettling.

"And the cape… oh, the things one could do with that cape. Tying him up. Or being tied up by him. The sheer domination." He licked his lips slowly, eyes half-lidded.

"I want him, Clark. I want him so badly. And you… you get to talk to him all the time. You get to interact with him. But you never let me talk to Superman. Never let me get close. It's so unfair."

Bruce’s eyes narrowed playfully. "You hog him, Clark. You really do. Such a selfish little prick, keeping all that beautiful, powerful man to yourself." He pouted, a truly absurd expression on Bruce’s face.

"I bet you tease him. I bet you get him to tell you all his secrets. And then you come back to me, all innocent, and tell me nothing. You tease me with his existence."

His voice grew a little more petulant. "I hate that you talk with Superman but never let Bruce talk to Superman. It's cruel, Clark. Absolutely cruel. You’re such a self-prick, hogging the Man of Steel to himself." Bruce sighed dramatically, running both hands through his hair, then letting them fall to his sides, revealing even more of his glorious, aroused body.

"I just want him, Clark. I want Superman. And you’re in the way."

The video ended there, abruptly cutting off.

Clark stared at his phone, the screen now dark, and slowly, deliberately, rubbed his face with both hands, pushing against his eyes until he saw spots. This was too much. The gala, the plants, the public humiliation, and now this… this incredibly raw, uninhibited confession of desire, tinged with a playful resentment, all for his alter ego. He knew that Bruce was always careful, meticulously so, guarding his intellect and his emotions with an almost pathological intensity. But it seemed that he had really gotten caught up in Ivy’s trap this time. The pheromones, the gasses, they’d stripped away every layer of control Bruce had built up over decades.

He needed to get to Bruce. Now.

He gave a hasty, mumbled excuse to Perry about an urgent family matter, claiming an early leave. Perry, surprisingly, simply grunted his assent, probably sensing the barely contained panic radiating off Clark. He left the Planet building, moving with a speed that blurred the edges of the bustling Metropolis streets, and ducked into a secluded alleyway between two looming skyscrapers. A quick glance confirmed no one was watching. In a flash of blue and red, the mild-mannered reporter was gone, replaced by the iconic figure of Superman, the crest of El shining proudly on his chest. He coiled his powerful legs and soared upwards, a crimson blur against the steel grey sky, arching towards Gotham.

The journey wasn't long at all. The cities were close, a mere breath away for someone of his abilities. As he breached the airspace of Gotham, the city’s familiar gothic sprawl spread out beneath him, a stark contrast to Metropolis's gleaming modernity. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his super-hearing stretch out, sifting through the cacophony of the city – sirens, traffic, distant gunshots, the murmur of a million lives – until he pinpointed Bruce’s unique heartbeat. It was rapid, erratic, thrumming with an energy that spoke of agitation and perhaps, something else entirely. It was coming from a penthouse, high above the city, a location he knew well. Clearly, Alfred, ever the pragmatist, had let Bruce calm himself elsewhere, away from prying eyes at Wayne Manor.

It was one of their penthouses, a discreet bolt-hole they frequented for their stolen moments of privacy, their illicit rendezvous. The tallest of the set, a glass and steel marvel that offered unparalleled views of the city. A faint warmth, a phantom touch, Ghosted through Clark as he remembered their first time there. He could recall the taste of Bruce’s skin, the sharp tang of his arousal, the way Bruce’s hands, usually so strong and purposeful, had trembled as Clark had held him, plastered against the cool expanse of the glass window.

Below them, Gotham had glittered, a sprawling tapestry of lights, oblivious to the intimate drama unfolding high above. The sunrise that morning had been a spectacle, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. The light, Clark remembered vividly, had cascaded over Bruce’s body, illuminating every taut muscle, every curve. Bruce, at that moment, had looked like a god, like he belonged with the very rays of the morning sun, his skin glowing, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The profound beauty of it all had only energized Clark more, fueling his already potent desire as he pounded Bruce into oblivion, their bodies entwined in a desperate, primal rhythm.

The best part, the detail that always replayed in Clark’s mind, was when Bruce had finally reached his arms around Clark’s neck, fingers digging into the strong muscles, and let out a sound that was a half-whine, half-groan. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated release, a surrender so absolute it had stripped Clark of his own composure. Bruce had cum, an explosive wave that left both their stomachs slick, his powerful thighs shaking uncontrollably, and a single, unshed tear finally falling from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his temple. It was a raw, vulnerable moment that had cemented their bond, a silent promise exchanged between two men who hid so much from the world.

His mind snapped back on track when he found an open window near the penthouse kitchen. He landed softly, a near-silent whisper of displaced air, his boots barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor. He looked around, his super-senses scanning for Bruce. The rapid thrum of Bruce's heartbeat was louder now, closer, almost frantic. He quickly turned around when he noticed the sound of Bruce being right behind him, a small gasp escaping the other man’s lips.

Bruce flinched, his hand flying out, knocking a glass from the counter. It shattered on the floor, the sound sharp and jarring. His breath hitched as he saw the towering figure before him, the iconic blue and red of Superman.

Clearly, Bruce was still so pumped off of the pollen he didn't quite know who he was, or at least, wasn't connecting the dots between the Man of Steel and the man he'd just been talking to on video. Clark, despite the seriousness of the situation, couldn't help but be surprised, and a small, amused chuckle escaped him at the thought of his always-composed lover not recognizing him.

"Bruce," Clark said, his voice softer than usual, a gentle balm against the chaotic energy pulsing in the room. "How are 'ya?"

Bruce’s eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to fear, then pure, unadulterated astonishment. His face became beet red, a flush spreading from his neck up to his hairline. He looked around the room frantically, as if he wasn't Bruce at all, as if some other personality had suddenly taken over and was now trying to reconcile the presence of Superman in his private penthouse. His usual sharp wit was dulled, replaced by an earnest, almost childlike confusion.

"You talking to me?" Bruce stammered, his voice higher than usual, a tremor running through it. He pointed a finger at his own chest, then gestured wildly around the empty room. "Better question, you know my name?"

Clark shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips, a mixture of disbelief and profound fondness for this uncharacteristically vulnerable version of Bruce. He took a slow, deliberate step toward him. Bruce, still disoriented, tried to shy away, a small, undignified shuffle that Clark quickly cut off. He reached out, his hand gently but firmly finding Bruce's waist, pulling him closer. Bruce’s waist, even in his disarray, was unbelievable, impossibly small for a man of his stature, completely covered in corded muscle yet so delicate, so yielding, beneath Clark's larger hand.

"Relax, Bruce," Clark murmured, his thumb gently stroking the curve of Bruce's hip bone. "I want to show you something."

Bruce looked at Superman, eyes like saucers, still wide with a mixture of awe and confusion, his face a vibrant crimson. Clark could hear the rapid, almost frantic beating of his heart, a frantic drum against the silence of the room. He turned his focus back to the task at hand, the delicate reveal he knew had to happen, especially now, with Bruce so thoroughly compromised by Ivy's influence.

He reached for the glasses he kept on his person, tucked carefully into a hidden pocket of his supersuit. With a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped them onto the bridge of his nose, pushing them up with a finger. Then, he ruffled his usually neatly gelled hair, letting it fall in a slightly disheveled, more natural way around his forehead. He looked straight at Bruce, his blue eyes, usually so piercing as Superman, softening into the familiar warmth of Clark Kent.

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation. Bruce's eyes, previously filled with a generalized awe for Superman, slowly, painstakingly, narrowed. The crimson flush on his face faded, replaced by an even paler shade of shock. His gaze flickered from Clark’s eyes, down to the glasses, then back up, lingering on the subtle curve of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, the almost imperceptible softening of his posture.

"No way…" Bruce whispered, the words barely audible, a profound revelation dawning in his eyes. His shock was absolute, completely overriding the lingering effects of the pollen for a brief, glorious moment. The pieces were clicking into place, the impossible becoming undeniably true.

There was no way his sweet, needy boyfriend, the man who brought him coffee and argued about obscure legal precedents, was this powerful, world-saving man. This even nerdier, yet impossibly strong, Man of Steel. Bruce’s mind, despite the residual fuzziness from the pollen, began to work at lightning speed, cross-referencing, analyzing. If Bruce really thought about it, really thought about it, they did have the same strong chin. And, well, the same ridiculously perfect ass. The corners of Bruce’s lips twitched, a slow, predatory smile replacing the shock. His surprise quickly changed, melting into a face of smug, almost triumphant realization. The pollen hadn't vanished, but it had shifted, taking hold of this new, intoxicating revelation and running with it.

"Sooo," Bruce drawled, the words dripping with a new kind of mischief, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amusement. "My boyfriend and crush are the same… guy?"

He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice low and husky, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "All this time… you conniving bastard. Playing both sides."

Clark snorted, a genuine laugh bubbling up from his chest, confirming the truth without needing to say a word. Bruce looked even smugger, a triumphant glint in his eyes that made Clark’s heart do a strange flip-flop. The revelation, instead of causing distress, seemed to have amplified Bruce’s uninhibited state, making him even bolder, even more playful.

Without a second thought, Bruce reached his arms around Clark’s neck, his fingers tangling in the shorter hair at the nape. He pulled Clark in close, their bodies pressing together, the warm reality of Bruce’s naked skin against the cool texture of Clark’s supersuit. His breath, smelling faintly of whatever exotic fruit cocktail was served at Gotham galas, fanned across Clark’s lips.

"Ever thought about doing it in uniform?" Bruce whispered, his voice a low, gravelly invitation that sent a shiver straight down Clark’s spine. The directness, the audacity, coming from Bruce of all people, was disarming.

Now it was Clark’s turn to blush, a deep crimson spreading across his cheeks, a stark contrast to his blue eyes. His carefully formulated rambling about the nature of his dual identity, the reasons for his secrecy, the dangers involved—all of it was cut off abruptly when Bruce, with an impatient growl, planted a hungry, bruising kiss directly onto his lips.

The pressure of Bruce’s mouth on his, the demanding thrust of his tongue, was amazing, intoxicating. Bruce had been dying to get his hands—and lips—all over his man, his Superman. And now? Now he had him. All to himself. The kiss was a revelation, hot and urgent, a symphony of need that had been simmering beneath Bruce’s composed exterior for far too long. He tasted like wine and something wild, something utterly untamed, the lingering essence of Ivy’s potent pollen. Clark couldn't resist. His hands instinctively found purchase on Bruce's waist, holding him impossibly close, deepening the kiss until both men were breathless.

Clark’s mouth devoured Bruce’s, a desperate, passionate act of possession. He angled his head, groaning low in his chest as Bruce’s tongue, insistent and skilled, met his own, dancing a sensual rhythm that promised so much more. Bruce’s hands, still tangled in Clark’s hair, pulled him closer, pressing their bodies flush against each other, the hard planes of Clark’s supersuit feeling impossibly good against Bruce’s bare skin.

With a surge of strength, Clark lifted Bruce effortlessly, sweeping him off his feet and onto the sleek, polished granite kitchen counter. Bruce gasped, his legs automatically wrapping around Clark’s waist, pulling him even tighter. The cold of the counter against his bare skin was a delightful shock, a sensory overload that only heightened the exquisite pleasure of Clark’s mouth. Their kisses became more savage, more demanding. Hands that could level buildings now roamed Bruce’s body, tracing the powerful lines of his back, the taut curve of his ass, the slender expanse of his waist.

Bruce arched into the touch, his head thrown back, granting Clark unfettered access to his neck. Clark took full advantage, his lips trailing hot, wet kisses down Bruce’s throat, tasting the racing pulse beneath his skin. He sucked deeply on a particularly sensitive spot, the skin already reddening under his ministrations, leaving behind a dark, blossoming hickey, a blatant mark of ownership. Bruce groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that vibrated through Clark’s chest. Another hickey, then another, blooming like dark flowers across Bruce’s collarbone, a testament to the raw, untamed desire that simmered between them. The suit, usually a barrier, now felt like an extension of Clark’s power, the smooth fabric rubbing against Bruce’s sensitive skin, creating a delicious friction.

Bruce’s mind was swimming, a potent cocktail of pollen-induced euphoria and pure, physical sensation. He knew, intellectually, that Clark still being in uniform was a risk, that leaving marks on his neck was a blatant, almost dangerous act of carelessness when they lived lives of such careful deception. But God!

In this moment, nothing mattered except the feeling of Clark’s body pressed against his, the taste of his mouth, the intoxicating scent of him, and the incredible audacity of finally having his Superman, completely and utterly, to himself. His hands, no longer content with just grappling Clark's hair, slid down, tracing the powerful, unyielding muscles of Clark's shoulders, then further, digging into the fabric of the suit, kneading the taut flesh beneath. He wanted to tear it off, to feel Clark's bare skin against his, but the thought of the suit, the uniform, was its own unique fantasy, its own delicious kink.

With another soft grunt, Clark lifted Bruce again, carrying him from the kitchen counter and into the opulent living room, settling him onto the plush, deep-seated couch. He didn't break the kiss, their mouths still locked in a desperate embrace, their bodies moving as one. Clark was still ravaging Bruce, taking everything he was worth, every gasp, every moan, every shuddering breath. But then, as abruptly as it had come, the pleasure became too much again. Bruce felt another wave of the pollen wash over him, a disorienting rush that made everything too close, too intense. He struggled for air, a sudden suffocating feeling tightening his chest. The sensations, once so exhilarating, now threatened to overwhelm him.

"Mph-- Clark, wait, wait a minute," Bruce gasped, his voice strained, pushing at Clark’s chest with surprisingly little force, finally managing to peel his mouth away from the intoxicating kiss. He lay back against the cushions, chest heaving, trying to regulate his breathing, his eyes still wide and a little unfocused.

"Is this… Is this affecting you too?"

Clark paused, his own breathing ragged, his pupils blown wide with desire. He pondered Bruce’s question, his mind, usually a fortress of clarity, feeling a touch hazy around the edges. He had been so focused on Bruce, on finding him, on the immediate, overwhelming need to connect, that he hadn't fully considered his own state. But now, as Bruce spoke, the realization clicked into place, a sudden, jarring clarity emerging from the cloud of desire. The pollen. Some of it must have clung to Bruce’s skin, transferred to his clothes, his hair. He hadn’t been exposed directly, but in close proximity, enveloped in Bruce’s aura, in their extended, impassioned make-out session, he must have inhaled some of it. A trace, a lingering whisper of Ivy’s potent gasses, enough to lower his inhibitions, to heighten his senses, to make him respond to Bruce with an uncharacteristic, almost reckless abandon.

Bruce called for him again, his voice softer this time, a plea rather than a demand. "Clark?"

Clark looked at him, his pupils still blown, his chest still heaving, a faint flush colouring his own cheeks beneath his tanned skin. The heat in his stomach, the insistent throbbing between his legs, the heightened sensory input – it all pointed to one undeniable conclusion. He was affected. Not as thoroughly as Bruce, perhaps, but enough. Enough to be gloriously, helplessly aroused. Enough to shed some of his own carefully cultivated control.

Bruce knew from Clark’s unspoken confirmation, from the raw desire blazing in his eyes, from the slight trembling of his hands. And he didn't question it. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, one that was both triumphant and deeply, utterly seductive.

"Good," Bruce purred, his voice regaining some of its earlier husky mischief. "Makes things interesting, doesn't it?"

He reached up, his fingers entwining behind Clark's neck, pulling him down for another kiss. This one was less frantic, more languid, a promise of deeper delights. As their lips melded, Bruce’s hands slid down to the fabric of Clark’s suit, tugging lightly. With a soft groan against Clark’s mouth, he began to slowly, deliberately, strip.

Clark wanted to intervene, to express some semblance of restraint, to remind Bruce of their surroundings, of the lingering dangers, of the potential embarrassment later. But the pollen, however faint its hold, silenced his rational mind. Instead, a new, more primal urge took over. As Bruce started to pull down the straps of his shirt, freeing his shoulders from the clinging fabric, Clark stopped him. His hands, firm but gentle, grasped Bruce’s wrists.

"No," Clark murmured, his voice a low rumble against Bruce’s lips, "don’t strip yet." His eyes, dark with desire, raked over Bruce’s body, lingering on the sculpted muscles, the enticing line of his stomach. "Give me a show first."

Bruce’s eyes widened, a thrill of pure, unadulterated excitement sparking deep within them. He smiled, a truly breathtaking, scandalous grin, and then, slowly, provocatively, he began to peel away his clothes. He started with the shirt, letting it fall to the floor in a silken puddle, then unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers lingering on the fly. Each movement was deliberate, a sensual dance designed solely for Clark’s eyes. He looked back at Clark as he pushed the trousers down his hips, revealing the dark silk boxers clinging provocatively to his package. He hesitated for a moment, letting the anticipation build, before slowly, tantalizingly, pulling his underwear down, exposing everything to Clark’s hungry gaze.

Against the stark white of his boxers, Bruce's prominent dick sprang free, fully erect and glistening, a clear testament to his own rampant arousal. He rolled his hips, a subtle, enticing sway that made Clark groan, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest.

Clark couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed Bruce by his wrists, pulling him off the couch and onto his lap, their chests slamming together, the cool fabric of the supersuit meeting the heated skin of Bruce’s naked body. Bruce gasped, his breath hitching, as the hard ridge of Clark’s own cock, already straining against the confines of his suit, grounded firmly against his own. Bruce whined, a raw, needy sound, and threw his head back, his eyes closing, a wave of pure sensation washing over him.

Clark’s mouth found Bruce’s neck again, sucking a new hickey into existence, while his free hand, almost without conscious thought, found its way to Bruce’s ass. He cupped one firm cheek, then, with a well-aimed pressure, slipped a finger into the valley between them, finding Bruce’s tight, eager hole. Bruce gasped, his back arching, his body tensing with a tremor of exquisite sensitivity. Clark’s finger moved slowly, deliberately, pushing past the initial clench, then easing deeper, finding the knot of desire inside. He fingered, then scissored, working his digit in and out, stretching Bruce open, preparing him. Bruce was hypersensitive, practically vibrating with every touch, every thrust of Clark’s finger. He kept rolling his hips, pressing back into Clark’s hand, unconsciously trying to get himself closer, to push deeper.

The sounds in the room were a symphony of pure, unadulterated lust – the soft slurping of Clark’s mouth on Bruce’s skin, Bruce’s choked gasps and needy whimpers, the wet sounds of Clark’s finger working inside him. Bruce’s body was a canvas of pleasure, every nerve ending alive and firing.

When Clark deemed him ready, when Bruce was practically begging with his body language, writhing in Clark’s lap, he pulled his fingers away with a wet shuck, leaving Bruce panting and desperate. Bruce cried out, a small, bereft sound, as the internal pressure vanished. But before he could protest, Clark shifted, a surge of adrenaline and pollen-fueled desire driving him. He gently, almost reverently, pushed Bruce off his lap and onto the sofa, so Bruce landed on his back against the cushions.

Bruce looked up at Clark, his eyes still wide and glazed with lust, a faint fidgeting motion running through his body, a desperate need for more. Clark, his own breath ragged, his erection pulsing against the fabric of his suit, spread Bruce’s legs, positioning him perfectly. He leaned down, his eyes locked with Bruce’s, and gathered a bead of spit on his tongue before letting it drop onto Bruce’s waiting hole. Bruce moaned, a visceral, guttural sound, when the warm, slick drop landed just right, sliding down, lubricating the sensitive skin. Clark then leaned down, his rough tongue laving the opening, rubbing his hole, teasing him, getting him ready, before pulling back, his eyes burning into Bruce’s.

Clark then spurred on his fingers, using his own saliva, and rubbed his own cock, getting it slick and ready, the rhythmic strokes building the tension to an almost unbearable pitch. Then, with a low groan that was half a plea, half a command, he leaned forward, pressing the head of his powerful cock against Bruce’s entrance.

Bruce tensed, then relaxed, a primal anticipation thrumming through him. He looked up at Clark, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, a silent invitation.

Clark pushed. Slowly, inexorably, he began to push into Bruce’s tight, warm depths. Bruce cried out, a sharp, joyous gasp, as the unyielding head of Clark’s cock breached his opening, stretching him, filling him. Clark leaned down, kissing Bruce deeply, trying to muffle the sounds, but Bruce was past caring. He arched up, meeting Clark’s thrust, desperate to take him wholly. Clark pressed on, inch by agonizing inch, until his powerful cock was completely buried within Bruce, a perfect, exquisite fit that made them both groan with satisfaction.

