Work Text:
Clark lay naked in the wide, comfortable bed, trying to will himself to stand up and leave. No matter how many times he’d tried and failed to overcome the blocks in his mind, it always seemed to him like it should be so easy. They sat so lightly on him as to be completely imperceptible—except that he was unable to disobey any of the orders he’d been given. There was no pain, no heavy struggle, no feeling of being trapped. He simply couldn’t do it. He would think, now I’m going to stand up and walk out, and then… nothing would happen. Even thinking about it for any length of time was difficult; he could focus on attempting a forbidden action for only a few minutes before he got distracted and turned to something else.
He rolled over, burying his head in the pillows. There has to be some way out of this…
He ran through the old, tired, practiced routes in his mind, trying to think of some way to alert the League that hadn’t been forbidden, some way to defeat his enemy, some way to escape that hadn’t been thought of and planned for…
“Are you going to sleep the whole morning away?” A clear, deep voice spoke from the doorway. Clark clenched his fists. “It’s almost ten o’clock, you should have been awake hours ago,” Bruce continued.
At one time, just hearing that silky baritone had sent pleasurable sparks down Clark’s spine, no matter what it was saying. Even now, he couldn’t quite keep from thrilling to it, in both delight and horror, and he yelled impotently at that part of himself that found it pleasing with desperate self-loathing.
“Clark, answer me.” Bruce said, more sharply.
Clark spun onto his back. “You ordered me to stay in bed before you left last night, what was I supposed to do?”
Bruce sighed and walked slowly forward, stripping off his black undershirt. “Your laptop and phone are on the nightstand. You could have been working. I just wanted you safely out of the way while I finally took care of Luthor.”
Clark squeezed his eyes closed in dread. “Luthor? Is he… did you…” Bruce chuckled, and Clark opened his eyes to glare at him.
Bruce slid his leggings, briefs, and socks off in one swift motion and got on the bed, leaning over Clark on all fours—his movement might have been called a clamber, except that it was so smooth, elegant, graceful. Clark’s mouth watered at the acres of gleaming, perfect, and unblemished ivory-white skin. His arousal sent a familiar wave of self-contempt through him.
“He’s dead,” Bruce said lightly, stroking his hands along Clark’s chest and sides and leaning down to gently kiss his lips. “He committed suicide before he could be arrested, after Batman exposed his attempt to kill Superman and take over the world.”
Clark snorted, still staring angrily at the man above him. Bruce briefly stopped petting him in order to grab supplies out of the nightstand. “Committed suicide. Sure. And I suppose Wayne Enterprises will be absorbing Lexcorp? Speaking of taking over the world.”
“He got in a hot bath and slit his wrists,” Bruce confirmed, nuzzling along Clark’s throat and lowering his body to rest heavily on Clark’s. “Best way to hide the bite marks. I didn’t even get to torture him,” he continued with a sigh of disappointment, disregarding Clark’s latter comments. “Not worth the risk of the League picking up anything suspicious when they investigate. It was too good a death for him, really, considering the amount of times he actually did try to kill you. Although I took some comfort from the way his mind was screaming as he did it. Delicious.”
Clark groaned, envisioning the scene all too clearly. His one-time friend and nemesis, helpless to control his own body as a dark, ominous figure trapped him inside his own brain. Without the consent that Clark had given, Bruce’s coercion of Luthor would have been different, lighter—the Dark Knight would have only been able to temporarily take over parts of Lex’s mind, not the full mental control he had of Clark.
But it had apparently been sufficient to command the tycoon’s physical actions for long enough to stage a suicide.
Bruce chuckled, leaning down to whisper in Clark’s ear. “You act so tortured and grieved, but I know you’re glad he’s dead. You love the thought of me making your enemies suffer. Savor the idea of evil people getting their just deserts.”
“I can think of one evil person I’d very much like to see get his just desert,” Clark retorted.
Bruce threw his head back and laughed outright, grinding his groin down into Clark’s. Clark’s dick perked up happily. Traitor, Clark thought.
“Well, you’ll have to settle for Luthor, today,” Bruce continued. He lifted his body to the side, propped on an elbow, and began stroking Clark to full hardness. “Just think. You and I are making a better world. Spread your legs.”
“A world that you run,” Clark retorted, obeying. Bruce slid his hand lower, fit two slick fingers into Clark’s hole. Clark hissed even as his toes curled. “Where the human population exists as slaves, whether they know it or not,” he continued.
“And there’s no crime,” Bruce affirmed, scissoring his fingers quickly. “No murder, no muggings, no gangs or mafia, no corruption.”
“But plenty of rape,” Clark shot back, clutching at the pillows as Bruce continued to finger him open. Technically Bruce didn’t need to do that, and sometimes he didn’t bother—he could just command Clark to relax and take what he wanted, secure in the knowledge of his victim’s toughness and healing factor. But Bruce usually preferred genuine reactions from Clark, when possible, rather than imposed ones.
