Chapter Text
Life under Lord Kal-El was incredibly peaceful. There was no crime in the country and no one went hungry. Thomas would be forever grateful to Lord Superman for saving his son, on that fateful night. The gunshot still rings in his ears sometimes. But Superman, the man who could fly faster than a speeding bullet, had pulled Bruce out of harm's way. The mugger had been arrested and was still serving his sentence in prison - it had been only ten years. Bruce had since blossomed like a beautiful flower, and at 16 years old, was the prettiest omega Gotham City had ever seen.
Every year, a selection of eligible omegas and betas from around the world were sent to the Justice Lords base. They were vetted by the Justice Lords’ board of judges first, and the thousands would get narrowed down to hundreds. Then the hundreds would be examined by the Justice Lords themselves, and narrowed down to a hundred. One hundred eligible whores would be sent to Lord Superman’s fortress every year, and ninety nine would always return. It was very difficult to get selected to join Lord Superman’s harem. Of the one hundred betas and omegas, many of them never even made it as far as Lady Lane, Lord Superman’s right-hand woman, who made the final selections.
It was selection season again. Bruce did not have to worry about it - mother had assured him that he was not of age, Alfred told him that his breasts hadn't formed yet, and they couldn't send him to Lord Superman with a flat chest. The board required candidates to be 21 years old. That was when omegas reached the peak of their maturity, when they were the most beautiful.
Thomas's life of luxury was failing. He was indebted to several lenders and the time for repayments was coming close. If he didn’t pay back - he would end up in prison. Thomas did not want to go to prison, for he did not want Martha to know of his financial predicament. After dealing with many of Gotham's underground sorts, Thomas had found a solution. It was a difficult decision to make, but in the end, Bruce was the most perfect little treasure to trade off and brought in the highest value. He could pay off all his debts, he would avoid jail, and he had drawn an agreement with Falcone that he would be allowed to visit Bruce every week.
The smell of burning flesh, the sounds of gunfire, the echoes of men’s screams as Lord Superman descended upon the abandoned building. Bruce, shivering in his cage, the clanking of chains barely audible above all the commotion.
Bruce remembers leaving the house with father. He was dressed in his pretty clothes, the dress with the ribbons on it and the white stockings. He didn’t like his pretty clothes - they were tight and scratchy and too omega - he preferred dressing like a beta, they wore whatever they wanted to wear. Mother let him do so, but when father took him out to his business meetings he would make Bruce wear the pretty clothes, to give a good impression.
He remembers walking into a dark building with father, holding his hand. Bruce didn’t like holding father’s hand, either. He was too old for it. But father insisted. Mother insisted too. Alfred told him it was because Bruce almost died when he was younger, because they weren’t holding his hand. Lord Superman had saved Bruce - Bruce really wanted to meet Lord Superman one day. He was such a great ruler and he made Gotham City so clean - Bruce remembers when he and Tommy used to hold their breath and challenge each other to run by the garbage street . Whoever made it farthest without smelling the garbage smell would win. Garbage street was now Garden street - it smelled like fresh flowers and dew.
Father used to often tell him that he was friends with Lord Superman. Maybe he would ask Father one day, to let him meet Lord Superman before he entered the Selections.
Bruce remembers more of what happened after he entered the building. Some guard had done body checks on them, then father had left Bruce in a waiting room and gone somewhere else, probably to get the money. Father had told him that today they were not going to a business meeting, they were going to get a large amount of money, and that Bruce needed to be in his pretty clothes to make sure they got the money. Father did that alot - dressed Bruce up in his pretty clothes and then took him along to get money from the money people. And he always made Bruce promise not to tell mother. Father was doing something wrong, that much Bruce could understand. But he couldn’t tell father that he understood. Because if he told mother, mother would be crushed, and if there was one thing Bruce never wanted to see in his life, it was to see his mother sad.
A few minutes in the waiting room, the lights had turned off, and Bruce was grabbed. His mouth was bound before he could scream and then his wrists and ankles were also tied, and his pretty clothes ripped off. Bruce was furious. He hated his dresses, sure, but they were still very expensive, and he never let them get dirty or torn. He kicked and struggled and flailed wildly but it was of no use - he felt himself getting carried somewhere and soon he was thrown onto a hard, cold surface. When the lights came back on, Bruce found himself in a cage. He was jerked back by his hair and a cold steel collar was clamped around his throat, chaining him to the bars of his cage. His legs were pulled apart and shackled to two lengths of chain connected to the walls outside the cage, and his wrists were already cuffed behind his back. He was spread and bare except for his underwear, and there was a man with an evil smile sitting on a plush armchair in front of the cage, leering at Bruce. Father was standing in a corner at the back of the room, two cases of money in his hands.
