Work Text:
In his uncomfortably long life, Bruce died three times.
The first death occurred in that damned alley. The ringing gunshots were as loud as thunder. The pitter-patter of his mother’s pearls falling on concrete was indistinguishable from the rain. He kneeled there between his parents’ cooling corpses until he was found. His fingertips were blue and numb, and couldn’t regain their warmth even when Alfred cradled them between his hands, or when Jim draped a comforter over his shoulder and gave him hot cocoa. Until the day he met Clark and eventually mated with him, Bruce never felt warm again.
Only for Clark to be taken away from him too. It was funny, almost, how long it had taken them to come together, how many “You deserve better”, and “I’ll always pick Gotham over you”, and “I’ll die, Clark. I’ll die, and you’ll live forever, and I can’t be with you to the end”… had been said and overcome, only for Clark to leave him first. Bruce would appreciate the irony more if he wasn’t the butt of the joke. His mate was dead, impaled on Kryptonite shards like Christ on the cross. Bruce died with him, a slow and painful death, decaying as their bond broke down.
The third death, he opened the doors.
Diana is eternally young and beautiful, for such is her gift (and curse). Even the new addition of a burn scar that covers her throat and chin doesn’t disturb him. Scars aren’t strange, she’s a warrior, a hero, like him. It’s not out of the norm for people like them to bear scars. No, what sets him off is her eyes. Bruce looks deeper at the dimness of those blue orbs, and the sprawling years reveal themselves.
She speaks to him less like she’s speaking to an old friend and more like she’s speaking to a ghost, an echo , for such is what he is.
“It happened on a Tuesday. Lex Luthor came on every screen and just… made a case to the people of the world. ‘ Everything is falling apart, ’ he said. ‘ The world is heating, resources are gone. The powerful tighten their grip… you feel it, just as I do. Still, our leaders say, be good, and you win in the end! ’”
“‘ See, goodness is the oldest lie there is,’ he said. ‘ Be good and you stay in the pretty garden. Eat the apple, learn the truth and well… I say, eat all the apples you want! ’”
“Clark tried to stop him but…”
“But what?”
“People chose doom, Bruce.”
It’s generally agreed on that Batman died in the Hall of Justice. He died like his late mate, the few survivors say, betrayed and brutalized by the people he swore to protect. He let the rioters into the Hall because he thought there was some goodness in them, because there were children among them and that tugged at what was left of his bleeding heart. The Dark Knight was an Omega, through and through.
(That was how he decided on his new alias, actually.)
A kid poured boiling water on his face, while a woman stabbed him in the side, and a man…
Some people might suspect the truth. Alfred, for instance, though he keeps silent about it (and in return Omega ignores his transgression until he can no more). Diana too, but the thought of her best friend being behind the Amazonians’ genocide is too much to bear. Luthor should also know – he’s smart enough to know – but he’s also fucking insane, a chip off the old cuckoo block, mad enough nowadays to warrant a cell in Arkham. It’s a wonder whether “Omega is Bruce Wayne” is an evident-based notion in his head, or a guilty man’s conviction. He needs Omega to be Bruce Wayne to justify all the suffering. See, he and the world killed Batman’s Alpha and hero friends and disfigured Batman so now Batman wants him and the world to rot, makes perfect sense.
At the end of the day, who Omega is or isn’t doesn’t matter. His true identity has no bearing when his old allies can’t exploit it to hurt him in the same way it hurts their delicate feeling. It’s in everyone’s best interest that the new world’s tyrant and the caped crusader are two separate entities — that the old Batman died (with Superman).
Besides, there is a new Batman in town. A clone.
Now that Omega can afford to have a sense of humor, it amuses him that people think they can get away with hiding from him.
He knows about Gemworld, how Diana offers refuge to survivors there, and how she plans to take them with her to the realm of Hades. It’s water off his back what she does with her followers. She’s already deemed the world and the people on the surface (his world and his people) doomed. If she leaves, then he’ll have fewer pests to worry about.
He knows about Luthor’s obsession with resurrecting Superman. The once-billionaire uproots the Kents’ house and brings it to the Plain of Solitude, and repurposes the farm as his lab. Omega should have Scarecrow and Bane kill him for this, but where’s the fun in that? It’s more amusing to watch him fail over and over, creating these soulless mimicries of the Man of Steel. Watch him waste away, all skin and bone and sick in the head and the body.
Plus, Omega has grown to like the clones. They might not have Clark Kent’s intelligence or Superman’s strength, but they smell good and they fuck him well enough when he’s in heat and missing his dead mate.
