Work Text:
The crystal goblet had just touched Diana’s lips, the last sip of a ’47 Margaux lingering on her tongue, when the harsh, electronic shriek tore through the serenity of the Glass House. Bruce’s body went taut as a bowstring before the alarm finished its first pulse. The shift was absolute. The man sharing a laugh over crème brûlée vanished, replaced by the grim strategist of the Bat.
“Alfred! Do we have a visual of the intruder?” His voice was gravel, all business.
The dining room doors whispered open. Alfred entered, his usual imperturbable mask fractured by a deep, unfamiliar crease between his brows. The tablet in his hands trembled ever so slightly. “Master Bruce,” he said, the words heavy in the still air. “It appears to be… Superman.”
The name hung between them, a cold stone dropped into the warm pool of the evening. Diana met Bruce’s gaze across the table. In his eyes, she saw the same flash of dread she felt knotting her own stomach. Had he turned rogue? Had Darkseid discovered the Anti-Life Equation and brainwashed him? The worst-case scenarios flashed between them.
“Activate the Red Sun protocol,” Bruce commanded, his voice a low rasp to the House’s systems. Somewhere far beneath their feet, powerful emitters flared to life, bathing the sanctum below in the draining, weakening light of a red sun.
The elevator ride down to the Batcave was a silent, tense descent into uncertainty. Diana exited first, her posture a warrior’s readiness, every muscle coiled. The vast, shadowy expanse of the cave opened before them, now cast in an eerie, hellish crimson glow.
And there he was.
Clark Kent—Superman—stood near the central computer console, swaying slightly. He was still in the blue and red, but it was wrong. He was sweating, his skin flushed, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His fists were clenched at his sides, veins standing out on his forearms through his skinsuit.
“Clark?” Bruce called out, stepping past Diana, his own guard up but confusion and concern warring with caution.
Superman’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so clear and kind, were wide, dilated, burning with a feverish intensity. “Bruce,” he gasped, the word strained. “Lex… Luthor. He… ambushed me. Some kind of… pink kryptonite. I got away… you were the first person I thought of…”
Bruce was already moving, gesturing to a heavy metal workbench. “Here, sit. Let me get a sample.” He grabbed a reinforced hypodermic from a nearby tray, his movements clinical and swift. He pressed the needle against the skin of Clark’s arm. It didn’t pierce. It shattered with a tiny, sharp sound, scattering slivers of metal.
“Shit!” Bruce hissed, dropping the broken syringe. The red sun was active, but Clark’s skin was still extremely tough. “How do you feel, Clark? Be specific.”
“Hot,” he breathed, his voice a rough, unfamiliar rumble. “And so… so damn horny.”
Clark surged forward, his movements blindingly fast, even weakened. He crowded Bruce back against the cold edge of the table. His hands, still possessing a fraction of their usual immense strength, framed Bruce’s face. And then his mouth was on Bruce’s—a desperate, hungry, passionate kiss.
Bruce froze, eyes wide open in pure shock. Behind them, Diana’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound.
Clark broke the kiss just enough to speak, his forehead resting against Bruce’s, their breath mingling.
“You know... I watched,” he confessed, his voice thick with lust and shame. “That night. After you confessed to her lasso. I heard… I saw through the walls. I saw Diana take you. I saw her peg you.” His hands slid down to Bruce’s ass, squeezing his cheeks with a firmness that made Bruce gasp. His hips pressed forward, a blunt, undeniable hardness grinding against Bruce’s thigh. “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t look away. And now… now all I can think about… is how your tight ass would feel around my cock.”
Bruce’s breath hitched. A denial formed on his tongue. He’d never been with a man. This was his friend, compromised, not in his right mind. He should stop this. He had to stop this. But the heat of Clark’s body, the rawness of his kiss… the desire in his voice… it sent a jolt of pure, undiluted arousal straight to Bruce’s core. Bruce’s resistance crumbled. His body betrayed him, responding before his conscience could form a protest.
He kissed Clark back. It was hesitant at first, then, as Clark groaned in approval and deepened the kiss again, it became hungry, reciprocal. Bruce’s hands came up, tangling in the dark, sweaty curls at the nape of Clark’s neck.
That was all the signal Diana needed. A slow, sensual smile curved her lips. She moved behind Bruce, her hands deft and sure. The buckle of his belt gave way with a soft clink. The zipper of his trousers hissed down. She pushed the expensive fabric over his hips, letting it pool at his ankles. Her cool fingers wrapped around him, finding him already thick and hard. She stroked him once, firmly, pulling a ragged gasp from Bruce’s throat into Clark’s mouth mid-kiss.
She presented him to Clark, her hand a ring at the base of his cock. Then she turned Bruce’s head towards her and captured his mouth with her own passionate, claiming kiss.
Clark needed no further invitation. He didn't hesitate. He sank to his knees on the cold cave floor, his mouth replacing Diana’s hand in a smooth, fluid motion. The heat was incendiary. Bruce cried out into Diana’s mouth, his hips jerking forward instinctively as Clark’s tongue swirled around his cock-head, tasting, exploring, before taking him deep, his throat working around the length. Diana worked Bruce’s shirt open, her palms smoothing over the hard planes, corded muscle, and old scars of his torso. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders. “On the table, my love,” she murmured, her voice husky.
Bruce, dazed, let her guide him to sit, then lie back on the cold metal surface. Clark followed him up, his hands sliding under Bruce’s thighs, lifting his legs and hips into the air with effortless strength. Bruce was utterly exposed. Oh God, Bruce thought, a shiver of anticipation wracking his body.
