Work Text:
The skin on his neck is chilled, ears twitching underneath his cowl, and arm hair raising where it’s smothered beneath armor. A cough dispels powder from his mouth, white lenses tainted with pink dust, while his hands messily work on wiping off his exposed chin. Another cough, a step back, and then an alarm breaks the silence of the tunnel.
Red paints the area in a dangerous manner, atmosphere now tense under its rough light. With only a minute to spare, Batman quickly rips out an evidence bag, swabbing the remains of pink dust spores into it before sealing it away in his belt. He feels the energy of the room more than himself, mind blowing through several hundred potential outcomes for what he’s just been exposed to. His fingers itch for a lab kit and time.
“Batman!” Superman yells with urgency, grabbing him by the underneath of his arms to haul him up. Good, his response time is immaculate.
He speeds them out of the building, an action so disorienting, it never manages to leave Bruce as anything other than jumbled.
“Did you find it?” Batman asks gruffly, squinting against the harshness of the sun. He’s sweating, he notices, and his gloves are covered in pink dust.
“Yep. What uh, what did you get into?” Clark is looking down at him, lips twitching into an amused smile when Bruce looks up, cowl pink and black. It’s a playful jest, the Super used to messing with him, but now is not the time for games.
“Clark,” Bruce grumbles, dropping his head to look resolutely at the ground. Muted by the comms device, air whips around them up until Clark slows down near the jet.
Batman is gently deposited, boots touching the ground and body momentarily weightless before Superman lets go, opting to stand to the side of him. Bruce brushes off his cape, scowling at the pink now coating the black fabric. Great. Now he (really, only Alfred) has to clean it. Clark’s lucky these sorts of things never seem to affect him.
“Do you know what that is?” Clark asks, eyes zeroing in on his contamination. His hands are on his hips, expression analytical.
“No.” Bruce risks a glance his way, and he’s met with a frown that rolls his stomach in knots. Suddenly uncomfortable, he continues, “I’ll figure it out.”
Clark nods, stray curl moving with his head, and Bruce wants to run his fingers through his hair, slick it back with his own sweat, tangle it in his fists—
“Be sure to let me know what that is. We don’t need to have another outbreak on our hands.”
Bruce is taken out of his thoughts, mind muddled with filthy, yet tame images of the other. His cock twitches, and with a grimace, he nods his affirmative, stepping to his jet.
There is no way he got turned on from that.
“Batman,” Clark says, stepping forward and grabbing ahold of his shoulder.
Warm all over, he pauses, breath stuttering in his chest. He turns his head, and although unsavory for an alpha of his age, his eyes are averted beneath white lenses.
“Here.” Superman deposits a bagged relic into his hand. It’s exactly what he sought help with.
Clark is a good man, capable and competent, able to keep up and stay on course. He’s content with Bruce’s silence, and responsive to his rants and occasional outbursts. In measurement of strength, he holds his own, and although clumsy in hand-to-hand combat, he makes an excellent partner. Kindness is natural to him, strong hands nurturing despite his status. He could hold him down with just his pinkie, push him past his limits to discover elation with just a few twists of his hand. His hand, previously carving its own space on Bruce, leaves Batman’s shoulder, and with it, his thought process shatters.
Clark is his friend.
“Hnn.”
There was a problem.
It’s been a few hours. He has checked the contents of the pink powder, and evidence declares it as a rut inducer. His knot hurts, and he does not want to do anything about it because if he did, it would be to his friend. His friend who has super hearing, and who wants to listen in on someone getting off to them?
The thought makes him throb, and with an exasperated sigh, he palms his crotch, bare heel digging into soft fabric.
Realistically, he’s aware Clark doesn’t listen in when it’s not warranted, but the idea is enough to make his hips spasm, palm digging in harder, and he has to clench his teeth, eyes shutting and chin dropping to his chest.
He really shouldn’t, but he also should not have been hit with some sort of rut pollen, so shouldn’t he really take this to his bedroom?
Tense in his chair, his hand eases off his crotch, pressure now light. The bat-computer’s screen turned black amid his contemplation, and his reflection, faint in the blank screen, is too much of a reality check. It’s his fault, sure, but this is business. There has to be a clinical detachment or else his cock will fall off. Not really, but his knot needs to inflate or he’s going to bite his own arm off in distress.
This is really a moment.
With a wiggle of his hips, he pushes his palm down, back straightening at the slight burn of friction against his cock. It’s enough stimulation to leave him temporarily breathless, gut curling, and it’s with a shudder that he pushes his waistband down, boxers tented with an embarrassingly wet patch.
An alpha, yet he gets wet like an omega.
He slumps in his chair, thankful for the afternoon hour as it leaves him alone in the cave. With need coursing through his veins, he slips a hand into his underwear, velvet skin wet with his own slick.
Relief fills his body, muscles shaking in apparent weakness at the flick of his thumb against his frenulum, but the sensation is temporary. Greed consumes him, letting him act on impulse. Too sharp of a bite splits his lip, and the sting has him hiss through his teeth, hand dropping to the base of his cock. A squeeze of his hand, and his mind shifts realities.
A filthy image of Clark, the strength in one hand to stave him off an orgasm, body wrought out either above or beneath him. His breath hitches, back hunching inwards, his forehead almost touching the desk. Clark would hold him there, muscles reflecting his sweat while flexing, or if he doesn’t want to, Bruce would keep him in place with his hips alone. The heady rush of power floods his body with a starving breath, the illusory display of trust enough for him to release his cock from its confines. Cool air nips at his exposed, wet skin. He can smell himself, and he wishes he could smell him too.
He’s panting, hand twisting with each upstroke.