They began to fuck, a primal, raw rhythm taking over. Clark laid on Bruce, covering him completely, his powerful frame pressing Bruce into the plush cushions of the couch. Bruce wrapped his legs around Clark’s waist, locking them tightly, pulling him even deeper, impaling himself on Clark’s insistent length. Clark's hands clamped onto Bruce's hips, guiding their movements, setting a relentless pace. Bruce, his back arched, his head thrown back, let out series of loud, primal moans, each one a testament to the profound pleasure that was coursing through him. His hands, usually so strong and purposeful, became wild, clawing at Clark's back, his fingernails digging into the unyielding fabric of the supersuit, pulling at it with fierce abandon.

"Oh, God, Superman," Bruce gasped, his voice raw with need, utterly lost in the moment. "It feels so good. So… perfect." He whimpered, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. "Just like I imagined. Only… so much better."

Clark, his own face contorted with a mixture of pleasure and the lingering haziness of the pollen, glanced out the panoramic window. Below them, Gotham stretched out, a glittering, indifferent tapestry of lights. He could see citizens walking the streets, tiny specks going about their lives, utterly unaware of the raw, intimate drama unfolding high above them, in a penthouse designed for privacy. The thought, the sheer audacity of it, the public nature of their private act, fueled something deep within him, a primal, exhilarating rush. He fucked Bruce harder, deeper, his thrusts becoming more insistent, more powerful.

Bruce’s moans grew louder, more desperate, echoing in the luxurious penthouse. "Superman! Yes! Oh, Rao, yes! Harder!" he screamed, his voice almost cracking with the force of his pleasure. He bucked his hips up, meeting Clark’s every thrust with an eager, demanding counter-movement. "Oh, God, I'm going to cum, I’m going to cum so soon!" he panted, his body trembling on the verge of release.

Clark, his eyes still locked on the distant street below, saw it. A figure in one of the adjacent skyscrapers, a man at his window, perhaps looking out over the city just as Clark was. The man paused, head cocked, looking around, a faint confusion visible even from this distance. He didn't see them, couldn't possibly see them in the dimly lit penthouse, but the proximity, the sheer risk, only amplified the raw, primal urgency of the moment.

Bruce, oblivious to the external world, kept moaning, his hips moving frantically against Clark’s, desperate for release. "I'm coming, Superman! I’m coming!" he sobbed, his voice strained, on the absolute precipice.

"Come for me, Bruce," Clark rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, a possessive command that tore Bruce’s last vestiges of control away.

With a final, earth-shattering scream, Bruce convulsed around Clark’s length, his body arching violently, his nails digging even deeper into the supersuit, tearing at the fabric. A wave of hot, slick come drenched their entangled pubes, coating Clark’s suit. Almost immediately, Clark felt his own release building, a powerful, unstoppable surge. He pushed in one last, deep thrust, roaring Bruce’s name into his ear as his own body convulsed, pumping his hot, thick load deep inside Bruce, filling him completely.

They both collapsed onto the couch, Bruce’s body trembling violently, Clark’s chest heaving, his weight crushing Bruce into the cushions. The sounds of their heavy breathing filled the room, slowly subsiding. Bruce, eyes still half-closed, a dazed, blissful expression on his face, wrapped his legs around Clark even tighter. His hands, still clutching at Clark’s back, shifted, pulling him in for a slow, lingering kiss.

“Don’t,” Bruce whispered immediately, a trembling plea in his voice. “Please, Superman. Don’t pull out yet. Stay right there. Just… stay heavy.”

Clark, still hazy with the combined afterglow of sex and pollen, simply grunted in agreement, burying his face in Bruce’s neck, the scent of sex and Bruce and faint botanical pheromones a potent, intoxicating mix. They stayed like that for a long, long while, entangled on the couch, two heroes utterly undone by a villainess, finding solace and raw, honest intimacy in each other’s arms, the uniform still clinging to Clark’s body, a silent tribute to Bruce’s deepest, pollen-fueled desires.

Chapter Text

The scent of old paperbacks and something metallic, like rain on iron, clung to Bruce’s apartment. It was a space carved out of an industrial loft, a testament to his distinct aesthetic: velvet drapes the colour of dried blood, mismatched Victorian furniture upholstered in dark brocade, and shelves crammed with esoteric texts and curiosities that seemed to hum with forgotten stories. Tonight, however, the air was thicker, charged with a different kind of anticipation.

Clark Kent, perpetually rumpled but radiating an almost blinding warmth even in the dim lighting, leaned against a shelf overflowing with occult tomes. His band, 'The Daily Planets,' had just finished a blistering set at The Cauldron, their latest underground haunt, and the adrenaline still thrummed beneath his skin. Bruce, clad in a silk robe the colour of midnight, lounged on a chaise longue, one slender leg crossed over the other, a gothic god in repose. His dark hair, usually a controlled chaos, was slightly damp, framing a face that was both austere and alluring.

"You played well tonight, Clark," Bruce said, his voice a low rumble, a sound Clark had come to associate with both quiet praise and simmering desire. He held a delicate teacup, though Clark suspected it contained something far stronger than Earl Grey.

"Thanks, Bruce," Clark replied, a shy smile touching his lips. He adjusted the strap of his worn messenger bag, feeling a familiar flutter in his chest. "The crowd was… intense."

"Indeed. They appreciate passion." Bruce took a slow sip, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, fixed on Clark.

"Are you feeling… passionate tonight, Clark?"

Clark’s breath hitched. He knew what that question meant. It was the first, soft knock on the door of their shared, intricate world. "Always, Bruce. Especially for you."

A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched Bruce’s lips. "Good." He set the teacup down on a small, intricately carved side table. "Then perhaps we should discuss the evening's… arrangements."

"As you wish, Master," Clark said immediately, the honorific slipping out naturally. It was a word that felt like silk and steel on his tongue, a testament to the complex dance they performed. He straightened, his casual posture replaced by an eager attentiveness.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, a spark of amusement or approval – Clark couldn’t quite tell which – flashing within them. "Tonight, Clark, I require a particular kind of devotion. Do you understand?"

"I do, Master," Clark affirmed, his voice deep, his eyes earnest. "My devotion is yours to command."

"Excellent." Bruce rose, moving with a predatory grace that always made Clark’s pulse quicken. He walked over to a polished mahogany cabinet, its surface reflecting the candlelight. He opened it, revealing a meticulously organized array of implements that ranged from the beautiful to the utilitarian. "My needs tonight are… specific. I wish to be taken, yes. But I wish to be taken on my terms. With exquisite control and unwavering adherence to protocol."

"Your terms are my law, Master," Clark said, taking a step closer, drawn by the gravity of Bruce's presence. "Tell me what you require."

Bruce turned, a small, intricate remote control in his hand. It was sleek, black, and subtly powerful. "Tonight, Clark, you will serve as my instrument. You will be the mechanism of my pleasure, but I will be the architect. Do you accept this?"

"I accept, Master," Clark replied without hesitation. The idea of being Bruce’s instrument, of having his every action dictated, thrilled a part of him that usually sought to lead.

"Good. First, then, is your presentation." Bruce gestured towards a low, padded bench. "Kneel, Clark. And remove your clothing. Slowly."

Clark obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees. His gaze remained fixed on Bruce, a silent plea for approval in his eyes as he began to unbutton his shirt. Each button felt like an eternity, his fingers clumsy with anticipation. "Is this pace acceptable, Master?"

"It is acceptable, Subordinate," Bruce acknowledged, his voice a low thrum. He watched, unblinking, as Clark shed his clothes, piece by piece. The worn band t-shirt, the faded jeans, the sturdy boots – all piled neatly on the floor. Clark was left in only his boxers, kneeling before Bruce, his muscles taut, his breath shallow. "Now, Subordinate, gaze upon me. What do you see?"

Clark’s eyes swept over Bruce, taking in the dark silk, the pale skin, the intense gaze. "I see my Master," he murmured, "radiant and in command. I see power, and desire."

"And what do you desire, Clark?" Bruce moved closer, his hand reaching out, not to touch, but to hover, an inch from Clark's bare shoulder.

"To please you, Master," Clark answered, his voice thick with unvoiced longing. "To be used by you. To bring you pleasure."

"Then you understand your purpose." Bruce’s fingers finally brushed Clark’s shoulder, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down Clark’s spine. "Tonight, your pleasure is secondary. It is a byproduct of my satisfaction. Your orgasm is mine to grant, or to withhold. Do you comprehend this stipulation?"

"I comprehend, Master," Clark breathed, his throat tight. He loved this, the absolute clarity of their roles, the surrender of his autonomy to Bruce’s exquisite will.

"Excellent. Now, Subordinate, prepare yourself for your service. You will wear your designated implement." Bruce gestured to the cabinet again. "You know which one."

Clark’s eyes flickered to the cabinet. He knew. Located on a velvet cushion was a sleek, black vibrating cock ring, the kind with remote control capabilities. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the cool metal. "Permission to retrieve the implement, Master?"

"Granted."

Clark carefully picked up the ring. It was a familiar weight in his hand. "Permission to apply the implement, Master?"

"Apply it, Subordinate," Bruce commanded, his voice a silken thread of authority. He watched as Clark, still kneeling, unceremoniously pushed down his boxers and slid the device into place. The sensation was immediate, a subtle pressure and hum against his sensitive skin. He felt a surge of heat, a thrill of anticipation.

"Implement applied, Master." Clark pulled his boxers back up, a thin layer of fabric now separating Bruce from his ready desire.

Bruce retrieved a small, unassuming black box from the cabinet. This was the master remote, the one that controlled everything. He held it up, displaying it for Clark. "This, Subordinate, is the key to your pleasure, and to mine. It dictates the intensity of your service. Your pleasure is entirely at my discretion tonight."

"Yes, Master," Clark acknowledged, a nervous tremor running through him. He knew what Bruce was capable of with that remote.

"Now, Subordinate, rise. And present yourself to me."

Clark stood, his full height dwarfing Bruce, yet it was Clark who felt small under Bruce's gaze. He stood before Bruce, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes fixed on his Master’s face.

"Good. Your eagerness is… noted." Bruce circled Clark, his movements slow and deliberate, a predator assessing its prey. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of Clark's jaw, then his neck, then down to his chest. "Tonight, our foreplay will be… protracted. Each touch, each sensation, will be for my pleasure, and for your anticipation of my pleasure."

"As you command, Master," Clark whispered, his gaze never leaving Bruce's. He shivered as Bruce’s fingers slid under the waistband of his boxers, tracing the edge of the cock ring. A low hum, almost imperceptible, emanated from the device.

Bruce’s thumb pressed lightly against the control button on the remote, and there was a sudden, sharp thrumming against Clark’s cock. Clark gasped, his eyes widening. "Master!"

"Quiet, Subordinate," Bruce murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous amusement. "You may not speak unless spoken to, or unless you are requesting permission for a necessary action. Is that understood?"

"Understood, Master," Clark got out, his voice strained as the vibrations intensified, a delicious, insistent pressure building.

"Good. Now, you will tell me what you feel." Bruce pressed the button again, increasing the intensity.

Clark clenched his jaw, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Pressure, Master. Intense. A… a building heat."

Bruce tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Excellent. Tonight, you will learn to articulate your sensations with precision. It is part of your service. Is that clear?"

"Clear, Master," Clark managed, his hips instinctively twitching, wanting to press into the vibrating ring.

"No, Subordinate," Bruce said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a stern, resonant command. "You will stand still. You will not move unless instructed. Do you understand this instruction?"

"Understood, Master," Clark said, forcing himself to remain rigid, fighting against the instinct to seek relief. The vibrations were now a relentless, intoxicating hum, teasing the edge of his control.

Bruce watched him, a slow satisfaction in his eyes. He pressed the button again, and the intensity notched up further. Clark let out a soft moan, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"Good. You are proving receptive to instruction." Bruce’s hand drifted lower, his fingers finally slipping under the waistband of Clark's boxers, closing around the rigid shaft. His touch was firm, possessive. "Now, Subordinate, you will tell me what I am doing to you."

Clark swallowed, his voice tight. "You are… you are holding me, Master. Your thumb is pressing against the base of the implement. The vibrations are… almost overwhelming. It feels… exquisite."

"Exquisite, you say?" Bruce’s thumb began to move, a slow, deliberate stroke along the length of Clark's cock, even as the remote-controlled ring vibrated in place. "And where do you feel this exquisiteness most acutely?"

"Everywhere, Master," Clark gasped, his head falling back, exposing the sensitive skin of his throat. "But… but the tip. The head. It's almost too much."

"Almost," Bruce drawled, a smirk now evident on his face. He increased the speed of his stroking, his fingers expertly working Clark’s already engorged member, augmenting the relentless hum of the ring. "But not quite. Because I have not yet allowed it to be 'too much,' have I, Clark?"

"No, Master," Clark whimpered, his hips still, but his body trembling under Bruce’s touch. "You have not."

"Good. Remember that. Your climax is a gift, and I am the giver." Bruce continued his rhythm, his eyes never leaving Clark’s face, watching every subtle shift in his expression, every tremor. "Permission to move your hips, Subordinate?"

Clark, caught off guard by the question, took a moment to process it. The temptation was immense. "Permission requested, Master. To… to press into your hand."

"Denied," Bruce said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You will remain still. Your body is mine to control. Not yours. Do you understand the denial?"

"Understood, Master," Clark choked out, the denial a sharp, exquisite wrench. It intensified the sensations, making the deprivation almost unbearable. He had to clench his teeth to keep from begging.

Bruce continued to stroke him, slowly, hypnotically, his fingers working in perfect concert with the vibrating ring. He shifted positions, moving to kneel on the floor before Clark, his eyes now level with Clark's cock. "Now, Subordinate, I desire to taste your eagerness. Present yourself."

Clark's breath hitched again. He slowly, deliberately pushed down his boxers, exposing himself fully. His cock, thick and throbbing, stood proud and eager, glistening in the dim light, the black ring a stark contrast against his flushed skin.

Bruce leaned in, his gaze intense, almost reverent as he took in the sight. "Such a beautiful instrument," he murmured, his voice a low purr. He then reached out, drawing Clark’s cock into his mouth.

A jolt, like electricity, shot through Clark. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if Bruce hadn’t gripped his thighs with surprising strength. "Master!" he gasped, the word muffled by the sudden rush of pleasure.

Bruce ignored the outburst, continuing to suckle and tease with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, all while his other hand remained on the remote, periodically adjusting the intensity of the cock ring, sending fresh waves of exquisite sensation through Clark.

Clark bore down, trying to ride out the intense pleasure without moving, without breaking protocol. It was a battle, his body screaming for release, his mind desperately clinging to Bruce’s commands. "Master," he pleaded, his voice hoarse, "May I… may I touch you?"

Bruce pulled back slightly, his mouth glistening, his eyes dark with desire. "Permission to touch my body?"

"Yes, Master. To brace myself against your shoulders," Clark clarified, his hands twitching with the need for purchase.

"Granted," Bruce said, a flicker of something ancient and powerful in his eyes.

Clark’s hands shot out, gripping Bruce’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the silk of the robe, then the firm muscle beneath. He felt an anchoring, a stability against the storm of sensation Bruce was unleashing.

Bruce resumed his ministrations, his tongue circling the head of Clark’s cock, then sliding down the shaft, tracing the vibrating ring. The combination was almost unbearable, a symphony of pleasure and pain. "Tell me, Clark," Bruce mumbled against his skin, "what is your current state?"

"Overwhelmed, Master. On the precipice," Clark confessed, his voice ragged. "I feel… I feel like I could shatter."

"Shatter? Not yet, Subordinate," Bruce contradicted, his voice firm, and then, without warning, he pressed the remote. The vibrator’s intensity surged, a dizzying spike that made Clark cry out, his body arching violently.

"Master! Please!" he begged, the words escaping before he could stop them, a raw, desperate sound.

Bruce pulled back again, standing, his mouth still damp. He looked at Clark, his expression unreadable. "What did I instruct you regarding your speech, Subordinate?"

Clark hung his head, shame and pleasure warring within him. "To speak only when spoken to, or for a necessary request, Master. I… I failed."

"Indeed, you did." Bruce’s voice was calm, but Clark felt the sting of his disappointment. "As a consequence, you will be denied climax for a further period. Do you understand the consequence?"

"I understand, Master," Clark said, his heart sinking, even as a perverse thrill curled in his gut. The denial, the punishment, it only intensified his desire to please, to earn Bruce’s approval.

"Good. Now, you will lie down on the bench. On your back. Your legs spread. I wish to see you fully exposed."

Clark obeyed, moving to the padded bench, his body trembling, the remote-controlled ring still humming around his cock. He lay back, spreading his legs wide, presenting himself completely. He watched Bruce, his Master, retrieve a small, slender vibrator from the cabinet – a different one, smaller, designed for internal use.

"Tonight, Subordinate, I will prepare myself with your assistance," Bruce announced, his voice smooth. He activated the small vibrator, its discreet hum barely audible. "You will be my guide. Each instruction, each touch, dictated by my desire. Do you accept this role reversal?"

"I accept, Master," Clark said, his eyes wide, intrigued by this new layer of their dynamic. Bruce, the dom, was now preparing to be the bottom, but still very much in control.

Bruce moved between Clark’s spread legs, standing over him. He lowered himself slowly, positioning himself over Clark’s face. "Your tongue, Subordinate. I require preparation. You will lick my entrance. Slowly. With precision."

Clark, surprised but eager, leaned up, his tongue darting out to meet Bruce’s waiting ass. He started tentatively, then with more confidence, his tongue swirling around the tight, puckered muscle, tasting Bruce, feeling the delicate skin. The smell of Bruce, musky and intoxicating, filled his senses. "Is this acceptable, Master?"

Bruce let out a low groan, almost imperceptible. "More pressure, Clark. Deeper. I require thoroughness." Bruce’s hand hovered over his own entrance, the small vibrator clutched in his fist, but not yet applied.

Clark followed the instruction, his tongue deepening its exploration, circling, teasing, preparing. He worked diligently, his submissive nature finding intense pleasure in catering to Bruce's every unspoken need. "Is this sufficient, Master?"

"Slightly insufficient," Bruce corrected, his voice tight. "I require more… intensity. You may use your fingers, Subordinate. Slowly. Gently. As you would for a fragile instrument."

Clark’s fingers, still trembling from the insistent hum of the cock ring, reached out, delicate and careful. He began to massage Bruce’s perineum, then moved to gently spread Bruce’s asscheeks, allowing his tongue deeper access, his fingers finding the delicate rim of Bruce’s anus. The small vibrator was still unused in Bruce’s hand, a silent threat and promise.

"Ah," Bruce sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "That is… more appropriate. Continue, Subordinate. Until I instruct otherwise."

Clark continued, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, dedicated to preparing his Master. He felt Bruce’s muscles clench and relax against his touch, a silent communication of pleasure. After several long, intense minutes, Bruce finally spoke.

"Enough. You have prepared me adequately." Bruce straightened, and Clark pulled back, tasting Bruce on his lips. Bruce then lowered himself onto the bench next to Clark, lying on his side, his ass elevated slightly, a position of vulnerability that was entirely dictated by his own power. He then took the small vibrator and, with a casual elegance, inserted it into himself.

Clark watched, transfixed, as Bruce slowly worked the toy into his ass, a soft moan escaping Bruce’s lips as it finally settled. Bruce then activated it, and a new, internal hum began to vibrate through the air.

"Now, Subordinate," Bruce said, his voice a little breathless, "you will ensure my preparation continues. You will use your fingers. Two. Then three. Slowly. Methodically. Do you understand your task?"

"I understand, Master," Clark said, his own cock still throbbing from the remote-controlled ring, a silent testament to Bruce’s control. He reached out, his fingers slick with the taste of Bruce, and began to slowly, carefully, insert them into Bruce.

Bruce hissed, a sharp intake of breath, but didn't protest. He simply watched Clark, his eyes dark with a mixture of pain and pleasure. "More, Clark. You are too tentative. I require… firmness. Not brutality. But intent."

Clark adjusted, pushing a little deeper, a careful, deliberate stretch. He worked his fingers, slowly fisting Bruce's entrance, gently pushing past the internal vibrator, allowing its hum to intensify. "Is this acceptable, Master?"

"Acceptable," Bruce gasped, his internal vibrator and Clark’s fingers working in concert inside him. He pressed the remote in his hand, and the cock ring around Clark’s shaft pulsed with renewed vigour, a sharp, delightful punishment. "And you, Subordinate? What is your current state with this… stimulation?"

Clark clenched his teeth, a groan escaping. "On the edge, Master. Your pleasure is… almost too much. It's driving me insane."

"Insane?" Bruce repeated, his eyes glinting. "Good. Insanity is a form of devotion." He watched as Clark slowly, painstakingly, added a third finger, stretching Bruce further. "You may, Subordinate, apply a small amount of pressure with your free hand to my inner thigh. To ground me."

