Chapter Text
A/N: This story has been determined to be written and I have tried to do it justice accordingly. It is also far more focused on comedy than the others, a comedy of terrors.
In other words: who put plot in my crazy PWP?
This story is another installment to my series and madhouse worldbuilding, because our dear poor protagonists live in such interesting times.
Here we go again…
-
Never before had Bruce been so enamored of his circumstances, but in this mad new world… life is good. He’d gone on his first real date not too long ago, and working Brucie Wayne alongside Clark and Diana had been more profitable than he’d ever imagined possible. He’d been able to hammer out an effective schedule around his heats, and rival Red Lanterns were beginning to realize that he and Clark were no pushover. Scent blockers and hormone shots took care of the rest, no matter how crass the Reds accused them of being
Life is good.
His last heat had been intense, the heat itself lasting a little over three days. Even just the memory of Clark buried to the hilt in his ass, cock piercing open the Omega organ in him to breed him full of pups, was enough to make his knees weak. The feel of him would live in his memory forever; of dexterous long fingers thrusting into the swollen muscle inside of him that was made to catch an Alphas knot. The sensation of the man’s massive blunt cock parting his throbbing insides and digging through his guts and filling him with heat and… well. Bruce may not have had many positive experiences with penetrative sex before Clark but he was becoming well familiar with the kind of desperate desire that necessitated it. Clark was no slouch of course, endlessly fascinated by playing with his chest and tits, the sensitive erogenous zone that was the small of his back. It was shortly thereafter that Bruce had become acquainted with titty-fucking and a whole list of sex acts he’d never even heard of. Oral may have been Bruce’s schtick but he’d never have thought in a million years that the fucking boy scout would have an imagination so damn lewdly vivid.
Maybe it was his caste, Omega, that made him into such a cock sleeve but he wanted nothing more these days than liquid heat in his pelvis and his belly distended with pups. His pups, Clark’s pups, he could feel his Omega gorge with blood at the thought, all but tenting his pants where he sat… Did this happen to normal people or was he just that far gone? How many crazy midmorning dreams would there be before Alfred finally put his foot down and forced an intervention? Good God… normal…what a concept.
Three days with the man he loved, spent being hand fed and tended to with cooling gulps of water as he sweat his way through the haze. His heats came maybe once every six to nine months and they left him all but completely helpless. It was only his long years and hard-won victories with Alfred and Clark that allowed him even a modicum of calm about it. The sheer debilitation of the whole cycle was terrifying. Thankfully the synthetic Alpha hormone, taken at regular intervals, was enough to see him through without broadcasting his status to every Red Lantern in the sector. Red Lanterns, the Alpha that ruts and the Omega that heats, if he focused too hard on that he might just have to go back to Arkham again…
Intervention! He needed so many interventions!
God bless Ignatha and his mate, Shudia, who were all the things their respective corps found rude and boorish in and of the extreme. Ignatha, the giant Nox, was a mix of reptilian and leonine traits and born of a species whose male population had far less aggressive tendencies. He was a low-level Red Lantern Alpha, able to control himself better when in rut and whose iron grip on his temper was downright legendary for a Red. Shudia, the female of the species, sported more reptilian traits than feline and was almost half the size of her larger mate. She was a Blue Lantern, a member of a corps infamous for working on a generational timeline to birth stars and create habitable systems. This typically meant that if you asked a Blue Lantern a question you would be lucky to hear back from them in one or two decades with their answer. That Shudia could blink and talk, all in the same hour, was considered the absolute height of rudeness among her corps.
Good god.
-
Standing at the entrance to the Watchtower’s hangar bays, Superman spotted Stewart leading the two figures he’d wanted to meet most. Back on the Polyphemus they’d all been too busy fighting for their lives to focus too much on getting to know each other, now he wanted to remedy that. Shudia was small even compared to humans, she was thin like a greyhound with smooth dark grey skin dappled in bright blue scales along her shoulders like freckles. She was slightly built but experience told Superman that she was also fast and agile, a panther stood upon two plantigrade feet with four toes each and bright golden tips to long pointed ears and fingertips.
