Chapter Text
For years and years, he has pined for Clark.
He doesn’t remember exactly how long, but it’s clear to him there was no avoiding it from the moment they met. For years and more years, he will keep his feelings to himself. Clark doesn’t seem interested in him, or in anyone else for that matter. He’s the personification of heroism, the shining beacon of hope for the world, a paradox of guarded and open, a unification of human and alien. He doesn’t seem to dwell on anything as insignificant as love, or crushes, and he certainly would never lower himself to the level of Bruce.
Bruce sighs, and rubs his eyes, blinking against the bright screens of the Watchtower Monitor Womb. Superman is hauled up in his fortress again, as he’s inclined to do every now and then, for short periods of time. Sometimes he comes out with a new gadget, an invention, a stethoscope for the universe's dying suns or a single celled organism programmed to cure some disease, and Bruce almost forgets himself in his response. They’ve tinkered together for hours in the cave and in the arctic and still Clark amazes him more than he ever could do so in return.
He keeps himself balanced around Clark. Feet firm on the ground, eye contact only with the bridge of his nose, his hands loose fists at his sides. Not too tight. He just doesn’t want to bring Clark down.
He knows if he could have Clark he would never let him go. Bruce would make him his own, to have and to hold and to ruin.
On the screen in front of Bruce, lights blink around the globe to indicate the locations of the other league members. Superman’s is moving quickly across the globe while before it was static in the arctic. And then it disappears.
Before Bruce has time to come up with all possible scenarios for that to happen, the doors to the monitor womb are ripped crudely off their hinges, and there Clark stands. He’s dressed in a fabric so black it hides every curve and angle of his body, there are cuffs on his wrists and ankles, broken chains still attached. His hair is matted with sweat in his neck, and it glistens on his forehead. Bruce has never seen Clark sweat.
“Superman! Are you okay?” Bruce yells as he runs over to Clark. “Did you get attacked?” He needs information, fast. Who would attack Clark and tie him up at his own fortress?
“Diana,” Clark swallows thickly. He tries to look away from Bruce. His chest is heaving. “I need Diana.”
It seems to hurt him to talk. “She’s busy in Mexico,” Bruce answers. “Tell me what happened, we’ll figure out who to send instead.”
“No.” Clark’s hands tremble at his sides, his fists grabbing nothing but air, and then a console. It tears with an awful sound as Bruce jumps back.
“Clark.”
Clark makes a sound that is awfully close to a strained sob. There are tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Tell me what happened,” Bruce tries again, and dares to go closer to his friend. If he can just steady him and get him to calm down, they can start devising a plan for his attacker. Mind control, flashes through his mind, among a thousand other possibilities. Clark can be dangerous.
“Diana. I just need… I need. This is wrong. I shouldn't have come. J’onn. Or Arthur? Anyone that's not… you.” Clark breathes in deep, looks at Bruce with disgust, and Bruce has learned a long time ago to just let that slide off. Clark punches through the wall on his left. He cries out. The whole watchtower is a paper plane under his fingers. His eyes glow red for a moment, and then he shuts them. Clark’s breathing is heavy. Maybe he’s been poisoned. Bruce doesn’t know. All he knows is he needs Clark lucid to find out who did this to him and what they want with Diana. His life is a series of split-second, life or death decisions. And then he makes the decision he hates most of all.
He pulls out the ring.
30 minutes later Clark is bathed in red light, in the only room equipped with red sun radiation aboard the watchtower. Normally it’s used for surgeries on Clark when they can’t use kryptonite for whatever reason.
When he finally goes to check on Clark again an hour after he’s put him in there, Bruce doesn't believe what he's seeing. Clark has ripped open his own suit, and is thrusting steadily into his own fist, cum already pooled between and over his fingers. Bruce gasps, unheard through the glass through which he watches Clark, now that his superhearing is gone. He should turn around, leave his friend to do whatever he needs to do, but he can’t. It’s mesmerizing. Clark speeds up, but only a little. His grip is tight. Even without superstrength, Bruce is sure his grip would hurt if it were on him instead.
The chains on Clark’s wrists make an almost rhythmic sound with Clark’s strokes. Bruce hasn’t been able to get the cuffs off. He doesn’t even know what they’re made of. The material is not showing up in any of the league’s databases. If Bruce's assumption that Clark has been hit with sex pollen is correct, they could be dealing with a dangerous foe who was able to get into the fortress and somehow tie Clark up.