Clark’s unused hand immediately moved, his fingers pressing into Bruce’s pale inner thigh, a gentle, firm pressure that offered a grounding anchor to Bruce's intense sensations. He could feel Bruce’s muscles clench around his fingers, the internal vibrator a constant, insistent hum within him.

"Now, Clark," Bruce said, his voice a low, almost guttural growl, "I am sufficiently prepared. You may proceed with your primary function. You will penetrate me. Slowly. Deliberately. You will not rush. And you will not pursue your own pleasure until I decree it."

"As you command, Master," Clark replied, his own cock aching with denial and anticipation. He carefully withdrew his fingers from Bruce, then, with a deep breath, he shifted his position, moving to kneel between Bruce's legs, his cock, still encased in the vibrating ring, hovering at Bruce’s entrance.

"Permission to breach, Master?" Clark asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Granted, Subordinate. Breach me. Show me your devotion." Bruce spread his legs wider, inviting Clark in, his internal vibrator still humming within him, preparing him, teasing him. Bruce's left hand held the remote for Clark's cock ring, while his right hand held the remote for his internal toy. The control was entirely his.

Clark pushed forward, slowly, carefully, his breath caught in his throat. The head of his cock met Bruce’s entrance, already slick and ready. He paused, looking at Bruce for any sign of discomfort, any hesitation. Bruce simply met his gaze, a challenge and an invitation intertwined.

He pushed again, inch by agonizing inch, feeling Bruce’s tight muscles yielding to him, stretching around the vibrating ring. Bruce let out a small, sharp gasp, his head falling back against the cushion.

"Slowly, Clark. Slower," Bruce commanded, his voice tight with controlled pleasure. "I wish to feel every millimeter."

Clark obeyed, each push a deliberate act of will, fighting against the desperate urge to plunge in. He felt the vibrating ring around his base pulse against Bruce's entrance, adding another layer of intense sensation. Bruce’s internal vibrator whirred, building the pressure from within.

Finally, with a deep groan from Bruce, Clark was fully inside him. The sensation was overwhelming, the warmth, the tightness, the combined hum of two vibrators, one around his own cock, one deep inside Bruce.

"Oh, Master," Clark breathed, his eyes closing for a moment, savoring the feeling.

"Contain yourself, Subordinate," Bruce commanded, his voice sharp, bringing Clark back to the moment. "You are inside me now. But you are not yet moving. Your pleasure remains secondary. Do you understand?"

"Understood, Master," Clark said, fighting against the instinct to thrust. He held himself still, his muscles quivering from the effort.

Bruce shifted beneath him, adjusting to the fullness. "Good. Now, you will tell me what you feel, and what you see. Articulate your experience."

Clark opened his eyes, looking down at their joined bodies, at Bruce’s face, flushed with desire, his eyes half-lidded. "I see your beauty, Master. I feel your warmth, your tightness. The hum of the internal vibrator against my shaft. The exquisite pressure against my base from the ring. I feel… full. And eager to please."

"Eager to please," Bruce repeated, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Excellent. Now, Subordinate, you may begin to move. Slowly. Shallow thrusts. Each one for my sensation. Not for yours." Bruce pressed the remote for Clark’s cock ring, and its intensity spiked, a sharp, almost painful delight. "Do you comprehend the instruction for movement?"

"I comprehend, Master," Clark affirmed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He began to move, each thrust shallow, controlled, pushing just enough to feel Bruce’s internal muscles flex around him, just enough to feel the vibrating ring pulse exquisitely against Bruce.

Bruce’s head tossed on the cushion, a low moan escaping his lips. He adjusted the intensity of his own internal vibrator, then, with a deliberate movement, pressed the remote for Clark’s cock ring again, increasing its power. "More. Deeper, Subordinate. I require more depth. Maintain the slow pace. But delve further."

Clark gritted his teeth, pushing deeper, feeling the fullness, the stretching, the immense pleasure building within him. He was on the very brink of losing control, but Bruce’s commands, his presence, held him anchored. "Master," he pleaded, the word barely audible. "The intensity of the ring… it is almost too much."

"Almost, but not quite, Subordinate," Bruce echoed, his voice now laced with a raw, throaty desire. "You will endure it. For me. Now, tell me, what does this deeper penetration reveal?"

"It reveals… more of you, Master," Clark stammered, his body slick with sweat. "More tightness. More heat. The internal vibrator is pressing against my tip, Master. It is… overwhelming."

"Overwhelming," Bruce sighed, almost a purr. He arched his back, pressing himself more firmly against Clark. "Good. I desire to overwhelm you, Clark. To flood your senses until nothing remains but my control." Bruce then pressed a new button on the remote, and the frequency of Clark’s cock ring changed, a new, dizzying pulse that pushed him further, closer to the edge. "Permission to increase your pace, Subordinate?"

Clark’s eyes snapped open, meeting Bruce’s gaze. He could see the raw, animalistic pleasure in Bruce’s eyes, the deep satisfaction of being utterly possessed, and of possessing in turn. "Permission requested, Master. To increase the pace. To match your pleasure."

"Granted," Bruce breathed, his voice broken, almost a gasp. "But only if you promise to hold for me. To wait for my command."

"I promise, Master," Clark vowed, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. He began to thrust with more urgency, deeper, faster, each movement a testament to his devotion, to his desperate need to please.

The room filled with the sounds of their labored breathing, the rhythmic thud of their bodies, the double hum of the vibrators. Bruce was moaning openly now, his hands clenching, his fingernails digging into the cushion. He pressed the remote for his internal vibrator, ramping it up to its highest setting, pushing himself to the brink.

"Clark," Bruce gasped, his voice barely a whisper, "I am nearing my release. Do you confirm my proximity to climax?"

"I confirm, Master," Clark rasped, feeling Bruce’s body clench around him, feeling the waves of pleasure coursing through his Master. He was so close himself, the vibrating ring around him pushing him relentlessly.

"Good. Now, Subordinate, you will bring me over the edge. Push deep. Hard. Maintain your pace. And focus only on my pleasure. Do you understand your final command before my climax?"

"Understood, Master," Clark said, pouring every ounce of his being into the thrusts, driving into Bruce with a primal hunger, his eyes fixed on Bruce’s face as his Master’s pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

Bruce cried out, a raw, guttural sound, his body convulsing around Clark. He clenched around Clark’s cock, taking everything Clark had to give, his hips bucking against him. The internal vibrator whirred, echoing his climax.

For a long, breathless moment, they lay there, intertwined, Bruce trembling beneath him. Clark felt the last echoes of Bruce’s climax reverberate through his own body, a shared, intense aftershock.

Then, Bruce’s hand slowly reached for the remote, his fingers trembling slightly. He pressed the button, and the cock ring around Clark’s base went silent. The sudden cessation of sensation was almost as jarring as its presence, leaving Clark aching, throbbing, on the precipice.

"Well done, Subordinate," Bruce murmured, his voice hoarse with satisfaction, his eyes slowly opening. "You have served me well."

Clark swallowed, his body still rigid with unreleased tension. "Thank you, Master," he managed, the words a raw plea.

Bruce’s eyes met his, a soft, almost tender glint within their depths. "You are still… in need, aren't you, Clark?"

"Desperately, Master," Clark confessed, his voice thick with longing.

Bruce gave a slow, satisfied smile. "As I anticipated. Your denial served my pleasure. Now, it is time for your reward." He lifted the remote again, his thumb hovering over the button. "Permission to release, Subordinate?"

"Permission requested, Master!" Clark practically begged, his hips instinctively bucking.

"Granted," Bruce said, pressing the button. The cock ring roared back to life, its intensity higher than before, an immediate, overwhelming wave that sent Clark spiraling.

Clark cried out, a wild, unrestrained sound, as his own climax tore through him, hot and violent. He plunged into Bruce, his body arching, every muscle clenching, pouring himself into his Master. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a glorious, shattering release that left him gasping, trembling, utterly spent.

He collapsed onto Bruce, his head burying itself in the crook of Bruce’s neck, his body still shaking. Bruce wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, stroking his hair with a gentle hand.

"Good boy," Bruce whispered, his voice soft, the lingering note of command replaced by a warm intimacy. "You are mine, Clark. Utterly and completely mine."

Clark tightened his embrace, burying his face deeper into Bruce’s neck, breathing in his scent. "Always, Master. Always."

They lay there for a long time, the hum of Bruce’s internal vibrator slowly fading as he turned it off, the remote for Clark’s cock ring now lying discarded. The high protocol had dissolved into the aftermath of shared ecstasy, leaving behind a profound sense of connection, of belonging.

"You know," Clark mumbled, his voice still thick with post-orgasmic contentment, "you really do make a very good dom bottom, Master."

Bruce let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through Clark’s chest. "And you, Clark," he replied, his fingers tracing the line of Clark’s spine, "are a truly exceptional subtop. Exhausting, but exceptional." He held Clark even tighter, a silent promise in the embrace. "Now, I believe a bath is in order. And perhaps some more tea. With whiskey this time."

Clark just hummed in agreement, already drifting into a contented haze, the intricate dance of their shared power exchange leaving him both utterly spent and completely fulfilled. The goth and the English major, bound by a connection forged in underground concerts and refined through the exquisite, high protocol of their private world.

Chapter Text

The heavy velvet drapes, the colour of claret wine, were drawn, plunging the bedchamber into an intimate twilight. Only the flickering gaslights, encased in ornate bronze sconces, cast dancing shadows across the polished mahogany furniture and the rich, Persian rugs that softened every step. Clark’s heart, a drum against his ribs, thrummed a frantic rhythm as he stood at attention near the colossal four-poster bed. Its posts, carved with intricate acanthus leaves and mythical beasts, still seemed dwarfed by his imposing frame, his broad shoulders easily surpassing their height. His head was held straight, a soldier’s discipline etched into every line of his powerful neck, not a muscle twitching, until the subtle, silken rustle reached his ears. It was the distinct sound of the beaded door tapestry, woven with shimmering threads of gold and sapphire, being disturbed.

Bruce was here.

His master, his Prince, had retired to bathe a mere few minutes prior, ordering his Knight to remain exactly as he was. Clark’s heartbeat quickened, a dizzying crescendo, as he heard the soft, deliberate footsteps approaching behind him. Each soft pad of Bruce’s bare foot on the plush rug sent a jolt of raw anticipation through Clark’s body. Then came the touch, a cool, slender hand pressing against the small of his back, a familiar anchor. It was the touch that always grounded him, a silent promise that nothing untoward, nothing truly frightening, was going to happen. Just pleasure. Just devotion.

Bruce’s grip shifted, firming on his shoulder, and then, with an almost imperceptible pressure, he turned Clark around. Clark’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. His view was instantly met with the breathtaking sight of his Prince standing before him.

Bruce wore a silk robe, the colour of midnight, loosely tied at his waist, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a strong, slender torso. His dark hair, still damp from his bath, framed a face that Clark considered the most beautiful in all the kingdoms. Those icy blue eyes, piercing and intelligent, were enough to make Clark feel both whole and utterly melted, a paradoxical sensation that always left him reeling. He found himself unable to focus on anything else save the delicate arch of Bruce’s brows, the subtle curve of his nose, or the faint, healing mark of a recent shave along his jawline. But most of all, his gaze was drawn, irrevocably, to the pink plumpness of Bruce’s lips. The way they would pout in playful displeasure, a soft, inviting curve, or how they would go taut, revealing just the tips of his canines when one dared to truly displease him. Clark was, quite simply, reeling.

The ethereal scent of jasmine, mingled with the earthy hint of Bruce’s subtle musk, wafted from his skin and made its way to Clark’s nose, intoxicating him further. It was his Prince’s signature, a fragrance that always heralded devotion and delight. Bruce took another step, pulling himself closer, getting mere millimeters away from Clark. So close, Clark could feel the gentle exhalation of Bruce’s breath ghosting across his lips, taste the lingering sweetness of the bath oils on the air.

“My formidable Knight,” Bruce murmured, his voice a low, silken caress that vibrated through the air between them, “Are you ready, my love?”

Clark’s eyes, usually sharp and vigilant, softened perceptibly at the delicate timbre of his Prince’s voice. It was a rarity, this gentle tone, reserved only for their most private moments, a precious gift. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the hushed room, and nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. His massive hand, calloused from sword and shield, twitched, wanting desperately to reach out and touch Bruce, but he held himself rigid, disciplined.

“Yes, my Prince,” Clark finally managed to articulate, his own voice a rough, deep rumble, betraying the turmoil within him. “I am always ready for you. You know that.”

Bruce smiled then, a small, knowing curve of those irresistible lips, and Clark’s heart liquefied in his chest once more.

“Indeed, Kal. I do know. And tonight, it is all about you, isn’t it? All about your devotion, your pleasure in pleasing me. Tonight it is just us, and Rao knows,” Bruce’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, “that Clark Kent is going to make sure his Prince is complete.”

Clark’s cheeks flushed, a deep crimson that was evident even in the subdued light. He lowered his gaze slightly, a deferential gesture that belied the burning fire in his soul. “My only wish, master, is to serve your every desire.”

Bruce’s gaze drifted from Clark’s face, down his broad chest, and lingered for a moment on the barely contained bulge beneath Clark’s breeches. A faint hum vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction. He then turned, moving with an elegant fluidity that always captivated Clark, towards the massive bed.

“Come, my Knight,” Bruce commanded, his voice now a little firmer, a little more playful, a hint of steel returning to its velvet. He reached onto the bed, his slender fingers closing around a gleaming object that had been placed carefully on a black velvet cloth. He lifted it, presenting the instrument in front of Clark’s face.

The object was unmistakably an anal hook. Its form was disturbingly elegant, forged from dark, highly polished steel that caught the gaslight, reflecting it in sharp, menacing gleams. The main shaft was smooth, tapered, and ended in a gently curved, almost serpentine hook, meticulously crafted. It seemed both beautiful and terrifying in Bruce’s delicate grip. Clark felt a shiver trace its way down his spine, a primal mix of dread and intense anticipation. His breath hitched again, but this time it was from a different kind of fear, an exhilarating terror.

Bruce observed Clark’s reaction, his lips twitching upward almost imperceptibly. He moved the hook closer, allowing the cool metal to brush lightly against Clark’s cheek.

“Don’t be scared, Kal,” he whispered, his voice soft, reassuring, yet laced with an undeniable edge of command. “It is merely an instrument of pleasure, as all good things are in the right hands. My hands. Just turn around and present for me.”

Clark nodded, a quick, almost jerky movement. There was no argument, no hesitation, only absolute obedience. He turned his back to Bruce, his powerful shoulders seeming to hunch slightly in humble submission, and moved towards the bed. He positioned himself on all fours, lowering his body onto the soft mattress, his knees spread wide, his back arching, presenting his exposed rear to Bruce. The plush velvet of the bed felt soft and yielding against his skin, a stark contrast to the sharp edge of anticipation that now gnawed at his insides.

He heard the delicate jingle. Bruce had approached, his light footsteps barely disturbing the air. That faint, musical sound of Bruce’s many silver and gold bracelets, crafted by ancient artisans, heralded his presence even before Clark felt the warmth. Bruce came up directly behind him, and Clark could almost feel the weight of his Prince’s gaze upon his bared flesh.

Then, Bruce spat. A clear, glistening globule of saliva landed directly onto the gleaming surface of the anal hook. Clark could hear the jingling of Bruce’s bracelets again as his Prince’s hands moved, lathering the spit onto the hook, ensuring its thorough lubrication. The deliberate, unhurried movements were a form of exquisite torture, each jingle of metal a tiny hammer striking against Clark’s raw nerves.

The jingling stopped. Clark braced himself, clenching his fists into the mattress. A slender, cool finger then prodded gently at his puckered hole, tracing its delicate folds. The finger twisted and curled, teasing, exploring, just right, sending shivers through Clark’s entire being. His breaths were coming in ragged gasps now, short and shallow, his body humming with a desperate need for more, for the fulfillment of the promise. He risked a glance over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Bruce’s icy blue gaze, and nodded, a silent, fervent plea for permission to proceed.

Bruce removed his finger at the signal, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He then carefully lined the hook up to Clark’s trembling opening. The cold metal brushed against the sensitive flesh, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across Clark’s skin.

“Breathe, okay, Kal?” Bruce’s voice was a soft reassurance, yet the command was implicit. “Just breathe through it. You can handle this. For me.”

Clark quickly nodded again, his throat tight, his eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. And then, slowly, deliberately, Bruce eased the plug in.

The initial stretch was immense, a monumental pressure that knocked the air clean out of Clark’s lungs. A choked gasp escaped him, but it quickly transformed into a low moan. The sensation was overpowering, a profound invasion that, paradoxically, felt incredibly good. The slick, cool metal slid deeper, stretching his opening to its absolute limit, a slow, insistent expansion. Clark’s hole completely engulfed the hook, a tight, perfect fit, and he could hear Bruce hum in appreciation, a low, guttural sound that thrilled him more than any words.

Slender fingers wrapped around Clark’s neck, the touch cool and possessive. Bruce angled Clark’s head back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat. Clark’s mind swam with sensation, a dizzying cocktail of pleasure and submission.

“The drawloop, darling,” Bruce whispered, his breath warm against Clark’s ear, the words a delicious command. Clark felt the soft leather loop being placed around his neck, then fastened with a small, intricate buckle behind. He knew better than to undo the bow that held the hook in place while the loop was around his neck. The tension on the loop was directly connected to the hook, binding him, making him exquisitely aware of his Prince’s control.

He remained with his head tilted upward, his powerful body trembling slightly, awaiting Bruce’s next command. The air thrummed with unspoken desires, with the weight of expectation and the promise of profound submission.

“Now, my Knight,” Bruce’s voice, a low purr, broke the silence, “I want you to rise. Stand for me, Kal.”

Clark’s heart sank, a heavy stone plunging to the depths of his stomach. Standing? With the hook deep inside him and the drawloop taut around his neck? Every instinct screamed protest, a flash of fear, but the command was absolute. His Prince had spoken. He stiffened, every muscle tensing, preparing for the agony and the exquisite torment. He let out a little, tortured moan, a soft, involuntary whimper that escaped his lips as he began to maneuver himself.

The internal pressure of the hook shifted, pulling at his most sensitive flesh with an alarming intensity as he slowly, painstakingly, pushed himself up from his kneeling posture. Each inch he gained was an effort, a battle against the searing invasion. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow, as he fought the urge to collapse. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from the sheer, overwhelming sensation, but he held them back, determined not to show weakness. His powerful legs, usually so steady, trembled under the strain.

Finally, with a soft grunt, he was on his feet, standing before Bruce. He dwarfed his Prince, of course, his immense frame towering over Bruce’s elegant figure. The hook now pulled downwards, the weight of its metal a constant, exquisite reminder of his subjugation, amplified by the gentle tension of the drawloop around his neck.

Bruce took a step back, circling Clark slowly, admiring his handiwork. His icy blue eyes were now narrowed, fixed on Clark’s exposed neck, a ‘dagger glare’ that promised both pain and supreme pleasure. “Look at you, my obedient beast,” Bruce murmured, his voice laced with an almost vicious satisfaction. “Standing so tall, yet so utterly mine.”

Clark’s eyes, still glazed with the effort, met Bruce’s. He felt a tremor of pure devotion course through him, a willingness to endure anything for this man.

Bruce reached upward, his slender fingers brushing against the taut skin of Clark’s throat. He began to work on Clark’s neck, his touch feather-light at first, then growing more insistent. His lips followed, warm and wet, pressing against the sensitive flesh just below Clark’s ear. He sucked, a soft, deliberate suction that drew a faint hickey to the surface, a bruise of ownership. Then his tongue flickered out, a sensuous exploration, tracing the line of Clark’s jaw down to his Adam’s apple. Clark’s moans grew louder, deeper, escaping him in desperate gasps. The exquisite pleasure, amplified by the constant, grinding pressure of the hook deep inside him, sent waves of heat through his core. His hips twitched involuntarily, a desperate, futile attempt to find release.

Bruce’s teeth then grazed his skin, a delicate nip that sent a jolt of pure fire through Clark. He cried out, a raw, animal sound, his head tilting back further, offering his neck, his throat, his very life to his Prince.

“So eager, my Knight,” Bruce purred, pulling back just enough to look into Clark’s flushed face, his eyes alight with triumph. He then gripped Clark’s hair, his fingers tangling in the thick black strands, and forced his head to look down, a sharp, sudden tug that simultaneously pulled on the drawloop, and thus, on the hook.