(Not his, never his, Bruce Wayne’s)
Finally, he knows about Alfred’s hideout under the desert, where he keeps a clone of Bruce Wayne. His very own replacement baby boy. He uses Toyman’s technology to convince the clone that he is insane, that Batman has never existed and it's time to wake up and be the son Thomas and Martha Wayne would want. But Bruce the Clone is skeptical and stubborn to a fault (because he’s Batman). He leaves Alfred and the illusion behind and embarks on a journey to save the world that doesn’t deserve saving. Now, this, Omega can’t allow. He has to punish them – Bruce and Alfred.
Omega appears on the wheatfield like the Devil himself. Black suit, blood red lines, and pointy horns. A concoction of fear gas and Ivy’s pollen blows up his cape, and the clone Supermen stand at his beck and call. Luthor is dead, his head stomped in by the old and faithful Superman clone. The clone Batman is not faring much better. Omega steps on his throat and he goes pliant as a good bitch should. Pathetic. Was he like this too when they assaulted him?
(“Batman thought… he thought the thing to do was to let the people in. Them. Everyone. Maybe even empower them. It was the only way we’d win, he said. So he opened the doors.” Diana’s hands shake where they’re holding onto the lid of the box. “They tore him apart first. Then Arthur. Oliver, Dinah… her screams…”)
The clone pants and writhes as the induced heat crawls up his spine and further paralyzes him. He’s all decked out in a batsuit, but even the visage of fear can’t gloss over the fact that he’s a bitch in heat begging to be bred.
“Who are you?” the clone wheezed out, getting drool on Omega’s boot. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
“My name is Omega. Welcome, Bruce…”
Bruce, yeah, let’s call him that. Less mouthful than “the clone”, or “the imposter”, or “Alfred’s little replacement baby boy”.
He kneels over Bruce and pulls back the cowl. He doesn’t deserve to wear it. Just an echo, after all. A fake. “It wasn’t my intention to meet you like this. I was going to let you come to me, let you run into our children first. Barbara, Dick and Tim, they’d love to see you…” he cocks his head. “My bad, Tim died yesterday.”
A whirlwind of emotion sweeps over Bruce’s face. First confusion, then grief, then… “ Our children ?”
Batman can’t be terrified. How is he going to scare thugs and villains when two simple words make him look like he pissed his pants?
Humming, Omega takes off his own mask. “I am the real Bruce Wayne.”
It feels wrong to say that outloud, but the denial on Bruce’s face makes it worth it. What does he see? The bumpy skin of his ear, where the kid burned him? The nicks on his cheek and brow, where the mother cut him with a broken bottle? Or the broken nose, where the father hit him because he wouldn’t lay down and let him rape him?
Or maybe it’s just the hair. It’s white. He’s old. Bruce is young, created to look in his twenties.
Bruce panics. Seized with a fit of hysterics. A stereotypical Omegas’ plight. “No… no, that’s not possible! You fell, in the first days! When you –”
“When I let them in, Bruce. Yes,” Omega finishes for him. He leans in, closer, closer.
The Batsuit was designed to contain scent, but with the cowl off and the nonexistent distance between them, even his faulty nose can sniff out the pure sweetness of heat and Bruce’s pheromone.
Unmated.
The scent distracts him so much that he falters. He’s forgotten what it’s like to not smell like he’s Clark’s. “I let them in and they broke me. Broke me so badly that it took me years to get back on my feet. But I did it. No magic. No Pits. Just a vision. A plan to save them. Really save them this time. And you’re a part of that plan. But first…”
With his claws, he slices open the Batsuit, neck to navel. Now the Supermen can smell Bruce. They raise their heads to further scent the air, puzzled by the pheromone that’s similar to their mate’s but not quite.
Omega backs away before Bruce can throw him off in a surge of anger and adrenaline. Two Supermen replace him, holding the furious Omega down. “When Crane notified me that you were in the Plain of Solitude, I had an idea.” He falls in line with the rest of the Supermen. “How much of my memory do you have, Bruce? The first few years as Batman? Until the day I ‘died’?” He lovingly cradles one Superman’s chiseled chin. “Do you recognize this face?”
The scowl that Bruce is spotting is a good attempt at Batman’s. If only his cheeks weren’t flushed and his eyes weren’t hooded and wet. A bitch in heat, after all.
“Superman.”
“So you do know.” Omega praises him. “Superman… Clark was my mate. He gave me – gave all of us – hope , and he had high hope in us too. He believed in the miracle of this cursed planet. The miracle of humanity… to imagine past what’s probable, even past what was certain , to what might be… and we...” he trails off.
“Is that why you did this ? All of this ?” Bruce asks accusingly, hoping to draw out the inevitable, to find an opening to strike no matter how improbable it might be.
“I didn’t start shit,” Omega growls, throwing a glare at Luthor’s corpse. The Supermen collectively let off soothing scents to comfort him . “Luthor told the people to ‘eat all the apples’ , and they did. They killed heroes, villains, each other… wars after wars. I rose above them, I stopped the chaos. I’m here to save them.”