Shudia was maybe five foot three inches and absolutely dwarfed by her lighter skinned mate who stood at least a whole head and shoulders above Superman. His hair was longer, a bright red mane of quill-like hair that crested his head and shoulders. Ignatha held himself proudly, in no way worried about his surefooted mate, his face built much like hers if only broader, their jaws flat without a muzzle yet smooth and reptilian. Their eyes bore vibrant yellow, almost golden irises and were dusted at the corners with fine blue scales. Their brows were broad, sporting several scales that tapered into whiskers, just as they did at the shoulders, below the nose, and along the ears. Ignatha sported small, curved horns at the top of his head and more drably colored scales of dull blue on his chest and shoulders. Their race was called Nox and they were not a particularly common species. Superman and the others had been worried about having a Red Lantern pay a visit but he held himself with dignity and a kind of patience not expected of his spectrum.
-
Bruce always fought with himself not to fully present to his mate, his whole world was always centered around control and the urges of his heat were uniquely unsettling. It was a terrible position that made his insides burn with extasy and his thighs glisten with slick; it should have felt demeaning and very probably was. Once, he had woken within an impromptu nest and barricade, realizing his heat was on in full force, and knew before long Clark would be there with a glass of cool water and concerned scanning. It had gotten so bad on that third heat, when his Alpha that wasn’t had become so focused on making sure Bruce was alright, that he’d actually had to advertise the fact. Kryptonian anatomy and physiology was, for some strange reason, uniquely susceptible to Omega heat scent under the right conditions. Perhaps it was just one of the many things they’d tried to distance their evolution from but things had finally managed to get moving from there. In the end, Bruce sweating on his belly and back bowed with his legs spread wide and ass in the air was more than enough to drive the hint home. He’d hated the position the whole time, growling his displeasure and scrabbling for control of his body even as he all but begged for Clark. It made for a delicate dance of deference and patience on his mate’s part but true to form Clark was never anything less than reverential. It was an intoxicating paradox that the world’s strongest man was so willing to put up with his many hangups. That heat had been a hectic one, both of them so crazed that Clark had simply mounted him from the back and they had screwed like damn animals for hours. They’d been so crazed for it that Clark had suffered a minor superspeed accident that saw him tripping over his own jeans and face first into the floor while frantically trying to take his pants off and get onto the bed. His mate had, red faced with embarrassment, requested a do-over that Bruce was more than happy to give. Alfred, however, had not been pleased with the damage to the floor.
Clark had outright refused to bite him with the synthetic hormone, refused to form that bond of hormonal addiction between himself and Bruce. It made his heats that much more dangerous, loud and apparent to any Red in sniffing distance… but it kept his mind his own. An Omega, bound to an Alpha, could be manipulated by that Alpha both physically, emotionally, and culturally. Even unbound, an Alpha could compel obedience from an Omega with the right vocal tones and growls. An Alpha could drive an Omega into heat with their rut scent or their saliva laden bites and their claws full of violence on an Omegas nape. An Alpha could force an Omega to present.
A bite to the Omega hormone saturated and oily seeping scenting gland, for an Alpha, was pure extasy.
Leaving Bruce unclaimed, unbitten by Alpha hormone, preserved his independence and was just one more reason why Bruce would be glad to have Clark until the day he died. He may never get that claiming addictive bite his hormones craved but Clark’s cock and more typical bites made up for it in spades.
Being an Omega Red, meant many things and few of them good. Omega could bear many pups and were prized for it. It also meant that, with their submissive urges and unconsented heats, they were considered weak of body and will. Omega were won in combat or contracted like brood mares to join clans peaceably. Omega were primed by nature to bondage through mating bite and hormonal addiction, and thus were more property than living persons. Omega could not inherit. Omega must do what they are told. Omega should be disciplined and kept at the feet of their Alpha. Omega should be mated to an Alpha and pregnant; birth control and scent blockers and suppressants illegal. In the clandestine Red Lantern courts, Omega had precious few rights and many took advantage. There were those who cared, like Ignatha, choosing by sheer grit to take that monumental step away from perpetuating the violence that created them… but law dogged the Omega like a bitch in heat.
A bite full of Alpha hormone laden saliva, for an Omega, was pain and swelling and bruising and bleeding and addiction and ownership. It meant being paraded by their bloody sheets and their marks on full display.
Lois had become all but rabid when Clark had described how Omega were treated and Dianas reaction alone would have set every blade on Themyscira bristling to the high heavens. Hal had looked positively murderous while going through the Lanterns databases to arm them with every legal loophole possible. Never had a Green Lantern been so determined to bend the law. It was all just one more reminder that no matter how dim the world could be sometimes, they were never truly alone anymore. It was a feeling that Bruce might actually enjoy getting used to.