“My my, he’s just as beautiful as the pictures you showed us, Wayne. I must admit I thought you photo edited them,” the man sneers. No, no, he wouldn’t… realization dawns on Bruce and he turns to father with pleading eyes.
“I’m sorry, Bruce,” father looks apologetic but doesn’t sound it in the least bit, and he hangs his head and walks out of the room, loaded with the money he just got by selling Bruce.
The thugs had gathered around Bruce’s cage, and they had leered at him and made weird noises, and some had even reached through the bars of the cage to pinch his bottom. Bruce was hanging limply from the chains after a while - he was hungry and thirsty and tired and emotionally unwell, and even flinching away from the unwanted hands on his body had become tasking.
He had a feeling he was being saved for something bigger, though, something worse, because when a thug’s hand had strayed too close to Bruce’s clothed cocklet, the man with the evil smile, Falcone , had shot the guy in the leg. The gunshot had triggered Bruce’s memory of something Alfred always used to tell him.
If you see someone with a gun, call the Authority.
But what if I don’t have a phone, then I can’t call the Authority.
Then call on Lord Superman himself, he hears us all.
So Bruce did. He whispered to Lord Superman, in his great ice fortress at the end of the earth, and hoped that he would hear him.
“ I don’t know if you can hear me, Lord Superman. My name is Bruce. I’m stuck in a cage on the east end of Gotham City. There are very bad men here and they’re putting their hands on me and talking about making me do bad things. If you can hear me, please-”
Bruce had not yet finished speaking when the roof had come crashing down, and Lord Superman was there, burning the place to the ground with his majestic, scorching red eyes. His posture was regal, he carried himself with so much grace, and the heat from his eyes warmed Bruce’s cold, shivering bones. Lord Superman had melted the shackles off of Bruce, and wrapped Bruce in his silken white cape before his soldiers exploded the whole establishment to dust.
“Please take me home,” Bruce had pleaded. Lord Superman had hushed him, held him tightly to his chest, and flown him several miles away, to that magnificent castle in the Arctic.
Thomas had been sent to prison. The money from selling Bruce had been confiscated by Lord Superman, and Martha and Alfred had been provided appropriate compensation in the form of a manor at the edge of Gotham. It was larger than the Wayne Tower that Bruce grew up in, and grander too, and Bruce got to have his own huge bedroom instead of sleeping in his parent’s room. He didn’t get to live in the bedroom, though.
Lord Superman took a fancy to Bruce. He had the little omega added to his harem and allowed Bruce to visit home only once a week, keeping him seated by his throne the rest of the time. Bruce, overjoyed to be receiving Lord Superman’s attention, took his role in stride. He donated his entire closet of old clothes to the charities Lord Superman had set up, that distributed free necessities to the impoverished. Lady Lane sent him shopping on an unlimited budget to get whatever he pleased, as well as to get the custom outfits Lord Superman had ordered for him.
On the night of Lord Superman’s 50th birthday, he officially claimed Bruce. Bruce had been terrified of going to Lord Superman’s bed. Firstly, almost no one admitted in the Selections were virgins. By age 21, an omega was highly likely to have already lost their virtue. Secondly, Bruce was only 16. He was skinny and pale and his breasts were non-existent, his butt bony. It was starting to become rounded and bouncy, but only slightly. It would take many more years till his body fully formed. But Lord Superman had wanted him, and Lord Superman had kept him, and when he had praised Bruce’s teenage body and kissed him over his knobbly knees and pointy hips, Bruce had felt much better. Lord Superman marked him with his sigil on the base of his spine while he fucked Bruce from behind, then lifted Bruce off the bed and carried him to the mirror, showing him the claiming tattoo. It looked beautiful, the superman crest in deep black ink, against Bruce’s pale skin. It was a permanent reminder that he belonged to Lord Superman, and Bruce adored it.
Lord Superman had always paid equal notice to all the concubines in his harem. No one got any special treatment, whether they were old or new, experienced or inexperienced. But when Bruce came along, he captured the Lord’s attention. He was new, and he was inexperienced, and he was young , so very young. He was also quite skinny, and the other concubines boiled with jealousy when Lord Superman would choose to fuck his bony butt rather than their perfectly shaped bodies. Josie had even got surgery done, to augment the size of her hips. Lord Superman had really liked her new hips, but now he had not touched them in two whole weeks. He was always touching Bruce, and tending to Bruce, and fucking Bruce, while the older concubines were left to sit around and watch and wait for their turn that never would come.
