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The hum of the zeta tube was a familiar lullaby as Barry Allen, the Scarlet Speedster, said his quick goodbyes to Bryce, his last words swallowed by the whoosh of his departure. Just as he cleared the platform, the tube announced a new arrival: "Superman. Designation: Delta-Seven."
Clark Kent stumbled out, drenched head to toe in a viscous, malodorous slime that seemed to cling to his very aura. He reeked of something vaguely organic and incredibly foul. His shoulders were slumped, his posture radiating a profound sulk. Barry, ever-punctual, kept his greeting a clipped nod as he vanished down the hall.
"Sometimes," Clark grumbled, wiping a streak of green goo from his jaw, "I hate this job." The disgust was palpable in his voice.
Bruce Wayne, standing by the main console, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, turned slightly. "Really, Kent?" he drawled, a teasing lilt in his tone. "The Man of Steel, the beacon of hope, hates his job?"
Clark playfully rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine affection softening his grimace, as he trudged towards the hallway leading to the decontamination showers.
"Hurry back soon, love," Bruce called out, the term of endearment echoing softly in the vast room.
The Bat, stoic and unyielding to the world, would never admit it, but he truly was the sweetest person alive when surrounded by those he cherished. Only then did the impenetrable mask truly slip.
He turned back to the console, fingers already flying across the holographic interface, meticulously adding data gathered from a recent multi-dimensional anomaly. The vast monitoring room settled into a comfortable quiet, punctuated only by the low thrum of the tower's complex systems and the distant hiss of powerful water jets from the showers.
Suddenly, a searing flash of emerald light ripped through the air, followed by a thunderous zap that rattled the very foundations of the Watchtower. The force of its appearance sent Bruce stumbling, his hand reflexively going to his utility belt. His head snapped up, eyes narrowed, staring into the heart of the blinding, shimmering anomaly. The portal pulsed, bleeding into a rough, distorted silhouette. A man? A shadow? A bat? Batman!?
The spatial rift slowly contracted, imploding inward until a figure stood tall and intimidating in its wake. It was Batman, undeniably so, yet unnervingly alien. His suit was an absolute void of black, so profound that the small, almost unnoticeable details – the faint outline of the bat symbol on his chest, the dull gleam of his belt, the subtle sheen of his cape – seemed to absorb the light around them. This alternate Batman, or 'B' as Bruce's mind immediately categorized him, was breathing heavily, a low rasp against the hum, and his gaze darted wildly, frantically, behind him. Was he fleeing something? Or searching? Someone?
His head snapped forward, locking onto Bruce, when he heard the soft thud of the prime Bruce’s tactical boots as he took a cautious step closer. B didn't flinch, didn't back away. Instead, he straightened to his full height, his gaze unwavering, almost judgmental, as he critically assessed his counterpart.
"Very close there," B stated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was disturbingly familiar yet utterly devoid of warmth, as Bruce slowly approached, inspecting him with a hunter's precision.
Bruce, sensing the underlying tension, raised his hands in a clear gesture of non-aggression, his expression neutral. He cleared his throat, a quiet acknowledgment, and took a small step back, creating a sliver of space.
"What are you doing here?" Bruce demanded, his voice flat, devoid of emotion as he began his interrogation.
B remained eerily calm. "An accident," he replied, without a trace of hesitation. "While fixing one of Luthor's confiscated dimensional translocators. A… miscalculation."
Bruce, whose very existence was built on skepticism, didn't buy it for a second. His gaze sharpened. "So why were you so panicked, hm?"
B's breath hitched, a barely perceptible gasp, before he smoothly countered, "I thought it was an ambush. That's all."
Not fully convinced, but needing more information and backup, Bruce spoke into his comm link. "Hey, when you're done scrubbing that...𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘴... off yourself, join me in the lounge room. East of the tower."
A grumble and an exaggerated groan came through clear as day. "Babe, that's not funny, but okay." Clark's voice was laced with an enduring fondness that made B's jaw clench almost imperceptibly.
Bruce gestured with his chin for B to follow him. The lounge room was just a short walk away, and Bruce intended to keep B within his sight.
