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Bruce Wayne had long since ceased to distinguish where his own being ended and Clark’s began. It wasn’t merely proximity or constant communication; it was an intrinsic, almost cellular, connection. Clark, the man of steel, the paragon of virtue, was in Bruce’s world a creature of velcro attachment, a devotion so profound it bordered on the absolute. He was a constant shadow, a resonant frequency in Bruce’s often cacophonous existence.
Clark’s presence manifested in many ways: the incessant calls, the unexpected appearances on missions – often with intelligence obtained through unconventional means, a secret overheard from across the globe. Bruce knew the extent of it all, the subtle invasions, the constant need for his attention, and he wouldn’t have traded it for the world. He harbored no illusions; he loved him for it, for his unrestrained affection, for the unguarded way he offered himself.
Physical touch was paramount for Clark, a primal need for affirmation that Bruce was present, real, theirs. It wasn’t enough for Bruce to simply be in the vicinity; Clark would seek him out, his large hands finding Bruce’s shoulders, his head resting in the crook of Bruce’s neck, a subtle, almost imperceptible brush of skin, a reassurance that spoke volumes in its quiet intimacy.
This constant satellite orbiting Bruce’s life was, however, a source of endless aggravation for his adopted sons. Their own fiercely independent, often territorial, natures bristled at Clark’s frequent presence.
“Daaaad! Clark’s here again!” Jason’s voice would reverberate through the manor, laced with a familiar, weary disdain, echoing from some distant wing.
Or,
During the post mission debriefings in the Batcave, as Clark, perhaps needing to ground himself after the chaos, would lean in, inhaling the faint scent of coconut and sweat from Bruce’s neck, or press a light kiss to his temple, Tim’s voice would cut through the air, sharp as a honed blade.
“Can you please keep your hands to yourself, alien boy?”
There was always an undercurrent of genuine irritation, even malice, in their tones. It stemmed from a deep seated, almost instinctual protectiveness over their father, a primal alpha instinct that flared whenever another asserted such profound intimacy with their dad.
In turn, Bruce began to observe a fascinating, almost paradoxical shift in Clark’s behavior. The normally self assured Kryptonian, who could effortlessly bend steel and redirect rivers, would often defer to Bruce in the most mundane of matters. He wouldn't initiate even simple actions without a quiet, almost deferential request.
“Can I go lay down?” he might whisper, eyes seeking Bruce’s for silent affirmation.
“Is it okay if I kiss you?” came another soft inquiry, even after years of shared intimacy.
And the protests, when Bruce had to leave – for crucial missions, for the insistent, sometimes desperate, needs of his children – were heartbreaking. Clark would fall into a state of profound distress, whines escaping his throat, tears welling in his blue eyes, until Bruce, unable to bear the sight, would relent, allowing him to tag along, a silent, powerful shadow.
This was the quiet, deeply personal understanding they had forged. Clark, despite his inherent power and celestial origin, was not like the savage, untamed alphas that roamed the earth, dominating by force. He harbored a profound reverence for Bruce, a willingness to yield, to submit not out of weakness, but out of an intense, abiding love and trust. And this dynamic extended even into the most private, vulnerable moments of their shared passion.
…
In the scenes of their lovemaking, Clark’s habit of seeking permission remained. His powerful hips would surge, straining against Bruce’s body as Bruce rode him, but he would never release, never crest that wave of pure sensation, until Bruce, through a gasp or a breathless whisper, granted him leave.
“Can I cum? Say yes, baby, please, let me cum,” he would beg, his voice raw with need, eyes rolled back in his head, a portrait of desperate restraint.
It was beautiful, agonizing, and entirely devoted. He was too good, too submissive, too utterly theirs. And Bruce, in the depths of his being, cherished every single moment of it.
Until…
♡♡♡
The silence of the manor was a palpable thing, a heavy blanket after four days of grinding work. Bruce had just returned from a solo mission, his body screaming in protest, every muscle a knot of pain. His children, bless their independent souls, had decided to spend the weekend with Dick, leaving Bruce to the vast, echoing spaces of Wayne Manor.
An uncharacteristic warmth had settled over the estate, a testament to Clark’s thoughtful, if slightly overbearing, management. He had insisted that Alfred take a much deserved vacation, knowing spring was the old butler’s favorite season for travel. Now, only Clark and Bruce remained within its sprawling walls.
Bruce felt like his very bones had turned to liquid. He slumped onto the opulent leather chair in the Batcave, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, too weary to even begin the data upload.
The only sound for long moments was the faint hum of the computer systems, a familiar lullaby that usually soothed his frayed nerves.
Then, a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of wind that shouldn’t have been there, registered in his hyper alert senses.
He turned slowly, a weary smile already forming on his lips, expecting to see the familiar warmth of Clark’s presence. But the smile faltered, replaced by a cold knot of apprehension. Clark was there, standing silhouetted against the cavern’s dim lights, but something was profoundly, unsettlingly different.