Clark groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his very soul. His eyes rolled back into his head, a dizzying spiral of sensation overwhelming him. The sudden, agonizing pull on the hook, combined with the exquisite pain-pleasure of his hair being yanked, brought him to the brink of collapse. He swayed, his powerful body threatening to buckle.

“Stay focused, Kal,” Bruce commanded, his voice sharp now, a sudden, rough tap to Clark’s cheek bringing him back from the precipice. “Stay with me. And get to work.”

The command was like a cold splash of water, jarring Clark’s senses back into line. He registered the words, the expectation, the absolute demand. He dropped back to his knees at once, his powerful legs giving out, the impact muffled by the thick rug. He landed squarely before Bruce, who had now seated himself elegantly on the edge of the bed, his legs apart, beckoning.

Clark’s gaze instantly fell to Bruce’s feet, encased in soft, velvet slippers, and then upward, along the elegant curve of his calves, disappearing beneath the silk of his robe. He began to worship, his big hands gently taking Bruce’s feet, kissing the soft skin of his instep, tracing the delicate arch. He massaged Bruce’s ankles, then worked his way up his calves, his strong thumbs pressing into the taut muscle, his head bowed in complete submission.

“Good boy, Kal,” Bruce sighed, a soft sound of contentment as Clark’s ministrations brought a wave of relaxation through him. “You always know how to make me feel cherished.”

Clark’s heart swelled at the praise, a balm to his aching soul. He continued, his hands moving with practiced reverence, until Bruce’s legs were fully relaxed. Then, with a languid stretch, Bruce spread his legs wider, the silk robe parting to reveal the dark, inviting secrets beneath.

Clark’s breath hitched, a low drool forming at the corner of his mouth. His eyes widened, fixing on the sweet, glistening sight of Bruce’s pussy. It was framed by a dark, luxuriant bush, the curls soft and inviting, a stark contrast to the pale skin around it. The sight of it, dewy and waiting, sent a fresh wave of hunger crashing over him, a primal, undeniable urge.

He dove in at once, burying his face in the soft, dark curls, inhaling the intoxicating scent of Bruce’s intimate musk, mingled with the lingering hint of jasmine. He pushed his tongue out, eager and trembling, seeking the tender flesh within.

Clark began to give Bruce cunnilingus, his tongue a diligent explorer, mapping every ridge and fold, every sensitive curve. His strong hands gripped Bruce’s thighs, holding him open, his nose pressed firmly against Bruce’s mons. Bruce gasped, a sharp, delighted sound, his head falling back against the pillows. His fingers tangled in Clark’s hair, not to pull in pain this time, but in pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Oh, Kal,” Bruce moaned, his voice thick with burgeoning desire. “Yes. Just like that. You know exactly what I need.”

Clark responded with renewed fervour, his tongue swirling, darting, teasing. He found the sensitive nub, flicking it gently, then sucking it into his mouth with a soft pop. Bruce writhed, a sensual dance of pure bliss. Clark’s rhythm became a frantic beat, his tongue performing a series of expert tricks, drawing forth deeper, more desperate moans from his Prince. He sucked, licked, and teased, utterly lost in the taste and texture of Bruce, feeling the intimate tremors beginning to build in Bruce’s body.

Bruce’s moans became incoherent cries, his body arching violently. He fell back fully into the bed, utterly surrendered to the sensations, and in his passion, he dragged Clark by his hair, not a punishing tug, but an unconscious, desperate pull for more. This pull, however, directly intensified the pressure on the drawloop and the hook deep within Clark.

“Ah! Bruce—!” Clark cried out, a strangled gasp of pain and pleasure. He felt his own climax building, a rapid ascent, triggered by the intense pressure on the hook combined with the overwhelming taste and sound of Bruce’s pleasure.

They were both caught in a maelstrom of pressure and sensation, a shared precipice. Bruce, his back arched, his hips bucking, reached his peak with a guttural cry, his body shuddering violently. At the same moment, Clark, his face still buried between Bruce’s legs, roared, a silent, internal roar, as he too achieved his climax, a powerful, deep release that flooded his entire being.

They lay for a moment, entwined, breathless, the air thick with the scent of sex and jasmine. Clark, his body still trembling, slowly pulled his head back from between Bruce’s legs, panting heavily. His face was wet, not just with Bruce’s sweet love, but with his own sweat and the exertion of his climax, amplified by the constant, agonizing pressure of the hook.

He looked up at Bruce, his eyes pleading, raw with vulnerability. “Prince,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “Please. Please, remove the hook. It’s… it’s too much.”

Bruce, slowly coming down from his high, blinking his icy blue eyes open, looked down at his Knight’s face. He saw the wetness, the desperation, the profound devotion. A soft, satisfied moan escaped his lips, a lazy, contented sound.

“My brave Kal,” he purred, his fingers still idly tangled in Clark’s damp hair. “So eager for release, are we? You have served exceptionally well.” He leaned forward and, with a delicate touch, unfastened the buckle of the drawloop from around Clark’s neck, removing it entirely. He then sat back, a slight smile playing on his lips, leaving Clark still on his knees, the hook still firmly in place.

Clark stared at him, confused, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Bruce… the hook.”

Bruce chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “Patience, my love. The journey, not just the destination, remember?”

Before Clark could protest further, he felt a subtle shift. Bruce reached his bare foot behind Clark, his warm, delicate skin brushing against Clark’s exposed flesh. Then, the ball of Bruce’s foot began to rub, gently, oh so gently, against the exposed shaft of the hook.

A fresh wave of sensation, startling and exquisite, shot through Clark. The light, teasing friction against the sensitive metal, deep inside him, felt unbelievably good, re-igniting the embers of his desire. His breath hitched again, and he found himself begging anew, a desperate, guttural sound.

“Oh, Bruce! Yes! Please! More! Don’t stop!” Clark practically whimpered, his hips twitching, desperate for the renewed pleasure.

Bruce’s smile widened, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He continued the teasing rub for a few more agonizing moments, drawing out Clark’s desperation. Then, suddenly, with an unexpected swiftness that stole Clark’s breath, Bruce raised up from the bed, lunging forward slightly. His hand shot behind Clark, gripping the hook’s shaft with a firm, decisive motion. With a powerful, upward pull, he yanked the hook higher, deeper, stretching Clark’s inner walls to their absolute maximum.

The pleasure was maddening, utterly overwhelming. Clark cried out, a loud, drawn-out moan that echoed through the chamber. His entire body convulsed, his hips bucking uncontrollably, humping the edge of the bed in a desperate search for release. The sheer intensity of the sensation sent him spinning, his senses reeling.

Then, with an equally precise and swift movement, Bruce eased the hook out. It slid free with a distinct, wet pop, a sound that signaled both an ending and a new beginning.

Clark gasped, a loud, guttural moan of pure, unadulterated relief and lingering pleasure. He collapsed forward, scrambling, crawling atop Bruce, his powerful body trembling uncontrollably. He straddled his Prince’s lap without a moment’s hesitation, his hips grinding down onto Bruce’s waiting pussy, desperate for the physical connection.

“Mine,” Clark growled, his voice thick with possessiveness and passion, as he fumbled to free his already engorged cock. “You’re mine, Bruce. My Prince.”

Bruce met him with equal fervor, wrapping his legs around Clark’s waist, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the strong muscles of Clark’s back. “Always, Kal,” he whispered, his voice breathless. “Always.”

Clark plunged into Bruce with a powerful thrust, his cock sliding into the slick, warm depths of Bruce’s pussy. Bruce cried out, a sharp, delighted sound, arching against him. Their bodies met with a furious rhythm, Clark driving into Bruce hard and fast, the bed groaning under the force of their passion.

“Rough now, my Knight,” Bruce demanded, his hands gripping Clark’s shoulders, his nails digging in. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

Clark obeyed, his thrusts becoming more primal, more frantic. He lowered himself into a missionary position, his chest pressed against Bruce’s, their lips meeting in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. Sweat glistened on their bodies, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Bruce wrapped his strong legs around Clark’s waist, then lifted them, curling them around Clark’s shoulders—his “legals”—pulling Clark even deeper, allowing him to bury himself completely.

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Bruce screamed, his voice raw with pleasure. He bucked against Clark, meeting every thrust with an equal, desperate lunge. The friction was incredible, the sensation overwhelming for both of them. Clark felt the familiar tingle begin to build again, a deep, insistent thrum that resonated through his entire body. He leaned down, sucking on Bruce’s neck, biting gently at his shoulder as he pushed deeper, harder.

“I’m close, Prince,” Clark growled, his voice guttural, thick with impending release. “So close.”

“Come for me, Kal! Come deep inside me!” Bruce commanded, his fingers tangling in Clark’s hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. His eyes were wide, dilated with passion, gleaming with desperate need.

With a final, powerful thrust, Clark emptied himself deep inside Bruce, a hot, pulsing gush of cum that filled Bruce’s core. Clark groaned, collapsing onto Bruce, his body trembling uncontrollably, utterly spent. Bruce cried out simultaneously, not from his own climax yet, but from the incredible, visceral sensation of Clark’s hot cum flooding into him, feeling it leak and spread within his most intimate space.

A moment later, Bruce’s own orgasm hit, a powerful, shuddering wave that rocked his entire frame. He screamed Clark’s name, his body arching, fingers digging into Clark’s back so hard Clark thought he might draw blood. He bucked and convulsed against Clark, riding the wave of his own desire, fueled by the feeling of his Knight’s seed within him.

As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Clark carefully lifted Bruce’s legs once more, this time guiding Bruce’s feet to his own lips. He kissed the delicate arches, then, still within Bruce, he began to worship his Prince’s legs, pressing soft kisses along his calves, his ankles, his thighs, all while continuing to thrust, a slow, deep, reverent rhythm.

“You are exquisite, my Prince,” Clark whispered between kisses, his voice hoarse with adoration. “Absolutely breathtaking.”

Bruce squirmed, a delighted giggle escaping his lips. “Oh, Kal,” he breathed, his voice rich with pleasure, “you are a true devotee.”

Then, with a sudden, powerful contraction, Bruce squirted, a hot, wet gush that drenched Clark’s chest and face, mingling with the sweat and the lingering scent of their lovemaking.

Clark gasped, a surprised but not unwelcome sound, as the warm fluid cascaded over him. He dropped Bruce’s legs gently, moving to clean his face with his hand, but Bruce stopped him, holding his gaze.

“No,” Bruce said, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Let it be, for now. It’s part of the gift.”

Then, with an unexpected strength, Bruce flipped them over. He straddled Clark’s chest, his beautiful, powerful body positioned directly over Clark’s face. He paused for a moment, his eyes locked with Clark’s, a silent question passing between them. Clark responded with an eager nod, his tongue already peeking out. Bruce then plopped himself down with a soft thwack, his dripping pussy landing squarely on Clark’s mouth and nose.

Clark groaned in immediate pleasure, his tongue shooting out, eager to lap up every drop of Bruce’s essence. Bruce moaned above him, his hips beginning to grind against Clark’s face, his fingers reaching down between them. With a practiced motion, Bruce found Clark’s semi-hard cock and began to jerk it, his hand skillful and firm.

Clark devoured Bruce, his tongue working diligently, sucking on Bruce’s sensitive nub, lapping at the sweet, salty taste of him. Bruce, meanwhile, moved his hand up and down Clark’s shaft, his fingers circling the base, then tracing the head. He leaned down, his mouth closing over the tip of Clark’s cock, a soft, teasing suck.

Clark’s breath hitched. “Oh, Bruce,” he choked out, his voice muffled by Bruce’s pussy. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, driving him to the brink once more. He felt the familiar surge of pressure, the impending explosion.

Bruce pulled back from the tip of his cock, just enough to catch Clark’s eyes. “Come for me, my Knight,” Bruce purred, his eyes dark with desire. “Show me your devotion again.”

With a raw, desperate growl, Clark came, his cum erupting, spraying across Bruce’s face, mingling with the remnants of Bruce’s squirt. He bucked beneath Bruce, his hips arching, his body convulsing in another powerful orgasm. He pulled back from eating Bruce’s pussy, gasping loudly, trying to catch his breath.

“Thank you, my Prince,” Clark managed to rasp, his voice thick with emotion and exhaustion, as he came again, a final, powerful spasm.

Bruce sat fully on Clark’s face for a moment longer, basking in the glow of their shared release, then, with a graceful movement, he pushed himself up and over the edge of Clark’s body.

They switched positions again, moving with a practiced ease, their bodies now intimately familiar with each other’s desires. This time, Clark positioned himself behind Bruce, who knelt on the bed in a doggy style position. Clark wrapped his powerful arms around Bruce’s waist, pulling him back against his chest, their bodies spooning.

“Slow now, beloved,” Clark whispered, his lips brushing against Bruce’s neck, as he guided his swollen cock to Bruce’s yielding entrance. He eased himself in, a slow, deliberate motion, feeling the warmth and wetness encompass him once more.

“Oh, Kal,” Bruce sighed, leaning back into Clark’s embrace, his head resting against Clark’s shoulder. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

Clark began to thrust, a slow, deliberate rhythm that deepened with each stroke. His hands moved from Bruce’s waist, upward, caressing his sides, his chest, then reaching up to cup Bruce’s firm, soft breasts.

“My Prince,” Clark murmured, his voice laced with tenderness and fierce protection. “You are the light of my life, my sole purpose.”

Bruce’s body trembled in response. “And you, my Knight, are my rock, my passion, my everything,” he praised, his voice thick with emotion.

Their lovemaking became a slow, languid dance of bodies, a deep, sensual rhythm that built steadily. Clark fucked him slow and hard, each thrust a declaration of love and devotion, each groan from Bruce a confirmation of his pleasure. They moved as one, a symphony of sighs, gasps, and the wet sounds of their bodies intertwining.

The tension built, slowly, exquisitely, until both were once again on the precipice. Clark pushed one last, deep thrust, burying himself fully within Bruce, holding him there. Bruce cried out, a long, drawn-out moan, his body convulsing as he squirted once more, climaxing simultaneously with Clark, who groaned, emptying himself deep into his Prince, the heat of his cum a sweet balm against Bruce’s gushing release.

Bruce collapsed, boneless, against Clark’s chest, his body trembling, utterly spent. Clark held him tight, breathing heavily, feeling the last throes of his own orgasm fade. After a few moments, Clark slowly, reluctantly, pulled out of Bruce. The soft, wet squelch of their bodies separating was followed by the intimate sight and sensation of Clark’s cum, mingled with Bruce’s squirt, dripping out of Bruce’s wet hole, running down his inner thighs, leaving glistening trails on the pale skin.

Clark watched, his gaze reverent, before gently shifting Bruce so he lay on his side. He then carefully rose from the bed, his muscles aching but profoundly satisfied. He walked to the washbasin on the ornate dressing table, filled with warm water, and fetched a soft, linen cloth. He wetted it, wringing out the excess, and returned to the bed.

He knelt beside Bruce, who lay, eyes closed, flushed and beautiful in the dim light. Clark gently began the aftercare, wiping the lingering evidence of their passion from Bruce’s inner thighs, his stomach, his chest, his face. His touch was incredibly tender, a contrast to the fierce passion that had just consumed them. He cleaned every precious inch of his Prince, his movements slow and deliberate, a profound act of love.

Bruce sighed contentedly, opening his icy blue eyes to gaze at Clark. He reached up, his slender fingers finding the back of Clark’s head, pulling him down gently. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, utterly different from the desperate, passionate kisses they had just shared. It was a kiss of peace, of contentment, of profound affection.

“My magnificent Kal,” Bruce whispered, his voice soft and husky, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “You make me feel whole. Utterly cherished. My love for you knows no bounds.”

Clark’s heart swelled, tears pricking at his eyes, but this time they were tears of pure joy, of unadulterated love. He finished wiping Bruce clean, then gently tossed the cloth aside. He pulled back the heavy, silken sheets, and Bruce, with a contented sigh, shifted, making space for him.

Clark climbed into the bed, gathering Bruce close, wrapping his powerful arms around his Prince, holding him tight. Bruce snuggled into his powerful embrace, his head resting on Clark’s chest, the soft rhythm of Clark’s heartbeat a comforting lullaby. The gaslights flickered once, then slowly dimmed, casting the room into near darkness.

They lay there, entwined, their bodies sated, their souls connected. No more words were needed. Just the quiet intimacy of their breaths, the warmth of their bodies, and the unspoken promise of a love that defied convention, a bond forged in passion and unwavering devotion. And as the first hint of pre-dawn light began to filter through the heavy drapes, Prince Bruce and his Knight Clark, exhausted and profoundly content, finally drifted off to sleep, together.

Chapter Text

The obsidian sky seemed to pulse with an almost sentient energy, mirroring the rising tension within Bruce. He stood silhouetted against a gothic spire, the wind catching the sharp angles of his cowl. He wasn't tracking Zsasz tonight; he was tracking his boyfriend.

Bruce had always known Clark was intense. That came with being a man who could hold the entire weight of a planet on his back. But lately, the intensity had curdled into something that felt less like adoration and more like religious fixation.

It had started subtly. A slight, imperceptible shift in the air pressure wherever the Bat landed, indicating an unseen observer hovering just beyond the limits of human sensory perception. Then came the lingering. Bruce would turn abruptly in the shadows of Crime Alley, and though nothing would be there, the residual heat signature, the scent of ozone and freshly cut wheat, would confirm that Clark had been pressed so close, he must have been breathing his air.

The worst incidents, the ones that truly solidified the term "obsession" in Bruce’s mind, were when he witnessed Clark’s reaction to Batman executing a complex maneuver. A high-risk aerial disarm, a perfectly timed counter-strike—Clark would freeze, his posture rigid, his blue eyes glazed over, fixed entirely on the movement. It wasn't simple pride; it was rapturous, hypnotic fascination. Bruce recognized the look: it was the way a cultist looked upon their deity, or a scientist upon a universal truth revealed. He knew his boyfriend was fascinated by him, but jeez.

One Friday afternoon, during a rare shared hour at the manor, Bruce had been reviewing schematics in the study, ostensibly alone. Clark had been quietly reading on the sofa, or so Bruce thought. Without warning, two impossibly strong hands wrapped around Bruce’s waist from behind, pulling him back against a chest that felt like compacted steel. Before Bruce could tense, a thumb was already digging expertly into the rigid muscle of his right pectoral, kneading the dense tissue through the cotton of his pajama shirt
.

Bruce startled, choking back a gasp. “Clark! What the—?”

Clark just hummed, his chin resting on Bruce’s shoulder, eyes closed in what appeared to be pure bliss. “You’re so solid, Bruce. Like a forged weapon. Did you know that when you focus, the capillaries in your chest actually tense up more? It’s magnificent.”

“I… I was focused on the structural integrity of the Wayne Tower spire, not my pectoral definition,” Bruce managed, his face heating up despite himself. He was the Batman, yet this overgrown fringed emo could reduce him to a shy boy scout with a simple, invasive touch.

“Same difference,” Clark murmured, squeezing gently again, then releasing him with a possessive pat before floating back to his book, leaving Bruce’s heart pounding against the demanding ghost of his touch.

The obsession was undeniable. It escalated swiftly when Clark decided to abandon subtlety entirely.

It was late, a thick fog coating Gotham’s rooftops. Bruce had just wrapped up a two-hour interrogation session with the Penguin’s accountant when the sound barrier shattered softly, not with a boom, but a calculated, deliberate sigh of displaced air.

Clark materialized directly in front of him, arms crossed, bathed in the sickly green light of a defunct neon sign. He wasn’t smiling. His intense, absolute focus was trained on Bruce, stripping away the cowl, the armor, the facade, leaving only the man beneath exposed.

“We need to talk,” Clark stated, bypassing any pleasantries.

“About the rising crime rate? About how many times you breached Gotham airspace without clearance this week?” Bruce retorted dryly, his hand inching toward the grapple on his belt—a purely instinctual gesture, useless against this specific threat.

Clark let out a low, dangerous laugh that vibrated the tar beneath Bruce’s boots. “No, not about my clearance, Bruce. About your needs. And mine.”

He took a slow step closer. Bruce felt the usual defensive walls rising, but Clark’s intensity was a tidal wave aimed at vulnerability.

“I have been watching you for hours tonight. Observed your movements, calculated the stress load on your joints, noted the precise moment your adrenaline peaked. You need release, Bruce. I need access.” Clark’s gaze dropped to the junction of Bruce’s neck and shoulder, a point where the skin was always exposed.

Bruce felt a tremor of anticipation mixed with profound unease. “Access to what, Kent? The Bat-Computer? My schedule?”

Clark leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble that cut through the city noise. “Let’s have sex tonight.”