They were nearly at the lounge when a sharp, stinging pinch attached itself to Bruce’s nape. He spun around, already ripping the offending object from his neck. It was a tiny vile connected to a thin tube, clear liquid still clinging to its tip. His eyes, wide with confusion, began to unfocus as a sudden, overwhelming dizziness washed over him. He started to wobble.
B, his face now split by a chillingly predatory grin, advanced. "𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦," he purred, his voice a mocking lullaby. "It's only Benzodiazepine. Maybe I gave you too much... oh well."
Everything began to slow down, colors blurring, sounds fading as the powerful sedative took its relentless toll. In the span of a minute, Bruce Wayne was out cold, his body slumping to the floor. B moved with practiced efficiency, quickly stripping Bruce of his suit and swapping it with his own, the lead-lined fabric a crucial detail. Clark wouldn't be able to pick up the extra heartbeat for long once he was near.
Once Bruce was fully reclad in B's black uniform, the alternate Batman lifted his inert counterpart with surprising ease. He carried him to the zeta tube, punched in the coordinates for Wayne Manor, and materialized in the sprawling Batcave. He hastily carried Bruce to a hidden, soundproofed chamber within the manor's depths, traditionally used for holding dangerous meta-humans for interrogation. He placed Bruce in the small, stark bathroom, swiftly handcuffing his arms behind his back and securing his ankles with a set of heavy, specialized cuffs – the very ones his universe's Superman had used on him countless times. "Bastard," B snarled under his breath, a flash of bitter resentment in his eyes.
He ran back to the zeta tube, the entire process taking mere minutes, and rematerialized at the Watchtower. Clark, now clean and smelling faintly of ozone and his usual comforting alpha fragrance, was standing beside the console, looking around in confusion. He expected Bruce to be in the lounge, not stepping out of the zeta tube.
"What're you doin' here, love?" Clark asked, his voice soft, as he walked up to B and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. The familiar scent of citrus zest and a hint of white pepper, Bruce's usual 'calm' pheromones, enveloped him, though there was something subtly off about it tonight.
"I was just... placing a file on the desk down in the cave," B lied smoothly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Clark thought nothing of it, simply hummed in acknowledgement, and leaned down, pressing a soft, deep kiss to B's lips.
B's heart threatened to explode. This kiss was nothing like the rough, dominant, often possessive kisses his universe's Clark gave him. This was soft, tender, and infused with an overwhelming, almost suffocating wave of pure, unconditional love. B felt every piece of that affection, a desperate, greedy hunger rising within him. Curse this world's Bruce for hogging this man and his love.
His omega purred, a low rumble deep in his throat, and released a surge of calm pheromones, the scent of citric zest with a hint of white pepper intensifying. It was the scent of a cherished lover, one who would hold you and never let go. How ironic.
They separated, gazing into each other's eyes. "So," Clark enquired, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, "what was so important that you wanted to talk about?"
'Shit! Curse Bruce and his fat mouth!' B internally screamed.
"Oh, I just wanted to know if..." B trailed off, his mind scrambling for a plausible excuse, anything to keep Clark close, to keep this moment from ending.
C'mon, you can have this. Just ask. His omega purred, a greedy, insistent whisper in his mind.
With a deep breath, B plunged. "Do you want to have sex tonight? You can say no, but I'm really, you know... 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘱?" He confessed, a hesitant vulnerability in his voice that was utterly alien to his true nature.
'𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘰𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘦𝘴,' he internally begged.
Clark's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, surprised by the directness, but a slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah, for sure, love."
B caught himself grinning like an idiot. Maybe he didn't have to use 'Plan K' after all. This was so much better.
"You smell different, Bruce," Clark murmured, nuzzling into B's neck, inhaling deeply. "Almost like you have a hint of Orris. New cologne?"
B's internal panic spiked, his heartbeat a frantic drum. He forced a casual laugh. "Yeah, it's a gift from Dickie. He has such great taste in them."
Clark just hummed in acknowledgment, seemingly satisfied. They embraced again, B starting to scent the Alpha, a low, contented purr rumbling in his throat.
"Hey Bruce," Clark called out, his voice muffled against B's shoulder.