His normally neat curls were a wild, chaotic mess, stray strands framing a face Bruce suddenly found disquietingly unfamiliar. And his scent… it was no longer the faint, comforting aroma of sunshine and clean air. It was citric and acrid, carrying the chill of a coming storm, spicy and raw, a primal essence that made the fine hairs on Bruce’s arms stand on end.
Bruce had the immediate, visceral impression that something was terribly wrong, and the chilling truth slammed into him faster than he could have anticipated.
Clark lunged.
Not with the calculated grace of a superhero, but with the brutal, unthinking force of a predator. His hand, unyielding as steel, clamped around the neckline of Bruce's undershirt, twisting, pulling. Before Bruce could react, Clark’s mouth crashed down on his, a ravenous, bruising assault. Teeth scraped, tongues tangled in a violent, desperate dance. Bruce gasped, his lungs burning as the air was stolen from him, leaving him lightheaded, disoriented. The iron vise around his neck tightened, and suddenly his feet were no longer on the ground, his body lifted effortlessly.
Already drained to the marrow, Bruce instinctively fought back, his panicked flailing and desperate blows against Clark’s chest proving futile against the Kryptonian's sheer strength. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. Clark released him, and Bruce plummeted a few feet to the cold, hard floor of the cave.
“Agh!” Bruce cried out, pain exploding through his already bruised body.
What the hell was going on?
Clark stood over him, his chest heaving, his eyes, usually so full of gentle warmth, now clouded with something wild and unfocused. Bruce, in his haste to begin the data transfer, had already stripped off his armor and much of his combat gear, leaving him shockingly vulnerable. He was clad only in his undershirt and fatigues, every aching muscle exposed.
Then, just as Bruce prepared to defend himself, to force answers from this terrifying stranger inhabiting his lover’s form, a wave of profound weariness seemed to wash over Clark.
The aggression drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, total collapse. He crumpled, a colossal weight, falling forward onto Bruce.
Bruce lay there, pinned beneath Clark’s unconscious form, staring up at the intricate network of wires and stalactites on the cave ceiling. His breaths came in ragged, shaky gasps as he watched Clark lying motionless atop him. After a silent, fervent prayer to whatever cosmic entity might have been watching over him tonight, he managed to worm his way out from beneath the inert body.
Leaving Clark sprawled on the cold concrete seemed cruel, even after the terrifying attack. Bruce gritted his teeth, summoned what little strength he had left, and dragged Clark’s limp body to a large, cushioned couch near the main console.
Once his lover was awkwardly but safely settled, Bruce practically collapsed into his own chair and spun back to his computer. The behavior Clark had exhibited was not only profoundly disturbing but also eerily familiar. Bruce’s mind, despite the exhaustion, raced, connecting phantom dots.
He quickly navigated his encrypted files, pulling up the extensive database of Kryptonian information he had meticulously compiled over the years. He knew he had seen a case like this before, a rare and dangerous phenomenon. And he was right.
...
A few years prior, Barbara Gordon, ever the diligent oracle, had come to Bruce personally, her voice hushed with concern, a stark story unfolding. The week before, her girlfriend, Kara, had exhibited signs of increasingly rough and rogue behavior. Barbara had noted a distinct, unsettling shift in Kara’s scent, a wildness that permeated their shared space.
Their intimacy, normally passionate, had become almost brutally aggressive, far beyond Kara’s usual ‘rough.’ Kara had then confessed, her voice strained, that she felt an overwhelming urge to hunt Barbara, to chase, to feel the raw adrenaline surge through her veins. She’d explained that this primal drive, this ‘rut,’ was a natural, albeit intense, part of Kryptonian physiology, a cycle every Kryptonian experienced within the year.
These ruts were typically manageable, but this particular manifestation, a ‘Kryptonian Rut,’was different. It was a potent, unyielding urge that, left unchecked, threatened to culminate in profound violence. Barbara had finished with the chilling detail: Kara had stated, with an unsettling finality, that it must be done within four days, or it wouldn't end well.
…
Bruce’s breath hitched in his throat, a cold dread seizing his chest as he stared at Clark’s still, unconscious form. He had been on his mission for four days. He had no way of knowing precisely when this terrifying change had begun. His fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing the Batcave’s comprehensive security camera archives. He rewound the footage, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He watched, horrified, as the Kryptonian, alone in the vast kitchen, simply fainted, collapsing onto the tiled floor. He laid there, motionless, for nearly two full hours before stirring. When he finally stood, he shook his head violently, disoriented, scanning the empty space. Then, he began to call for Bruce, his voice weak, pathetic, a haunting sound that echoed through the silent manor. It was a raw, primal distress, bone chilling in its vulnerability.
The spectral figure of Clark on the screen groaned, gripping the counters for support as he stumbled through the darkened house, clearly searching for him. Bruce remembered too well; he’d been encased in his lead-lined suit for that particular mission, rendering him undetectable even to Clark’s enhanced senses. The alpha on screen, driven by an anguish Bruce couldn’t yet comprehend, dropped to his knees in the hallway, a guttural growl escaping his throat.
Bruce paused the rewind, the timestamp glaring ominously from the corner of the screen: four days ago.