For now, Bruce decides it's safe to let Clark get the pollen out of his system. He'll check up on him every hour using the camera's, and Clark will be fine again soon. So he should really walk away. But he can’t. He watches Clark’s face. His eyes are closed, his mouth open the barest amount. His cheeks are flushed, noticeable even under the red light. His muscles go taught as he cums, and Bruce was never supposed to see this. One, two beats, and Clark starts stroking again, never having gone soft. Only then, Bruce pushes a button to lock the room from the inside and turn the window opaque, and walks away.
Three days later, Superman sits across from Batman at a Justice League meeting, looking like himself again. The cuffs are gone. Clark must have gotten out of the room on his own, he was never locked in there. Bruce has broken into the fortress in the meantime, but didn't find any signs of a struggle, or any traces of pollen. He left with more questions than he had before.
After the meeting, Clark lingers. Bruce lingers too. He’s the one to start talking.
“What was that,” he says.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Clark says at the same time.
Bruce tries again. “What was it.”
“It’s…” Clark sighs. “It’s kryptonian. My biology. I can’t help it, but usually I’m able to control it. Myself, I mean.”
Bruce remains silent. He processes this. It’s a biological urge. There’s still so much about Clark he doesn’t know. But Clark surprises him.
“It’s a cycle. You know this cycle.”
“Every two months. You go to the fortress.”
“Apparently it was a lunar cycle on Krypton. I guess it had nothing to do with the moon, though,” Clark chuckles solemnly. Then he blushes. “It’s an urge to… you know. For procreation.”
Bruce keeps his expression neutral. “I gathered.”
“It’s called tulzhaol ; a need to mate. By the time Krypton had moved on to nonsexual reproduction, it was something to be ashamed of. You were supposed to keep it from the rest of the population. I guess I’m no different from them.”
“Tulzhaol,” Bruce tries the word. His Kryptonian is improving, but there's still so much he doesn't know. “Even under red sunlight, your condition didn’t stop.”
“It’s my biology, not my powers.”
“What do you do? Normally.”
“I restrain myself. The chains and cuffs I forged myself inside a black hole. I can’t break them. But three days ago, I broke them.”
“It’s possible you’re still growing stronger with age. Do you ever test your limits?”
“I would rather not know.”
Bruce hums. Clark is too stubborn for his own good sometimes. “Have you ever tried other methods? Instead of restraining yourself, I mean,” Bruce says, and coughs.
“I have. Machines, and robots. I just broke them.” Bruce’s own heartbeat is thundering in his ears. That should not be so hot. “I think I need to think about asking someone as a partner.”
“Diana.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Don’t ask Diana,” Bruce says a little bit too quickly, and clenches his teeth. He doesn’t want anyone else to see Clark like that. “Maybe she doesn’t want it. What if you accidentally procreate. She probably doesn’t want that.”
Clark frowns.
“I can do it.”
Clark shakes his head. “I would hurt you. Maybe I should ask J’onn.”
Bruce needs to stay rational, now. “His whereabouts are too unpredictable. You can use me.”
“Use you– Bruce, this is why I don’t want that. I don’t want to hurt you,” Clark says again, slower.
“You won’t. I know you won’t. I trust you.”
Clark looks pained. It’s clear to Bruce he’s looking for ways to talk Bruce out of this, but Bruce thinks faster, and he wants to be selfish for once. He wants to have Clark, even if it’s just like this.
“A red sun room in the cave. You won’t be able to hurt me.”
“Bruce… you’re my best friend. I can’t put you through that.”
Bruce pleas, he never pleas. He grabs Clark’s hand. “That’s precisely why you can. I won’t look at you any different.”
“Okay… just once. Then we’ll reevaluate.”
“We’ll reevaluate,” Bruce confirms.
Two months later, Clark stands in the cave awkwardly holding an overnight bag. He’s dressed comfortably in sweatpants and a flannel, but it only helps to make him look more lost between Bruce’s high-tech equipment.
Bruce’s red sun room has come together nicely, a vault-like structure on a lower level and in the back of the cave. The children don’t know what it’s for.
He takes Clark there wordlessly, and makes sure they have water and some snacks. A change of clothes for himself. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be occupied. Clark says it can last up to three days, though usually it’s more around 24 hours.
“When does it start?” He asks after he’s closed (locked) the door and they’ve been standing in the middle of the room for a while, staring at each other awkwardly.
The right corner of Clark's mouth twitches upwards. “Now,” he says, and Bruce finds himself unable to do anything about Clark's sudden closeness and the heat radiating off him.