The bluntness of the request was a physical blow, knocking the air out of Bruce’s lungs. Clark didn't ask or suggest; he declared.

Bruce felt his mouth go dry. He searched Clark’s face for any sign of humor or irony. Nothing but stark, hungry certainty. The proposition, delivered with the urgency of a universal decree, was irresistible precisely because of its blatant possessiveness. Bruce knew he should argue, demand romance, or at least a dinner, but the sheer force of Clark’s will was intoxicating.

Bruce cleared his throat, adjusting his gauntlet self-consciously. “Tonight. My apartment. Not yours.”

Clark’s face split open into a blinding, ecstatic beam that could have powered the entire Eastern Seaboard. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.” He gave a sharp nod, then vanished, leaving a sudden vacuum of heat and sound.

Bruce was left alone, the fog swirling around his boots, grappling with the fact that he had just agreed to a sex date requested by an omnipotent stalker. He’s really that obsessed, Bruce thought, a strange mixture of terror and desire coalescing in his gut.

Bruce returned to his Gotham apartment—a discreet, sanctuary near the docks, far removed from the overly-monitored opulence of the world. He wasn’t a meticulous housekeeper, but the apartment was never truly dirty; Alfred’s silent efficiency extended even to this distant sanctuary. Still, Bruce moved through the space, straightening the few abstract sculptures, adjusting the blinds, enacting a physical ritual of control before submitting to a loss of it.

He stripped the armor and spent twenty minutes in a scalding shower, meticulously washing away the grime of Gotham and the lingering, intrusive scent of Clark's passage. He packed the cowl, cape, and weapons into a hidden compartment behind the medicine cabinet, sealing away the Bat. Tonight, there was only Bruce.

Dressed only in a pair of dark silk pajama pants—a deliberate, soft vulnerability—Bruce stood by the window overlooking the hazy sprawl of the city. He checked the time, 23:47. Right on schedule.

The knock on the door was quiet, almost hesitant, a polite fiction used by a man who could easily atomize the reinforced steel frame. Even knowing it was coming, the sound nearly took Bruce’s breath away. His heart hammered violently against his ribs.

He pulled the door open. Clark stood there, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, his dark hair gleaming under the hallway light, practically vibrating with suppressed energy. His eyes were wider, brighter than usual.

“Hello, Bruce,” Clark breathed, his voice rich and low.

Bruce managed a genuine, albeit nervous, smile. “Hello, Clark. Come in.” He stepped aside, watching as his lover glided past. Clark smelled of fresh air and something impossibly clean and warm.

Bruce locked the heavy door, throwing the deadbolt with a decisive thunk. He turned to face his boyfriend, intending to make some small talk about the weather or the shift.

He never got the chance.

Clark didn’t walk; he hovered. He rose barely an inch off the ground, bringing his face level with Bruce’s 6’2” height, a small, arrogant display of latent power. Then, he surged forward.

The kiss was instantaneous, overwhelming the air and space between them. Bruce was shocked, his mind scrambling to catch up, but his body betrayed him instantly, a soft moan escaping as he pressed back. Clark kissed him with a primal, focused hunger, one hand cupping the back of Bruce’s head, anchoring him in place, the other sliding down to grip the small of his back, pulling their bodies flush.

The way Clark kissed him was devastatingly familiar yet terrifyingly new. It was a kiss of conquest and devotion, slow enough to draw out the contact, yet bruising enough to make Bruce’s lips ache. His knees went weak, and when Clark finally pulled back, Bruce’s ears were beet red, his breathing shallow and quick.

“I’ve wanted to do that, right there, since noon,” Clark confessed, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Then why not do it at noon?” Bruce panted, leaning heavily against the door.

“Because if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to stop,” Clark replied, his eyes dark with serious intent. “And stopping tonight is not on the agenda.”

Clark took Bruce’s hand, his grip firm yet gentle, and led him across the polished dark wood floor toward the bedroom, a path that felt less like walking and more like being towed by a high-velocity current.

They reached the edge of the bed, the silk sheets inviting against Bruce’s bare skin. Clark stopped, folding his arms. The air, thick with arousal, turned suddenly taut with tension.

“Before we go further,” Clark began, his tone formal, “we need to clarify something—a logistical hurdle, if you will.”

“The roles,” Bruce finished, already knowing where this was headed.

“Yes Bruce. I know how you operate in every conceivable capacity. And I know your preferences regarding submission and control.” Clark paused, studying Bruce with an unnervingly clinical gaze. “I want you, Bruce. Entirely. But I need you to understand: I do not bottom. Ever.”

A flicker of defiance sparked in Bruce’s eyes. He wasn’t adverse to topping, but tonight, given Clark’s overwhelming presence, he had secretly hoped to be entirely consumed. He wanted to feel the full, impossible weight of Clark’s devotion pressing down on him.

“That’s rather absolute, Clark,” Bruce challenged, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Given the circumstances of our roles in the rest of our lives, I thought perhaps sharing control, or even relinquishing it, would be... healthy.”

“Healthy is an irrelevant concept in this context, Bruce. This is instinct. This is essential,” Clark countered, his voice losing its softness, gaining a metallic edge. “I cannot be penetrated. I am the boundary, the container. I am the one designed to overcome resistance. You, my love, are the resistance I wish to overcome.”

He took another aggressive step forward, closing the distance. “The truth is, Bruce, I need to feel the tangible proof of my control over you tonight. Anything less would be a fundamental betrayal of my own nature. And frankly, of this need I have for you.”

Bruce scoffed, partly in amusement, partly in a vain attempt to regain the upper hand. “Control, huh? Fine. But you need to temper that absolute confidence, Kal-El. I have certain expectations. I’m something of a size queen, you know. You might not match up to what I’m accustomed to.”

It was a blatant, calculated provocation. Bruce knew exactly how sensitive Clark was about proving his fundamental superiority in all matters.

Clark went absolutely still. Then, a low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his throat, a sound Bruce had rarely heard outside of a major planetary catastrophe. His eyes flashed a brief, alarming shade of infrared.

“Challenge accepted, darling,” Clark snarled, the teasing gone, replaced by a fierce, undeniable hunger.

Before Bruce could process the shift, Clark surged. He didn’t use his hands to strip Bruce; he simply shoved. Bruce tumbled backward onto the down comforter, landing with a soft whoomp.

Clark wasted no time. He was on the bed in a flash, kneeling between Bruce’s legs, his hands tearing at the silk pajama bottoms. The thin fabric ripped easily where the seams met resistance, pulled down and discarded in a single, rough movement.

Bruce felt a blush spread from his chest up to his neck. He was completely exposed, anticipating the next move with a breathless, shy eagerness that was entirely at odds with his usual stoicism.

Clark merely knelt there for a moment, his perfect gaze tracing every line of Bruce’s body—the lean, scarred torso, the tightly wound abdomen, the heavy, eager arousal straining against his skin.

“You are perfection,” Clark whispered, dropping his head to kiss the flat plane of Bruce’s stomach. “A monument carved from trauma and dedication.”

Then, Clark sat up, swiftly unbuttoning and peeling off his own black t-shirt. His chest was everything Bruce expected: wide, impossibly sculpted, radiating an invisible but palpable heat. The sight was intoxicating, but it was nothing compared to the reveal that followed.

Clark stood quickly, his jeans dropping to the floor. Bruce’s breath hitched, turning into a soft, strangled gasp.

Clark was enormous.

Not just large, or well-endowed. He was colossal, thick, and perfectly formed. It was a terrifying, intimidating display of physical dominance that left Bruce’s earlier tease feeling utterly ridiculous. Nothing close to small. This was a biological impossibility, an implement designed for absolute pleasure and complete subjugation.

“Satisfied, size queen?” Clark asked, a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained serious, locked on Bruce’s reaction.

Bruce could only shake his head, speechless, a breathless, affirmative noise leaving his throat.

Clark didn’t wait for a verbal reply. He climbed fully onto the bed, looming over Bruce. He leaned down, settling their mouths together again, this time with a deep, sensual rhythm. While their mouths devoured each other, Clark’s right hand traveled down, finding Bruce’s already slick arousal and wrapping around him, stroking with a devastating combination of strength and tenderness.

His left hand, however, was dedicated solely to Bruce’s chest.

Clark repositioned them, shifting until Bruce lay flat beneath him. He slid his hand beneath Bruce’s shoulder blades, lifting him slightly, allowing Clark full access to the sculpted expanse of Bruce’s pectorals.

Clark began to kiss, suck, and lick the dense muscle. He was obsessed, tracing the line of the sternum with his tongue, then moving to the hard, unyielding mass of the chest. He squeezed the tissue in his hands, pulling gently, kneading, then dropped his mouth back down to suck fiercely on Bruce’s right nipple until Bruce writhed beneath him, arching his back and letting out a high, distressed mewl.

“Yes, that’s it,” Clark murmured against Bruce’s skin, his voice muffled by flesh. “You feel this? This is all mine, Bruce. This strength, this dedication. I claim it.”

He began to enter him slowly, agonizingly, pushing into Bruce with a depth that felt both impossible and inevitable. Bruce gasped, his fingers digging into Clark’s shoulders, feeling the granite hardness of the absolute man above him.

They settled into a torturous rhythm. Clark kept his pace deliberately slow and deep, focusing entirely on Bruce’s overwhelmed reactions. The friction was monumental, overwhelming all of Bruce’s senses. As he thrust, Clark kept up a running, possessive monologue, his voice husky and rough.

“You are perfect, Bruce. Do you hear me? Your mind is a weapon, yes, but your body… your body is the most beautiful testament to resilience I have ever encountered. Every scar, every hardened muscle—it is all proof of your endless fight. And I love fighting you. But I love winning you more.”

“Clark,” Bruce gasped, his eyes squeezed shut, the sound half a plea, half a warning. “S-stop talking.”

“Never,” Clark insisted, driving a deep, foundational thrust home. “I need you to know what I’m seeing, what I’m holding. You are beautiful. Sexy. You look like the greatest victory I’ve ever achieved, spread out beneath me like this.”

He shifted his weight, grinding their hips together, pushing Bruce toward an edge he didn’t know how to navigate. Bruce could only manage small, sharp moans and soft, strangled mewls, his hands now clutching blindly at Clark’s back, pulling him closer to the devastating impact.

Clark began to speed up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his focus narrowing until all that existed was the pounding heat of their connection.

He leaned down close to Bruce’s ear, his voice barely a breath, but amplified by the intensity of the moment, the air thick with sweat and ozone.

“Tell me, Bruce. When I have you like this, completely filled and pinned down, do you ever fantasize about me destroying something else of yours? Something you cherish? Just to prove that my power over you extends everywhere?”

Bruce shuddered violently, the question catching him in the peak of the mounting tension. It was horrifyingly intrusive, utterly possessive, and impossibly, unbearably sexy. The darkness of the question, the sheer, ruthless entitlement in Clark’s tone, was the ultimate turn-on.

“Y-yes,” Bruce choked out, the word escaping as a strangled cry.

Clark roared, a primal sound of triumph, and slammed into him four more times, pulling both of them over the edge into a fierce, blinding climax.

They collapsed back onto the soaked sheets. Bruce was panting, completely spent, his body heavy and pleasantly aching. Clark rolled off him slightly, still partially inside, his head thrown back.

“God, Bruce,” Clark whispered, his voice laced with awe. “That was… necessary.”

After a few minutes, Clark gently pulled out, leaving Bruce with a hollow ache and a desire for more.

“Up,” Clark commanded quietly, pulling Bruce up by the wrist.

“Clark, I can barely—”

“I’ll hold you,” he promised.

Clark pulled Bruce to his feet. Standing naked, they were momentarily eye-to-eye, the height difference negated by Bruce’s slightly shaky stance. Clark kissed him once, softly, then turned him around, pressing Bruce’s back against the cool, painted brick of the bedroom wall.

Clark lifted Bruce’s hips, wrapping his legs securely around Clark’s waist. The position was instantly more dominating, more brutal. Bruce felt entirely helpless, utterly supported, and deeply exposed.

Clark re-entered him with a swift, hard thrust that left Bruce gasping into the cool air of the room. This was faster, more aggressive. Clark didn’t ramble now; he grunted and swore, each sound a declaration of possession. Bruce found his voice again, letting out rough, unrestrained moans of pure physical pleasure, the soft mewls of before replaced by hungry cries.

Clark braced one hand against the wall beside Bruce’s head, the other cupping and lifting Bruce’s heavy buttocks, maximizing the depth and impact. The pressure against the wall, the feeling of being entirely lifted and used, broke down the last of Bruce’s control. He was thrashing his head, his hands gripping Clark’s shoulders so hard he knew he was bruising him—though Clark wouldn’t feel it.

“Look at me, Bruce!” Clark demanded, his own face contorted with exertion and pleasure.

Bruce forced his heavy eyelids open, meeting the blazing blue intensity of Clark’s eyes.

“Tell me who is making you feel good,” Clark insisted, ramming up violently, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

“Y-you!” Bruce cried, the word tearing from his throat, a confession of love and subjugation.

Clark let out a triumphant roar, his body tensing into an impossible rigidity. He drove into Bruce one final, absolute time, and they both collapsed against the wall, slick with sweat and climax.

Clark lowered Bruce carefully back to the floor, never breaking contact. They stood there, breathing hard, their bodies fused, the absolute universe around them forgotten for this single, perfect moment of intimacy forged from obsession.

“Mine,” Clark confirmed in a ragged whisper, pressing his forehead against Bruce’s. “Always.”

Bruce didn’t bother replying. He simply leaned into the strength of the man who had just claimed him—body, mind, and soul—in the most absolute way possible. He was exhausted, satisfied, and, terrifyingly, he was already looking forward to the next time Clark's obsession demanded this level of fierce, beautiful devotion.

Chapter Text

The air in the library, usually stale with the scent of aging paper and polished mahogany, felt charged—not with electricity, but with a tension that was uniquely Bruce’s when he was trying to be brave.

He sat on the edge of a vast chesterfield sofa, his fine, deep-navy suit looking impeccable, contrasting sharply with the anxious, fidgeting energy radiating from him. He kept his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug, refusing to meet the concerned, patient eyes of the man sitting opposite him.

Clark waited. Clark had seen Bruce nervous before presenting a new, high-tech gadget to the Justice League, or before facing a particularly challenging board meeting. But this nervousness was different; it was intensely personal and laced with a hesitant arousal.

“Bruce,” Clark finally prompted, his voice a low rumble, worn slightly smoother by the passing years—years which meant he had far more experience, far more caution, than his partner. “You called me down here on a day when both our schedules were already running on fumes. Whatever this is, just say it.”

Bruce swallowed hard. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, a subtle tic that gave away the depth of his apprehension. “Right. Look… I’ve been reading. And researching. Not necessarily about gadgetry, though that’s where the practical application comes in.”

“Researching what, exactly?” Clark leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

Bruce finally risked a look up, meeting Clark’s gaze for a fleeting moment before quickly dipping his chin, biting his lip hard enough to leave a white indentation. He began playing nervously with his own hands, twining his fingers together and aggressively studying them.

“Sensory deprivation, primarily,” Bruce mumbled, the words almost swallowed by the cavernous room. “And… electricity.”

Clark blinked slowly. He wasn’t shocked—after thirteen years, Bruce Wayne could rarely shock him—but he was certainly processing.

“Electricity, Bruce? Are we talking about a new kind of Taser defense, or are we moving into medical treatments for chronic pain?”

“Neither, Clark,” Bruce clarified, forcing himself to speak louder, the blush rising high on his cheekbones. “I mean… within the context of pleasure. Of relinquishment. Of control.”

Clark sat back, crossing his arms. The silence stretched, thick and judgmental. He looked at Bruce—Batman, the man who controlled every variable in his life down to the millisecond—suggesting a scenario where he would willingly give up sight, hearing, and the ability to move, only to be subjected to highly controlled electric shocks.

“Bruce, you know how sensitive I am to energy fields,” Clark stated, worry immediately etching lines around his eyes.

“My concentration has to be absolute to avoid… well, vaporizing you. Even the lightest touch of residual energy could feel like a cattle prod.”

“I know that, Clark,” Bruce said quickly, rising slightly and shuffling into the space between them. “That’s why I took the standard prototype I designed for non-lethal crowd control, and I modified it. Extensively. It’s calibrated. Precise. It’s a low-voltage, extremely localized current.” Bruce gestured vaguely toward the mahogany desk.

“I want to try it out. With you.”

He looked up again, his dark eyes wide and pleading, the nervousness replaced by a desperate, hopeful excitement.

“I want you to be the one administering it, Clark. I want the blindfold. I want the cuffs. Face down on the bed, so that the only thing I can process is the feeling of your presence—and the sensation of the electricity or your hands. I want to feel completely reliant on you for every sensation, every moment of relief or pain.”

Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose, the gesture conveying a profound weariness. His expression tightened with deep concern. “Bruce, I’m serious. If anything goes wrong—”

Bruce rushed forward, closing the distance instantly. He gently took Clark’s large, calloused hands—hands that could crush diamonds or cradle a newborn—and held them between his own. His voice dropped to a quiet, intense plea.

“You would never hurt me, Clark.” The conviction in the statement was absolute, stripping away all anxiety. “You are the safest person in my life. You’re always too careful, too gentle. This is why I need you to be the one to push this boundary. I need to know that you are going to be hyper-vigilant, that you’ll stop if anything is even remotely too much, but also that you won’t let me back out of the depravation the moment it gets intense. I need you to be utterly ruthless in your control.”

Bruce held the grip tight, his eyes locking on Clark’s. “Please, Clark. I’ve been working on this for three months. I trust you explicitly.”

Clark looked down at their joined hands. Bruce’s hands, pale and fine, resting against his own, weathered by years of farm work and rescue missions. He pulled one hand away, raising it to his forehead, rubbing firmly.

“I’m too old for this, Bruce,” Clark muttered, the phrase heavy with the weight of responsibility. “I feel like I should be setting up a retirement fund, not figuring out the precise amperage to give the world’s most famous trauma magnet a good time.”

“Don’t joke about it if you’re worried,” Bruce insisted, though a small smile touched his lips.

“I’m worried, Bruce! You want me to inflict sensations that mimic pain, and then disappear so you can’t tell where I am. That’s a massive amount of trust you’re putting in my ability to manage your mind under duress, and my powers under pressure.”

“And I have absolute faith in you on both counts,” Bruce countered firmly. “If it helps, the prototype is built with internal failsafes. It will only discharge for a maximum of 0.8 seconds before rebooting, regardless of how long the trigger is held.”

Clark sighed, letting his hand drop. He looked at the prototype sitting innocently on the desk—a small, ergonomically curved device attached to a thin wrist strap. He chuckled faintly as he noticed the design of the contact point.

“You’ve put a hand shape on the contact point?”

Bruce flushed again, but nodded proudly. “It just made sense! It provides maximum surface area contact for the sensation to spread lightly, giving the feeling of a wide, momentary sting rather than a focused burn. I thought… it was a little funny.”

Clark shook his head, a resigned smile replacing the concern. The things Bruce designed for fun.

“Alright, Bruce. I agree,” Clark conceded, the weight of the decision settling on him instantly. “But we have safewords, and we stick to the calibration. And if I hear anything that sounds like genuine distress, the cuffs come off immediately.”

“Agreed. Thank you, Clark.” Bruce’s relief was palpable, making his spine straighten and the nervousness instantly transition into focused anticipation.

________________________

The rest of the day was spent in meticulous, silent preparation. Bruce left nothing to chance. Acoustic dampeners were engaged in the master suite, absorbing external sound and muffling internal noise. Thick, plush blankets were laid beneath the bed sheets, ensuring maximum cushioning. The room was swept clean of anything reflective or noisy. Clark monitored Bruce’s frantic work with an almost parental patience, checking the batteries on the prototype and ensuring the handcuffs were the specialized, quick-release steel restraints Bruce preferred.

By 10:47 PM, the room was a sanctuary of controlled environment. Bruce was showered, his skin faintly scented with sandalwood soap. He called Clark in, standing near the massive, four-poster bed.

“Come here, darling,” Bruce murmured, his eyes gleaming with excitement. He shuffles over to his lover, pulling him further into the opulent but now strangely sterile room.

Clark stepped inside, taking in the environment. The only light source was a single, dim red lamp in the corner—just enough for him to see the outlines of Bruce’s body, but not enough to counteract the impending sensory deprivation.

“It feels… quiet,” Clark observed, his voice automatically dropping low.