Bruce slowly gazed at his mate, a silent battle raging within him. His hands, usually so steady, shook violently on the desk, the tremor echoing the frantic beat of his own heart. He had to go. Now. The conclusion had been a brutal, unavoidable truth: a chase. A hunt. That was the only way to calm Clark—
No. The name caught in his throat, a bitter lie. This wasn't Clark. Not the man he knew, the gentle soul who brought him coffee and quiet comfort. This was Kal El, primal force unbound, driven by instincts as ancient as Krypton itself.
The rut had taken him, transforming him into a creature of pure need, and Bruce, as his mate, was the only one who could guide him through it. And the only way was to be the prey.
"Damn it, Kal," Bruce muttered, his voice a low, rough rasp in the quiet cave. "This is going to hurt."
He left no room for second guessing, pushing himself away from the desk. Every movement was precise, driven by a cold, desperate logic. He grabbed supplies, his mind already calculating the necessities: food, water, first aid, a change of clothes—anything to buy him time, to ensure he could last long enough for Kal El's instincts to burn themselves out in the pursuit. He made his way up the stairs, backpack in hand, grabbing whatever he could find with practiced efficiency.
A glance at the antique clock on the manor wall. Two in the morning. Good. He probably had enough time to put some significant distance between them before Kal fully woke and came for him.
He quickly scribbled a note, his pen scratching furiously against the sticky paper. It was concise, strategic, a challenge designed to ignite the hunt.
Clark,
You have to find me. Don't rush it. I need you to hunt. Follow your instincts. The prize is worth the chase. I promise my love
-Bruce.
He placed the sticky note carefully on Clark’s muscled chest, just above his still beating heart. The warmth of Clark’s skin was a jolt, a painful reminder of the intimacy they shared, the connection that was now twisting into something raw and dangerous. Another chilling detail he remembered, a piece of ancient Kryptonian lore given by Kara: their powers affected during this rut. It wasn't specified which ones, though. It was a huge gamble. He could be facing a Kryptonian with heightened senses, or one who was merely no longer physical powerhouse. He had to assume the worst, hope for the best.
Bruce leaned down, pressing a desperate kiss to Clark's forehead, a silent farewell to the man he knew, for now.
"Be careful, my love," he whispered, a prayer against the coming storm.
Then, he ran.
He ran out of the Batcave’s hidden exit, the chill night air hitting him like a physical blow. He didn't stop, even when he burst out into the dense, dark forests of Bristle. He heard it then. A low, guttural sound that shook the very ground beneath his feet, reverberating through the trees.
"BRUCE!" The name was ripped from Clark’s throat, a distorted howl that was less a word and more an animalistic roar of possessive rage and desperate need. It was enough to push him further, driving a spike of adrenaline through his veins.
Bruce gasped, the air a sharp, icy pain in his lungs, but he forced himself to draw breath, to keep moving. The forests were vast, a labyrinth of ancient trees and winding paths, spreading for miles. The sheer stress and anticipation that Clark would have to endure to find him should, theoretically, help calm him down when he finally claimed his "award."
This was the plan. This had to be the plan.
…
He finally stumbled upon a huge oak tree, ancient and gnarled, a sentinel from his childhood. He used to climb it then, a scrawny boy seeking escape. The height was no joke now, a vertiginous drop that would be instantly fatal. One wrong move, and he was done. But he took the risk, his weakened muscles protesting with every heave and strain as he scaled the massive trunk, finding handholds and footholds with instinct born of years of training. He didn’t stop until he reached the largest branch, high above the forest floor, where he could finally sit, hidden amongst the dense canopy.
He had run for three hours, a grueling, non stop sprint. That should buy him enough time to figure out what powers Clark might have lost. To strategize, to find an advantage. He pulled out a small notepad, scribbling mindlessly at first, then focusing on the possibilities. He listed the most dangerous ones, the powers that, if gone, offered him a sliver of hope.
"Speed," he muttered to himself, the word a puff of cold vapor in the night air. "Hearing. Strength." He tapped his pen against the paper. "Those are my only chances. If he's lost one or two of those, I might last a little longer." He traced the words, a grim line etched on his face.
The lack of sleep, combined with the lingering fatigue from his last brutal mission, was pulling him deep into a fog of exhaustion. He was still recovering, still weak, and now he was the centerpiece of a Kryptonian hunt. Nothing about this was fun. But he must sleep. He needed clear thoughts if he was to survive. Convinced he had enough distance, for now, he let himself drift, dreaming of his lover, of Clark—the kind, gentle man, of his sweet kisses and the warmth of his embrace…
♤♤♤
Bruce suddenly woke to the sound of a loud roar.
It wasn't a human scream, or even one of Clark’s controlled growls. It was terrifying in its raw, animalistic savagery. A primeval howl of frustration and predatory intent that ripped through the night, shaking the very leaves around him.
"Clark," Bruce realized with a sickening lurch in his gut, a pain that clawed at his heart.
He wasted no time, scrambling down the tree, his movements rushed but precise.
He wasn't immediately caught. Even with the noise his boots were making as he hit the ground and plunged back into the undergrowth, there was no immediate pursuit. A flicker of hope ignited in him, quickly followed by a cold, calculating certainty: Kal didn’t have his hearing. Or his sight. Both, perhaps.