Bruce's mouth opens slightly. Not to speak, but in anticipation of what's coming. Clark's thick fingers close around his bicep, and he imagines them in his mouth, spreading him open, and on his cock. Bruce hopes somewhere that Clark forgets, how he responds. That he won't have to know how Bruce wants him even outside of this room, and how he's content with what he can get. Which is Clark, breathing harshly through his nose, barely an inch away from him.
“Clark,” he whispers. “It's okay. You can touch me.”
It's permission for Clark to plant himself at Bruce's back, and Bruce has to swallow. Because of the sheer pressure that Clark still exudes, even under red light. Because of the size of his c hest, pushing at Bruce's back. His eyes widen at feeling Clark's cock on his ass, through Clark's underwear, his sweats, Bruce's undersuit, and his own underwear. That's way too many layers, he decides, and pushes back at Clark a little bit.
That kicks Clark into gear. He pushes Bruce onto the small bed and yanks his pants down in one motion. Almost forgets his own, before he tries thrusting into Bruce. It doesn't work of course, not without prep, but that doesn't stop Clark from trying again, and that's when Bruce knows he's in over his head. On his knees, on a single bed in a small room in the cave, pants halfway down his thighs and the heat of Clark's massive cock stroking through his crack, Bruce realizes that this is Clark, in all his alienness, without his inhibitions, no matter if he's limited by red sunlight. He gets hard instantly, and painfully so.
He revels in the warmth of Clark's hand on his neck, pushing him down into the mattress. He could easily twist out now, without the physical power imbalance, but he doesn't want to. Clark drags his cock through Bruce's crack, down to between his thighs, smearing precum.
He wants to be at Clark's mercy all night, his little plaything, even if he isn't really. So he lets Clark rut against him, his own cock bouncing uselessly with their combined rocking. Clark cums quickly and on Bruce's back.
He doesn't still for a moment before trying to find Bruce's hole again and push in. The cum and precum give him a chance, but Bruce is still much too tight. And he knows this will happen sooner or later, with or without lube. As much as he wants Clark to just take him and take what he wants, he should prep himself so he doesn't end up bleeding. Clark would never forgive himself.
“Okay, okay… let's do this right.” His voice is already hoarse.
He twists out of Clark’s hold with little effort, because at least Clark’s powers being diminished gives him that advantage. He slides off the bed, onto his knees, and face-to-face with Clark’s cock, exactly where he wants to be. It’s the first time he sees it up close. Where in Clark’s hand it had looked normal but decent, in front of Bruce’s face and standing fully erect, it’s massive.
He makes the mistake of opening his mouth, trying to help Clark's lust filled and clouded brain along. But in doing so, he gives Clark free rain to start fucking his face. With two massive hands in Bruce's hair, he pushes in with wanton need. Immediately the pained expression on Clark's face softens to a lustfilled one, and Bruce doubts Clark is fully present. Luckily Bruce is skilled at blowjobs and able to work up to deep throating Clark properly fairly quickly. He only gags once, just a little bit, as Clark pushes him down to his pubes.
All Clark can do is thrust, follow his instinct into heat, into wetness, and the thought of it makes Bruce want for Clark to fuck his face, to spill all down his throat and do it again and again and use him.
As Bruce tries to take a little more control, applying pressure with his tongue on the underside of Clark's shaft, Clark rumbles a moan somewhere deep in his chest, a content sound. Bruce chances a look up at him. His face is passive, his brows drawn together in enjoyment and relief. His eyes are closed, squeezed shut in pure pleasure.
Bruce can be this for his friend. Be the anonymous hole for him to fill up. He almost forgets to prepare himself for Clark, lost in looking up at him. But he’s nothing if not efficient. He makes use of the time spent lavishing Clark’s cock scissoring himself open quickly and messy on one, two, and then three fingers, with more than enough lube to last at least a few rounds.
Clark still manages to cum down his throat twice before Bruce deems himself ready. At least they’ve taken some of the edge off already by the time Clark finally slides in and drapes himself over Bruce to push lazily at him for a few minutes. This, he can handle. A slow drag of Clark’s considerable length and girth inside him, pushing at his walls and all the right spots. It stretches his ring of muscles even more, deliciously so. And finally Clark is fucking him. Clark, the one person he’s wanted for so long. Bruce closes his eyes to pretend, and moves with him.