What feels too much is simultaneously too little. His other hand lands on the desk, arm flat against it to cushion his forehead, upper body now useless. Tension remains in his legs, ankles crossing. With a stuttered breath, he squeezes his knot, hips thrusting upward as he bites into his arm, teeth piercing his sleeve and he imagines for a second it’s Clark’s cape, red fabric shoved in his mouth to muffle him while the other alpha holds him still, down, and forcefully. A raw display of power that comes effortlessly, something that proves his competence as a suitable mate.
He cries out, sound muffled in his arm, hand shaking at its continuous stroking when the first stripe of cum hits his shirt. It should be Clark’s shirt, marking it with evidence of him, pushing into his space, scenting him, taking him. It should be his.
Slowly, he holds onto his knot, squeezing, yet the pleasure usually derived from the act is replaced with an empty longing, the need in him left unsatisfied. He growls pitifully, drooling into his sleeve. With deep breaths, he wills his heart rate to go down, white noise in his ears making everything feel distant.
He’s empty, he notices, and instead of better, he only feels sick.
“What did you do over the weekend?” Superman asks, leaning against the workbench.
Batman works on a piece of useless machinery, trying to think rational thoughts of his friend, because if he shifts the wrong way, he thinks he’ll pop his knot. The shame of lifting his head up the other day to see his strung-out expression reflected in his own screen… It left him unable to focus. It’s not forgiving.
“Work,” he answers plainly, mindlessly twirling a screwdriver against a stripped screw.
“Funny. Bruce Wayne is never seen running his company these days. I’ve been promised an interview…”
Bruce lifts his head, white lenses narrowing at the Super. “And Clark Kent can’t write Pulitzer Prize-winning pieces. We all have losses.”
“Lighten up, B.” His hand is on his shoulder, albeit caped and covered, but it’s there, heavy and solid. Bruce savors it, leans into it.
It must be uncharacteristic of him. Clark adopts a worried expression: softly scrunched eyebrows and the downward tug of pink, plump lips. “What was the deal with the pink stuff?”
Right. Pink. Bruce licks his lips, mouth watering.
Right.
Bruce shrugs his shoulders, causing Clark to remove his hand; it’s somehow worse than the first time. With a somewhat steady voice, he responds, “Harmless. It was just pink dust.”
“It didn’t smell like it,” he comments, backing away to pull a chair over.
This is news to Bruce. There was no initial scent, even when he ran tests on it. He asks, “What did it smell like?”
Clark props his elbow on the table, red cape draped over his shoulder. Bruce averts his gaze, eyes on the useless, unmovable screw, and working it worse with his tool.
“Sweet, citrus. It had a hint of pine.”
The leather of his glove creaks, grip tightening around the screwdriver. A slip of control Clark catches, and Bruce keeps his eyes down, teeth digging into his tongue. A breath, and Clark speaks up to say, “I’m visiting my Ma sometime this Thursday. Maybe you can come by, have some pie and help on the farm?”
His heart skips a beat, a painful thud only intensified by the force in which he wants to say yes. “I’m busy,” he tells him instead, a growl in his voice.
“It’s for a few hours, B.” He’s persistent, easy-going, and so kind that it almost makes Bruce feel insecure. “She’s been asking about you, you know.”
“She has?” Bruce glances at him from the corner of his eye, catching Clark’s look, his now-furrowed brows that indicate a victory before he’s processed that he’d even asked. The loss doesn’t sting.
“Uh-huh. And she could use the help— we could use the help.”
It would be easy to point out that Superman doesn’t need help with something as trivial as farm work, especially when most of what he’d be doing is heavy lifting. Batman isn’t as strong as Superman, though he is as resilient. But, despite the fact that he is firm on his own boundaries, he feels the telltale sensation of heat slither up his spine. If there’s anything Batman— Bruce— is, it’s useful.
He can be useful to Clark. He can be good. “I’ll be there.”
It’s been a few days, and the duration of the rut inducer is longer than he predicted. Excuse him, but he’s had a bit of a foggy head. All he can feel is his cock throbbing between his legs. He’s allowed to inaccurately estimate how long this’ll last.
People often say he’s a control freak, but what he really is, is focused. A lack of concentration is to blame, and if he had to leave a meeting to jerk off in his office, then so be it. The thought, the unholy idea of him listening in, hearing the slick slide of his hand through his own wetness, it was enough for him to stain through several pairs of underwear.
In his car— the million-dollar bat-mobile, favored for its bulletproof structure, state of the art technology, and its quick transportation— he can’t help but prop up his knees, plated armor digging into the steering wheel. Tinted windows have never been more useful, even if he wants him to see, to hear him, to touch and take him apart only to mold him into his.
Or, if Clark prefers, Bruce can worship him, kiss every inch of skin and savor him on his tongue, feed him as if he’s the sun he’s powered by. It’s tempting, just the thought, and a quiet moan escapes from his throat.
There was an invasion wrapped up less than an hour ago. The League took care of it, and Batman, caught off guard (he wasn’t distracted by Superman but he totally was), was tossed against a brick building. The ache of his ribs doesn’t deter his arousal, and it will surely contribute to the rage he’ll feel after this, after he ruins the base layer of his suit— again. Because he can’t stop from touching himself, squeezing his knot, and feeling longingly empty.
He’s filthy, covered in his own sweat and some dirt; it doesn’t matter. With a bite to his covered fingers, he slides his glove off, pruned fingertips immediately dropping to his crotch. The ruddy tip of his cock is leaking, curved up toward his armored stomach, and fuck, it hurts.
He thumbs the head, hissing through his teeth at how sensitive he’s become, skin chafed at every excessive point of contact he’s had the past few days.
It’s not enough.
With his hand shaking, he swirls his pointer and middle finger around the swollen head, gathering the slick that’s accumulated. He rolls it between his thumb, panting out of his mouth. A jerk of his hips has him drop his hand between his legs, scooting further down the seat, knees digging into the cover of the dashboard.