He ran as soon as his feet touched the forest floor, pushing through the dense foliage. No time for questioning, no room for pity. His chest burned, his heart hammered against his ribs, and his breaths became sharper, ragged gasps for air. He could hear Kal behind him now, the sound of trees snapping and splintering as he tore through the forest, growls echoing his path. The sound was approaching fast, far too rapid for a normal man crashing through a forest. The speed apparently hadn't left him. He guessed that flight was gone too, or else this would be over already.
All his panicked thoughts were cut short as the ground abruptly gave way. He tumbled down a steep hill, rolling and bumping his body against roots and stones. A jagged rock slammed into his right leg, sending a bolt of agony searing through him.
"Agh! Damn it!" he yelled, a raw, involuntary scream ripped from his throat.
The pain was astronomical, waves of hot, white fire shooting up his limb. "Idiot! What a dumb reaction," he cursed himself, even as his vision swam, the forest blurring around the edges. He lay there, for a precious, dangerous second, utterly exposed.
The last vestiges of strength fled Bruce's legs. He couldn't bring himself to run another step. His chest burned, lungs screaming for air, and every muscle in his body felt like molten lead. Exhaustion was a heavy cloak, smothering him.
"Damn you, Kal," he gasped, spitting out a mouthful of forest debris.
He knew it was futile. He knew Kal-El knew exactly where he was, a silent GPS tether connecting their souls. It was only a matter of time before that terrifying, familiar presence materialized. The idea of collapsing, surrendering to the inevitable, was a sweet, tempting whisper in his ear. But Bruce… he couldn't. Not yet.
He needed him to feel it – the raw need, the desperate want for him. He needed him to truly understand the lengths Bruce would go to push him to this primal edge. It was all he could do to help him, to unleash the Alpha he so often kept caged.
Gritting his teeth, Bruce pushed himself away from the damp ground, his arms wobbled precariously, and his legs stung with a thousand tiny needles. He ignored the fire in his veins, pushed through the agony, and forced himself into a broken, lurching run once more.
"Bruce."
The single word, low yet echoing, ripped through the dense forest like a string wind, a predatory growl that vibrated through the very earth. Bruce's head snapped back. There, atop the very hill from which he'd just descended, Kal stood, a dark silhouette against the fractured light of the canopy. His eyes, even from this distance, felt like a burning brand.
"No," Bruce choked out, a raw, panicked sound.
He didn't even think. His backpack, heavy with supplies, hit the ground with a dull thud as he jettisoned it, running now as if his very life depended on it. Which, in a way, it did.
Kal-El was already moving, a blur of speed and purpose. Bruce could hear the approach behind him, the whisper of disturbed leaves, the ominous thud of powerful strides gaining, gaining, gaining. Every ragged breath he took was punctuated by the terrifying knowledge that the alpha was closing in.
The scream that clawed its way from Bruce's throat as he felt impending doom hit him was nothing compared to the loud, concussive thud that followed. It was the sound of a force of nature colliding with a mere mortal. One moment, he was running, the next; his vision was a dizzying kaleidoscope of green and brown as he was slammed to the ground face first. The world flipped, trees became streaks of emerald against a bruised sky, then the forest floor was all he saw, blurred and spinning.
Finally,
Kal’s shadow fell over him, blocking out the last bit of light. The countless hours of searching, the agonizing wait for his super hearing to fully return after Bruce's latest escapade. Every moment had been a torment. He hadn't even been able to catch Bruce's scent, a frustration that had driven him to the brink. His mate, clever, cunning Bruce, knew exactly how to keep his Alpha riled up, how to keep him on his toes and perpetually unsatisfied. He'd been wearing one of those damnable scent patches, no doubt. It had driven Kal mad.
There had been certain parts of the forest, brief, tantalizing stretches, where he had caught a faint whiff of him. Bruce had definitely removed the patch in those areas, just to tease, to lead him on, to prolong the hunt. The game is over now.
"Kal, fuck, you did it baby," Bruce panted, his voice muffled by the earth, but a triumphant, almost cocky grin splitting his bruised lips as he tilted his head back, vision still blurry from the impact.
"Took you long enough, didn't it? Thought you'd lost your touch."
The alpha's grip on Bruce's skull tightened, pressing his face harder into the damp earth, a low, ominous rumble vibrating through the hand pressed against his head. He stared down at his mate, eyes burning with a mixture of raw triumph, lingering frustration, and a deeply unsettling possessiveness.
"You think this is a game, Bruce?" Kal's voice was a barely contained growl, laced with a raw edge of frustration and a blossoming rage.
"A little game of cat and mouse? Do you have any idea how long I've been tracking you? How long I've had to guess where you were, because you delight in making me blind?"
The word 'blind' was spat like venom. "That damn patch. You took it off, didn't you? Just to lead me on, to string me along like a starved beast."
Bruce winced, the triumphant smirk now faltering, replaced by a flicker of unease. He knew that tone. He'd wanted to provoke it, but now that he had, a cold dread began to coil in his gut.