“Good. Feels so good,” this prompts out of Clark. His arms tighten around Bruce, comfortably uncomfortable. “Warm and soft,” Clark rambles, sending shivers down Bruce’s spine.
“Yeah?” he moans, selfishly pulling more out of Clark.
“Smells good. You.” Clark sounds drunk on lust. Bruce is sure then that Clark won't remember any of this. Still, he drinks up Clark's words as if they're meant for him specifically, content in the knowledge that no one else will hear them. “Gonna fill you up with all I've got.”
“I want you to give it all to me,” Bruce pants. He girates his hips under Clark and it pulls some animalistic grunts out of him. Bruce is not going to last much longer under Clark's husky voice and his own full body shivers. He's jerking his own cock quicker and quicker, fuelled by Clark's presence.
He feels Clark nod at the back of his shoulder, and a few more hard thrusts and he feels the heat of Clark's cum inside of him, sending him over the edge too.
Bruce is still shaking with his orgasm when the reality of his predicament finally sets in as Clark doesn’t give him any time to recover before he’s thrusting again, faster now. Clark drags him to sit up on his knees properly, large hands on his hips to hold him in place. He’s Clark’s. All he can do is let him.
Clark starts pounding into him in earnest now. “Gonna do it all night, Bruce.”
Hearing his own name in Clark’s lust-addled and low voice sends a rush of embarrassment through him. His spent cock twitches at the feeling, hanging uselessly between himself and the mattress. He has no time to dwell on what either of it means though, as Clark pounds mercilessly into him.
Many rounds later, Clark's gravelly whisper pulls Bruce from the edge of unconsciousness. “I need to go one more time, Bruce.”
They’ve been going for hours. The room is a mess, the bed equally so. Clark has fucked him against the wall when he tried to make his way over for a bathroom break. He has fucked him on the floor when they inevitably fell off the small bed. They’re wet with sweat, Clark’s hair is matted in a way it never does. Bruce’s ass burns from the friction and his insides are hot and flooded with Clark’s seed. He has cummed untouched, more than once. He feels spent and ready to collapse, but he doesn’t. Not for Clark. “Sorry,” Clark says now, and kisses his shoulder, the first touch of his lips, though it barely registers to Bruce.
“‘s okay,” he manages. “I can take it.” They’re on their side, Bruce’s limp body only supported by Clark and still filled with his cock. Even without powers, but in this state, Clark has energy and libido to run a marathon. Twice. Bruce feels like he’s already ran three.
“Thank you.” Clark picks up his pace again, powerful snaps that speak of a man containing so much more, right under the surface of the red light that they’re bathed in.
As Clark pumps him full of cum again, Bruce can only think one thing. He wishes he never came up with the red sun room. He wants all of Clark. And now he has to wait two months to get only a fraction of him again.
—-------------------------------------
As discussed, a week later, they reevaluate. The result is an unspoken agreement that, while not the most efficient way, this works for Clark, and they will keep doing it. Every cycle, they meet in the deepest parts of the cave. Sometimes, they sit awkwardly across from each other, waiting for Clark’s tulzhaol to start. Bruce has time to prep himself in the bathroom, and it’s good and gradual when Clark starts fucking him before he reaches full intensity.
Sometimes, Clark has to yank him away from his work in the cave and off to the small room, and Bruce barely has time to squeeze a little lube onto Clark and himself. Those times, he cries with pain and pleasure as Clark spears him mindlessly on his cock and pounds him into the thin mattress. They never kiss.
Bruce has taken to using toys to train himself. Train to fit Clark at a moment’s notice. He practices stretching himself in awkward positions. He loosens himself up for Clark the day he knows Clark’s rut will probably start.
As Clark fucks into him, Bruce tells him how good he is, how good he feels, his own brain just as lust addled as Clark’s, if not more. Clark moans into his shoulder at his admissions.
He feels wetness on his shoulder now, and realizes it's Clark kissing him, biting and licking. “Mine,” Clark drools. “khuhtiv uldif.”
Bruce shivers and clenches his teeth at hearing words that were never truly meant for him. He wants to be Clark's forever. “zhi,” he replies.
They don't speak about it after. Clark because he has forgotten and Bruce because he wants it to be true.
Clark's hands on him are mechanical. Methodical in spreading Bruce's cheeks, finding opening. He pulls at Bruce's hips, positioning him just right, ass up, face down, keeping Clark's spend in him.