Clark’s breath was hot against him. Then his tongue, broad, wet, and impossibly agile, traced a path from his perineum up to his tight, clenched rim. Bruce tensed, a shockwave of sensation rocketing up his spine.
“Clark…” he gasped, more a plea than a protest.
Clark didn’t stop. He licked, a long, flat stroke that made Bruce shudder. Then he zeroed in, his mouth sealing over Bruce’s asshole, his tongue pressing, probing. It was wet and relentless. It was overwhelming, and then, with a sudden, dizzying flip, incredible. A deep, submissive heat began to uncoil in Bruce’s belly. His cock, still slick from Clark’s mouth, throbbed against his own stomach.
Diana, watching with dark, lust-blown eyes, quickly shimmied out of her elegant evening dress, leaving it a pool of silk on the floor. Now gloriously nude, she was a goddess carved from moonlight and desire. She climbed onto the table, straddling Bruce’s face, and took his weeping cock back into her mouth.
Bruce was surrounded, consumed. The dual sensations short-circuited his formidable control. Above him, Diana’s wet, musky scent filled his senses. He lifted his head, his tongue finding her folds, lapping at her slick heat. She moaned around his cock, the vibration making his toes curl.
Below, Clark’s worked him open, his tongue—seemingly as strong as the rest of him—thrusting deeper, softening him, preparing him. Bruce heard the distinctive shink of a material being parted. Clark’s suit. Then, the hot, heavy weight of something thick and hard rested against his spit-slicked entrance.
Diana released Bruce’s cock with a wet pop. She reached back, her hand wrapping around Clark’s length, guiding him. “You want my Bruce’s ass, Kal-El?” she purred, her voice dripping with wicked promise. “It’s all yours. Take it.”
Bruce felt Clark’s broad, blunt cock-head press against him. Bruce was panting, his mouth busy on Diana’s cunt, his hands gripping her powerful thighs. The last vestige of resistance melted. This was Clark. Superman. He trusted him with his life. And he wanted this. He ached for it.
“Do it, Clark,” Bruce groaned, the words torn from him. “Fuck me. Please...”
Diana took Bruce back into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks, and Clark pushed.
The stretch, even with Clark’s superhuman, lubricating saliva, was immense. A full, impossible pressure that stole Bruce’s breath. He cried out, the sound muffled by Diana’s flesh. Clark held still, buried to the hilt, letting Bruce adjust, his body trembling with the effort of restraint.
Then he began to move.
Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sinking back in with a deep, rolling thrust that rubbed against something inside Bruce that made stars explode behind his eyelids— a deep, penetrating pleasure that radiated through his entire core. Each thrust rocked him up the table, pushed his face harder into Diana’s pussy.
He ate her with abandon, his tongue circling her clit, plunging into her opening, drinking her down. She was writhing above him, her moans guttural and constant. Her hands worked between Bruce’s legs, fondling his balls, stroking his throbbing cock in time with Clark’s strokes.
The rhythm built, a savage, three-part symphony. The wet, sucking sounds of Diana’s mouth on him. The slap of Clark’s hips against his ass, growing faster, harder. The ragged, shared breathing and choked-off cries.
Bruce felt Diana clench around his tongue. Her thighs tightened around his head. “Bruce… I’m…!” Her warning became a sharp, keening wail as she came, a hot gush of her release flooding his mouth. He drank her in, the taste of her, the feel of her shuddering around his tongue, pushing him to the edge.
It was too much. Diana’s skilled mouth, Clark’s cock hammering his prostate—undid him completely. He came with a raw, broken shout, his orgasm tearing through him like a seismic event. His cock pulsed violently in Diana’s mouth, jet after jet of his release down her throat. She swallowed effortlessly, her throat working, milking him dry. At the same time, the intense, rhythmic clamping of his ass around Clark’s length triggered the Man of Steel's own climax.
Clark’s thrusts became erratic, wild. He buried himself to the root, a guttural roar erupting from his chest as he came. Bruce felt the hot, thick flood fill him, a shocking, intimate warmth that seemed to go on and on.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of panting in the red-lit cave. Then, with a soft, wet sound, Clark pulled out.
Before Bruce could even process the sudden emptiness, Diana was moving. She slid down his body, her mouth finding Clark’s slick, spent cock. She cleaned him, slowly, thoroughly, licking Bruce’s taste and Clark’s own release from his softening length. Clark groaned, a weak, sated sound, his eyes fluttering closed. Then his body went completely lax, slumping into unconsciousness against the table.
Bruce and Diana, both slick with sweat and other fluids, disentangled themselves, their movements gentle. They stood together, looking down at their friend. His breathing was even now, the feverish flush receding from his skin.
The soft click of dress shoes on stone announced Alfred’s arrival. He stepped into the crimson light, his eyes flicking over the scene: the three powerful figures, two naked and one nearly so, glistening with sweat and other fluids. His expression didn’t even twitch.
“Will Master Kent be requiring a room?” he asked, his tone as neutral as if inquiring about the weather.
Bruce let out a laugh that was almost a bark. He exchanged a look with Diana, seeing his own simmering, rekindled desire reflected in her eyes. “I’d say so. His body needs to process that pink kryptonite.” Bruce paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Just a fair warning though, Alfred. He may be… aroused… when he wakes up.”
Alfred’s gaze took in their nakedness, the possessive way Diana’s hand rested on Bruce’s hip. A sly, knowing grin touched the corner of his mouth. “Very good, sir. In that case, I’ll be putting him in your room."