"Silly little omega." Kal finally completed his thought, leaning in closer, his hot breath ghosting against Bruce's ear.
"You have no idea how bad I'm going to ruin you, my mate."
The last two words, 'my mate', were a guttural, possessive promise, heavy with unspoken threats.
The world stilled for Bruce. He felt the blood drain from his face as the crushing realization hit him. He wasn't in control anymore. Clark wasn't the sweet, submissive puppy he sometimes became in bed. Not now. His Alpha instincts had truly, irrevocably taken over.
"No... Kal, wait—" Bruce tried to protest, to push back, but his words were cut short.
"Shut up, Bruce."
Bruce merely blinked, and then he found himself being pulled roughly to his feet. Before he could even regain his balance, the impact onto his chest was sudden and rough as Kal ran into him, scooping him up effortlessly. Bruce let out a surprised gasp, his arms instinctively wrapping around Clark's neck as he was lifted high against a powerful chest.
"Let me go, Kal!" he grunted, but it was half hearted, already defeated.
The alpha only tightened his hold, a low, pleased rumbling sound emanating from his chest.
"You belong to me, damn you," he growled, the words a primal declaration. "You always have. And you will learn your place."
The forest became a mere blur in the distance, shrinking rapidly behind them as Kal carried him, a powerful, determined force heading home. Bruce could barely register the speed, the wind whipping past his face, until the familiar grandeur of the Manor's gardens swept into view.
Another two blinks, and it felt instantaneous. The journey from the garden's edge to their bedroom was impossibly fast, a blur of dark hallways and ascending stairs.
At least Kal still had the common courtesy to fuck him in bed.
Kal's lips crashed against Bruce's with brute force, a primal, possessive kiss. He bit down, hard, drawing a fresh tang of blood onto Bruce's tongue. Bruce gasped in pain and surprise, and Kal's tongue found its way into his mouth, not just entering, but expanding. Bruce choked, a terrified sound trapped in his throat as he felt the incredible, unnatural length of it pushing deeper, filling his entire mouth, then further still.
‘What the hell is that?’he dreaded, his mind screaming in sheer, animalistic terror. ‘What have I done?
Kal-el pulled away from Bruce's mouth, a thick, knotty rope of his tongue hanging out. It was long, impossibly long, and slick with a hunger Bruce had never witnessed before, a primal intensity that made his breath catch. A low, guttural growl vibrated in Kal's chest, a sound that claimed the air, claimed the space, and most potently, claimed him.
"Clark, are you... are you okay?"
Bruce gasped, the question a weak plea as his lover's tongue dragged a scorching line up his neck, tracing the delicate curve beneath his earlobe. He didn't respond with words, only a deep, possessive snarl as a powerful hand tore through Bruce's clothes, ripping the expensive fabric with ruthless efficiency. The loud, tearing sound was a stark, exhilarating reminder of what was to come.
“ You're mine." The alpha's voice, deep and gravelly, sent shivers down Bruce's spine, a thrilling echo of his own deepest desires. Before Bruce could even process the words, his wrists were seized, pulled taut above his head with surprising, effortless strength.
"Hold still, omega," The Kryptonian commanded, his blue eyes burning with an almost feral light as they bore into Bruce's own.
Bruce's pink nipples hardened instantly at the sudden cold atmosphere of the bedroom, each bead of flesh an ode to his burgeoning excitement. The feeling was so stimulating, so raw, he felt himself getting wet, a deep throb beginning between his legs. The sweet, delicate, intoxicating smell of his own coconut scented slick was enthralling, rising to meet Clark's predatory gaze. He felt as though he was going to just shatter, to come from Kal's eyes on him alone.
Kal devoured his naked body with a look full of hunger and raw want. His own cock was straining against his sweatpants, a sight of his immense desire. God, it was big.
He dove back down, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and licked a scorching path along Bruce's scent mark on his collarbone, the possessive claim sending a jolt through Bruce's every nerve. His tongue then traveled slowly, deliberately, down towards his pec. Kal's huge hand enveloped Bruce's left breast, kneading mercilessly, his thumb circling the hard nipple. He tugged at the nipple sharply, reveling in the strangled gasp, the soft hiccup that tore from Bruce's throat. His lover smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes.
"Like that, little bat?" he purred, his voice a low thrum against Bruce's skin.
His mouth descended, creating a sweet, firm suction unto the right nipple. His long, wet tongue sent Bruce into orbit, a maddening spiral of heat and pleasure. Bruce found himself slightly humping the air, desperate and needy, a frantic whimpering escaping his lips. He needed more, he needed Clark down there, on him.
"Kal, mmph— More, please? Down there, Alpha!" Bruce begged, his voice raspy, hips bucking futilely against the restraints.
Kal removed his attention from Bruce's breast, his gaze sharp and calculating as he observed his lover's writhing, helpless form. "Beg for it properly, puppy," he commanded, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Bruce whimpered, a wave of shame and desperate hunger warring within him. "Please, Alpha! I need you... I need your mouth... your tongue..." he whimpered, spreading his legs wider as much as Kal’s weight on him would allow, his cunt already glistening in slick, his clit throbbing with agonizing anticipation.