“It is. And that’s what I need from you too, Clark,” Bruce said, his voice husky with anticipation. “Once the blindfold is on, total silence from you. No telling me where you are. No heavy footsteps—which should be easy enough for you.” Bruce smiled fleetingly. “Just your presence. I need to feel it, but not hear it. It’ll make the shocks feel louder, more defined.”

Clark nodded slowly, tucking the hand-shaped prototype safely into the back pocket of his sweatpants. He looked at Bruce—lean, wound tight, trembling slightly with nervous anticipation.

“Ready?” Clark asked, his voice barely a breath.

“Ready.” Bruce stripped down to his boxer briefs, his body lean and sculpted, crisscrossed with old, faint scars that Clark knew better than the back of his own hand.

Bruce turned his back and approached the bed. He stopped, looking over his shoulder at Clark, that flicker of nervous vulnerability returning.

“This is it,” he breathed.

“This is it,” Clark confirmed, his voice gentle but firm. “On your stomach, Bruce. Hands out in front of you.”

Bruce obeyed immediately, sinking onto the soft mattress. The plush sheets muffled the sound of his body settling. Clark approached, securing the handcuffs around Bruce’s wrists, which were stretched above his head and clipped securely to the headboard frame.

The blindfold was next—thick, black silk that instantly plunged Bruce into darkness.

“Can you hear me now?” Clark whispered, standing right over him.

“Faintly. Your voice is muffled, localized,” Bruce replied, his voice already sounding tighter.

“Good. Now, silence.” Clark gave the silk one last tug, ensuring no light bled through.

Clark then moved to the sound-dampening system Bruce had installed—a subtle dial hidden beneath a framed picture—and turned it up slightly. The effect was immediate. For Bruce, the room was now utter, profound darkness and silence. It was a vacuum, save for the thumping roar of his own heart and the ragged pattern of his breathing.

For Clark, however, the silence was only external. He could hear the blood rushing in Bruce’s veins, the tension in his muscles, the erratic, increasingly quickened rhythm of his heartbeat. He didn't have to hear Bruce move; he could feel the minute shift in air pressure, the slight warming of the sheets where Bruce’s body pressed down. Clark moved, his steps now completely silent, utilizing the minimal floating ability he reserved for situations that demanded absolute discretion.

He hovered over Bruce, studying the tension in his shoulders, the rigidity of his spine. This was the moment of complete surrender. Bruce was entirely in his hands.

Clark took the prototype from his pocket. The plastic felt warm and familiar in his hand.

He waited five agonizing seconds, letting the silence and the deprivation settle. He heard Bruce let out a tiny, involuntary whimper—the sound of profound sensory deprivation starting to impact his equilibrium.

Trust me, Bruce. Trust this.

Clark pressed the contact point of the prototype—the cartoonish, hand-shaped conductor—firmly against the tense muscle of Bruce’s left thigh. He depressed the trigger.

Zzzzztt.

The sound for Clark was minimal, a tiny electronic buzz. For Bruce, in the vacuum of silence, it was a blinding, instantaneous sting that encompassed a wide area of his leg. His body arched upward instinctively, a sharp, gasping inhale tearing through the quiet.

He felt the electricity dissipate almost instantly. The warmth lingered, a buzzing ghost sensation.

Clark waited. He moved his hand, running his thumb lightly over the sensitive, tense skin just behind Bruce’s knee. Clark’s touch, always warm, felt like a beacon in the darkness.

Bruce desperately tried to localize the touch, his mind racing. Where exactly was Clark? How close? Was he still standing?

Clark moved again, floating silently to the other side of the bed. He knelt, his presence pressing down on the mattress just slightly. He pressed the prototype firmly against Bruce’s right flank, high up near his ribs.

Zzzzztt.

Another sharp, shocking sting, this one higher and more sudden. Bruce yelled—a muffled sound that didn’t quite escape the soundproofing but registered as a raw sound of relief and shock simultaneously. His hips bucked once, hard.

Clark didn't speak. He gently ran his knuckles along Bruce’s spine, tracing the sharp ridge of bone before moving his hand down to the curve of Bruce’s firm buttocks.

He raised his hand and brought it down hard.

SMACK

The slap resonated, momentarily stealing the air from Bruce’s lungs. It was firm, authoritative, and perfectly aimed.

Clark immediately brought his hand up again, delivering a rapid sequence of three more sharp smacks, leaving Bruce’s skin stinging and glowing red under the dim light.

Bruce twisted slightly, trying to press his hips further into the mattress, chasing the pain and the rapidly building chaos in his senses.

Clark moved lower, spreading Bruce’s legs slightly. His hand slid between Bruce’s legs, finding the sensitive, already heavy arousal that Bruce carried beneath the briefs. Clark hooked a finger inside the waistband and pulled the fabric down and off, tossing it silently onto the floor.

Clark bent his head low, hovering just inches from Bruce’s ear, but remained silent. He could hear Bruce’s frantic, shallow breathing.

He pushed two fingers deep into Bruce, finding the internal seam of tightness instantly. Bruce cried out, a sound of pure need muffled by the blindfold.

Clark began a slow, agonizingly precise rotation of his fingers, pressing into Bruce’s prostate, eliciting sharp, desperate pleas that were internal and unheard by anyone but Clark.

The sensory deprivation combined with the intense, localized pleasure was overwhelming. Bruce was drowning. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t locate his lover, only feel the relentless invasion and the sudden, sharp sting of the electricity.

Clark stopped the fingering abruptly. Utter silence returned, save for Bruce’s choking gasps.

Bruce waited, muscles clenched, heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest. He desperately missed the feeling of Clark inside him. The shift from intense pleasure to total absence was far more effective than any pain.

Clark remained silent for perhaps ten seconds, the weight of his invisible presence pressing down. Just as Bruce was about to move, to beg for the touch to return, Clark moved the prototype.

He placed the hand-shaped contact on the very center of Bruce’s buttocks, right on the stinging, newly reddened skin.

Zzzzztt.

Bruce screamed into the pillow, a sharp, rattling sound that tore through his throat. The shock was immediately followed by a hard, open-palmed spank against the reddened flesh.

Clark resumed his fingering, moving faster now, pressing harder.

Clark leaned down, moving his mouth close to Bruce’s ear, his voice a low, commanding whisper—the first sound Bruce had heard from him in precious, agonizing minutes.

“Are you enjoying the deprivation, darling?”

Bruce whimpered, arching back desperately, trying to wrap his legs around Clark’s arm. “Yes! Clark, please, keep going! Don’t stop!”

Clark pulled his fingers out, leaving an immediate, vast emptiness. He moved up toward Bruce’s back.

“Good. Then tell me, Bruce, did you eat enough for an activity like this?” Clark’s voice was low, testing.

Bruce was too far gone, lost in the sensory chaos and the crushing need for release. He ignored the mundane question, his body twitching with leftover pleasure and craving.

“Clark, please, harder! I need you to push back in! Now!” Bruce begged, his voice raw.

Clark waited. He repeated the question, making his tone slightly colder. “I asked you a question, B. Answer me.”

Bruce still didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The need was too immediate; the control he was supposed to be maintaining over his own mind had shattered. He only cared about the release.

Clark responded instantly. He tapped the prototype against the back of Bruce’s calf.

Zzzzztt. Zzzzztt. Zzzzztt.

Three quick, sharp bursts, followed by a heavy, corrective spank that jarred Bruce’s entire frame.

“AH! STOP! Okay, okay!” Bruce cried out, choking on the sound. He was thrashing slightly, restrained by the cuffs. “No, I had a protein shake! A protein shake and an apple! Don’t stop the fingering, please, I need you back inside!”

Clark ignored the frantic demands. This was the moment Bruce tested the boundary—demanding the ultimate conclusion (fucking) before Clark had decided the session was ready for it. Bruce was supposed to be submissive, but he was attempting to dictate the pace.

Clark moved slightly away, standing up silently and floating approximately six inches above the floor. His movements were completely lost to Bruce; the subtle air shifts that even a human could sometimes hear were gone. Clark was an invisible, silent god hovering over his petitioner. The room was utterly devoid of sound, save Bruce’s ragged breaths.

Bruce, feeling the sudden, complete absence of Clark’s physical presence, panicked.

“Clark? Clark, where are you? Don’t go silent on me now! I need you here! I need you to fuck me, please! I’m ready, Daddy! I need you inside!” Bruce was whining, trying to twist his head away from the pillow.

The use of the pet name, used in a demand for accelerated climax rather than a plea for permission, was the final boundary push. Clark’s expression hardened. Bruce had asked for control; now he would receive the consequences of rebellion.

Clark landed silently right next to the bed, the mattress not even shifting under his weight. He reached out and, with a controlled, sudden force, yanked Bruce’s cuffed hands upward, pulling his shoulders taut against the restraint. Bruce let out a sharp, surprised yelp as his torso stretched.

Clark positioned himself perfectly behind Bruce’s exposed, trembling buttocks.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The spanking was disciplined, hard, and non-sexual—meant purely for correction. Bruce writhed desperately against the cuffs, the pain immediate and deep.

“Clark! Stop! It hurts! Please, Clark, I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!” Bruce cried out, hiccuping violently into the pillow. He was completely broken down, the boundaries of control, electricity, and sensory overload finally combining to bring him to his knees—or rather, his stomach. He wriggled uselessly, attempting to escape the punishing blows.

Clark delivered one final, stinging strike that elicited a raw, high-pitched cry.

“You will be silent and still, Bruce,” Clark commanded, his voice sharp and utterly devoid of tenderness. “Your body belongs to me right now. You do not dictate terms.”

Bruce’s wriggling ceased instantly, replaced by exhausted, shuddering obedience. He was sobbing now, the tears soaking the silk blindfold and staining the pillowcase. The sheer intensity of the correction, combined with the earlier sensory chaos, had pushed him far past his limit.

“Daddy, please, I’m so sorry,” Bruce cried out, between racking hiccups. “I won’t do it again. I promise. Please, stop.”

Clark looked down at the vulnerable, trembling man beneath him. The anger melted instantly, replaced by a fierce, protective devotion. Bruce had truly submitted, pushed the boundaries until they snapped, and now needed only comfort.

Clark immediately reached out and gently stroked Bruce’s sweat-drenched, tear-streaked hair.

“There you go, baby,” Clark murmured, his voice instantly softening, moving back to the gentle warmth Bruce desperately craved. He slowly lowered Bruce’s yanked hands back down to a comfortable level. “Shh. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Clark reached for the quick-release mechanism on the handcuffs, unlatching them silently. He pulled the thick, black silk blindfold away, allowing the dim red light to flood Bruce’s vision.

Bruce blinked rapidly against the light, his eyes swollen and red, filled with tears and spit. Clark gently wiped the slickness from Bruce’s face with the back of his hand, his touch infinitely reassuring.

“It’s okay,” Clark repeated, his voice laced with love and regret that he had to push Bruce to that point. “You pushed too hard, darling. But you’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He pulled Bruce into a sitting position, cradling him tightly for a full minute as Bruce continued to gasp and hiccup, burying his face into Clark’s neck.

“I’ve missed you,” Bruce whispered brokenly, referring to the absence of Clark’s presence.

“I was right here, baby. And I’m not leaving now.”

Clark gently laid Bruce back down on the bed, turning him onto his back. He peeled the damp, clinging briefs off Bruce’s legs completely. Bruce’s legs splayed open, revealing the heavy, swollen arousal that was still desperate for release. His skin was mottled red from the spanking and faintly pink where the prototype had stung him.

Clark leaned down and kissed Bruce, a long, deep kiss that was pure, uncomplicated adoration.

“Ready for me now?” Clark asked softly.

Bruce nodded weakly, his throat too tight for a proper answer, but his hands already reaching up to grip Clark’s shoulders.

Clark settled between Bruce’s legs, taking his time, making sure that every movement was deliberate and loving. This was no longer about control or correction; it was about intimacy and release.

He guided his entry slowly, pressing deep into the familiar warmth. Bruce gasped, the shift from pain and fear to intense, prolonged pleasure overwhelming him.

Clark began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm. Bruce was already sensitive, his entire pelvic region still humming from the earlier electronic stings and the fierce punishment.

“Clark… God, slower,” Bruce begged, the words catching in his throat, even though his hips were bucking upward, trying to meet the force.

“No more control, Bruce. Just feeling,” Clark murmured, leaning down to kiss Bruce’s neck, his movements becoming more aggressive, pouring all the pent-up tension and worry from the earlier session into a rhythmic, consuming act of love.

Bruce was lost, his hands gripping Clark’s back, digging his nails in. The world was reduced to the feeling of Clark inside him, immense and filling, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

Clark’s pace increased to a near frenzy, pushing Bruce past the brink. With a final, deep thrust, Clark felt Bruce seize up around him.

Bruce went utterly cross-eyed, a strangled shout tearing from his chest as he convulsed around Clark. The resulting orgasm was total, draining, and incredibly intense. Clark watched Bruce’s face for a moment, waiting until the last tremors subsided, before tipping his head back and releasing his own climax, flooding Bruce deeply, stuffing him full of hot, thick release.

Bruce let out a moan of profound satisfaction, his eyes still half-lidded, utterly spent.

Clark pulled out slowly, gently, breathing heavily. He remained kneeling between Bruce’s splayed legs, staring down in absolute admiration. Cum leaked generously from Bruce, mixing with slickness and trailing down the inside of his pale thighs. Bruce’s legs were left wide open and twitching slightly, creating a perfect, vulnerable display of his submission and satisfaction.

Bruce was still too blissed out to move, just lying there, panting, utterly stuffed and satisfied.

Clark moved quickly, quietly, grabbing a napkin from the bedside table and wiping the residual moisture from his own body. Bruce watched him lazily, a soft smile on his face.

Then, Clark reached behind him and picked up his phone from the nightstand.

Bruce, still gazing with exhausted adoration, saw the sudden, bright flash of light.

FLASH.

Bruce frowned, slowly registering the act. Clark had taken his phone and centered the focus—of course—on the cum leaking from Bruce’s spent, splayed body. The resulting image was intimate, raw, and highly pornographic.

“Clark!” Bruce exclaimed, a playful indignation creeping into his voice, though his lips were already curving into a smirk.

Clark lowered the phone, already setting the image as his new lock screen background. He beamed, looking immensely pleased with himself.

“Souvenir,” Clark simply stated, leaning down to capture the last remaining bit of Bruce’s pout. “A perfect record of what happens when you decide to be a little brat with your older, wiser lover, and then beg for mercy.”

Bruce reached up a hand and playfully smacked Clark’s solid shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

Clark readily obliged, tossing the phone aside and settling fully onto the bed, cradling Bruce tightly against his chest. The lingering stings and the fear of the silence were already fading, replaced by the profound, comforting warmth of their shared intimacy.

Chapter Text

The early morning hours clung to the high, gothic windows of Wayne Manor, a heavy, velvet darkness barely disturbed by the fragile glow of the moon. Only within the opulent, cavernous rooms did softer light radiate—specifically, from the nursery wing.

“No, no, no my love. Shhhhhh. It’s okay,” Bruce's voice, usually a low gravel reserved for masked alter-egos and high-stakes board meetings, was now stretched thin, laced with exhaustion, and pitched in a gentle, rhythmic hum.

The sound met Clark’s ears long before Bruce’s words registered fully. Clark had been drifting in the liminal space between sleep and hyper-awareness—the kind of sleep a Kryptonian takes when he’s subconsciously filtering out every siren, every faint whisper of distress, in a five-hundred-mile radius.

The other sound, the sharp, percussive hiccuping baby that followed Bruce’s soothing attempt, cut through Clark’s remaining haze, pulling him fully into the reality of their chaotic, beautiful life. He blinked, the deep blue of the pre-dawn sky visible only beyond the heavy velvet curtains of their master suite.

Beside him, Dickie—now a big 10, but still their first baby, curled tightly under a heavy duvet—stirred, rubbing the sleep from his own tired eyes.

“B, did I cry that much when I was a baby?” Dick asked, his voice muffled against his pillow, looking toward the source of the noise with genuine concern.

Bruce, who was across the corridor now, swaying gently with little Tim cradled against his chest, paused his rhythmic shushing and turned his tired eyes toward his lovely little boy. He managed a smile that didn't quite reach the dark circles beneath his eyes, and shook his head emphatically.

“No, Richard, you were a silent, angelic terror,” Bruce called back, his tone attempting levity, but failing slightly. "You saved all your drama for your toddler years and I'm sure it'll get worse. Timmy here, he's just expressing his profound dissatisfaction with the human condition immediately upon waking."

He turned back to his crying Tim. Tim’s little cries weren’t earth-shattering wails, just persistent, pathetic little cries of discomfort that seemed to pierce Bruce’s sleep-deprived soul. Bruce lifted his baby closer to his chest, placing a gentle kiss on the soft, downy hair.

‘God, what am I doing,’ Bruce thought, the sheer crushing weight of the last six months—the pregnancy, the birth, the endless nights, the relentless worry—descending on him like a lead cape.

‘This feels like hell. I haven't even gone out on patrol in weeks, this is madness. The city must think I’ve abdicated. And where the hell is Clark? He was supposed to be handling the night shift.’

Just as the mental exhaustion reached its peak, Bruce broke out of his thoughts. He whipped around, ready to launch a tirade about shared responsibilities and the unfair burden of single-handedly managing a manor, four children, and the emotional complexities of a tiny human.

But he didn't get the chance.

His lover, the infuriatingly perfect Kryptonian, already stood framed in the doorway, moving with the quiet grace of a ghost. Clark wasn’t just awake; he was actively parenting. Clark already had Dick and Jason—who had apparently followed Bruce down the hall—in his arms. Jason was slumped against Clark’s shoulder, half-awake and slightly irritated with the persistent cries.

“Don’t start, B,” Clark whispered, his voice deep and soothing, even across the distance. “I was up at three with a city-wide power outage, then I had to replace a satellite.”

Bruce felt a light ease in the air, a tiny bubble of stress popping, as his baby’s cries momentarily hitched up at the sight of his other Dad. Tim, currently a wriggling bundle of distress, craned his neck, focusing with wide, watery blue eyes on Clark. Tim let out a delighted, albeit hiccuping, gurgle.

There is no way Bruce carried him for nine months just for his son to turn out like Richard, being a number one Clark fan.

“Tsk,” Bruce rolled his eyes, a sound more theatrical than genuine. He adjusted Tim, holding him firmly, stubbornly refusing to relinquish his child, despite his own bone-deep fatigue.

“He loves you, Bruce,” Clark said softly, already moving toward him. Jason, still clinging to his father, mumbled something incoherent about being too bright.

“He loves the sunlight you generate, Kal,” Bruce retorted, though the sharpness was dissolving, replaced by a slow, creeping tenderness.

Clark reached them, and before Bruce could launch another defensive verbal volley, Clark leaned down, careful not to jostle his sons, and kissed Bruce deeply—a soft, tired morning kiss that tasted faintly of sleep and toothpaste.

That got a reaction out of all his kids.

“Ewww, Dad no! Not while we’re here!” Jason groaned dramatically, burying his face deeper into Clark’s neck. He covered the back of his head with one hand, shutting his eyes tight.

Dick, meanwhile, grinned, already far too familiar with his parents’ PDA. “Aw come on, Jay, they’re happy,” Dick smiled at his brother’s stress, taking a malicious delight in the drama. “Be supportive of the parental bonding.”

Even little Timmy, caught between his two parents, gave a light, wet gurgle at their union, reaching a tiny fist toward Clark's jaw. Bruce felt a profound, deep love swell in his chest—a feeling so vast it threatened to overwhelm him. Nothing mattered more than this chaotic, noisy, sleep-deprived moment. Nothing made him sad. Not anymore.

_________________________

Bruce lied. Something did make him unhappy. Terribly unhappy.

He stared into his bathroom mirror hours later, the stark, unforgiving light of the master bath amplifying every flaw, every shadow. He let out a low, shuddering sigh that felt drawn from the very marrow of his bones.

Behind him, in the ridiculously large, marble-tiled space, he could see Clark floating near the sink, pretending to organize his toiletries but perpetually eying him down like a guardian angel waiting for the crash.

“It doesn’t fit, Clark,” Bruce finally stated, the words clipped and flat, devoid of the theatrical anger he usually employed to mask deep, personal pain.

Bruce was upset, truly, deeply upset. The dress pants he had bought a while back—pre-pregnancy, pre-Tim—to wear to the charity gala tonight weren’t closing. They were off by perhaps an inch, but that inch felt like a mile. They didn’t just not close; they hugged his butt and thighs too tight, straining the material, accentuating the fullness he felt everywhere.

This is it. He was so done.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Clark inching closer toward him, moving with deliberate slowness. Clark’s expression was open, soft, ready to wrap his arms around Bruce and offer platitudes.