B hummed in acknowledgment, pressing closer.
"Where's your mark?" Clark's voice dropped, low and guttural, laced with a chilling undercurrent of menace. His hold on B tightened, squeezing until it was almost painful.
Ah, fuck.
B moved with lightning speed, his hand whipping to his wrist. He unclipped a mechanical collar, far more intricate than it appeared, that had been snug against his skin. Before Clark could react, B snapped it around his neck. Clark shoved B away, reaching for his throat, his face a mask of horror. But any thought of trying to break the collar, to tear it off, vanished the moment his fingers brushed against the small, glittering gems embedded in its surface. Kryptonite. The little baubles were small, but numerous enough to nullify his powers entirely.
Bruce….No, there was no Bruce. Clark stumbled, wheezing, crashing to the floor as his immense strength drained away. He stared up at B, his eyes wide with betrayal and fear.
"What the hell have you done to Bruce?" he croaked out, his voice raw.
B just gazed down at him, a satisfied, triumphant grin stretching his lips. He walked around Clark's fallen body, hooking his arm under the powerless hero's armpit.
"C'mon, puppy," he whispered, malice dripping from every syllable. "We have business to sort out." With surprising force, he began to drag the thrashing Superman towards the zeta tube.
They arrived back in the Batcave. Clark's mind raced, a desperate thought flashing through his mind, 'Fuck, Alfred is half across the world. I'm so done.'
"Really? That's perfect. More playtime, puppy," B purred, as if reading Clark's thoughts, and began dragging the now whimpering, weakened Clark towards the living quarters of the manor. Specifically, to their bedroom.
It was a struggle, given Clark’s inert weight and his desperate attempts to make B submit – attempts that were useless against B, the Prime Omega of his own world.
Clark felt his world truly fall apart. Where in God's name was his Bruce?
He was hauled onto the vast, soft bed by this imposter, thrown unceremoniously onto the plush blankets. "I'll be right back, pup," B grinned wickedly, almost as if his biggest, most depraved wish had just come true. "Don't miss me too much."
B disappeared out into the manor's halls. Clark, weakened and disoriented, heard the faint sounds of struggle after an agonizing five minutes. Not one struggle, but two distinct sets of muffled grunts and groans. Fuck...
"Bruce!" Clark bawled, a gut-wrenching cry of pure anguish.
The imposter re-entered the room, dragging a familiar, beloved figure by the hair. It was Bruce. His Bruce. But he was wearing an entirely different suit, not his usual dark grey and black, but a stark, simplified version of B's own all-black ensemble.
Clark barely had time to process the sight of his love, disoriented and clearly distressed, before the imposter turned, rubbing something powdery in the palm of his hand.
"Let's see how much of a beast you truly are," B sneered, and with a swift, malicious puff, blew a cloud of fine, red dust into Clark's face. Clark barely registered the strange, metallic tang before he had inhaled it deeply.
He was so fucked. The imposter, this dark, twisted version of his Bruce, had given him red kryptonite. And he had no idea what it would do.
*°:⋆ₓₒ*°:⋆ₓₒ*°:⋆ₓₒ
The air in the room was thick with a strange tension, a heavy scent of chemicals and something else – intoxicatingly sweet, yet unsettling. B circled Clark, who was violently shaking his head as if trying to dislodge unwanted thoughts. Clark fell back onto the bed, groaning. A dizzying heat consumed him, a fiery fog clouding his senses.
"It'll take a while to kick in. I'll be back soon, puppy. Gonna warm us up," B said, his voice a low hum, as he headed towards Bruce. Bruce lay nearby, visibly distressed, though he hadn't yet stirred fully.
Bruce, still hazy from the drugs, managed a guttural growl. "Get... Get back, bitch!"
B paused, turning his gaze back to Bruce's eyes, "Please, you couldn't even spell your name right now. Don't start getting pissy with me." He looked down at Bruce, an air of amused superiority. "For such a powerful, feared omega, you sure are simple-minded."
Bruce stared up, a spark of offense igniting in his dazed eyes.