He slid down the bed, his eyes never leaving Bruce's face, until he was face to face with Bruce's sex. Bruce was vibrating with barely contained excitement, his pussy gushing more slick with every desperate throb.
Kal slid his middle finger up and down between Bruce's folds, pressing firmly onto his clit. Bruce kicked out his legs at the powerful stimulation, a choked cry tearing from his throat.
"It's Kal or Alpha to you, Bruce," Kal's voice was a low, dominant rumble, the words not a question but a firm command. "And tell me, are you ready to be a good boy?"
"Yes! Yes, Alpha! So ready!" Bruce practically sobbed, his head tossing against the pillow.
That was the last thing Kal said before his mouth descended, engulfing Bruce's cunt. He licked and sucked feverishly, mercilessly, lapping up all of Bruce's sweet love between his folds. The tip of his tongue played with Bruce's clit skillfully, dragging every moan and whimper out of his mate.
The endless, maddening circling with his tongue ceased as it traveled further down his cunt, the deep, knowing strokes sending electric currents through Bruce's entire body. Bruce's slit was pulsating, throbbing with the desperate need of something, anything, inside. His prayers were once again answered.
Kal shoved his long tongue all the way up his pussy, immediately fucking up into him with a depth that made Bruce gasp. Bruce’s eyes rolled back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as Kal pushed his knees right next to his ears, the bondage holding his wrists making him utterly spread and open, completely exposed. The tongue in his pussy was maddening, a relentless assault of pleasure, and Kal was hitting every single right spot.
Bruce’s mouth became a perfect 'O' shape as he felt himself getting impossibly close, the heat building to an unbearable crescendo. The final, masterful movement of Kal's tongue, a punishing sweep from deep in his hole to his clit, was all it took for Bruce to shatter, a loud, guttural scream escaping him as he squirted, drenching Kal's handsome face in his love.
His man, his strong, dominant, sexy man, just lapped it up like a pro, a low growl of pure satisfaction rumbling from his chest. Kal's nails dug into Bruce's inner thighs, causing thin lines of blood to well up, but it felt too good to care.
Kal pulled back from Bruce's slick cunt, a possessive smirk on his lips. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with triumph.
He didn't give Bruce time to recover, hauling him up and flipping him onto his stomach with surprising ease, pushing his hips slightly into the air, presenting his ass. Bruce gasped, disoriented, before a sharp smack echoed through the room.
"That's for being a good puppy," Kal rumbled, his palm striking Bruce's pale ass again, harder this time.
Smack! Smack!
Bruce cried out, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure surging through him. "Oh, Alpha! Please!" His cheeks flushed a dark, vibrant crimson, completely at the mercy of his dom.
The air in the bedroom crackled with a primal tension, thick and sweet with the scent of aroused Omega. Bruce, on his hands and knees, presented himself fully to his mate, his backside arched, his slick, delicate slit exposed and glistening under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He felt a tremor of anticipation ripple through his core, a delicious dread.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that Kal was going to shatter him, ravage him until he was nothing but a breathless, trembling mess. The thought sent a violent, sweet shiver through his entire being.
From behind him, the rasp of fabric against skin, the low hiss of Kal's breath as his sweatpants were discarded, freeing the formidable length of him. Bruce could practically feel the sudden, thick heat emanating from the Alpha.
His mate’s cock, a hot, heavy mace, pressed directly against the entrance of Bruce’s trembling slit. He didn't push in, not yet. He merely applied pressure, letting the potent heat bloom, letting the full, incredible girth of him stretch Bruce's protesting flesh, a dizzying promise of what was to come.
"Omega," Kal's voice vibrated, a low, guttural growl that resonated through the very bones of the bed, "you have no idea how much I'm gonna enjoy ruining you. How much I crave to shred every last bit of control from you until all that's left is my name on your whimpering lips."
A strangled, helpless mewl tore from Bruce's throat as Kal finally, deliberately, breached him. The head was a molten spear, impossibly thick, forcing a gasp from Bruce as it stretched him, claiming him inch by agonizing, glorious inch. It was too much, too much at once, a sudden, overwhelming invasion that had him biting back a scream.
Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but from the unbearable, exquisite fullness. His moans, raw and untamed, poured from him like a dam breaking, a river of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Hnng—it's so good, Kal," Bruce gasped, his voice choking with emotion, "I'm so full! Oh God, please…"
Kal groaned, a deep, satisfied rumble in his chest, as he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, utterly commanding thrust. Bruce’s world collapsed. He all but died at the feeling, the sheer, unimaginable depth of it. His body convulsed violently for a full fifteen seconds, his hips bucking helplessly as he came, a series of frantic, desperate orgasms washing over him.
Clark’s massive cock twitched and pulsed within him, tightly clenched by Bruce’s spasmodic release.
After they both caught their breaths, a heavy symphony of huffs and pants filling the room, Kal set a rapid, relentless pace. He rammed into Bruce with full, unyielding force, each thrust a declaration of ownership. Bruce cried out, a broken, desperate sound, as drool tracked a path down his chin, soaking the rumpled sheets. It felt so unbelievably good, this raw, savage reclamation. Kal was being so rough, blurring the lines between pleasure and exquisitely controlled agony.