He can smell himself, a fertile alpha with that faint sweetness he’s had since presenting. Once a shame, but then turned into a tactic developed during his training.
Thankfully, he’s got experience.
Tilting his head, he spits onto his fingers, adding to the mess. An instinctive growl builds in his throat at the swipe against his rim, hair matted and pink skin puckered and twitching. His other hand, gloved, holds his cock, leather cool against his heated skin.
Impatient, he pushes his finger in, squeezing tightly around himself, eyes half-lidded and stomach curling. It’s always strange at first, but the initial instinct of aggression wears off quickly, neck dropping to expose his cowled nape to no one.
The angle of his wrist is awkward, but feeling full, even if it’s next to nothing, is enough for his cock to weep, reddened skin of his knot inflating as he thrusts his finger in and out. It’s enough for his prostate to be skimmed, touch minuscule yet consuming. He can imagine it, Clark’s big fingers drawing him open, the touch of cold lube on his fingertips circling around his hole. With a whisper of provocative words, something very unbecoming of the boy scout, he’d breach him, cheeks red and eyes lustful.
And Bruce wouldn’t tear his eyes away from him, watching as the other alpha takes from him, willingly giving himself up. Watching his own body squirm in his seat, he can imagine Clark’s arm across his hips to keep him still, strength immeasurable and body immovable. Bruce would snap his teeth at him, growl and bite, scratch at him, and Clark would take it with a smile, taming him with a few soft touches and nipping bites.
His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, skull reverberating with it. With how hot he is, his brain must be melted. All he can think about is that curly hair, sunshine smile, and the thickness of his fingers. The Super is big, muscular, and has a physique that rivals his own. Will his cock be proportionate to the whole rest of him?
He pulls out, sliding his middle finger alongside his pointer, and pushes back in with a heady, deep moan. The hand on his knot squeezes, sliding upward to stroke himself quickly, urgency unneeded but impatience overpowering him.
Drool pools in his mouth, sweat sticking to his skin underneath the cowl, hair surely a sticky mess by now. It’s without a second thought that he lets his saliva loose on himself, making the slide of his hand around his cock impossibly wetter.
His eyes clench shut, response instantaneous, fingers curving to hit that spot that chills his crotch, stomach tightening as his balls draw up. He’s unable to contain the grunts in his throat, body tense with whatever control he has left.
A pitiful whimper escapes from him, humiliation overshadowed by the first strip of release from his cock, cum dripping into his kevlar-covered abs. His fingers are coated, hand stripping himself with reverence, while his fingers piston in an unsteady, constant motion. He burns with it, eyes tearing up at the pressure.
His own touch becomes sickening in the split of a second.
He cries out, chittering with bitter relief, sticky skin cooling off from that insufferable heat inside of him. He slowly eases his fingers out, head tilting back and hitting the headrest. His wrist aches, cock burning, and it’s with a shaky hand that he squeezes his knot, quelling even more inexplicable hurt.
For a minute— really several, because he’s not keeping count— he breathes. His scent is potent in the car, horny alpha mixing with a pitiful yearning.
A ping startles him, prompting him to wipe his bare hand off on his covered thigh. The passenger seat contains the armor he’d ripped off immediately upon entering his vehicle, and the sight makes him sigh, ribs hurting.
Looking down at his gauntlet, he’s got a notification.
It’s Clark. They’re going to Smallville tomorrow.
Maddeningly, his cock gives a torturous, traitorous twitch, drawing a pained groan out from the depths of his chest.
“All right, Bruce?” Clark asks, the sun beating down on him. He has been lifting hay bales, and flying them into a field without breaking a sweat.
Bruce couldn’t be more turned on. In fact, he’s sure he could get off by just the wind.
No, he couldn’t. It’s a raw desperation he’s met with, wanting to act but being unable to. He’s not too used to being denied these sorts of things.
The air hitting him has him shiver, sweat soaking his hair. He’s been standing a fair distance away, opting to watch Clark with no pretense of ‘helping’ on the farm. Heat, cold chills, and unfulfilling orgasms…
The view makes up for it. Even if Clark is wearing something equivalent to a lumber jack’s attire, he looks gorgeous.
“Bruce?”
“Hm?” he asks, biting his tongue with his canines. Control yourself, Batman.
“Am I gonna do all the work here? If you’re tired, Ma could use your company in the kitchen.”
“I’m not tired,” he responds, sounding bored. I’m hard, I’m horny, I’m edging a rut. God, he wishes he were just tired— and not of his sexual appetite.
Clark puts his hands on his hips, a warm smile covering his lips. He never calls him out on his bluff directly. A reporters tongue: sharp, prying, and versatile. Paired with his own interrogation skills, Bruce is certain they’d make a great couple, perhaps even becoming the world’s finest mated pair.
“I’ll watch,” Bruce adds after a minute of silence. It’s something that doesn’t usually bother him, but he can’t stop staring at Clark.
“Oh.” Clark drops his hands to his sides, arms straightening. There’s a trace of shyness there in his stance, more of the mild-mannered reporter shining through. “Ok.”
Is he being subtle enough? No. Does he particularly care? Not right now. Maybe later, when he’s clearheaded, will he be mortified at this situation. Clark is his best friend, after all.
Clark picks up another hay bale, the motion effortless, and still, Bruce can make out the outline of his muscles in that flannel shirt of his.
Will he be the manhandling kind in bed? Lift him by his hips, drag him by the ears of his cowl, spread his legs open using his own thighs? If Bruce has to do it for him, he’d be more than glad. He can lift triple his weight— he’ll do anything that he wants done to him. He can be good, he can take care of him, he can keep that sunshine smile on that handsome face.
Bruce thinks that if Clark had been there in his place, pink powder nearly choking him, he’d be struggling with the aftermath.