"Mm. Do you know about Kryptonians' true nature, Bruce? I do. They aren't the most... vanilla creatures. Utterly feral when they go into rut," B stated, a predatory glint in his eye. "I've been observing you for months, Bruce. You're too fragile, too blind, to even notice your partner isn't sharing his rut with you." B's voice dropped, growing sharp. "How he goes off-world during that time... because of you, Bruce!"
Bruce only stared, his brow furrowed in a drug-addled attempt to comprehend. "What... what are you saying?" he finally managed.
With a sigh, B leaned in, his voice a low, intimate whisper that still bit with contempt. "I'm saying you're not fit to be Clark's mate."
Bruce’s heart dropped as B started to undress. As the suit was peeled away, Bruce's dazed gaze widened. The man before him was starkly, unsettlingly similar. Every line, every shadow hinted at a mirrored physique. They shared a similar canvas of scars and muscular physique. Yet, where Bruce was all sharp angles, B possessed a startling, almost androgynous beauty—a powerful build softened by a plump, full chest and a waist sculpted with glistening abs. The more clothes B shed, the more Bruce understood that B's public persona was a tantalizing lie. The air thickened with the cloying sweetness of honey slick, a scent that struck Bruce with primal force. He found himself salivating, a strange hunger stirring within him.
"Don't worry, baby. I'll show you how to be better." B kneeled by his side, his hand gently, possessively, caressing Bruce's cheek.
Bruce could hardly breathe, B's intoxicating scent clouding his judgment, pushing through the drug haze. Mischief danced in B's eyes as he began to undress Bruce, his own lip caught between his teeth. "Look at you. So pure, so bare."
Once both were undressed, they stared at each other, B's fingers expertly unlatching the cuffs from Bruce's ankles. They leaned in close, breaths mingling, ragged pants escaping them. Their mouths crushed together in an instant, a desperate, hungry kiss. Bruce groaned into the embrace, a low, guttural sound. He knew his own taste, but B... B was the most intoxicating, forbidden fruit, a flavor that shamed all his previous experiences. Was this bold taste born of B's sheer confidence? Bruce wondered, already lost in the sensation. They separated with a gasp, only for B to settle himself into Bruce's lap, resuming their fervent make-out.
After a minute of desperate groping, a low, pained call broke through the haze. "Bruce... Bruce, please," a low, ragged plea.
It was Clark. He was teary-eyed, his gaze fixed on them, simultaneously feral and heartbreakingly well-behaved, a creature fighting his own instincts. Clark gulped again, a desperate sound. "Baby... please. I'll do anything, anything!" His voice cracked.
B slid off Bruce's lap and moved to Clark, who was now clawing at the pillow he'd been humping, a desperate rhythm of need.
"Up," B commanded, his voice firm, directed at Bruce.
In an instant, Bruce was at the head of the bed, next to B. God, Clark looked so desperate, so raw. Bruce had never seen him like that before. Before Bruce could admire Clark's raw vulnerability any further, the cuffs restraining his own wrists behind his back were unlocked.
"Get on the bed," B spoke in a low, even tone, "or you can run. It's your decision."
Bruce stood still for a moment, the freedom on his wrists a new sensation. Then, driven by a strange mix of curiosity and compulsion, he crawled onto the bed, moving towards Clark. Clark flinched, backing away sharply.
"No! Not you! I can't hurt you, Bruce," Clark hiccuped, his eyes wide with fear and internal struggle.
Bruce leaned forward, into the space Clark had vacated, and whispered, "You can't hurt me, Clark. I know you can't." He glanced at B, then back at Clark. "If you still don't believe me," he said, his voice a soft reassurance, "I'll show you how to be gentle, okay?"
Clark gulped, his gaze fixed on Bruce, and nodded slowly.
B seemed to understand. He aligned his body with Bruce's, spooning against him. Their movements were slow, deliberate, a synchronized dance of tender exploration. As if one entity, they slowly caressed each other's cunts, skilled fingers tracing sensitive flesh. Low moans, soft and deep, filled the space between them.
Eventually, B pushed Bruce gently onto the bed, then slotted his own body between Bruce's spread legs. Bruce knew exactly where this was going. B started with a slow, deep grind, the friction of their clits rubbing together enough to make both men cry out. Their hips moved in unison, a rhythmic friction building.