But if an Alpha were to lay full legal claim on Bruce by any means… he and his ‘bastard’ pups’ lives would be forfeit. No Alpha would suffer the children of a previous mating and, like a pride of lions, they could be picked off one by one so as to encourage a quicker heat.
Like hell they would ever get the chance.
He’d picked up on his body’s changes quickly after the first few heats, all touch sensitivity and fever and sweating. Besides the heat and Omega organs, Bruce now had a way of biting that actually left a mark, and more so than just his new tendencies toward carnivory and a burgeoning taste for blood had left on his budget. His teeth became sharper, canines more pronounced and nails more like claws as his heat approached.
God help him, if he did actually end up as some kind of vampire after all this, he might just rage quit all together.
The sheer physical need to have Clark’s scent all over him and to run the oily hormone laden Omega scent gland at his neck all over Clark was tell enough these days. Omega needed their Alpha’s knot, a swelling near the base of their dick that locked them into their mate for up to a half hour with each knotting. This was difficult to recreate, Clark’s fist only going so far, but it replicated the sensation and eased the biological need with a flush of the necessary hormones that the contact created. Bruce would rather bite and tear at himself than submit to the bone deep need to kneel and present and lap up the hormone rich sweat and saliva and spend of an Alpha. Never had his body been so at odds with him.
Bruce shivered at the memory of his last cycle, the feel of Clark in him, all around him, his teeth in Clark’s neck and shoulder and Kryptonian blood on his tongue. Bruce often lost himself in the violent throes of the all-encompassing need that was a knotting with Clark, brutal in ways that would seriously injure a normal man. He was all teeth and tongue and urgency wrapped up in a blood frenzy, body strong enough to leave one hell of a mark on anyone else. It was a thrill as much as a terror. Clark’s embrace was always welcome, his hands always strong and gentle and all the things Bruce would never have thought desirable after decades spent ignorantly touch starved and reclusive. Decades: now that was another thing all together. Kelex had done more than just repair the damages Darkseid had left behind, the required genesis bath had also lengthened his lifespan. Bruce, over 65 years old chronologically and still the same build and physical condition, now had the mitotic biological age of 25. Then, after he had presented as an Omega Red Lantern, Bruce had gone back to the AI and resolved to make himself compatible with Kryptonian genetics. It had worked and the second genesis bath, small and bizarre as it had been, had also made the process of childbearing far more reliable and much less dangerous for him. More importantly, the Red Lantern ‘curse’ bound to his blood would not be passed on to his offspring.
Clark was not a Red Lantern; he did not have the means or the status to meet Bruce’s new bodily and cultural requirements… and they would be damned if they would let that matter. To hell with what the other Lanterns thought of it and damn all the Reds they had to punt off the planet. Synthetic Alpha hormone, a makeshift knot, rough and raucous sex and his lovers come filling him to the brim always scratched that itch just right.
Hell, he’d even been driven to nesting of all things. Clark didn’t have Alpha scent glands at his wrists and cheekbones or hormone addled salivary glands but Bruce was always certain to have his scent in his nest. A nest, his nest, a laughable pile of the softest, coolest blankets and pillows and clothes that he could get his hands on before his heat subsumed his mind entirely. They tended to be almost militant in their construction, all instinctively noted escape routes and defensive lines that eventually dissolved into a mess. He’d even nested in his walk-in closet once, embarrassing as that was it was nowhere near as bad as the heap of blankets stuffed between his mattress and bedroom wall had been.
He’d actually growled at his Alpha-not-Alpha...
Bruce knew by instinct alone that he made for a pretty shit Omega. He’d lay for hours in a heap of Clark’s and Alfred’s familiar scents, all but begging for the comfort of Beta calm or Alpha possessiveness… his body would never get that. Bruce had neither clan nor pack and he refused to let that matter. No, his pups would be born free from the tampering of the Red Scourge and his husband would be happy at his side and that was all that mattered; damn his unbonded soul.
No matter the pain, the biological and cultural isolation, Bruce knew to his bones that he had everything he had ever wanted… and was only adding to that list as time went on.
Bruce was beginning to wonder which of the two of them was more alien by now, asking Clark had only gotten him a feather pillow to the face.
He hadn’t laughed so hard since he’d been a child.