Just that act alone, chiseled cheeks moving, eyes scrunching, plump, pink lips curled up to show sparkling white teeth… It’s enough to drive anyone mad, enough to trigger anyone into a mating spree. Clark is too perfect, the best at what he does: taking care of what’s his. Smallville is his town, as is the city of Metropolis. He’s too good, too kind, too giving to a world not quite his own.
Bruce wants to be his, to be his alpha, to be his mate, to be his. He wants him, all he has to offer, and the idea is not enough. He wants to choke on him, kiss him, cook with him, eat with him, fight with him and make up with more than an apology on his tongue.
But wanting is something desired, and Bruce doesn’t have much left to give.
Clark pushes the hay bale, unrolling it himself with ease.
The heat from the sun is unrelated to the one in Bruce’s pants, and with a growl, Bruce turns around, crossing his arms and panting.
It’s later that day that the wires in Bruce’s brain officially connect to his cock. Forget his knot, he’d let the other alpha turn him into an omega just for the ability to carry part of himself within him.
“I’m glad she’s spending time with her friends. At that age, we’ll probably be having sleepovers together too,” Clark says, licking his spoon and Bruce may be a pervert, the way his eyes zero in on the action, pupils dilated and heat curling in his gut.
“Maybe,” Bruce mindlessly agrees, though Clark tricked him into having a sleepover today, so maybe—
“The kids do that. They take up after us, right?”
How domestic, the kids. Our kids, Bruce thinks obsessively, our kids. “Right.”
“And you’re kinda like my Bat, in the way Damian has Jon.”
Oh, the sound of that, it’s so right. Unusual coming from him, but right. “Not exactly.”
“Yeah, we’ve always been a little different,” Clark easily agrees, finishing his third slice of pie. A shame Martha left so early. Bruce will have to deliver her something special for this gift.
For Clark, or for the pie, or even for the alone time— Bruce doesn’t see the difference when they’re all so individually sweet.
“Are you gonna eat that?” Clark nods his head toward his own untouched pie.
Bruce shakes his head, watching him with something akin to hearts in his eyes when he pushes his plate forward in an offering. Clark doesn’t hesitate taking it and digging his spoon into the smooth, silky slice. Bruce likes that, how he doesn’t doubt himself but asks anyway.
Yes, he wasn’t touching his pie, but Clark didn’t have to pry it from him. He asked, and Bruce will give him anything he wants.
“How’s Selina?” Clark asks, and it jostles Bruce out of his lovesick stupor.
“What?” Stunned, he can’t think of anything else to say. Selina. His ex, his on-and-off lover, his ally. He always had conflicting and confusing feelings about her. Still, he loves her, but not quite in the way he loves him.
“You act different when you’re… pining.” Way to lay it on thick, Kent. It’s pre-rut, but he won’t correct him.
“Like you weren’t the same for Lois,” Bruce retorts, shifting his weight on the chair discreetly.
“I wasn’t in my head with her, though.”
“Hn.” Clark was, but Bruce isn’t going to say it. No, he will. “You were.”
“Not like you are now,” Clark shares kindly, not taking his eyes off Bruce.
“It’s not Selina.”
Clark perks up, licking the remains of his pie with a pink, wet tongue. “Who, then?”
“No one,” Bruce states, having to stop himself from leaning forward. It’s tranquilizing, the sight the other alpha makes just being himself.
“Gosh, Bruce. I’m not dumb. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Does this have to do with that pink dust a few days ago? Citrus and pine?” Clark is straightforward, and while Bruce would usually have some sort of negative reaction to such a doubt, this shows Clark remembered his scent and cares.
“Did you—“ A shrill of their communicators disrupts his speech, the question on his tongue left unspoken.
That’s probably for the best, because what was going to come out would’ve been too revealing.
Inside, he is tearing apart. The tips of his finger feel charged with rage, head buzzing with static and hands unable to keep still. It’s fine being the only human on a team of metahumans, but what’s not fine is everyone getting close to Superman, hugging him, laughing with him, talking to him like they’re close with the man beneath the suit.
It was a successful fight. A group of creatures came to retrieve the relic Superman had helped Batman gather. It’s always a win when no one dies, and a victory when no one is injured.
He feels hurt, though, watching Superman— Clark— talking with Diana, smiling at Flash and— Christ, he can’t believe he’s this jealous— looking at J’onn.
The only silver lining is the lack of scenting. Their scent patches are top of the market, specifically designed for even the most excruciating of events. Bruce has Lucius to thank for that engineering, but only himself to curse at for the bubbling irritation in his chest. Irrational as it is, he is still human, and not a good one.
Not like Clark. He feels foolish entertaining this idea of coupling, and for once, his sex drive is silent.
It’s the adrenaline crash. The moment he eats, showers, and lays in bed, he’s going to be back to being a horny mess, rutting into his pillows and tearing up the cases with his teeth. Soon, in the next twenty-four hours, he should take a week off to succumb to his rut.
Maybe if he was an omega, it would be easier because at least then, he’d have a sure chance.
It’s fine.
Which is why now he is in the cave logging a report for this successful exchange of a relic. Bruce deduced the pink dust to be a modified space rock preserved alongside the alien artifact. He should make a note of that in his own files in case it comes up again. Clark was right: they do not need another outbreak of anything on Earth.
The click of his keys are harsh, the usually silent keyboard being abused by his bare fingertips.
Why did Clark smile at everyone and not just him? If anything, the Super should’ve checked on him, given him more than a pat of his shoulder and a small smile. Stupid, that dumb nagging in Bruce’s head. The doubt about their relationship whirls into a tornado of unhappiness.
Superman is his. Clark Kent is his.
A cough disrupts his thoughts, the click-clacking of his keyboard stopping abruptly.