Bruce snorted, crooking his fingers in the exact right place to make Clark moan. “Can you really call it rape, my love? You asked for this. Begged for it, in fact. Even though you knew what I was.”
Clark closed his eyes, feeling tears prickle against his lids even as pleasure shot through him. “You made sure I didn’t actually believe it,” he said harshly. “Didn’t realize what a monster you really were. Didn’t know that I wouldn’t be able to take back consent once I’d given it.”
“And now you know,” Bruce said huskily. He pulled his fingers out, and Clark whined at the sudden emptiness. Bruce lifted himself back up, resting his weight fully onto Clark’s body again, wrapping Clark’s legs around his waist as he lined himself up. “You know exactly what I am, what I will do to you. So, tell me the truth. Do you want me to fuck you? Impale you? Consume you?”
“Yesss,” Clark hissed, tears of shame and anger and despair pouring out of the corners of his eyes and down the sides of his face, soaking into his hairline. “Yes, I want you, I always want you, inside me, fucking me, owning me...”
Bruce hummed in pleasure and thrust in hard—his strength was nowhere near Clark’s maximum, but far more than a regular human’s, enough to hurt.
“That’s right,” Bruce averred, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You can lie to yourself all you want; you can brood and pout and sulk—“
“You’re criticizing me for brooding?” Clark gasped out, driving his pelvis up to meet Bruce’s rolling hips, pleasure building at the root of his spine.
“But no matter how much your conscience fights against it, you belong here with me,” Bruce continued, ignoring Clark’s interjection as he pounded into him. “You belong to me, and you love it. You revel in what I do to you. Keep your eyes open.”
Clark squirmed under the relentless stream of words and thrusts, not sure which hurt more: how his body responded eagerly to his afflicter’s touch despite his hatred for him, or how his heart still ached for the monster on top of him, although the man Clark had loved wasn’t there anymore. Bruce grasped his jaw, holding him still, staring him down even as Clark’s balls tightened and his dick began weeping under Bruce’s onslaught. He couldn’t come yet, of course, in obedience to Bruce’s standing orders. Clark stared desperately into Bruce’s cold blue eyes, hoping against hope to see some remnant of the hero he had trusted more than his own life looking out from the bottom of those sea-dark eyes. Nothing but emptiness and hunger stared back at him.
Bruce grinned, his teeth gleaming as they lengthened. “That’s right. Now beg me for it.”
“Please, Bruce,” Clark sobbed obediently, shaking with need. “Please let me come. Please bite me.”
Bruce hissed and struck, jerking Clark’s head to the side and burying his unnaturally long and sharp cuspids into Clark’s skin, on either side of his jugular. Clark arched up off the bed and keened, more a vibration of his vocal cords than any actual sound or air escaping his throat. No matter how many times Bruce bit him, the pain was always shocking and excruciating, vampiric magic slicing cleanly through invulnerable Kryptonian flesh.
Bruce settled into the bite, working his teeth and his dick as deep into Clark as he could go and holding there. His fangs were hollow, like a viper; the bottom pair sucked in the blood that kept the vampire vigorous and strong, while the top injected a fluid that ran through Clark’s veins and up to his brain, keeping him addicted and under control. Bruce’s unwilling minion, his slave, his thrall.
As Bruce’s venom pumped into Clark, the pain of the bite transmuted into intense bliss. Bruce began moving again and Clark’s eyes rolled back in their sockets even as his lids stayed obediently open. Now that Bruce was buried in him twice over, he was free to come, and he did so in helpless, spasmodic jerks. Bruce growled into the bite as Clark clenched down on him with enough force to grievously injure a regular human—with Clark’s blood running through him, the vampire wouldn’t even be bruised. He continued fucking Clark through his orgasm, milking additional spurts from his softening cock. Clark collapsed against the pillows, every muscle going limp. Sated on one front, at least, Bruce pulled his cock and his teeth out of Clark, lapping briefly at the four neat puncture marks even as they shrunk and vanished.
“I love that,” Bruce purred, as he sat back on his knees and began stroking himself, up and down, in a hard, measured rhythm. “Perks of feeding on a Kryptonian, how you’re a virgin every time, tight and unmarked.”
He chuckled and leaned forward to lick the tears from Clark’s still streaming, aching eyes, then pulled back again, his fist moving faster on his cock. “You can close your eyes now. Wouldn’t want to get something in there.” Throwing his head back, Bruce grunted softly as he came, painting Clark’s chest and face. Clark lay limply with gratefully closed eyes as the warm fluid splattered against his skin, wishing that he had the leisure to at least feel achy or fatigued from what Bruce had just done to him.
“You’d best get cleaned up and ready to go,” Bruce said dismissively, falling gracefully back on the bed next to him. “Perry will be expecting you to write an article about the tragic death of Metropolis’ leading businessman.”