Suddenly, Bruce’s face dove into the bed, trying to muffle his sounds, to hide the guttural, wanton noises escaping him. Kal was not pleased. The scent of Bruce’s sudden attempt at suppression hit him like a cold shower.
"Look at me, Omega," Kal’s voice dropped, edged with a dangerous calm.
His Alpha nails elongated, growing sharper, digging into Bruce's hips. Crescent wounds bloomed red against Bruce’s pale skin, a thin trickle of blood beading up at the surface. It was enough to sting, enough to brand.
"Agh! Kal, stop! Oh, God, I'm sorry! I won't do it again, baby, please!"
Bruce’s head shot up from the rumpled sheets, his eyes wide and pleading, his words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate ramble.
Kal praised him, his voice low and firm, a deep resonant purr as he dipped his head to press a series of gentle, almost tender kisses to Bruce’s sweat slicked brow, his temple, his jaw. Each soft touch was a stark contrast to the brutal, relentless impact of his hips, the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. This was the lesson, the training. He was teaching his Omega to behave. How to be good. To surrender completely. And this, this perfect submission, was everything.
His pace picked up, growing more urgent, more frantic, as he neared his own climax. Bruce felt the blunt force of Kal’s cock finally, irrevocably, kiss his cervix, and he roared, a primal, heartbroken cry that tore from his lungs until he choked on it.
"Pull out, please! It feels weird! Mmh—no!" he sobbed in protest, his voice raw.
Kal gripped his hips, pinning him to the bed, holding him captive against the relentless, overwhelming surge.
"Take it," he commanded, his voice dark and absolute.
Bruce let out a silent, shuddering moan, his body bowing as he came again, a desperate, shattering climax. His pussy gushed, a warm, thick release, drenching both Kal-el’s balls and the sheets beneath them. He became restless, his Omega instincts clamoring for release, for his Alpha to follow him over the edge.
His Alpha came soon after, a deep, guttural roar rumbling through the room as his cock pulsed deep inside, buried against Bruce’s cervix. It felt so incredibly warm, so deliciously full. There was no way Bruce wasn’t going to be pregnant after this.
They both collapsed, muscles trembling, slick with sweat and cum. Clark spooned Bruce against his chest, their huffs and breaths loud and heavy.
Clark apparently was not done with Bruce. A low growl rumbled deep in the alpha’s chest, a possessive sound that made the hairs on Bruce’s nape stand on end, even as his body screamed for rest. Clark shifted, his powerful hand sliding down Bruce’s thigh, cupping his knee, and with a surprisingly tender yet firm lift, he raised Bruce’s leg, hooking it over his shoulder.
Bruce was already raw, every nerve ending buzzing, but the feeling of Clark’s already engorged, pulsing cock rising into view, glistening with their shared slick, made his breath catch. The alpha lined his formidable length up against Bruce’s quivering, swollen omega cunt again, the head nudging provocatively at his sensitive entrance.
Bruce let out a guttural groan, a mix of pure, unadulterated pleasure and profound exhaustion, at the alpha's seemingly endless stamina. He’d known Clark was a powerhouse in every sense of the word, but this… this was beyond. A dangerous thought, cold and sharp despite the radiating heat between them, pierced through the haze of pleasure: if not stabbing him with kryptonite was a horrible decision in the past, it certainly felt like one now. Clark was relentless, an insatiable force of nature.
"Kal," Bruce rasped, his voice rough and breathy, the words barely formed. "I'm tired. No more."
He pushed weakly at Clark's chest, already spent, his limbs heavy and pliant against the alpha's toned muscle. Every thrust had driven him deeper into oblivion, and now, he just wanted to collapse.
A soft, almost pained whine cut through the humid air of the room, a sound so utterly unexpected it made Bruce’s eyes snap open. But it wasn't from Bruce. Clark paused, his hips still pressed intimately against Bruce’s entrance, his breath hitching.
"Please," Clark whispered, his voice thick with uncharacteristic pleading, laced with an aching vulnerability.
"Just one more. Can I cum one more time? Inside you? Please, Bruce, I need to make you full again."
It was Clark. His Clark. The formidable Man of Steel, reduced to a desperate, needy alpha, begging for another taste. The Clark who wouldn't dare complain with whatever Bruce gave him, who usually took Bruce's commands as gospel.
The Man who always needed Bruce to keep him grounded and whole, whose fierce devotion was a constant, solid anchor in Bruce's chaotic life. His—
"Puppy," Bruce murmured, the endearment a soft caress, a surprising wave of tenderness washing over him.
A soft, loopy laugh spilled from his lips, tinged with a weariness that was almost as sweet as the desire swirling in his gut. He looked back, craning his neck, his vision a little blurry from exhaustion and euphoria. He saw Clark's sweet, cerulean blue eyes, usually so bright and full of unwavering resolve, now glistening with unshed tears, rammed with a raw vulnerability that melted Bruce’s resolve instantly.