“Bruce,” Superman says, tone flat.
Batman hastily stands up, turning around to face the other alpha, his arms crossing over his chest. He can feel his face heat up, the close proximity both helping and worsening his… problem. “What.”
Superman’s poker face doesn’t work with Bruce, but the thinning of his lips and draw of his face is unreadable. It’s new territory, something he’d normally explore, but right now, a growl builds up in his chest, the sound undetectable if not for the other’s hearing.
Clark’s eyes drop briefly. “What’s going on with you? You’re not usually so… catty.“ He grimaces at his own wording. “You’re easier to read than you think. I know you, don’t lie to me.”
A spark of indignation sets off the fire inside of him. His body takes a step forward without any thought. Annoyed and furiously horny, he responds, “Selina? Really?”
Clark’s eyebrows furrow, the aggression rolling off the Bat now tainting him. “What about her?”
“You just said catty. You’re thinking of her, you mentioned her at your mother’s table. Why.” It’s irrational questioning, but his head feels clouded with an insistent buzzing.
“Are you not?” Clark snaps back, hands at his sides. “I’m not dumb, Bruce. Citrus and pine, remember? You’re going through something. What is it?”
The tone of his voice, the words themselves, it should set Bruce off, and it does to some extent. But instead of a hormone-induced rage, he feels deflated, rejection hitting him full force.
It makes him sick, the growl in his chest stopping in his throat.
“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, voice softening.
Bruce clenches his fists, dropping them to his sides. Gloveless and without his cowl, he feels too exposed. He even took off his cape, the black fabric draped on the back of his chair.
“Batman.” Superman steps forward, fists clenched in mirror of the other’s position.
Bruce’s tight control snaps, whipping him with emotion. He reaches toward his own neck, ripping off clear scent patches; immediately, that potent scent of his fills the air.
He catches the exact moment Clark scents him, his eyes dilating and shoulders straightening. Alpha posturing— he’s instinctively reacting by drawing back, and Bruce’s lips curve into a sneer.
“I’m about to go into rut,” Bruce tells him, voice low and gravelly. The growl builds back up, dying off in his throat, but it’s audibly louder than before. He steps forward, a heat engulfing his face when Clark doesn’t step back. “It’s a private manner.”
“Don’t talk to me about privacy, B,” Clark retorts sharply, eyebrows furrowing. “You tell me these things, otherwise you put us all at risk. You put that in the field guide.”
Still annoyed at Clark, he doesn’t respond, eyes darting away.
In a quick blur, the Super crowds in on him, causing Bruce to back up into his large desk, hands holding the edges to stabilize himself. Instantly, his eyes snap to his, the other’s darkened. It makes him shiver, a drop of need erasing every trace of jealousy. He immediately puts a hand up to shove him away before he does something embarrassing like bite him, or grind on him, or beg for an ounce of something.
But Clark pushes it off, his own strong and smooth hand slithering to his neck, pressing into his nape in a scruff and rendering him defenseless. His growl dies off, aggression replaced with submission, and much to his own embarrassment, a soft moan escapes him. The heat on his neck and face transfers to his lower belly in the split of a second, erection trapped in the confines of his suit.
“You don’t want Selina?” Clark questions, lips parted to breathe him in.
It’s an effort to shake his head, eyes dropping to the other’s lips, to the slit exposing his teeth, the wetness of his tongue peeking through the slightest, most tantalizing amount.
“Do you want me?” he continues knowingly, confirming his own suspicions— a feeling Bruce knows too well.
Its hesitation that stops him from answering, but the hand on his nape leaves to grip his chin, bringing his attention back to the other alpha. His cock twitches, aching at its restriction, and with a harsh breath, he nods, eyes shutting as he desperately declares, “God, yes.”
“You’re Bruce Wayne,” Clark says, dropping his hand to his waist, his arms flexing through the blue suit to lift him onto the desk by his thighs. The keyboard is pushed away, monitor tipping over, and Bruce can’t even care.
He can afford it.
“So?” he asks breathily, looking down at Clark with a hungry gaze, eyes raking over his suit.
“You could’ve just asked.”
“This is more fun.” Bruce reaches out, nails scraping against the impenetrable Kryptonian fabric, face automatically leaning into his neck.
Clear scent patches taunt him, and it’s with his own depravity that he growls in frustration, knocking his cheek against Clark’s in disapproval. His stubble chafes him.
“Brat,” the Super comments, tearing off his scent patches.
It hits Bruce with a redefining clarity that Clark chose this, to put his hands on him and feed into his own desires. He leans back, nails digging into the others biceps. He has to swallow his own saliva, unable to stop drooling from the corruptive scent surrounding him.
“You want me?” Bruce asks, feeling silly for the simple question. He licks his lips, biting his tongue.
“Mhm.” Clark nuzzles his throat, breathing in deeply, and thumbs his wrists where weaker scent glands start leaking. “The pink dust— aphrodisiac or love spell?”
Bruce tries to squeeze his legs shut, but Clark’s in his space and it only serves to lock him in place. “Rut inducer.”
“Oh.”
A lick up his throat has him shiver, mouth meeting his, and it’s with nothing short of impulsive that he pushes forward, teeth clacking with his. It’s messy, his hands coming to Clark’s cheeks to hold him in place— he doesn’t allow it.
His back meets the large desk, head thudding painfully against the hardened material. He hisses through his teeth, kicking a leg out in defense, but the other alpha slides him down by his waist, leaving his lower half hanging off the surface.
“Clark—“
“Bruce.”
Hands venture up his torso, stopping just atop the bat symbol on his chest. Bruce peers up at him, the Super leaning over his body, and he never felt so animalistic in the face of another, alpha or not.
“You smell so good. Sweet.” Clark’s voice is low, and Bruce tries to sit up to get closer.