Bruce hisses right back. Feisty. Stupid. No sense of self preservation. Omega would have to excuse him, he’s young. “He’d be ashamed of you, you know that? The real Clark.”
Omega’s eyes are narrowed to slits. “You don’t get to say his name, boy . Not yet.”
Then he turns to the Supermen, walks around them, touching their faces, and chins, and jaws, and necks, and shoulders… “You have my memory, but you didn’t live it. You don’t know what it’s like to have a mate.”
The clone – Bruce – doesn't get it. He isn’t mated. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be completely connected to someone, to have their presence in his head and keep his demons at bay. Naturally, he doesn’t know what it’s like to lose that connection, either. There is a chasm in Omega’s head. He stands on one side, gazing at the void on the other side.
Clark used to be there.
Omega figures that the best way to break Bruce, is to give him a bond then sever it.
He stops in front of a bearded Superman. This one isn’t like the rest. He was created by Clark to trick skeptics when they got too close to finding out about Superman’s identity. Because of that, his appearance reflects his purpose and age. He wears jeans, a jacket, and a Superman T-shirt, all worn and torn. His hair is graying. He looks like a more rugged, aging Clark Kent minus the glasses. Old and reliable.
He’s Omega’s favorite.
A hand on the house of El’s crest, Omega rises up to his toes to press a chaste kiss to the shell of the old Superman’s ear. He asks, “Will you do the honors of claiming Bruce Wayne, Clark ?”
Omega likes to think that he’s dead already. It’s a morbid thought, but it’s better than admitting that Bruce Wayne has become a monster.
On the Kent’s farmstead, Omega watches his dead mate’s clone fuck his own clone. There’s something deeply poetic about it, he supposes, if he looks past the vulgarity of it all. He and Clark were — are — two parts of a whole. They complete each other. In every world, in every reality, they will find each other.
The old Superman – Clark – is gentle. He flips Bruce onto his hands and knees and mounts him, but his thrusts are slow and measured, considerate. He drags the human back and forth, buries his cock in the tight hole, head to hilt, then pulls out until only the tip is submerged, rinses and repeats. His body shields Bruce from the other Supermen, offering him some semblance of dignity.
In contrast, Bruce is a mess. His mouth drools, his pussy drips. Sloppy bitch. He waters the grasses with his body fluid and stinks up the air with his pheromone. All of this is too much for him. He was a virgin until moments ago. The implanted memory didn’t teach his body how to handle this, how to relax and breathe and just take it. He bites his lip until it bleeds and still it isn’t enough to stop the desperate whimpers.
Omega pries his teeth open, shoves two gloved fingers into his mouth, and sneers, “Cute. You call yourself my successor, yet you can’t handle a fake Superman’s cock.”
Bruce moans, his eyes rolling back, his cunt squirting around the soft knot. He’s so out of it that he suckles the fingers in his mouth like a pup latching onto its mother’s tit. He looks at Omega, and the hatred is distant, clouded by lust, clouded by adoration. He probably doesn’t recognize the older man anymore. He sees an Omega who looks like him, smells like him and thinks that he’s family, that he’s here to comfort. Dumb bitch. Hasn’t got knotted yet and he’s already fucked stupid.
And maybe Omega is a little jealous of Bruce. He came to Clark as a playboy, a slut. Used. Chewed up and spat out. That never mattered to Clark (and had never mattered to him before he met Clark, either), but it bothered him that he was old and scarred, a damaged good. He was thirty four, getting older, and Clark would live forever. Clark was as eternal as the sun over their heads. Clark was his sun.
Clark was dead.
Omega feels a presence at his back. He looks over his shoulder, seeing a prominent bulge wrapped in red tights. He looks upward, meeting one Superman’s ever dull-and-empty eyes. Right, he forgot about the clones. They might be braindead, more machines than living beings, but they’re still Alphas with needs.
He stands up. His voice is sugary sweet as he asks, “What do you need?”
The bold Superman breathes heavily. He can’t speak, none of the clones Luthor created can, but his scent and the boldness of his hands, as they paw at Omega’s hips with determination, are good enough answers.
Omega places his own hands on the Alpha’s shoulders and pushes. “Down, boy.”
Superman readily falls onto his knees, his eyes at the same level as Omega’s clothed mound, his nose poking right at it. He sniffs. Loudly.
Omega huffs and mutters “horn dog” under his breath, but pulls his pants down nevertheless. As soon as he does, Superman’s eyes dilate. The fine trimmed hair (as white as the one on his head), the deep red slit, and the shiny slick that cascades down one scarred thigh, they work together to draw the Alpha in, like sirens’ songs to weary sailors. The poor clone doesn’t know what to do with the offerings. He wants to — has to — please mate, but how? With his tongue? His fingers? Or his dick?