Things had changed so much, were still changing as time went on. He was still the dark and brooding ‘Spooky” soul he’d always been but he had begun to branch out. Like the roots of some gnarled little tree that slowly grew to anchor itself into the surrounding soil, he had begun to form lasting connections. These associations… friendships had tied him to the present and given him hope for the future. Where once he lived to die, now he lived to… live. Strangely, this was enough for him. After Bane had all but ended him, making him a paraplegic with no idea if he would ever walk again until experimental treatments had brought him around the bend, Bruce had become bitter. In all honesty, he’d always been bitter but that rage-drunk venom had caused its own fresh hell. Now, when neuropathy and inflammation gripped his spine like claws and hot irons, Bruce had more than just mind-numbing pills and alcohol. Now, when the days were too long and too dark and too cold, he had more than just himself tangled up in cold blankets on his bed wishing the world would go away and that Crime Alley would finally just take him. Now, when the dark seemed so much worse and so much emptier, he had more than misery for company. Bruce now spent those painful days letting Alfred tend to him, letting his lover hold him and massage the cold out of his body with warm hands. He spent those hard mornings when all he could hear were gunshots, set off by the glint of steel in streetlights on a bad patrol, curled up in Clarks arms and listening to his heartbeat. Alfred had said it was PTSD, he’d made tea for the three of them as they sat together on the couch in the study with its overlarge stone hearth as they helped him work through it. Bruce had never cared to put a name to those awful bouts of mindless disassociation. He’d lived with these things for so long he’d simply stopped caring.
When bleak futility dug into his veins he would remember Diana’s face when her mother had finally reached out and reestablished a connection with her estranged daughter. When everything changed, yet everything stayed the same, Bruce would remember all the little times his fellow League members came to him for advice, for help. Some days when it was all still too much and too exhausting… Bruce knew with bone deep certainty that the people who mattered to him would still be there waiting for him to come back out into the light. That he would eventually sneak his way out to bask in the sun and gaze endlessly at the smile he knew would be waiting for him with bright blue eyes and that damned silly spit curl of hair.
Now, with even the remnants of Darkseid’s tampering all but completely gone, Bruce had his heart set on the future.
-
Hal took the moment to reflect on how being forcibly inducted into the Red Lantern corps had affected the man. He had become bearer of one of the world’s worst superpowers, not only could he not ever use that power without destroying everything he strove to build… but it had changed his physiology in ways no sane man on Earth wanted to contemplate. Alpha Reds that rutted, Beta Reds that schemed, and the obscenely rare Omega Reds that heated… and guess where Hal’s favorite bat had landed. Just the thought of the ‘Omega presentation’ and ‘accessory organs’ made the man want to stick his fingers in his ears and file for early retirement. Explaining the resultant influx of Red Lanterns hell bent on extensive property damage had been difficult and with Kilowog essentially spilling the beans things got weird fast. Kilowog was used to working with various cohorts whose evolutionary biology took a firmer hold, Arkkis being one of them, and both of them were seasoned Red hunters. All of this meant that neither thought of Red Lantern dynamics as anything unusual… or private…
That had been a fun interview…
-
“So does that mean that Batman has… is a… uh-“
Hal waved dismissably at Lois. “The Bat’s the same thing he’s always been, a total pain in my ass.” He looked at the news crews flatly, all of them jockeying for a better position in the crowd. “But if you mean to ask if he can now multiply without a calculator, then yes. The worst part is that I want to be creeped out, I want to be weirded out… but it’s not even close to being the craziest thing I’ve seen and that just pisses me off.”
-
Kilowog had been put on punishment detail wherein he would contemplate every possible meaning of the term ‘culture shock’ and be kept as far from the Bat as humanly possible.
For obvious reasons.
Bruce, or Bat -‘No One Knows My Last Name But Superman’- Man, climbed out of the rubble and shook off the dust. He could growl like a tiger screwing a mountain lion and had sharper than average teeth and Hal swore he once heard the man trill like a housecat when Flash had bumped into him that one time, but outside of that Batman’s powers were locked behind a ring. That Superman held onto that ring just like Batman hoarded Kryptonite was par for the course.