Strong hands keep him down, and he only manages to lift his head. Aggression rips through his body, making him sneer at the other, hands gripping his wrists.
“Simmer down,” Clark tells him, leaning back.
The distance is upsetting, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “You’re not the one sweating through your suit— you simmer down.”
Clark steps back, and Bruce has a brief moment of panic, sitting up just for Clark to push him back down. It was hotter in his imagination. Now, it’s just annoying, yet still, he’s sure he’s dripping in his briefs. The others scent contributes, that floral smell with an edge of fresh laundry, hardened with an otherworldly undertone… It’s alluring.
“Settle down, or I’ll keep you down,” he warns, dropping to a crouch to take off Bruce’s boots.
His crotch is tingling, back arching against the table much to his own shame at being so wanton. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Fucking farm boy.”
The armor on his legs quickly go, the plating on his crotch ripping at the force in which Clark tears it off. “I can milk you, too.”
It’s disgusting, not even serious, but it affects him all the same. He takes off the top of his own armor, now only in his boxers. It’s cold, he thinks, but he’s so warm.
“I’m not a cow,” he defends uselessly, hand palming the wet tent of his boxers.
It’s oddly reminiscent of earlier in the week, when all he had was his hand. Looking up, he had seen his reflection in the powered-off monitor, but now, he sees more than himself— he sees his future. Softened callouses meeting with a brush of hands, shared conversations in the kitchen at night, complaints over dinner and stolen clothes.
“No, you’re more like a bull.” Clark slaps his hand away, the rough treatment so unexpected, it makes his cock twitch in its confines. The other zeroes in on it, hands holding his thighs open. It’s so potent, his arousal.
“I don’t like these comparisons when I’m almost bare beneath you,” he confesses breathlessly. He squirms, trying to tempt Clark into leaning forward. Even a breath against his cock will settle him, or perhaps spur him into a fit of lost control. He doesn’t care, he’ll take it either way.
Clark smiles, eyes flitting upward as one hand pulls his waistband down. “You’re the one who called me a farm boy.”
“You don’t even have farm animals!”
The cool air of the cave contradicts with his body heat, and he tries to shut his legs at the strange sensation, but the other alpha pries them open, watching the precum stick to the black fabric, and watching as it loses tension just to land against his thigh. It’s disgusting, feels gross, but the look shadowing Clark’s face makes him shiver, pushing his hips up for any sort of stimulation.
“You get wet?”
Bruce’s knees pull up to his chest, embarrassment painting his already-flushed skin even redder. “What, you don’t?”
“Not this much.”
A finger feathers over his rim, and he kicks his legs out, stopping Clark from going any further. “I’m not that easy.”
“Yeah?”
Maybe taunting wasn’t the best choice, not for someone in his position: back against a desk, a super-powered alien above him. It’s a fantasy, sure, but a different hand other than his own on his cock, squeezing at his deflated knot and sliding his own slick down to his balls... It’s overwhelming, powerful by itself, and he doesn’t feel he can live without it. It’s rut.
“You’re not?”
Bruce shakes his head, eyes clenched shut, hands on Clark’s wrist as his body shakes. It’s shame he feels, but it only fuels his arousal. Sick, but he likes it.
Clark grants him a moment of reprieve, loosening his grip and sliding his hand to his sweaty thigh. It’s a grounding weight. “Not gonna be a good alpha for me?”
It’s unexpected, completely out of character, and has the right amount of condescension to make him go feral. He shakes his head in denial, fog taking over his brain, and chitters in disagreement.
“You’re bare, laid out like a meal right in front of me, and I still have my shoes on,” Clark points out, other hand sliding up to his navel, inching toward his sternum. “Gonna let me have my way with you?”
“What’s your way?” Bruce asks, using the last bit of brainpower he has. His teeth hurt, needing to dig into something, needing the man in front of him, above him, in him.
Now the Boy Scout gets flushed, persona fading, the act dropping. Bruce laughs, the tail end of it turning into a low, throaty moan when the other wraps a hand loosely around his neck. It must’ve been that alpha posturing giving him the audacity.
“I wanna take care of you, B. Any way you want.” Of course that’s his way— giving. He’s too giving, and a burst of emotion, equivalent to fond affection, fills his body, leaving him weightless.
He can faintly scent the same coming from Clark in the air, eyes softening where they look down at him.
“Fuck me,” Bruce states, thankful he can’t flush anymore than he already is. It’s unbecoming of an alpha, but Clark said it before: they are different.
The Super leans down, pressing their foreheads together. His red cape brushes against his heated skin. “You’re sure?”
“I’m in rut, not under mind control. Yes, I’m sure.”
Clark presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth before standing up straight to take off his own suit, revealing the hardened planes of muscle with less hair than what’s on his own body. It’s a test of self control, something the Bat doesn’t have anymore. With a grunt, he sits up, wrapping his legs around the others hips to draw him closer, their cock’s slotting together. It’s a slick grind, thanks to him. It tingles, all of him, and he can feel it in his toes.
A sweaty hand tangles in Clark’s curly hair, pulling to no avail. Bruce shoves his face into his neck, breathing in that heady scent, scuffing his cheek against it just to cover them both with each other.
His forehead slides to the crook of his neck, and upon leaning back the slightest bit, he sees their cocks. Reaching down, he wraps a hand around them both, hissing at the stimulation. It’s slick, his hand on the first slide, and it’s because of him.
It’s embarrassing. He’s always too sensitive during a rut.
“Supersized too.” Bruce says, voice almost a whisper in his state. His knot is fatter than his own, cock curved deliciously, though they differ in length. His is longer, Bruce thinks as his thumb glides against the other’s tip. He’ll treat Clark to it some day.