Omega doesn’t make him choose. He spreads his pussy lips open and orders, “Lick.”
Omega hasn’t been this wet in a long time. Superman licks into him, his fingers flexing where they grip his thighs, his tongue wiggling deep inside, but it’s not the superb oral service that’s getting him off. It’s the vision of himself from the lost days, young and beautiful, being used as a Kryptonian’s chewing toy that does it. Omega rides Superman’s face in sync with the thrusts of Clark’s hips, up and down, back and forth, grinding his clit against Superman's chin.
He’s obsessed with Clark’s big calloused hands. Old and reliable . He’s obsessed with the broken groans Bruce makes, like he isn’t liking it, craving it.
It’s not enough.
“Sit up.” His voice is a breathy growl. “Put him on your lap. I want to see him.”
Bruce gasps as he’s violently jerked upright and gravity pulls him down on Clark’s cock. His eyes get a little crossed. Slick gushes out of his sloppy hole. How many times has he cummed already? Too many times to count.
Omega stands up, separating from Superman’s mouth with a lewd squelch. A shiny string of slick briefly connects his pussy to the faux Kryptonian’s tongue. He joins Bruce on Clark’s lap, cradling his face, rubbing their bodies together. Bruce is so fucking gorgeous. Pale blue eyes, long lashes, straight nose, and cupid’s bow lips. With the hands under the other’s jaw, Omega forces his mouth open and spits into it.
“You’re pretty,” he praises, then chuckles when he hears and feels a purr vibrating from the younger male’s chest. “But your body leaves some to be desired.”
Male Omegas don’t really fill out until they’re pupped for the first time. This Bruce never had Damian. He’s too many lines and sharp angles and not enough curves. Omega presses into him, bringing their tits together, and the size difference is staggering. Bruce’s pitiful bosom is hard and uncomfortable to rub against, like a brick wall.
“I should let him breed you,” Omega says. His eyes travel to the younger man’s flat stomach, contemplating. “It would interfere with my plan… but I can’t have my successor looking like a Beta .”
Bruce shakes his head, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s rejecting the idea, or he’s simply spasming up, readying for another orgasm.
“No?” Omega frowns. The ghost of the darling prince of Gotham fleetingly appears in the pout of his lips and the furrow of his brows. “Don’t you think that Clark deserves a reward? He’s fucking you so good, isn’t he? He’s taking such good care of you. Won’t you give him a pup? Continue his bloodline?” He pinches Bruce’s clit as punishment and relishes in the hoarse scream.
“I would give him one myself, if I could. But I’m old and broken. I don’t even have a complete womb anymore,” Omega laments. His hand is tender when it grips the nape of Bruce’s neck and brings the other’s face to his own scarred gland. “I want to leave something of myself and Clark in this world, a fruit of our love… so that everyone knows that Clark existed… so that he can live on.”
Clark – the old Superman – is watching him over Bruce’s shoulder, and his eyes are not dull and empty, or even lustful, just sad. It’s almost like he’s disappointed in the world, in Omega.
“If my Clark was still alive, would he look like you?” In a moment of weakness, he asks.
Clark doesn’t answer him.
“Very well,” he sneers. “In any case, we don’t have all day. Diana is going to find us soon. Why don’t we finish this,” and he looks around, throwing a cursory glance at all the other Supermen, before saying, “together?”
They move at once. One grabs his ass, spreads his cheeks, and thrusts home in one go. Another grabs Bruce’s hair and forces his mouth on his cock, making him choke on it. And still there are more. The two of them are surrounded, trapped in a claustrophobic room whose walls are made out of squirming, contorting bodies.
In the chaos, Omega finds Bruce’s hips and settles his hands over Clark’s. They bounce the human on the Kryptonian’s cock together, with Omega setting a merciless pace. Bruce screams around the cock in his mouth and thrashes one last time when he’s pushed down on a knot that’s too large. Too large, it’s not gonna fit, it will. Then he goes all lax and sleepy as cum paints his insides. He doesn’t even twitch when Clark’s teeth sink into his mating gland, bonding them together ‘til death do them part.
Clark rocks into Bruce, squeezing slick and cum out of him with each of his thrust. The Omega purrs, cock-drunk and high on biology-dictated love. He is pulled off Clark’s half swollen knot and onto another cock, then another. A dozen different Alphas’ cum sloshes inside him but he doesn’t care because they all smell like his mate.
Omega leaves when the orgy is still in full swing. He doesn’t make good on his promise to kill Bruce’s Alpha, in the end. He reasons with himself that he’s not growing soft, that it’s not kindness or favoritism that he doesn’t kill the old Superman, because someone will do the job for him.
Diana is coming.