Chapter Text
The night air in Gotham was thick with the perpetual haze of rain and exhaust, a far cry from the open skies of Metropolis. Clark Kent, better known to the world as Superman, had flown in under the cover of darkness, his red cape tucked away beneath a simple coat. He wasn't here for a crisis, not the usual kind, anyway. No, this was personal. Bruce Wayne, his closest ally and best friend in the Justice League, had been dodging calls for weeks. Clark knew the Batman's brooding tendencies all too well, but lately, it felt like something more. A rift, perhaps, or just the weight of Gotham's endless shadows pressing down on him. Clark had decided to drop by unannounced, hoping a surprise visit might crack through that impenetrable Wayne facade.
He touched down on the rooftop of Wayne Manor, his super-hearing picking up the distant hum of the Batmobile tearing through the streets. Bruce was out on patrol, as expected. Clark smiled to himself, shedding the coat and revealing his iconic blue suit with the bold 'S' emblem. With a whoosh, he took to the air again, scanning the city below. It didn't take long to spot the chase: Batman in hot pursuit of a garish purple van, the Joker's maniacal laughter echoing from within as he weaved through traffic, tossing smoke bombs and caltrops in his wake.
Clark's brow furrowed. The Joker, always the Joker. That clown had a knack for turning simple nights into nightmares. Without a second thought, Clark dove in, interrupting the pursuit. He landed squarely in front of the van, his massive frame blocking the road like an unbreakable wall. The vehicle screeched to a halt, but not before the Joker leaned out the window, his painted grin splitting wide.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Boy Scout from the sticks! Come to play in the big city?" the Joker cackled, his voice dripping with venomous glee.
"End this now, Joker," Clark commanded, his voice steady and authoritative. "You're done for the night."
From the shadows, Bruce's voice cut through the tension like a batarang. "Superman, stand down. This is my city. I had him."
Clark glanced back, seeing the Batmobile pull up. Bruce's cape billowed as he stepped out, his eyes narrowed behind the cowl. There was a flicker of irritation there, but also something warmer. They were best friends, after all, bonded through countless battles and late-night strategy sessions in the Watchtower. Clark trusted Bruce with his life, and vice versa. But before Clark could respond, the Joker struck.
A hidden launcher fired from the van's side, propelling a glowing green shard straight into Clark's right upper thigh, Kryptonite. The pain was immediate and excruciating, like fire spreading through his veins. Clark staggered, his strength ebbing away as the fragment embedded deep into his muscle. "What... the hell?" he gasped, dropping to one knee.
Bruce lunged forward. "Kal!"
But the Joker wasn't done. With a flourish, he released a cloud of knockout gas from concealed vents in the van. Bruce, ever prepared, reached for his rebreather, but the gas was laced with something potent, something that bypassed his filters. His vision blurred as he collapsed beside Clark, the world fading to black amid the Joker's triumphant howls.
When Bruce awoke, the world was pitch black, confined, and suffocating. His head throbbed from the drug's aftermath, but his training kicked in immediately. He assessed: tight space, no light, the faint scent of earth and wood. A coffin. They were in a goddamn coffin, buried deep underground. He could feel the weight of the soil pressing down from all sides, the air already growing stale. Limited oxygen, maybe hours at best.
Beneath him, a warm, solid body. Clark. The Man of Steel lay flat on his back at the base of the coffin, his broad chest rising and falling shallowly. Bruce was sprawled on top, his face pressed against Clark's chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a small comfort in the darkness. Their bodies were crammed together in the narrow space, every inch of Bruce's lean, muscled form molded against Clark's broad physique. Clark's carved abs pressed against Bruce's stomach, his big biceps pinned awkwardly at his sides and those strong thighs, one of them wounded, shifted slightly under Bruce's weight.
Bruce lifted his head slowly, their faces now inches apart. He could feel Clark's breath on his skin, warm and ragged. "Clark," he whispered urgently, his voice echoing faintly in the confined space. "Clark, wake up."