"See, puppy? This is how you do it. Nice and slow," B murmured, his gaze lifting to Clark, who was now borderline drooling, eyes wide and fixed on the spectacle.
The two men quickened their pace, orgasms building with dizzying speed. A beautiful stream of slick erupted from B, spraying across Bruce's stomach. They gasped, catching their breath, a shared, ragged sound. Their combined slick, thick and intoxicating, filled the air, almost suffocating Clark with its potent arousal.
Bruce looked down at the wet, glistening mess on his stomach. He had never squirted before, and the wonder in his eyes, the surprised awe he sent B's way, gave him away completely. B, seeing his unspoken plea, peeled himself away from Bruce and repositioned himself between his legs. Expert fingers delved into Bruce, massaging his insides with agonizing slowness before curling right against his deepest, most sensitive spot. Of course, B would know exactly where it was. B leaned forward to kiss Bruce as he continued his assault on his cunt, thumb playing with his clit. Bruce felt himself getting agonizingly close, a tremor running through him. Just as he teetered on the brink, B pulled away, a triumphant smirk on his lips. Bruce let out a strangled cry of protest at the sudden, cruel loss.
"Come, puppy, lay down for me," B ordered Clark, his voice a silken command.
The air hung thick with ozone and the faint, acrid scent of red Kryptonite, tainting the usually fresh woodsmoke aroma clinging to Clark. In an instant, he was on his back, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears, a whimper catching in his throat when he tried to speak. His erection, already a throbbing, aching presence, was impossibly hard, red, and leaking pre-cum onto his belly.
"Hey, get to work," B's voice, laced with a cruel amusement, cut through the haze. Bruce, his own movements stiff and unnatural, scrambled forward without a thought, straddling Clark's hips. His wet cunt pressed against Clark’s abdomen, a rough friction that made the Kryptonian buck, a desperate, raw sound tearing from him.
"Oh God, please, baby… put it in," Clark pleaded, his voice a strained whisper, a part of him still struggling against the strange, intoxicating influence of the Red K, while another part craved the release.
Bruce leaned forward, a strange tenderness in his touch as he kissed Clark’s forehead and then his nose. In that instant, the collar B had placed on Clark was removed. B chuckled, watching, amused that Bruce, even compromised, could figure out the mechanism. Clark let out the most relieved breath, a shudder running through him as he felt a sliver of his power, his true self, begin to reassert itself. He was still under the Kryptonite's influence, but the direct, binding control was gone.
Bruce, now acting with a strange mix of his own will and the lingering suggestion, lined himself up. He sank down, slow and deliberate, a loud squelch filling the air from how incredibly wet he was. Bruce barely registered B’s hands gripping his hips from behind, slamming him down harder. Bruce saw stars, the sensation of Clark filling him so completely it felt like he might split. A sudden, overwhelming build-up exploded within Bruce's core, an involuntary surge.
He barely got out a choked "What the fuck—" before his body convulsed, squirming, showering Clark with his release. His hips spasmed over and over, bucking uncontrolled.
B giggled in his ear, his voice cloying. "Good job, baby. Look at the pretty mess you made." He ran his fingers over Clark’s slick abdomen, then licked the fluids from his fingertips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He then slapped Bruce’s ass, a sharp sting. "Keep going, puppy. Don't stop."
Bruce, still quivering, started moving his hips in practiced, professional strokes, the rhythm deepening. Clark, his eyes still a little unfocused but now blazing with an unholy need, reached up and gripped Bruce’s hips, digging his fingers in until he knew they would bruise. He was still under the Red K’s primal pull, but now it was his pull, not B's.
Bruce was tiring, his movements slowing until he fell forward, collapsing onto Clark, stopping all motion.
"Come on, puppy, get your fill," B told Clark, his voice a low growl of command.
In a heartbeat, Clark gripped Bruce’s hips, pulling him up and slamming back upwards. Bruce cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure, as B’s hand came down on his ass again, spanking him. The feeling of Clark’s length deep inside him, the memory of his recent climax, was too much, and he bucked, coming again, a guttural moan ripped from his throat. Clark didn't stop, his own powerful thrusts continuing, intent on his goal of climaxing, of breeding.