-
The Omega presentation had been jarring enough, but waking one morning and realizing the thing had fully formed was another. It wasn’t inexplicable, Shudia had told them as much as she could, that presentation in Reds most often formed in concert with the Lanterns gender and that his unusual dynamic was still settling. Bruce had gone from the haphazard developmental stages and finally finished the process after his second heat into a fully-fledged hermaphrodite. Needless to say, Brucie Wayne would not be going into hospitals at any point in the future… there would be far too much to explain… like why he had extra parts between his legs and could smell a rutting Red from fifty yards away…
He typically worked through his heat at the Fortress or at the manor, Alfred looming over Clark with a discerning gaze. The older man had taken to watching Clark like a hawk, as paternal as he’d never had the chance to be before. It was both irksome… and god help him it was actually, dare he say it, funny. It was downright adorable watching Clark being harried by all the normal things people like them were supposed to be experiencing, even going so far as to try to court him properly. Bruce had to admit it, he liked it… it was endearing, and Alfred finally had an outlet for over thirty years of pent-up fathering. Their first date night had been at a small restaurant on the edge of Gotham, Bruce slowly working Clark Kent into the world of Brucie Wayne in small benign ways. He’d been an absolute mess before Clark had come to pick him up, ever the gentleman, and had been dithering over outfits for almost two hours. Alfred had insisted that he be returned to the manor by nine in the evening, no exceptions, and Clark had been absolutely keen on impressing the stoic old butler.
Bruce chuckled nervously to himself, seated all but naked on a medical berth as a line of blue light scanned him from head to toe. He held a hand to his abdomen, a growing bump forming there that pushed at his under suit and armor when he tried to garb up and hit the streets. It had been four weeks, the morning sickness having worked its way out, and it was becoming harder and harder to hide the symptoms of Omega pregnancy. Bruce had only hidden it up to this point because a male Omega had a terribly high chance of miscarriage during the first few weeks. With that hurdle gone he had a little over an eighty-five percent chance of carrying the child through. Now, in the Fortress with Kelex scanning his distended belly at every angle, their biggest concern was the condition of the child.
“This one’s scans are almost complete.” Kelex still had no love for him, it just wasn’t in his nature or his programming to do so. That didn’t matter to Bruce anyway, they had a good working relationship and could rely on each other to do what needed to be done. He had caught glimpses of another figure though, a humanoid looking electronic projection not unlike Kelex, peering at him around corners. The rogue AI had yet to show itself but Kelex had insisted that it was harmless, just curious and cautious.
Bruce couldn’t help the flush of worry down his spine, biting back the Omega keening that would have Clark bolting to him. There were so many things that could go wrong, humans weren’t built for hermaphroditism and sexual dimorphism among mammals only widened that chasm. They’d found a work around, they had planned everything accordingly, no one even knew he was carrying. He would tell Clark once he was sure it would work, but he had to be sure. The blue light faded away with several long strings of low clicking noises. “The structures of the Omega organ remain intact and functional, fetal life is still detectable. This one will require a sample of amniotic fluid to assess genetic stability.” A large mechanical arm unfolded from underneath the medical berth, in its grasp was a series of small needles. “Please lay back and remain still, a local anesthetic will be applied.” Bruce bit his tongue, lying down on his back and letting the machinery do its job.
Genetics was the big hangup in this instance. Kelex may have been able to make him compatible with Kryptonian genes but the possibility of hybrid vigor vs hybrid breakdown still dogged his nightmares. Would the offspring be viable, would they have all of Superman’s powers or some or none? Would they have deformations or diseases or be prone to cancer? All these terrors and more were laid bare before Kelex in the form of choked back worry. Kelex withdrew the sample, the barrel of the syringe fitting into a slot along its berth.
“Data from the analysis shows stable genetic structuring, no sign of deformation, illness, or that the offspring will be non-viable. A case of both hybrid vigor and breakdown has been identified.” Bruce’s blood ran cold, hands clenched into fists at his side as he braced himself for the news. “The breakdown is apparent in that the children will inherit few or none of their gene-sire’s powers. The vigor is evident in a longer life span and more stable helix; they will be immune to kryptonite poisoning. Your partially altered human genotype in conjunction with the growth codex in Kal El has stabilized the withered Kryptonian template enough to preserve the codons in near perpetuity. The genes will not degrade or dilute further through subsequent generations.” Bruce let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, a huge heaving sigh that drained away all the dread from his frame.
“This one concludes the operation a success, estimated gestation period is ten more months from now. Barring exceptional circumstances, they will be born healthy.”
“What do you mean ‘they’?”
Let it never be said that Bruce did anything in half-measures…