Bruce snapped around, fast as the Bat he hadn’t been in weeks, and stepped back sharply, putting the distance of the immense marble counter between them. His palms felt instantly sweaty, and his eyes burned with the stinging heat of unshed tears—tears of frustration, betrayal (of his own body), and profound self-hatred.

“Don’t you dare, you asshole!” Bruce hissed, his voice trembling on the edge of a scream. “Don’t you dare try to tell me everything is alright, because it is not! Look at me!”

His chest heaved, fueled by pure, desperate emotion. Anger? Betrayal? He didn't know the proper classification, only that it tasted like ash and swallowed all the light.

“Bruce, my love,” Clark began, his voice dropping an octave, instantly recognizing the severity of the emotional crisis.

“No! Shut up!” Bruce cut him off. He gestured fiercely at his middle, where the button gapped. “I look… I look soft, Clark. I look like a domesticated fool who hasn’t been able to leave the nursery for six months because I can barely fit into my armor, let alone these stupid pants!”

Clark’s eyes flashed with a sudden, profound sadness, as if something vital had broken between them, but the determination remained. He was focused only on repairing the hurt. He took a measured step towards Bruce again, radiating calm empathy.

“I know what this is about,” Clark stated, cautiously closing the distance. “This isn’t just about those trousers, Bruce. This is about what happens to your body after carrying our son. And I need you to understand something—”

“I don’t want to understand! I want to fit into my clothes!” Bruce yelled, taking another step back, hitting the cool tile of the wall. “I hate this! I hate the way I look! I hate tgis baby weight gain! I hate that I feel weak and slow and… and big!”

Clark reached out, fast yet gentle, closing the final space between them. He grabbed his lover before Bruce could make a desperate break for the door.

Bruce struggled against his hold for only a moment, his fists pushing uselessly against the breadth of Clark’s chest, ordering the Kryptonian to release him with choked sounds. Clark was resilient, holding him loosely but inescapably.

Soon, Bruce's struggle died down. The fight drained out of him, leaving him limp, leaning against Clark’s unwavering pillar of strength. He rested his forehead against the junction of Clark's neck and shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.

“I feel like a joke, Clark,” Bruce whispered, the confession tearing out of him, raw and desperate. “I look in the mirror and I just see this softness that wasn’t there before. This evidence of being… used up. I can’t—I can’t stand it. This isn't me.”

He began to sulk, a low, miserable whine vibrating in his throat. He clenched his fists, tears finally beginning to burn paths down his cheeks. He felt ridiculous, pathetic. He was the Batman, the apex predator, and he was nearly sobbing over a tailor’s measurement.

“Shhh, look at me, darling,” Clark murmured, his thumb gently wiping a tear from Bruce’s sharp cheekbone. “Don’t you dare say that about yourself. Don’t you ever think that.”

Clark leaned down, kissing the sensitive skin of Bruce’s neck, scattering little affirmations like soft rain.

“You are magnificent, Bruce. You are whole. You are beautiful,” Clark whispered against his skin. “You carried our son for nine months, something I could never do. You performed a miracle. That deserves a medal, not self-hatred.”

Bruce only shook his head, pressing his face into the warm column of Clark’s neck. “It just feels like this awful, heavy reminder.”

“Then let me remind you of something else,” Clark insisted, pulling back slightly just so Bruce could see the absolute conviction in his clear blue eyes.

“Let me remind you what I see. Every day. Every time I look at you. I see the man I love, the most resilient, glorious creature on this planet, who happened to have the most beautiful hips and the most perfect backside I have ever seen. And I want to show you, Bruce. I want to show you exactly how much I love every single inch of you, especially the parts you’re fighting with right now.”

Bruce didn't answer immediately. He looked up at Clark with an upset pout, his eyes red and watery. His internal conflict was a raging war: the desire to believe Clark, the desperate need for comfort, versus the relentless voice of self-loathing telling him Clark was just performing out of pity.

Bruce slowly lifted a hand, placing it on Clark’s jaw. He didn't speak the acceptance, but he leaned in, initiating the contact. He kissed Clark, a deep, sorrowful kiss, tasting of salt and anxiety. Clark returned the favor instantly, with a powerful, consuming hunger that promised both devotion and distraction.

The kiss escalated quickly. The desperate, anxious energy that had fueled Bruce’s anger now transferred into the kiss, a furious need to consume and be consumed.

Clark carefully maneuvered them deeper into the privacy of the bathroom space, away from the door, his hands moving with worshipful reverence over Bruce's body.

“These pants,” Clark muttered, pulling back only to breathe, his eyes dark with intent, “are a criminal offense, because they are hiding too much perfection. Let’s get rid of them.”

Clark began to strip Bruce, slowly, painstakingly. He treated the act not as foreplay, but as a ritual of praise. He pulled the trousers down, freeing Bruce's legs, the tightness around Bruce’s hips now exposed. Instead of moving on, Clark paused, his eyes traveling over the slight, new curve of Bruce’s stomach, the pronounced flare of his hips.

He cupped the fullness of Bruce’s ass, squeezing gently. “Look at this. My handsome man. My powerful, breathtaking man.”

Clark kissed every inch he unveiled. When he reached Bruce’s underwear, Clark pulled it down, exposing Bruce fully, and knelt right there on the cool marble floor, staring up at Bruce’s body with unadulterated adoration.

“You are so beautiful, Bruce. You are stunning,” Clark whispered, reaching out to trace the curve of Bruce’s abdomen. “I love this. Every single line of you. You are the mother of my child, and you are mine. Mine, darling.”

Bruce shivered violently, the words cutting through his armor of self-hatred.

“Clark, stop just… saying it,” Bruce gasped, reaching down to clutch Clark’s shoulders, his face hot with embarrassment and burgeoning need.

“I won’t just say it,” Clark’s voice deepened, taking on a dominant, powerful edge, weaving the pet name the script requested into the context of affirming ownership.

“I will prove it. I’m going to show you that there is nothing I love more than the evidence you carry of being ours.”

Clark rose, guiding Bruce tenderly but firmly. He positioned Bruce near the wide, cool marble counter, pressing Bruce's lean but powerful body forward until he was bent slightly over the edge, his hands bracing against the countertop.

Bruce let out a surprised, breathless yelp when Clark gently gripped his wrists from behind, holding them down firmly against the marble. It was a gesture of dominance, a statement of control in this intimate, healing moment.

“Look in the mirror, Bruce,” Clark instructed, his voice low and commanding, his warm breath ghosting over the back of Bruce’s neck. “I want you to see me loving every part of you that tells you you’re flawed.”

Bruce’s heart sank momentarily, not in panic, but in emotional dread, when he saw Clark sink lower, dropping to his knees behind him. Bruce’s reflection in the massive mirror showed his vulnerable, exposed posture, his wide-eyed terror blending with a nascent excitement.

Clark’s breath was warm and moist near his ass. Bruce instinctively tensed, struggling slightly against Clark’s grip on his wrists, his mind screaming a fragmented stream of anxiety.

“Clark, no, wait, please,” Bruce pleaded, his voice a choked whisper, his mind struggling with the intimacy, the exposure, the absolute violation of his own internalized boundaries. “We don’t… I can’t…”

Clark paused, his lips inches from Bruce's skin, hovering. The struggle died as Clark only pressed his lips gently, tenderly, against the sensitive skin of Bruce's tailbone.

“Shh. I asked you to trust me, my love,” Clark murmured, his voice velvety soft, yet holding the steel edge of a man determined to complete his mission of affirmation.

“I'm not pretending. I worship this body. I want to taste every secret, every perfect curve you keep hidden.”

Clark didn't ignore the denial, but transitioned through it, ensuring his actions were demonstrably loving, not punitive. He slowly, deliberately, began to eat Bruce out.

The initial shock was overwhelming. Bruce gasped, his breath hitching, fighting between the sharp, overwhelming pleasure shooting through him and the relentless, critical part of his mind screaming about how wrong this was, how vulnerable, how exposed.

‘He’s pretending to make me feel good about myself,’ the dark voice whispered. ‘He’s doing this out of duty. You’re disgusting.’

But Clark’s mouth was a revelation—worshipping, demanding, utterly focused. His tongue was firm, rhythmic, finding spots Bruce had forgotten existed. The pleasure mounted, sharp and intense, battling against the emotional turbulence. Bruce’s struggles became involuntary writhes of ecstasy rather than resistance.

“Clark, hic—please,” Bruce pleaded, the word catching on a choked sob, blurring the line between protest and surrender.

Clark only pressed harder, swirling his tongue deeper, his hands releasing Bruce’s wrists only to cup the fullness of his buttocks, holding him steady, anchoring him in the pleasure.

“Tell me you’re beautiful, Bruce,” Clark prompted, his voice muffled against Bruce’s skin, not a question, but an implicit demand tied directly to the rising wave of sensation.

Bruce couldn't form the words. He could only moan, a low, guttural sound of escalating need.

Finally, Clark stood up from behind him, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and glazed over with desire. He didn't look away from Bruce’s reflection in the mirror, nor did he allow Bruce to look away, maintaining the connection, forcing Bruce to confront his own image in this raw state of arousal.

“You still need a bit more convincing,” Clark muttered, his expression one of serious, almost clinical focus, overlaid with primal lust.

He pressed his chest lightly against Bruce’s back, aligning himself with Bruce’s wet, ready hole. Clark reached into the nearby drawer—a silent testament to their pre-existing preparation for high-intensity sex—and pulled out a small glass lube bottle. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm, slicking his already rigid cock slowly.

Clark jerked himself a handful of times, the sound loud and wet in the silent bathroom, emphasizing his readiness. Bruce tried to raise up off the counter, suddenly overwhelmed by the sight and the pending action.

Clark reacted swiftly. Instead of grabbing Bruce's wrists again, he reached out and gently gripped Bruce by the hair at the nape of his neck—a firm, non-painful but undeniable grip of dominance. Bruce’s hands shot up instantly, covering Clark’s firm grip, a silent acknowledgment of the control being exerted.

“Stay right there, Bruce,” Clark commanded, his voice a dangerous growl. “You look spectacular right now. Don't ruin the view.”

Clark's voice was right at Bruce’s ear, a warm, sensual threat. “We are going to do this here, looking at ourselves. You are going to watch me take you, and you are going to see how truly perfect you are.”

Clark began to press his length, slick and hot, against Bruce’s entrance.

“Look at your hips,” Clark instructed, grinding slightly before pressing in. “They are the handles I love to hold.”

Bruce gasped, his reflection a mask of desperate vulnerability and pain as Clark began to slide slowly inside.

“Clark! Slow!”

Clark ignored the plea for slowness, fulfilling the rougher aspect of the user’s request, driving relentlessly into Bruce’s tight, eager body, burying himself to the hilt with a single, powerful surge.

Bruce screamed, the sound muffled by the counter, a high-pitched cry that quickly morphed into a desperate, demanding moan.

Clark began to pound, hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the marble. He held Bruce’s hair tighter, locking their gazes in the mirror.

“Tell me what you see, Bruce,” Clark demanded, thrusting deep. “What do you see?”

Bruce shook his head wildly, the movement constrained by Clark’s grip. “I see… I see you!”

“No! You look at yourself!” Clark slammed into him, eliciting a loud, ragged cry of pleasure. “You see perfection! You see the most beautiful man in the world! Say it! Say it, Bruce!”

“I… I can’t!”

“Then I will make you feel it!” Clark’s voice was dark, heavy with breath and lust. He continued to fuck into Bruce with punishing, rhythmic power, the intensity aimed not at causing pain, but at overwhelming Bruce’s ability to resist the pleasure.

“Who do you belong to, Mommy?” Clark suddenly demanded, the pet name dropping like a heavy stone, anchoring Bruce to the reality of the power dynamic.

“You! I belong to you!” Bruce cried out, tears of pleasure and release finally streaming down his face.

Clark reached around, cupping Bruce’s cock with a practiced, firm grip, stroking him in tandem with his merciless thrusts. The combination was too much. Bruce felt the climax building, a catastrophic wave washing away the last vestiges of his self-doubt.

“God, Clark, I’m going to—” Bruce screamed, his back arching, his entire body convulsing as the climax hit him, hot and messy against Clark’s hand.

Clark continued to thrust, maintaining the brutal, loving pace even after Bruce’s body sagged, spent.

“Feel how good you feel, my beautiful love,” Clark whispered fiercely into his ear, slowing only slightly to savor the aftershocks in Bruce’s body. “Do you still think you’re weak? Do you still think you’re ugly?”

“No,” Bruce breathed, utterly defeated and immensely satisfied. “I think… I think this is too much.”

Clark chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. He pulled Bruce back slightly, rocking his hips in a slow, deep grind.

Bruce's eyes widened, a sudden, panicked realization dawning.

“Clark, wait, stop! I need to pee!” he gasped, the urgency of the physiological need hitting him now that the physical tension of the climax had subsided.

Clark stopped moving instantly, his body frozen inside Bruce’s. He leaned forward, his mouth right next to Bruce’s ear, his breath hot.

“Yeah, Mommy?”

Bruce nodded frantically against the counter, moaning loudly as the pressure became intense. He couldn't hold it.

Clark pulled out with a fast, wet thwunk, the sound shocking in the quiet bathroom. Bruce immediately felt dizzy, leaning heavily onto the counter, his knees shaking violently from the lingering aftershocks.

Clark whipped him around instantly, his hands moving to support Bruce’s weakened body. Bruce’s back was now against the counter, meaning he couldn't see himself in the mirror anymore—a subtle but important shift from demanded viewing to genuine intimacy.

Clark’s expression was intense, serious. He gently maneuvered Bruce's legs wider, spreading them slightly, and then—to Bruce’s shock—Clark went down on his knees again, right on the cold floor, looking up at Bruce.

“Bruce, look at me,” Clark said, his voice carrying immense gravity. “You said you felt like I hated the changes in your body. You felt like I might leave. I want to prove to you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that every part of you, every single function, every aspect of your life, is sacred to me. I want to be immersed in you.”

Clark licked his lips, his blue eyes dark and unwavering. “Show me. Mark your territory on me, Bruce. Prove that you own me. Show me that you trust me completely.”

Bruce went completely scarlet. He stammered, his mind reeling from the transition from intense sex to this sudden, radical demand for vulnerability and trust.

“C-Clark, no! That’s… that’s ridiculous! I c-can’t!” Bruce tried to pull his legs together, suddenly mortified. “I really have to go! I’ll just use the toilet!”

“No,” Clark insisted, his voice firm but tender. He reached up, his hand closing around Bruce’s still sensitive, post-climax cock. He began to jerk his boyfriend off, slowly, deliberately, forcing Bruce’s arousal back up again, overpowering the immediate shame.

Bruce whined, a high, panicked sound, mewling “No’s” and repeating that it was “wrong” and “disgusting.”

Clark didn't care about the words; he cared about the outcome—the ultimate demonstration of unconditional acceptance. He maintained the stroke, bringing Bruce relentlessly over the edge again.

Bruce cried out, a loud, ragged sound of release and profound embarrassment, as he climaxed again. His body betrayed him, the intense pleasure forcing the release of his bladder. A hot stream of urine splashed down, covering Clark’s handsome, kneeling face and his broad chest, soaking his hair and dripping onto the marble.

The shame was paralyzing, but the physical relief was immediate. Bruce’s knees shook so violently he nearly collapsed, leaning heavy against the counter, yet he couldn't stop staring at Clark, who remained perfectly still, covering himself in Bruce’s pee.

When the flow finally stopped, Bruce was dizzy, trembling, and utterly silent. The air hung thick with steam, musk, and the sharp scent of urine.

Clark blinked slowly, his eyes still dark, the moisture running down his cheeks mixing with Bruce’s urine. He didn't wipe his face or flinch. He simply looked up at Bruce, his expression one of calm, profound adoration.

“See?” Clark whispered, his voice slightly wet, but infused with deep satisfaction. “You are mine. All of you. Every embarrassing, messy, beautiful part of you. You are loved, Bruce. Completely.”

Clark finally stood, moving with an easy grace that defied the mess. He walked over to the massive walk-in shower, turning on the water until the glass doors were instantly fogged with steam.

Bruce, still trembling, followed him without being asked. He stepped tentatively into the steaming shower stall, standing behind Clark, the warmth instantly soothing his ravaged nerves. Bruce reached out, wrapping his arms around Clark’s waist, pressing his face into Clark's broad, still-damp back.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the steamy scent of his lover. After a long moment of silence, the emotional tension finally broken, Bruce spoke, his voice weak but clear.

“Thank you,” he whispered against Clark’s shoulder, the sincerity thick in the air. “Thank you for tonight. For seeing me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at the mess of urine and slick on Clark’s back. “Could… could you help me wash off?”

Clark turned his face into the spray, letting the water wash the last vestiges of the night’s intensity away. He turned to Bruce, who looked exhausted but finally, truly peaceful. Clark lifted him off the bathroom floor effortlessly, holding him like he weighed absolutely nothing—a testament to the fact that Bruce’s perceived "size" was meaningless to him.

Clark held Bruce tightly, his lips finding Bruce’s in a soft, cleansing kiss under the falling water. They held each other like that, swaying slightly, the sound of the falling water the only noise in the universe. Clark couldn't be happier. Neither, finally, could Bruce. His body, his weight, his anxieties—all of it had been seen and embraced. He was loved, wholly and without reservation.

Chapter Text

The cold, sterile environment of the Watchtower had always been Bruce’s fortress, but lately, it had felt more like a hermetically sealed tomb. The League had been off-planet for nearly a month, pursuing a complex diplomatic and defensive mission deep within the Klyntar Nebula. Thirty days. Thirty days of absolute silence, save for the hum of the power conduits and the rhythmic ticking of planetary observation relays.

That entire month had also been thirty days since Clark left him.

Bruce had always been a man who courted solitude, thrived in the shadows, and valued the quiet precision of his own mind. But Clark had introduced a new kind of light—a soft, pervasive warmth that had subtly eroded the jagged edges of Bruce’s loneliness. Now, with the void where Clark’s presence used to be, Bruce realized how perilously dependent he had become on that warmth. He didn’t just miss the man; he craved him, the way a long-starved body craves sustenance.

He sat cross-legged on the polished floor of the main observation deck, not looking at the mission data displayed on the terminal screens, but outward. He was stargazing, lost in the indifferent majesty of the cosmos, when the silence was brutally fractured.

The sound was a hollow, echoing THUD-CLANG. It was loud, too loud for a station secured by automated systems. It sounded like something heavy—a large, military-grade storage container—had been moved quickly, then dropped or overturned. And it was close. Terrifyingly close, emanating from the main logistics hallway just outside the primary hall.

Bruce’s solitude-soaked lethargy vanished instantly. He was on his feet, the silent, predatory mechanism of Batman asserting itself.

“Computer, isolation status report,” he commanded, his voice a low gravel that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.

The AI responded with its usual flat tone: “All external hatches secured. Internal environment stable. No unauthorized life forms detected.”

Bruce ignored the report. The computer could be hacked, or the intruder might be a life form it simply couldn't categorize. His heartbeat sped up, a rapid, frantic rhythm that felt alien in his chest. He hadn’t felt this raw, primal anxiety in years—not since he was a frightened boy in Crime Alley.

He quietly moved toward the reinforced door leading to the logistics corridor. He pushed the access panel, overriding the proximity sensor, and slipped through the gap.

The hallway was dimly lit by emergency lighting, throwing deep shadows. And there it was: a massive, pressurized storage crate, designed to hold heavy-duty spare parts for the Javelin fleet, tipped completely onto its side. It would take incredible force to knock it over.

Bruce approached cautiously, his senses screaming danger. He scanned the corners, the ceiling vents, the maintenance shafts. Nothing. But then his gaze dropped.

On the metallic grating floor, trailing away from the overturned crate, was a delicate, almost incandescent layer of material. It wasn't dust in the tradition sense; it was a shimmering, ultra-fine particulate, the color of dried blood and rust. Red dust.

He crouched, running a gloved finger through the strange substance. It smelled faintly metallic, like ozone and dried earth. The particles clung to his glove, strangely heavy.

Then he noticed the shape.

The red dust didn't just blanket the floor; it formed a distinct pattern—a silhouette, suggesting something had been standing right where the crate fell. The shape was unmistakably humanoid, but elongated, broader across the shoulders, and there seemed to be faint traces of—

A person.

The thought flashed through his mind just as the air behind him shifted.

Before Bruce could fully pivot, a tremendous blow landed high on the back of his neck, precisely at the juncture of the spine and skull. The world dissolved into a blinding white light, followed instantly by a crushing black void. He collapsed without a sound, his body absorbed by the metallic floor.