Tilting his head up grants him the flushed, disheveled look of the other. Tousled hair, plump lips, and flushed cheeks. Best of all, his eyes are lidded, staring directly at his face. He chuffs, arching his chest into the others at his lack of response.
“Lube?” Clark asks, leaning in to pepper his face with kisses.
Bruce’s face scrunches, a huffy laugh escaping him. “Belt. Just give me it.”
It’s brief, how long it takes to grab the lube, and it’s with quick efficiency that Clark had his fingers coated, hand between Bruce’s legs and mouth hovering above his. Head spinning, he can only watch, and feel as the first finger breaches him, delightfully filling out a space he’d tried without complete success before.
Still, that initial mild stretch makes him react instinctively, shooting up to be pushed back down, hand against his chest until he settles with only a growl.
Clark whispers words of encouragement to him, voice lost in the fuzz intercepting his ears. His inhales the Super’s scent, eyes shutting at the enlightenment that floods him. Its whole, having someone he wants here, someone he loves. His knees dig into the others sides, drawn up and tense.
It’s not enough to stave off the heat inside of him.
“Another,” he demands, interrupting Clark’s low rambling.
“Hm?” The Kryptonian nuzzles his cheek with his own, a puff of warm air hitting his ear when he breathes out. “Just like an omega.”
It’s wrong and unfitting for himself, but it makes him gasp anyway, a moan escaping him when Clark targets that spot inside of him. The buck of his hips demands constraints, and it escapes from his mouth before he can think it through—
“Down— hold me down. Need to feel it, need it—“
“Shhh,” Clark shushes him kindly, curling his finger one last time before pulling out. It causes a pathetic no to escape his lips, but the stretch of another finger, entering him so suddenly, has him tighten up, eyes momentarily widening before his eyebrows scrunch, pleasure shooting up his spine. “Such a soft alpha, taking my fingers so well.”
He’s as sweaty as his weeping cock, the leaking tip obediently settled atop matted hair. He doesn’t dare touch himself, not wanting to hurt and shoot off too quick. Despite it, it’s still tempting.
“Think I’ll fit in here? Make a place in this tight hole of yours, knot you up until—“
“Clark, stop messing around—“ He’s cut off by his own overwhelmed groan. Clark’s fingers are curled, attacking, and making him curl up, leg twitching and kicking Clark back. The loss of proximity is fine— he’s still touching him.
It’s euphoric, the slightly larger fill, the little extra bit of length, the smoothness of his fingers. He chokes on a breath, body flattened against the desk. Clark stills before he can deliver too much. It invokes an involuntary growl, a demand through his teeth to get on with it, hips bucking up only to be held down by an arm.
Mad with it, at the lack of movement, he glares up at Clark, chest rapidly rising with his uneven breathing. “Who told you to stop?”
A thumb rubs his hip bone, fingers inside of him twisting the slightest bit. Biting his lip, he huffs, disapproval barely there amid his arousal.
“Who told you that you could talk back to me?” He pushes up, spreading his fingers apart, gaping him open. It’s not new, but fuck, it’s him of all people opening him up, taking him apart and watching. “Think you’re ready for another?”
The heel of his palm pushes down against his perineum, the other putting more space between them to watch, and from here, Bruce can see the Super’s cock, red, angry tip pointed upward. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he gets a closer look, drawing Clark’s hand deeper in the process. It’s a lot, too much, and it’s so much more than he could have imagined.
“Yeah. Yes.”
It’s numbing after the third finger brushes against twitchy walls, and it’s without any hesitation that Bruce zeroes in on the other’s knot, the size of it impressive and, with zero hesitation, he wants it locked in him. To fill him, breed him, pump him heavy until all he can do is lay with it and cry. He wants.
Clark takes his arm off him, stomach now exposed and twitching beneath his cock. He watches as his hand falls to his own ruddy member, stroking it once before tapping it against Bruce’s heated skin, hand leaving only to spread Bruce’s ass wider.
“Rao, you’re a sight.”
A pleasure, biting and rapid, builds in the Bat’s gut, a choked off grunt echoing in the cave. “Enough.”
Clark’s thumb presses against his perineum, fingers slowly pulling out of his hole. It results in a shiver, a sigh escaping Bruce’s lips.
“Could’ve just used your slick, slide right in with how easy you open up for me.”
Shutting his eyes, Bruce reaches out, hands gripping Clark’s forearms as the other alpha collects his wetness, dipping a finger into the pool of it on his abdomen. Unbeknownst to him, Clark is wrapping it around his own cock, paying special attention to the skin of his knot. It’s humiliating, how he produces so much, but the dislike isn’t there. The shame is subtle, laced with need, and he feels seen with it.
“Get on with it,” Bruce demands, pushing into Clark’s back with the heel of his foot. “‘M burning up.”
Clark doesn’t protest, just spreads him wide again with one big hand, the other holding his cock. Bruce opens his eyes, peering up at him, soaking in his focused and messy expression. It’s possessiveness that overpowers him, a type of giddiness birthed from the knowledge that he made the Kryptonian feel that way. He can smell him, the want, the lust, and wonders distantly if he always felt that way.
“You’re sure?” Clark asks, tapping his tip against his rim and spreading his scent. It’s a display of ownership.
Clark glances up at him, gauging his expression.
His heart is answer enough— a skipped beat, hard thuds and blood rushing with primal want.
“It’s sex, not marriage,” he says, intended irritation coming out whiny due to his breathless tone. “Yes, I’m sure!”
Clark eases in, hips slowly inching forward, eyes locked in on where they meet. His hand keeps him spread, and Bruce is nearly choking at the smooth, slick entrance, the usual burn missing, and he feels speared at the harsh thrust Clark impatiently delivers to seat him completely on his cock.
Scowling, he digs his fingers into Clark’s skin, hands still on his forearms, and chuffs. He’s an alpha, a dominant figure. Not a submissive and presenting omega.