B grabbed Bruce’s hair, yanking his head back. "You aren't doing your job as an omega, whore!"
Bruce sobbed, forcing his hips to roll, to ride Clark's cock with all his might. A raw, desperate cry tore from his throat as he felt Clark's knot swelling at the base, pushing impossibly deeper.
"I'm a good omega! The best even, mphhh. Cum for me, Alpha, cum for me, please!" Bruce wailed, his voice cracking.
Clark’s knot exploded inside Bruce, painting his insides with a hot, thick white heat that slowly began to leak out, dripping onto the sheets.
With a loud, wet pop, Clark pulled out. Bruce slumped to his side, panting. They watched as B, still in control of the scene, got up to grab a wet cloth. Clark and Bruce shared a knowing, dangerous look that B, distracted by his earlier triumph, completely missed. B returned, and they simultaneously lunged, grabbing him, throwing him onto his back on the rumpled bed.
Clark, still affected by the Red K but now acting on his own primal urge, shoved into B’s cunt without a second thought, a guttural sound of satisfaction escaping him as B wailed, his eyes widening in shock and pain. Clark’s massive cock stretched B’s pussy so completely, so impossibly wide, that B saw stars.
"Let's see how much you can take with your mouth and pussy full, hm?" Bruce said, his voice dangerously low, a cold, hard glint in his eyes. He positioned his own soaked groin right over B’s face before B could even protest.
Bruce let out a low, almost pornographic moan as he rocked forward, grinding his wetness onto B's mouth. He watched Clark, who was ruthlessly fucking deep into B, whose hips were spasming uncontrollably, hands gripping Bruce's ass for purchase. With deliberate cruelty, Bruce placed a thumb directly onto B's clit, pressing down hard. B all but screamed, his back arching. Bruce kept up the pressure, varying it, then resorting to slow, agonizing circles as he saw B nearing his breaking point.
"Come on, B. Cum for us. That's it," he purred, pushing him over the edge.
B came hard, a continuous stream of choked "thank you's" ripped from his throat, tears streaming down his face as he lay trapped beneath them.
Clark climaxed right afterward, his second knot of the day swelling inside B, a final, utterly violating act that stretched him to his limit and painted his insides a second time.
They separated, all three of them lying there, breathing heavily, the air thick with sweat, musk, and the lingering tang of Kryptonite.
Bruce chuckled, a grim, satisfied sound, acknowledging B with a nod. "If you ever try anything like that again, B," he warned, his voice soft but firm, "it won't end well for you."
Clark, feeling the Red Kryptonite finally drain from his system, the haze lifting to reveal the full, horrifying clarity of what he’d done, shuddered. He looked at B, who was trembling, then at Bruce.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice regaining its normal tone. "My… my Clark refuses ever treat me good anymore."
He paused, a strange empathy flickering in his eyes as he looked at B, remembering the subservience. "No one deserves to be treated like... that."
Suddenly, a portal, shimmering with dark energy, tore open in the air, similar to the one B had likely used to arrive. Out of it stepped a tall, imposing Superman. His suit was black and white instead of the signature blue and red, and his eyes glowed with an unsettling red light. He growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, as he took in the sight of B, naked and spent, on the bed with their alternate selves.
"You were here," he snarled, his eyes narrowing. "So this is where you ran off to." He stomped towards the bed, radiating cold fury.
B, seeing his master, scrambled up, attempting to make a clumsy bow despite his nakedness. But the alternate Superman was too fast. He scooped B off the ground, his legs kicking uselessly as he struggled in the powerful grip.
"I'm sorry, my lord! Please, I'm so sorry!" B pleaded for mercy, his voice a terrified whimper.
The alternate Superman said nothing, his face a mask of chilling disdain. He simply dragged B, humiliated and completely naked, back through the swirling portal. It vanished with a pop, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and the heavy quiet.
"Wow," both Clark and Bruce said in unison, staring at the empty space where the portal had been, a shared, complex mixture of shock, relief, and grim understanding on their faces.