___________________

When Bruce woke, the first thing he registered was pain—a searing, localized agony radiating from the point of impact on his neck. The second thing he registered was silence, but a silence that felt fundamentally wrong, compressed and dense.

He was still in the logistics corridor, lying curled against the cool metal. He tried to sit up, groaning low in his chest.

‘Clark—Clark, where are you?’ The thought was immediate, a desperate, silent plea, before he remembered he was alone.

He pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the overturned crate. He felt... wrong. Disproportionate. The corridor seemed narrower, the ceiling lower. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the lingering fog of unconsciousness.

He raised a hand instinctively to massage his throbbing neck.

His breath hitched.

This was not his hand.

It was colossal, dark, and utterly alien. His skin, or what looked like skin, was a solid, matte black, absorbing all light. There were only four elongated, wickedly sharp digits where five should be, and between them was a taut, black, leathery structure—a membrane, like webbing.

His mind screamed in denial. ‘No. No, this is trauma. Holographic hallucination.’

He held the hideous appendage up to the emergency light. The reflection was undeniable. It was a massive, clawed, black hand.

He tried to articulate the thought, to call for help, but what emerged was not the controlled baritone of Bruce Wayne. It was a strained, high-pitched shriek, laced with pure, unadulterated terror.

The sound wasn't just audible; it was physically destructive.

Across the hall, mounted on display racks, were several older models of League fighter jets kept for spare parts. As the shriek peaked, the reinforced glass canopies of three separate jets shattered outward in a cascade of sharp shards and bending metal.

Bruce clamped his massive hand over his mouth, horrified by the auditory violence he had just unleashed. As he did, he felt a strange, warm pressure envelop him—a sensation of being covered by a thick, heavy blanket.

He looked down, fear churning his stomach into acid, and saw them.

They were vast, segmented, and blacker than space itself—a pair of enormous, articulated bat wings, folded tightly against his back, now deployed partially in his moment of shock. They spanned twelve feet from tip to tip, easily, scraping against the ceiling of the hall.

He was a monster.

He had to hide. He had to process this in private.

Struggling with the sudden, overwhelming bulk of his new body, Bruce slowly lumbered toward the access point for his private quarters. He was monstrously tall. He had to duck his head and fold his shoulders just to squeeze through the standard League doorway.

Reaching his personal sanctuary, he stumbled inside and sealed the door. He moved immediately to the large, polished titanium mirror he used for shaving. The sight stole whatever remaining sanity he clung to.

He stared at a brute creature that was vaguely, horribly, Bruce Wayne.

His head was elongated, crowned with huge, sensitive ears that twitched involuntarily, catching every microscopic vibration in the hull. His eyes were gone—replaced by solid, glossy black orbs that seemed to drink in the darkness.

His neck was thick, muscled, and covered in a soft, surprisingly luxurious black fur, reminiscent of the mantle on a large vampire bat. But the most horrifying detail were his teeth. They were large, interlocking, designed for tearing. Two immense, dagger-like fangs protruded over his lower lip, razor sharp and gleaming faintly in the reflected light.

He was no longer Batman. He was a colossal, gothic horror. A creature of nightmare mythology, trapped in the Watchtower.

“No,” he rasped, the sound a dry, clicking wheeze, the acoustic violence of the shriek replaced by the inability to form human words. “Clark… what am I going to do?”

He paced the room, every movement an effort of control, trying to suppress the instinctive impulse to fly, to use the massive wings that constantly ached to unfurl.

__________________________

Just as the adrenaline of the transformation horror began to subside into the cold clarity of strategy, the Watchtower—previously a silent mausoleum—exploded with sound.

The hyper-sensitive new ears atop Bruce’s head acted like massive sonic amplifiers.

He heard the faint, distant whine of the League’s flagship shuttle, The Aegis, breaking orbit. He heard the muffled scrape of the docking clamps engaging 1.5 kilometers away.

Then, the voices.

They weren’t just voices; they were roaring, overlapping waves of sound that crashed against his skull, threatening to overload his delicate new neural structure.

“—And I’m telling you, Diana, if you don’t let me get a chili dog within the next hour, I am going to vibrate myself through the hull and fly down to Earth! I haven’t had real food that wasn’t dehydrated paste in weeks!” That was Flash, his vocal pitch sharp and grating.

“Barry, control your metabolism. We need to secure the artifacts first,” Diana’s voice, deep and resonant, sounded like rolling thunder in Bruce’s ears.

“Arthur, stop dripping seawater on the observation panels!” Cyborg’s synthetic voice was a painful, high-frequency buzz.

Bruce slammed his massive hands over his ears, a guttural groan escaping his maw.

‘No. No, no, no,’ he thought, his internal monologue a frantic curse. Why now? Why did the universe have to time this nightmare precisely to coincide with their return?

They would be here in minutes. The main hall. Then the living quarters. They were trained to notice minute discrepancies. They would see the broken jets, the red dust, and they would find the thing hiding in the quarters.

He backed up until his huge, winged body was pressed flush against the reinforced wall, pulling himself into the deepest shadow the room offered. His heart hammered a frantic, heavy drumbeat against his ribs.

A few minutes passed, agonizingly slow. Bruce heard the telemetry reports, the energy signatures being analyzed, the casual banter of tired heroes winding down.

“Alright, let’s get this stuff in secure storage. Has anyone seen Batman?” Flash called out, his voice now closer.

“He should be here. He was supposed to supervise the quarantine procedures for the Klyntar artifacts,” Diana responded, a hint of concern entering her tone.

“Maybe he’s asleep? He’s been alone up here for a month. Even B needs coffee sometimes,” Arthur rumbled.

“I’ll check his comms,” Cyborg offered.

Silence followed, a silence in the central chamber that allowed Bruce to hear something else, something far more terrifying: the deep, steady rhythm of Clark’s approach.

Clark’s presence registered differently. His movements were not loud or clumsy; they simply displaced the air with tremendous confidence. Bruce could hear the specific, subtle whoosh of air as Clark walked, and more importantly, he could hear Clark’s heartbeat—strong, relentless, and accelerating slightly in confusion over Bruce’s absence.

And then, Clark’s voice, quiet and concerned, cutting through the others:

“I hear him, actually.”

The League responded with a confused chorus.

“Hear who, Clark? He’s not on the main frequency,” Diana said.

“No, I mean… I hear something. A heartbeat. It’s localized to his quarters. It’s very fast, but very deep. I’ll go check.”

Before anyone could argue or follow, the faint hiss of the air being cut confirmed Clark had disappeared in a flash of speed.

Part IV: The Confrontation and Recognition

Clark materialized silently outside the door to Bruce’s quarters. He wasn't aggressive, but alert, his posture coiled. The door wasn't secured by Bruce’s usual biometric locks; it was simply closed. Clark pushed it open with gentle force.

The room was dark.

Clark’s X-ray vision immediately registered only one life form inside: the one causing the frantic, irregular heartbeat.

It was immense.

It stood nearly seven and a half feet tall, a hulking silhouette pressed into the shadows, dominating the small room. The heart rate was impossible—fast enough to suggest intense panic, yet the resulting thump was so deep and powerful it could only belong to a creature of immense muscle density.

Clark’s protective instincts immediately took over. He braced himself, Kryptonian muscles tightening, ready for impact.

“Stand down,” Clark commanded, his voice firm, echoing slightly. “Identify yourself. Where is Batman?”

The creature didn't move, didn't reply. It only shrank further into the wall, its vast, leathery wings shuddering slightly.

Clark took a slow, measured step inside. He needed light. He needed to know what he was dealing with. He activated his internal luminescence, flooding the room with a soft, revealing golden light.

The sight made Clark momentarily recoil, his defensive stance wavering.

It was a monstrous shadow, a creature ripped from the darkest corners of myth. The black, webbed skin, the massive folded wings, the terrifying muzzle dominated by the cruel fangs. Its large, blank black eyes stared at him with pure, naked terror.

“I asked you a question,” Clark repeated, his voice losing some of its command and adopting a note of bewildered aggression. “Answer me, now! Where is Bruce?!”

The creature, Bruce, panicked. He could not speak. He could not explain. All he could do was back away further, scraping his huge body against the wall, trying to become thinner, smaller. He let out a low, mournful, clicking noise.

Clark took another step, suspicion hardening his features. He couldn’t hear the creature’s heartbeat and Bruce’s heartbeat. He only heard the one, terrifyingly fast, deep pulse.

“Wait,” Clark thought, analyzing the sonic data gathered by his super hearing. The pattern. The rhythm of the erratic pulse.

Bruce’s heart, even when calm, possessed a unique, disciplined syncopation—a pattern perfected by years of physical conditioning and martial meditation. The monstrous heartbeat was sped up by fear, distorted by the massive, alien physiology, but the sequence—the deep, underlying cadence—was identical to the one Clark had memorized during quiet nights holding the man in his arms.

His internal guard dropped like a stone. The fight evaporated, replaced by devastating, overwhelming heartbreak.

“Bruce?” Clark whispered.

The creature flinched visibly at his name, a slight, involuntary tremor running through the powerful shoulders. The black eyes, so alien and featureless, somehow conveyed a profound, pleading relief that Clark had seen through the horror.

Bruce tried again to speak, to form a word, but the fanged mouth only produced a series of choked, clicking sounds. He shook his massive head mournfully, communicating his helplessness.

Clark felt the sting of tears. He lowered his fists and slowly floated forward, his hands held out in a gesture of profound submission, acknowledging the creature's pain.

“It’s you. It’s really you,” Clark murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He stopped a few feet away, respecting the fear radiating off the transformed man. “Bruce, look at me. It’s alright. Whatever this is, we fix it. We always fix it.”

He watched as Bruce’s massive shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.

Clark closed the remaining distance, moving with practiced gentleness. He reached out to touch the side of Bruce’s face, tracing the soft, black fur that surrounded the jawline, careful to avoid the razor fangs.

“It’s been an entire month, Bats,” Clark whispered, his thumb resting gently on the curve of the large, twitching ear. “I missed every single second of you.”

Bruce let out a noise that was half-gasp, half-sigh, a sound of desperate yearning. He slowly, tentatively, leaned his grotesque head into Clark’s soft, warm hand, the contrast between the cold, black skin and the Kryptonian warmth palpable.

Clark wrapped his arms around the colossal neck, pulling the creature close, pressing his face into the soft, furry mantel. The scent was different—subtly musky, metallic—but underneath, the familiar, grounding scent of Bruce’s unique cologne and sweat remained.

“Talk to me, honey. Can you make any sound that isn’t just… that?” Clark asked, pulling back just enough to look into the massive black eyes.

Bruce focused, concentrating every fiber of his being, trying to force his vocal cords to articulate. Finally, after a wrenching effort, one word escaped, a dry, guttural croak, barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning:

“C-Clark.”

It was enough. It was perfect.

“Yes. I’m here. I’m home. And I am never leaving you alone again.” Clark kissed the top of Bruce’s forehead, right between the high, sensitive ears. “I need you to tell me what happened. Can you show me?”

Bruce nodded slowly, then pointed a monstrous, taloned finger toward the logistics hallway door.

“Okay. We deal with the perimeter, but first…” Clark pulled Bruce down, forcing him to kneel slightly so their eyes were level. He framed the monstrous face in his hands.

“First, you let me look at you. Really look at you. And then we’re getting you something comfortable. Your heart is going to explode if we don’t calm you down.”

Bruce, relieved and overwhelmed by the simple, unearned acceptance, finally released the tension that had held him rigid. He moved his massive, webbed hand—so clumsy compared to Clark’s—and wrapped it around Clark’s wrist, pulling the Kryptonian closer until their chests were touching.

The reunion was immediate, desperate, and filled with a profound tension that transcended fear. Bruce was still terrified of his new form, but Clark’s gaze held only adoration and acceptance, not repulsion.

Clark led Bruce to the large, luxurious bed in the quarters, gently pressing him down. The mattress creaked under the immense weight of the winged body.

“You’re huge,” Clark breathed, running his hands over the powerful, new anatomy. “But still beautiful. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

Bruce looked down at his black, webbed hands, then at Clark. Hesitation flashed in his eyes. He was worried about hurting Clark, about the sharp edges of his new reality.

“Can I—am I dangerous?” Bruce croaked, the effort strained.

Clark shushed him softly. “Never. You are pure control, Bruce. And I’m indestructible. I trust you completely.”

Clark began to shed his uniform, his movements fluid and quick. He was entirely focused on the creature before him, needing to prove that this terrifying transformation changed nothing about their intimacy—or perhaps, heightened it, making Bruce even more magnificent and primal.

When Clark was naked, golden in the ambient light, he knelt on the edge of the bed and leaned over the massive creature. Bruce shuddered, the fur along his neck rising slightly.

“I missed you so much,” Clark whispered, kissing the line of his jaw, avoiding the lethal fangs. He trailed his lips down the column of Bruce’s neck, savoring the contrast between the soft, dense fur and the hard muscle underneath.

Bruce instinctively arched his neck, a low, purring sound emanating from his chest. The new sound vibrated deep in Clark’s sternum.

“I want to feel you,” Clark murmured, running his hands down the black, chitinous skin of Bruce’s body. The skin was strangely warm, smooth like polished obsidian, but stretched over the familiar contours of his lover’s powerful frame.

Clark gently guided Bruce’s colossal, webbed hands to his own chest, encouraging touch. Bruce, still hesitant, tentatively ran a clawed finger along Clark’s defined abdomen.

“Hold on to me,” Clark instructed, his voice low and commanding. He needed to be the anchor in this moment of physical chaos. “I need you to let go, Bruce. Let the fear go. Just take the release.”

Clark moved down the bed, his mouth seeking the junction of Bruce’s legs. Bruce, already hard and heavy with a month of suppressed longing and the adrenaline crash of his transformation, let out a painful, strangled gasp as Clark’s hot mouth found him.

Clark was meticulous, using his tongue and lips with a precision born of adoration and power. He mapped the contours of Bruce’s cock, taking him deep, then shallow, focusing on the tip where the sensitivity was most acute.

Bruce involuntarily let out a deep, echoing moan—a sound far louder and more primal than his human voice. He felt the massive wings on his back shudder and flex, fighting the urge to unfurl fully.

“That’s it, Bruce. Let me hear you,” Clark encouraged, his voice muffled against Bruce’s skin.

The transformation seemed to have amplified Bruce’s physical reactions. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave of exquisite sensation that made his joints tremble and his vision swim.

Clark pulled back momentarily, sliding his wet, warm body up toward Bruce’s face. He paused, his hands moving to cup the cheeks of Bruce’s grotesque, beautiful face.

“I know you’re feeling different, Bats. I know you need this attention,” Clark said, his eyes drilling into the black, featureless spheres. “But I want you to give me something too.”

Clark shifted, sliding himself down to position his mouth over Bruce’s ass, specifically targeting the entrance.

Bruce tensed momentarily, the instinct of vulnerability fighting the deep desire for this specific, intimate attention. He let out a whimper of protest that Clark immediately overruled.

“No, absolutely not, you don’t get to deny me this after a month, sweetheart,” Clark growled playfully, his tone firm. “You want connection? I’m going to taste every last piece of you.”

Clark pressed his tongue against Bruce’s tight entrance, wet and warm. He began to rim him with slow, deliberate movements. Bruce cried out, a sound that was a mixture of pain, shock, and mounting, blinding ecstasy. The sensation of Clark’s mouth there, soft and demanding, was deeply humiliating and intensely arousing.

Clark used his hands—one running lightly over the black webbing of Bruce’s wings, the other circling the base of his shaft—to anchor the pleasure. Bruce’s large claws dug into the sheets, his body arching off the mattress. He had no control left. Every nerve ending was singing Clark’s name.

“You’re mine,” Clark muttered against Bruce’s skin, punctuating the movement with a deep, consuming lick. “All mine. Let me take you, Bruce. Let me own this release.”

When Clark finally pulled back, Bruce was gasping, his massive chest heaving. He was sticky, slick, and completely undone.

Clark didn’t give him a moment to recover. He moved to kneel between Bruce’s legs, gathering the transformation lubricant—a thin, black, viscous fluid—and spreading it liberally over Bruce’s entrance.

“I’m going to go slow, then fast,” Clark warned, his voice husky with desire. “Tell me when you feel me.”

Clark pushed inside, slowly stretching Bruce open. Bruce let out a high, strained squeak as he was filled. The sheer size of the creature body meant Clark was swallowed deep, instantly and fully.

Clark paused, allowing Bruce to adjust to the massive penetration. He leaned down, placing a tender kiss just under the fangs.

“Alright, darling?”

Bruce could only nod, his breath ragged.

Clark started moving, his thrusts slow and agonizingly deep. Bruce gripped Clark’s hips with his webbed hands, the pressure immense, almost painful, but Clark didn’t falter.

“I waited a month for this, Bruce,” Clark whispered, picking up the pace, his breaths coming faster. “I missed your noise. I missed this sound.”

Clark realized the truth: the transformation had stripped away Bruce’s mental barriers. The creature body couldn't filter emotion or pleasure; it simply experienced it, raw and amplified.

Clark drove into him forcefully, quickly adopting the powerful rhythm that Bruce secretly craved. Bruce couldn’t hold back the guttural sounds anymore—the primal shrieks and roars erupted as Clark accelerated, faster than any human could sustain.

Clark knew Bruce needed to be pushed past the edge of control. He used his speed not for gentleness, but for overwhelming, systematic pleasure, relentlessly hammering into Bruce’s deepest core.

“You’re going to empty for me, Bruce. Right now,” Clark commanded, his voice dark and possessive. He sped up his movements dramatically, pushing Bruce closer, closer, the friction intense.

Bruce convulsed violently around Clark, his wings snapping open and striking the ceiling of the room with a sickening thud. The shockwave of pleasure rocked his entire system.

“Clark! Stop—I can’t—” Bruce tried to beg for mercy, but Clark only drove harder, deeper, faster, pinning him to the mattress with the sheer force of his thrusts.

“Yes, you can. You are going to let it go,” Clark ground out, reaching down to stroke him, matching the rhythm of the friction to the relentless pounding inside.

The combination was too much. Bruce screamed—a long, agonizing, magnificent sound of total surrender. He emptied himself across the sheets, a shuddering, massive orgasm that left him paralyzed. Clark followed moments later, collapsing onto Bruce’s heaving chest, burying himself deep in the spent body.

For a long time, the only sound was the heavy, labored breathing of the monster and the rapid, sustained thump of the Kryptonian’s heart.

Clark eventually rolled off, gathering Bruce into a massive, protective cuddle. He was careful of the wings, which lay splayed and exhausted on the bed. He kissed the side of Bruce’s neck, relishing the soft texture of the fur.

Bruce’s massive black eyes were glazed with residual pleasure and fatigue. He felt drained, physically and emotionally, but safe.

“That,” Clark murmured, resting his cheek against Bruce’s. “Was possibly the most intense thing that has ever happened in this room.”

Bruce managed a dry, clicking laugh that was strangely endearing. He hesitantly wrapped one of his colossal, webbed arms around Clark’s waist.

Clark drew the blanket up over them. “Tell me, my winged wonder. How are you feeling now? Does the neck sting less?”

“The fear is… quieter,” Bruce managed, his modified voice rough. “You quieted it, Clark. Thank you. I was cracking. I was completely alone here and I woke up… like this.”

“You are still Bruce. You are still my Bruce. Just… bigger, and with better listening capabilities,” Clark teased gently.

“I shattered a fighter jet canopy with a scream,” Bruce whispered, a note of horror returning. “My strength is unpredictable. My abilities are completely unknown.”

“Then we learn them, together. We lock the entire compound down, we study the red dust, and we figure out how to reverse the transformation. If we can’t,” Clark pulled back just enough to hold Bruce’s gaze, “then we figure out how the two of us live with a very large, moody bat-god who can hear the wind change direction on Mars.”

Bruce smiled faintly, revealing the terrifying sharpness of his fangs. It was still Bruce’s smile, wry and beautiful.

“You’re not repulsed?”

“Repulsed? Bruce, look at you. You are magnificent. You are terrifyingly beautiful. I wouldn't trade you for the perfectly normal man you were a few hours ago, not if both were offered to me right now,” Clark swore, holding him tighter. “Now, rest. You need quiet. I’ll make sure the others stay clear. And when you wake up, we’ll start the detective work. We’ll find out who did this.”

Bruce sighed, a deep, resonant sound that shook the bed. He pressed his face into Clark’s soft, warm shoulder, allowing the Kryptonian heartbeat to lull him into a sleep he desperately needed. Safe, transformed, and irrevocably saved by the man who was his light.