Clark’s hair falls over his forehead, eyes filled with wonder when they trail up to meet the pair beneath him. He plants his hands to the sides of Bruce’s head, leaning forward and grunting at the feeling of his cock being squeezed by a docile, fertile alpha.
Little wheezes of pleasure exit from Bruce’s mouth. The Kryptonian could drown in them, breathe in his own air and exhale it in a loving whisper. He does just that, knocking his forehead against his, muttering about how tight, how slick, how perfect he is. An alpha made for taking cock, his cock. He’ll be even prettier on his knot, a gorgeous mess to hold in arms, the idea made even better with the promise of more because of his rut. A cycle of filling him up, marking him with his own cum and scent just to repeat the process.
Hips pull back to thrust inward, working Bruce’s already loose hole wider, preparing him to take his knot. He leans in, feeling the whining man arch his chest into his own, and presses their lips together in a messy brawl of dominance. He could easily overpower him, but the pretty thing beneath him always made him weak.
It’s wet, delicious, and addicting. Bruce’s back hurts from the desk, the hard surface digging into the fat of his thighs and ass. But he doesn’t mind it, can’t when he’s finally getting what he wanted.
“So perfect, B. Made for it, made for me,” Clark pants into his mouth. “Can’t wait to stuff you full, make you mine.”
“Can’t afford me,” he retorts, nails scraping down the other’s back. He locks his ankles behind him, keeping him close, crying out at the pressure in his gut.
“With you already sucking me in? I don’t have to.”
It’s said with such certainty, and laced with a possessive and owning edge that Bruce unexpectedly shoots off, orgasm having been creeping up on him beneath his own emotions. He feels it, the squeeze of himself around Clark, the twitch of that curved cock nailing his prostate, the bulge of his knot inflating at the base of him. It’s elation, an understanding, and a revelation altogether— he needs him.
And all at once, it’s nothing. Floating in the space of rut, heat in his body simmering down to the warmth of a hug— or maybe Clark wrapped his arms around him, keeping him still from the bubbling overstimulation shaking his body— he feels content, subdued for the time being.
The only thing that would make it better is a bite, saliva gathering in his mouth as a demand.
“Clark,” he calls out brokenly, drawing out a questioning grunt, the other’s warm mouth encompassing his scent gland on his neck.
He knocks his head against his, following Clark’s lead when he leans back, cock almost slipping out of him. Hands grab at his back, hoisting him up and off the desk, and he’s in the air, holding onto the Super. The angle isn’t deeper, but it’s just shy of his prostate, urging a strangled cry from his throat.
Sticky, wet, and gross, but he can’t find any place he’d rather be than here in his arms. In a blur, he’s latching his mouth onto Clark’s shoulder, teeth digging into soft, strong skin. Traces of blood, a piece of him from the inside out, coats his tongue, taming his desire.
Clark makes a hot noise, probably even a divine picture if Bruce were to see outside of his body. But he’s comfortable here, pleasure zinging up his spine and mixing with the sharp pain of overstimulation— it’s softened by his need to mate. Clark is suitable, competent and strong, nurturing and achingly trustworthy. It makes his hips jerk, hole spread wider by the steadily inflating knot kissing his rim, and he locks his jaw, teeth lodged in skin. Faintly, he can feel a hand in his hair, a touch against his cheek oddly reminiscent of scenting. It’s comforting, better than a kiss, and gentle in a way that doesn’t seem possible.
He doesn’t quite hear what Clark says, but he feels his rush of pleasure, his hand holding him up by his ass, soft fingers digging into fat and sure to bruise pale skin. A stretch, something not feeling quite right but necessary, breaches him, wearing him thin and the sweat once on his face feels more like tears.
It’s muted exhilaration he feels. With his mind tainted by a fog more cozy than disassociation, he keeps his mouth locked in place, breathing slowly steadying even as Clark brings them to the floor, red cape somehow keeping them from touching the cave’s cold ground. It’s jostling, feeling his knot locked in place, cock trapped and milking his walls. But it’s right.
A hand is in his hair, petting kindly, while nipping kisses are pressed into his neck. Only when his legs get numb, eyes shut in a tired haze, does the hand get rougher, pulling at his head. He doesn’t budge.
The faint mumbling turns into words, his Super talking to him. Bruce hums questioningly.
“I don’t want you to get stuck there,” he says, quiet in the atmosphere. From slick, skin-on-skin pounding to silence, it should have been disorienting. It’s not.
Bruce doesn’t respond, tongue swiping against quickly-healed skin.
That hand turns to a fist, moving his head side-to-side. Like an unruly mutt, the Bat growls, eyes sliding open to slits in irritation.
“Alright, alright.” He pats his head causing Bruce to quiet down, growl turning to a contented purr. “We are going to a bed, though.”
Bruce unlocks his jaw, saliva running down his chin, and leans back, breath hitching at the large intrusion in him. With a hazy, blissed out look directed toward Clark, he nods.
The loving, tender look he gets in return is enough to settle him, the feeling inside of him an imprint of ownership.
“Right now,” Clark adds, lifting him by his thighs. It’s strange, the feeling of being impaled while moving. Still, he squeezes around him, tense at the continued pleasure coursing through him.
“Needy,” Bruce mutters, nuzzling his cheek with his own.
“Says the alpha in heat.” Clark’s hand lands on his ass, a soft slap turning into a gentle squeeze.
Bruce bites his shoulder, not giving him a verbal reaction. When his back meets cold sheets, he doesn’t expect his Super to contort them into a spooning position, to place a kiss at his neck before he draws his hips back, knot pulling his rim taut.
A slam of the other alpha’s hips, a sharp cry from his lips, and a bite mimicking his own in his shoulder has him black out, hindbrain taking control.
This is going to be the best rut of his life.