There was another thing that made Lord Superman’s harem very, very resentful of Bruce. The one rule that everyone knew, that everyone followed, was to never ask Lord Superman for anything. His Lordship had the best judgment on what you needed and what you didn’t, and he provided as such. But Bruce, Bruce was always asking . He asked for new clothes and new cushions and new accessories, he ordered his own food and chose his own hairstyles. He even got Lord Superman to change his schedule, the nerve of the kid! Where Josie and James and Tabby and Ken had been hoping for years that Lord Superman would rotate their call times, Bruce was able to change his call times within two weeks at the fortress. Now he was at Lord Superman’s side 15 hours a day, with 6 hours for sleep and 3 hours of personal time. Josie and Tabby were also there 15 hours a day, but they didn’t get 3 hours of “personal time”. They spent 4 hours at Lord Superman’s personal division priming agency, exercising, bathing, shaving, grooming and perfecting their looks. Bruce didn’t have to spend 4 hours every day at the agency. Lord Superman took care of him, personally .
Bruce was possessive. Kal noticed this in the kid when he demanded to be given 15 hours of service instead of 10 - most people preferred to work less hours, but Bruce had asked for more. When Kal sat in his throne room, he often had his concubines sitting or standing around him. Bruce would always sit closest, and he scratched Sybil when she tried to sit closer. Kal had been amused by the look of astonishment in Sybil’s eyes - she had always been the one to sit closest to Kal, and here was a mere 16 year old, uprooting her position. While Kal strictly prohibited any violence between his pets, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Bruce off. He was just so adorable behind that scowling face and sharp fingernails. And those sharp fingernails felt really good, when Bruce dragged them across Kal’s cock. Yet another rule that Bruce freely broke - the concubines were not allowed to keep long nails, or wear heavy makeup, or wear underwear. Bruce had nails like cat’s claws.
Bruce’s soft tongue kitten licks across the head of Kal’s cock. His delicate hands wander aimlessly over Kal’s thighs, trying to find something to grip. There’s a sharp gleam in the boy’s eyes whenever he is in this position that fascinates Kal alot. From what Kal gathered from Bruce’s files, the boy has been obsessed with Kal since childhood. That obsession is clear in the bedroom, when Bruce outperforms the rest of his concubines despite being the youngest and highly inexperienced.
“Keep your hands still, boy.” Bruce stills his hands, close to Kal’s cock.
"Suck," Bruce leans forward, sucking the head into his mouth.
"Use your hands," Bruce wraps his slim fingers around the base of Kal's cock, keeping his grip light. He runs his fingers up the underside of Kal's cock instead of pumping his hand - he likes to tease. Accidentally, the side of his nail scratches along Kal's skin, sending a rush of pleasure through his spine.
"Fuck!" Kal growls, bucking his hips into Bruce's throat. His whole length forces its way in, making Bruce choke and pull off. Bruce is coughing and grinning as he pulls back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You like that, my Lord?" He drags his fingers down Kal's cock again, scratching his nails across it. Kal groans, a pleasure like he's never felt coursing through his body. This kid is a little devil.
Bruce scrapes his fingers further down, daring to rake his nails over Lord Superman's balls. The reaction is exquisite. Precum blurts from the cock head and fills Bruce's mouth, and Lord Superman thrusts forward, burying himself in Bruce's throat. Within seconds, Bruce finds himself suffocating around the intrusion, gagging and sputtering. The squeezing of his throat further pleasures Lord Superman, who tightens his hold on Bruce's hair and starts fucking his mouth wildly. He grabs Bruce's wrist and brings his hand towards his balls and Bruce gets the message, cupping them in his hand and letting his nails scrape against the skin while Lord Superman fucks his throat.
"Fuck, you're so fucking good," Kal groans, emptying into the tight, wet hole. Bruce has gone red in the face, and Kal pulls back quickly, allowing the omega to breathe. Kal expects the boy to spit, because he's clearly choking - but he swallows. He smiles weakly before swallowing everything Kal emptied in his mouth, and promptly chokes, coughing violently. His body is heaving and his throat is red and he looks so beautifully debauched Kal picks him off the floor and kisses him, and fuck, kiss flows into kiss, kiss flows into sighs, he's so fucking perfect, so, so right.