It's always like this. Clark at his back, Bruce keeping his cock warm, the soft sheets underneath him wet from his own cum. Against the wall if their timing is right. Half on the bed if he's less lucky. He rarely gets to see Clark's focused face. Clark chases satisfaction, until he's inevitably reached it and doesn't need Bruce anymore.
“Thank you,” he always says at the end, looking down at the floor. And then he grabs his bag and leaves the room, the manor, Gotham. He goes back to his own life, leaving Bruce with an ass and a belly full of cum and in his own shame, dirtied, soiled, and dripping. Unsatisfied. Hornier than Clark will ever know.
He fingers himself then, pushing Clark's seed back up and in, tasting it on his fingers. A vibrator makes for a great plug and another orgasm shouting Clark's name. Clark won't be able to hear him yet anyway, still regaining his powers after red sunlight exposure.
After about six months, Bruce has had enough of it. It’s not weird for the owner of the Daily Planet to stroll into the city room uninvited, and so he does, on a Tuesday, near the end of the workday. He’s familiar with the employees, stops for small talk, and finally makes his way over to Clark and Lois’s private office.
He opens the door without knocking, startling Clark and pulling him out of his work.
“Hey,” he says.
“Bruce.” Clark’s expression falters, distress ghosts over his face, and his brows draw together. Bruce swallows his own disappointment at not being wanted.
“Lois?”
“Out for a while still, I think. Is something wrong?” Clark gets up to close the door behind Bruce, having caught on that something sensitive will be discussed.
It’s better to be direct, Bruce has learned. “I want to propose a change in our arrangement.”
“Arrangement?”
“Yes. We stop using the red sun room. Your recovery takes too long. It could prove fatal if you’re really needed somewhere.” Bruce hates using Clark’s guilt like this, to manipulate him, but he’s thought about this for a long time. Only logical clauses and rationality will grant him a chance at getting what he wants.
Clark’s shoulders droop. “It's why I never used one before. I figured now that we're both… occupied during those times you had made arrangements to cover for us.”
“I have. It's still too dangerous. And getting to the red sun room too. Your… condition is so unpredictable it's proven difficult to be on time in the past. And sitting around waiting for it to start is something neither of us want.”
Clark stands in front of him now, and crosses his arms. “Right. So what do you propose?”
“No more red sun room. You get free range over my body when your tulzhaol starts. With 15 minutes notice for me.”
“Bruce…” Clark looks pained. His arms fall back to his sides. “We've talked about this. I don't want to hurt you.”
“You wouldn't. You're still you, when you're in your rut.” He pauses here, to gauge Clark’s reaction, but all he sees is Clark’s jaw set, his mouth a straight line. Bruce continues softer. “You could never hurt me, because I trust you and you would never forgive yourself.”
“I can't trust myself, is the problem.”
“But I trust you. When you came to the watchtower that day, and you needed help, you restrained yourself. You didn't hurt me.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Wherever I am, and you feel tulzhaol coming on, give me 15 minutes notice and I'll be ready for you.” Bruce swallows. “For you to use and do with as you please. And until your it's over, you'd own me.”
Clark says nothing, and stares at Bruce's chest, which must mean he's picked up on the spike in his heart rate that he has tried to hide for so long.
“I think this way the arrangement can be mutually beneficial,” he admits. “I like getting used. I want to be completely at your mercy.” Clark looks pensive, but there's a glint in his eyes. Somewhere very deep, it feels like Bruce is backing into an unbreakable corner.
Clark swallows. “You like it. Uh… Why?”
“It’s a kink, Clark. One I can’t explore with anyone but you, for obvious reasons.”
“Oh, I see,” Clark says. He looks down at the floor. “It’s too dangerous. When all I want to do is… fuck.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, removing his glasses in the process. “Impregnate someone, what if I stop at nothing to get it? What if it happens while you’re on patrol?”
Bruce’s throat is dry. “I have contingencies for that,” he says hoarsely.
“Of course you do.”
Bruce opens his briefcase. “I have a sort of contract for us. Here.” He hands Clark a single sheet of paper. Better to keep things rational, he’s figured.
Clark reads it, flushes red in his cheeks, and puts it down. “So it’s like a dom-sub friends with benefits thing?”
“Like I said, mutually beneficial. We help each other.”
“If I sign this, promise me you’ll use kryptonite if you need to.” Clark moves to grab a pen off his desk, but Bruce steps in.
“Wait.” He scribbles down: Object will use Green K to subdue Owner if needed, and writes the same thing onto his own copy of the contract.
Clark signs, in perfect strokes.