Clark's eyes fluttered open, those piercing blue orbs adjusting to the absolute darkness with whatever remnants of his super-vision remained. The kryptonite was doing its work; he felt weak, human, vulnerable in a way he hadn't since his early days on Earth. "Bruce... what happened?" His voice was hoarse, laced with pain from the throbbing wound in his thigh.
"The Joker," Bruce replied grimly, his mind racing through escape scenarios. "He got the drop on us. Shot you with kryptonite, gassed me. We're buried. Deep, from the pressure. Air's limited—maybe two hours if we conserve it."
Clark tried to move, but the kryptonite sapped his strength. He could barely lift his arms, let alone punch through six feet of earth and a reinforced coffin lid. His massive body, usually a beacon of invincibility, felt heavy and useless. Broad chest heaving, abs contracting with effort, he groaned. "Damn it... I can't... I feel like lead."
Bruce shifted slightly, their faces so close that their noses nearly brushed. In the darkness, he could sense Clark's features—the strong jaw, the tousled black hair, the scent of him, clean and faintly metallic from his alien physiology. They were best friends, closer than brothers in many ways. Shared secrets, burdens. But this proximity... it was intimate, unavoidable. Bruce's utility belt was still on, but most gadgets were useless down here without leverage.
"The kryptonite," Bruce said, his detective mind piecing it together. "It's in your thigh. Right upper. I need to get it out. Once it's gone, you can recover enough to bust us out."
Clark nodded weakly, shifting uncomfortably in his suit as he tried to adjust. But right now, none of that mattered. Pain radiated from his thigh, and the confined space made every breath a shared one. "Do it," Clark urged, his voice steady despite the agony. "Whatever it takes, Bruce. We're in this together."
Bruce nodded, though Clark couldn't see it. "It's embedded. I'll have to dig it out manually. No tools down here except what's on my belt, maybe a small blade if I can reach it." He paused, calculating the logistics. The coffin was too narrow for him to maneuver sideways. To reach Clark's thigh, he'd have to... turn around. Straddle him in reverse. The thought sent an unexpected jolt through him, but he pushed it aside. Survival first.
"Hold still," Bruce instructed, his hands pressing against Clark's broad chest for leverage. Clark's pecs were like slabs of marble, warm and firm under his palms. As Bruce began to shift, twisting his body in the tight space, their hips ground together unavoidably. Bruce's thigh brushed against Clark's groin, feeling the massive bulge there even soft, it was imposing, a thick outline straining against the suit's fabric.
Clark inhaled sharply at the contact, a mix of pain from his wound and something else stirring low in his belly. "Easy there, Bruce," he said with a weak chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "Not the time for... accidental explorations."
Bruce's cheeks flushed in the darkness, but his voice remained composed. "Apologies. Space is limited." As he continued turning, his hand slipped—accidentally grazing Clark's bulge more directly. His fingers brushed the soft, heavy mound, feeling the warmth and sheer size of it. Clark's cock twitched involuntarily under the touch, a subtle throb that made Bruce freeze for a split second.
"Shit, sorry," Bruce muttered, his breath catching. He could feel the outline—the thickness, the promise of it if aroused. But he shook it off, focusing. Finally, he managed to pivot fully, his body now reversed on top of Clark. His ass hovered right over Clark's face, the tight fabric of his batsuit outlining his firm glutes mere inches from Clark's nose and mouth. And Bruce's face... it was positioned directly above Clark's groin, the wounded thigh to one side, but the massive bulge dominating his view in the suffocating dark.
Clark's breath hitched, the scent of Bruce leather, sweat, and that underlying musk of determination filling his senses. "Well, this is... intimate," he quipped, his voice muffled slightly against Bruce's backside. "Never thought our friendship would get this up close and personal."
Bruce steadied himself, his hands on Clark's strong thighs, feeling the powerful muscles tense under his grip. The kryptonite wound was close, but so was everything else. "Just hold on," he replied, his own voice a low rumble. "We'll get through this." But as he prepared to proceed, the air grew thicker, charged with more than just the threat of suffocation.