Clark stood, shoulders slumping despondently as the new orders overwrote the previous command to stay in bed. Avoiding looking at Bruce, he padded through the bedroom to the shower. He turned the shower up to its hottest setting and stood despairingly under the pounding spray, washing away the come and blood and tears. Finishing up, he returned to the bedroom, trying to ignore the vampire reclining naked on the bed, a pair of anti-blue light glasses perched incongruously on his nose as he typed rapidly on a laptop. Clark didn’t use super-speed—making it clear that he was trying to escape would just end up in him being summoned back for another lesson in who his master was—but he dressed rapidly, hoping to get out while Bruce was distracted.
Sometimes it worked. Not today.
“Come here, Clark,” Bruce ordered, just as Clark finished pulling on the Superman uniform that he would wear to fly to Metropolis and packed his work clothes into his cape, to change into once he arrived there. Bruce had moved to sit on the edge of the bed, bare legs spread lewdly wide, hands resting heavily on his thighs.
Sighing inwardly in resignation, Clark returned to the bed and knelt between Bruce’s legs.
“Good boy,” Bruce purred, and Clark swayed forward, closing his eyes in guilt and resignation. He knew that had their positions been reversed, Bruce wouldn’t have bent, would never have broken like this. He would have made his captor command and enforce every individual action, would have fought to the last breath before appeasing a villain. Clark was weak, choosing the easier route, anticipating orders so that Bruce would be pleased and less likely to punish him.
Clark bent down and lapped at Bruce’s already rising cock. Bruce’s diet of mostly Kryptonian blood gave him a vitality and resilience that other vampires would have killed to acquire, as well as the ability to walk in the sun that kept the League and others from suspecting him. Of course, had Clark informed them as soon as Bruce had been turned, rather than letting his feelings for Bruce override his better judgment…
Clark cut off the self-recriminating thoughts with the ease of long practice, focusing instead on the physicality of the stiffening penis filling his mouth, the salty taste of come and sweat coating his tongue, the musky predator scent drowning him as he bumped his nose against Bruce’s furry pelvis. Bruce let him set his own rhythm for a while, then took over, lacing his fingers together behind Clark’s head and bouncing him repeatedly on his cock, taking advantage of the fact that Clark didn’t need to breathe. Without orders to the contrary, Clark could have pulled back or just refused to be moved, using his greater strength to be obdurate, forcing Bruce to give specific, itemized commands to get what he wanted. Instead, he let himself be used, relaxing his throat as best he could as Bruce repeatedly buried himself deep.
“That’s right, take it all,” Bruce snarled, and clenched his thighs around Clark’s head as he came in a long stream down his throat. Clark swallowed convulsively and sucked at Bruce’s cock as he pulled out, lapping up every last drop.
Bruce hummed in contentment and pulled Clark up, manhandling him into a pieta pose in his lap. Running his free hand between Clark’s legs and pulling the Superman suit bottom down, Bruce bent his head and shoulders and sank his fangs again into Clark’s bared neck. The bite hurt even more this time, as Bruce’s venom hadn’t had much of a chance to renew, but his stroking hand helped encourage Clark’s neurons to misfire. Clark whimpered and writhed against the pain even as he hardened eagerly against Bruce’s palm. He felt his strength ebbing slightly as Bruce drank him deep for the second time, and although he knew it was a vain hope, he couldn’t help but wish that this time the vampire would miscalculate, would suck him too dry for even a Kryptonian under a yellow sun to come back from.
In the six months he had been under Bruce’s control, the vampire had twice drained him enough for his heart to stop beating, but both times Clark had revived after a few hours laid out in the greenhouse under the sun.
On this day, Bruce pulled back well in time; Clark’s erection hadn’t even wilted much, and he whined desperately as Bruce lifted him off his lap and dumped him back on the bed, still hard and wanting.
“Mmmm, you do have a problem there, don’t you?” Bruce asked, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Keep yourself hard throughout the day, and maybe I’ll reward you tonight.”
“Bruce,” Clark pleaded shamelessly.
“Go,” the vampire commanded ruthlessly. “Do your job. Assuming there are no superhero emergencies that demand your presence, be back here tonight when I come back from patrol.”
Grumbling, Clark adjusted himself, squeezing painfully back into the tight, restricting suit. As always, flying over the bay restored a little of his old optimism, the cold, thin, bracing air cutting through his despair and self-hatred. Playing along with Bruce was the smart move—he was biding his time, letting the vampire become complacent. Eventually, perhaps even today, he’d find some way around Bruce’s standing orders, a loophole that would allow him to hint that something wasn’t right. Sooner or later, surely one of his friends would realize something was wrong, someone in the League would notice a change in his or Bruce’s behavior.
The vampire couldn’t possibly hold him forever.