Bruce's profound admiration for the raw, emotional depth of his alpha was cut short when he felt Clark’s rigid cock rub right against his clit, the movement deliberate and agonizingly slow. Clark locked his free arm around Bruce's neck, anchoring him, and then, with a choked sound, began to hump him harder, grinding their slick bodies together. Bruce flinched, a sharp gasp escaping him, as he felt the thick head slip past his tight folds, inching deeper, a slow, torturous invasion that sent shivers of renewed pleasure through him.
Clark’s eyes, still brimming, were fixed on his.
"Bruce," Clark moaned, his voice a frantic plea whispered directly into Bruce's ear, hot and urgent. "Can I? Please tell me I can."
Bruce’s breath hitched, the word catching in his throat between a gasp and a moan. He was spent, yes, but the sight of his powerful alpha reduced to such raw, needy desperation, combined with the exquisite sensation of Clark's cock finally pushing past his entrance, was intoxicating. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head.
"Go on, puppy," he urged, his voice soft but commanding, "get your fill. Take it."
Clark mewled in pure, unadulterated joy, a sound of triumph and relief, as his massive cock rammed straight into Bruce's cervix again, the familiar thud a jarring, yet utterly pleasurable, shock through Bruce’s core. The alpha buried himself to the hilt, every inch of his length filling Bruce, stretching him to his limit and beyond. Clark began to pump, slow and deep at first, then picking up a frantic rhythm, burying himself again and again until Bruce's hips bucked instinctively to meet each thrust.
"You want to put a baby in me?" Bruce gasped, a little breathless, a daring challenge in his voice, his hands gripping Clark's shoulders, nails digging in. "You hitting inside me like this, I don't think one time will take, Kal."
The words were out before he could truly filter them, a truth deeper than even he sometimes acknowledged.
Clark’s eyes, wild with passion, locked onto Bruce’s, and he moaned out a strangled
"Yes!"
A single, hot tear finally escaped and tracked down his temple. His arm locked tight around Bruce's head, pulling him impossibly close, burying his face in Bruce's neck, as his body shuddered violently, releasing his seed with a guttural roar that was more animalistic than human. Waves of liquid fire flooded Bruce’s womb, hot and pulsing.
Bruce’s own hand, almost unconsciously, glided down between his legs to his clit, rubbing his sensitive nub feverishly, pushing himself closer to the edge. The culmination came soon after Clark's, a violent, arching climax that stole his breath and left him trembling. It felt so good, a perfect, shattering release.
Clark pulled out slowly, carefully, with a soft, wet sound, making sure to let the lingering warmth of his cum continue to spill into Bruce rather than let it escape. He collapsed onto Bruce, heavy and sated, his chest heaving, his face buried in Bruce's neck, lips pressing soft kisses along the pulse point. Bruce was too boneless to move, simply letting the alpha’s weight anchor him, his own body still buzzing from the aftershocks of his orgasm. The scent of their mingled arousal, of musky alpha and sweet, slick omega, filled the air, thick and intoxicating.
"Did you… did you mean that?" Clark whispered, his voice hoarse, a tremor of vulnerability still running through him. Bruce felt the warmth of his breath against his skin.
"About… about putting a baby in you?"
Bruce stirred, a soft, contented hum escaping him. He ran a hand through Clark’s damp hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands.
"You did all this, and you're only just asking now, Kal?" he teased gently, a hint of his usual dry wit returning, though softened by exhaustion and lingering euphoria.
"You practically just tried to impregnate me by sheer force of will."
Clark chuckled, a low, rumbling sound against Bruce’s throat. "I… I just get so lost in you, Bruce. My alpha just… takes over when I'm inside you, when I know you're open for me. But… was it really just a joke?"
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look Bruce in the eyes, his own still shining with an earnest hope that mirrored the unshed tears from moments before.
Bruce sighed, a long, drawn out breath. He looked up at Clark, at the man who was both his most formidable ally and his most vulnerable partner.
"No, puppy," he murmured, cupping Clark’s jaw. "It wasn't a joke. Not entirely." A small, secret smile touched his lips. "If you actually managed to put a baby in this old omega, I'm sure my sons of terror would be highly overjoyed for a minute, then they'd probably kill you on the spot."
He paused, letting the playful jab hang in the air, then softened his gaze. "But beneath the theatrics, Clark… yeah. We'd both be happy. More than happy."
Clark’s grin spread, wide and impossibly bright, dispelling the last vestiges of the begging alpha. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's forehead, then his eyelids, then his lips.
"Good," he whispered against Bruce's mouth, the word imbued with a depth of relief and unspoken future promises. "Because I think… I think I'm ready to try again. Just to make sure."
Bruce groaned, but this time, it was purely theatrical. "You absolute brute," he grumbled, though his arms tightened around Clark, pulling him closer into the lingering, intimate warmth.
"Give me five minutes, Kal. Five minutes. Then maybe we can try a different kind of 'insurance policy'."
And in the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the sweet scent of their love, the unspoken promise of a future, however chaotic, felt incredibly right.
The end♡