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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-04
Words:
1,222
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1/1
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26
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8,305

The Unadorned Truth

Summary:

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Notes: The Qwardians are the mirror-universe version of the JLA--Owlman is the evil Batman, Ultraman the evil Superman, Superwoman the evil Lois Lane (married to Ultraman, and Owlman's lover).
Warnings: Here's where I put the pretty serious squick alert. Non-consensual sex, bondage, D/S. And yet, somehow, it still ends relatively sweet. Because, well, it's me. And it's entirely unbeta-ed, because I can't convince myself to show DaMo this one, for some reason. ;)
Word Count: 1184
Submitted through the Batman_And_Superman mailing list.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

The Unadorned Truth
by jen_in_japan

For the hundredth time that day, Bruce Wayne paced to the end of his chain, pausing at the point when the collar's pressure against his Adam's apple began to be uncomfortable. Six strides. Then back to the wall. The shorter chains binding his hands together jingled slightly. They were all made of some very light but incredibly strong metal, an alloy he was unfamiliar with. But then, there were so many things that he was unfamiliar with in this reverse Qwardian world.

And some that he was now all too familiar with.

He had been captured in a fight with the Crime Syndicate of America, the JLA's evil doppelgangers from a mirror universe. It had been sheer luck on their part, and they had seemed unsure what to do with their sudden windfall. Eventually he had been brought here, stripped naked, to a simple white cell with minimal toilet facilities in one corner, and his collar and chains on the wall. Ultraman had fastened the collar around his throat and grinned at him. "When the Kryptonians of this world captured me, they taught me many things about power, and pleasure, and submission." He leaned close so his breath brushed Bruce's ear. "I intend to teach you all of them." Bruce merely stood stock-still. Naked, chained, probably trapped in the negative universe with no aid even if he could escape this cellâ€"any resistance would have to be mental, not physical.

Physically, they broke him, as he knew they would given enough time. Once a day, Ultraman came into his cell, unclothed and erect, and assaulted him. That was the only human contact he ever had. The camera lenses on the walls were not subtly hidden; he knew that the JLA's doppelgangers were almost certainly watching every time his tormentor visited him. He had become a tool in the twisted sexual games played out between Ultraman, Owlman, and Superwoman. He wondered if Ultraman suspected, as he did, that the other two used the viewing as foreplay of their own.

They had used drugs on him to dull his mind and his inhibitions, and crude but effective behavioral psychology, but he suspected that he still could have held out if they had chosen anyone but Ultraman to be his punisher. Of all the Crime Syndicate, he had always hated Ultraman the most. Crude, sadistic, and leering, he was a twisted and dark version of his--of his universe's--Clark Kent. Physically, however, he was a perfect match, from the dark wavy hair to the piercing turquoise eyes to the muscles on his body.

He looked exactly like Superman.

He was gorgeous.

Bruce had thought he had a throttlehold on some reactions and desires, had buried them down deeply enough that he would never have to deal with them. But in his drugged haze, he eventually found himself responding--against his own will, to his shame, and incredibly intenselyâ€"to the pressure of Ultraman's body in his. The first time he had climaxed, for a moment he had really believed it was Superman, and thanked Fate that Superman's doppelganger was also named Clark, because he was fairly sure he had stuttered the name out loud. Ultraman had smirked, gripped Bruce's chin with fingers that left bruises, and stalked out of the room to leave him alone again.

There was a sort of sleeping couch built into the wall, and Ultraman always took him on that, always face to face. But there was no intimacy or tenderness in the act; the evil version of Superman merely wanted Bruce to see the disdain and lust in his eyes, wanted to see the rising, reluctant desire in Bruce's, and the self-loathing and abandon at the moment of the detective's climax. And he always brought a bottle of lubricantâ€"apparently they had no desire to severely damage their prize, although Ultraman was often forceful. Bruce had come to look forward to that as well.

After a while, it was enough to simply see his captor enter the room to have him aroused and aching, like today. Ultraman towered over him, looking so heartbreakingly like Superman that Bruce closed his eyes against his longing for a moment. His tormentor shot a grin at the cameras, then stared down at Bruce in his chains for a long time. His eyes were hooded with lust and he licked his lips hungrily, his arousal becoming increasingly obvious. Bruce threw his head back and let his hatred and disdain show in his face. Ultraman stepped forward and stroked Bruce's cock once with a strong hand. Bruce hissed a breath between clenched teeth at the unexpected, agonizingly intimate contact. His captor had never voluntarily touched him there before, and Bruce wondered what new torments he might have in mind.

The other man squeezed some lube onto his fingers, then moved close to Bruce and put one, then two fingers into him. He was breathing heavily and his hands were less steady than usual; Bruce wondered if he had been drinking today. He braced himself against the inevitable jolt of sensation, tried not to let the thrill of it show on his face. As always, he could see from Ultraman's reaction that he had failed again. The brilliant blue eyes sparked with passion and anger. "You like that, do you? You like to see your lover enter the room? Like to have him do this to you?" Strong fingers accentuated the "this" so he grunted with pleasure despite himself, pleasure that turned into white-hot fury, and he was speaking before he could stop himself.

"If you believe it's you I'm thinking of during this, then you're more stupid than I thought."

The invasive fingers paused for a moment. "Then...who?" said Ultraman, sounding as stupid as Bruce had accused him of being.

Bruce glared right at his assailant's face, at the beautiful blue eyes and endearing curl and strong chin. "Who the hell do you think, you son of a bitch?" he snarled.

And then he saw the reaction cross the other man's face like a wind across water, saw the eyes and the mouth soften to familiarity for just an instant, and he knew, and he cursed himself for a hundred kinds of fool, and even as he did his body was moving forward and clenching hard and demanding more, more. Superman reached out and put his other hand on the chain holding Bruce to the wall, ready to snap it like a cobweb, but what he saw in the other man's face caused him to pause and slide his hand slowly down the chain to the collar, to touch it so delicately, so gently, and to look into Bruce's eyes.

Clark took him there in front of the cameras and Bruce didn't even care who might be watching. "You're mine," the Kryptonian said hoarsely with each thrust, his voice choked with anger and desire and tenderness. "You're mine." Bruce knew that soon, even naked and drugged, he would escape this place. "You're mine." Because nothing could stop them when they were together. "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine."

And Bruce Wayne, usually loquacious to a fault in bed, had nothing he could say in response to each thrust but the unadorned truth.

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author jen_in_japan.
If this work is yours and you would like to reclaim ownership, you can click on the Technical Support and Feedback link at the bottom fo the page.