Removing the Mask--A SuperBat fanfic

Hey all--thanks so much for your words of encouragement. I actually have to deep dive an edit tomorrow, but tonight? It's all about fiction.

And just for fiction, I'm jumping on the SuperBat train. Are you ready boys? Cause I'm home.

* *

Again.

Halloween approached again--what was it now, three years? And Bruce slept less and less and Clark worried more and more.

He'd asked Alfred about the kidnapping when Bruce had been very young, and Alfred had paled, and then asked Master Clark if he'd be having steak that evening per usual.

Three years, Clark had been asking that question. Three years, and he'd been eating steak while Batman went out and tried to kill himself with exhaustion.

Dammit.

Wasn't he supposed to be a reporter?

This year, the first nightmare rocked Bruce a good week early. The week before had been bloody. The Joker had escaped, and had let loose the Scarecrow as well. Together their monstrous masks had been on television nearly every hour--and Bruce had faced them down alone, and people had died.

Clark had been off planet with Diana, intercepting an invasion attempt with most of the rest of the Justice League. He'd returned to find his lover in the infirmary, taciturn and distant, too much gauze on his wounds for Clark to even think of taking him to bed to make him talk.

The wounds had been healing--and, thanks to Alfred, who had snuck some of Superman's platelets into his antibiotic injections, they'd been healing well--but Bruce was not all right.

That first dream happened two nights after Clark's return, and Clark had been lying awake, studying him. Bruce's brow wrinkled in sleep, as though he were approaching dream land with the same intensity he approached everything else. He hadn't even spoken, hadn't twitched, hadn't even murmured. One moment he was studying sleep from the inside, and the next Bruce Wayne was sitting up in bed screaming.

"Bruce! Stop! it's me! You're fine! You're fine! Stop!"

And like a light switch, that's how fast Bruce Wayne went from screaming and lost to wide awake and irritated.

"I'm fine!"

"The hell you are! Jesus, Bruce--Halloween's not for another week! I know you hate the holiday but--"
"I'll deal," Bruce said, and had rolled over and gone to sleep.

"I'll deal?" Clark murmured to himself. "You scream like that in my ear and all I get for my pains is 'I'll deal'?"

Bruce was lying, eyes closed, chest--with the deeper wounds still bandaged--exposed, as though very sexily asleep. "You know who you're sleeping with."

"A complete and total asshole," Clark muttered. "Yeah, I've figured that out." But that didn't stop him from spooning along Bruce's back and murmur against the nape of his neck.

"You know it makes it worse," Bruce said, surprising him when it shouldn't have. "That comfort. Comfort never stays."

Oh. Clark sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry--"

"You were doing your job. Not your fault. Don't worry about it."

"Then let me comfort you!" Clark begged, almost peevishly.

"Fine. Whatever makes you happy."

Clark held him so tight, he was afraid he'd break something, and for his part, Bruce feigned sleep--right up until he wasn't pretending anymore, and he woke up screaming.

After the second night--the one where Alfred had dished him up two prime rib slices instead of one, presumably to buy his silence, Clark put on his reporter cap because he was done with this shit.

"Yo, Clark," Diana murmured in his com. "What are you doing? You don't work for the Gotham Post!"

"Yeah, but I'm trying to find a thing... something that happened around forty-five years ago."

"Something to do with Bruce Wayne's parents?" Diana asked dryly. "That shouldn't be hard to figure out. They used to make all the--oh!"

"Oh," Clark said, hitting microfiche probably at the same time she hit super-computer recorded microfiche.

"He was kidnapped?" she asked, but there it was, in lurid color, splashed on the front page.

"It's forty-nine years ago," Clark said, his voice thick. "He would have been four."

For a moment, both of them were quiet, Diana in the Eye-in-the-Sky on space age equipment, Clark down on earth looking at an ancient microfiche scanner.

Both of them appalled. "They almost killed him," she said, her voice a little broken too. "Shoved him in the back of a car with... a clown outfit?"

"It's how they lured him away from his parents," Clark said. "And when the police were closing in they drove the car into the river."

"He picked the lock," Diana muttered. "Jesus, Clark, he was four years old and he picked the goddamned lock."

"God," Clark muttered. "He must have been so scared." No wonder he felt like comfort was a lie.

"Clark," Diana said ominously. "Clark, did you see the name of the kidnapper who died in the car?"

"No--wait. Cordell Chopper--why is that fam--oh." Fuck.

"He was charged posthumously with over thirty counts."

Clark couldn't say it--the bile rose in his throat. Inappropriate touching seemed so... so tame, for the violation, the indignity, of what the man was charged with.

"But wait," he muttered. Then, both of them, "Oh dear God."

It was buried in the article--nobody wanted to talk about it, perhaps? Nobody wanted to suppose that a child could defend themself with such absoluteness.

"Two sharp puncture wounds in the groin," Clark murmured. "Go Bruce."

"Look at him," Diana said, and she'd apparently come to the same picture Clark had. Long before child rights were respected, long before the victim had rights, there stood Bruce Wayne, aged four years and three millennia old, staring directly into the camera.

He had his Batman face on.

"He must be so angry," Clark said.

"For which part?"

"Look what he did as a baby to defend himself," Clark told her. "And all he could do when his parents died was hide."

"Aw, Clark. Fuck you." She was crying. Well, join the fucking club.


*  *  *

Bruce Wayne scanned the chaos below him and tried hard to sort the good from the bad. Drug dealers in that house over there--but dumb drug dealers, so Bruce sent a text to Barbara Gordon, who sent a couple of cop cars that way.

A bunch of teenagers, squealing in excitement as one of them stood on his housetop in a Superman costume and sang Ave Maria to the stars. At first he thought they were high--but nope, local glee club. Go kid go, he had to remember to make a donation.

And children wandering too close to the lake--that required a dart--sans anaesthetic--blown at their father who was mostly just trying to stay awake during Trick-or-Treating after a long day's work. Dad popped up and looked at the youngsters and practically lost his shit. Tragedy averted.

And again and again and again. Small stuff, mostly. No terrorists in masks this year. He'd put away Scarecrow and Joker, even though they haunted him in his dreams.

Or someone in a clown mask did.

He didn't want to think about that.

But he was tired, to his bones, his recovering injuries aching even as they healed. It was almost like he was floating with--

"Hey! Put me down!"

"Are you kidding?" Clark muttered. "You're so tired you didn't feel me lifting you by your ass? No. You're a danger to yourself, you're a danger to others. Come home and go to bed."

"But it's Halloween!" Oh dear God--that really was Clark's hand right under his ass. Bruce had nothing to hold on to--he had to literally clench his asscheeks and his stomach tight enough to keep his balance as Clark spatula'd him across the sky.

"I know. Cool your jets. We've got reinforcements. I was gone for a couple of days, not forever you know."

"Oh right--you come back and hover over me like the ghost of Christmas future and I"m supposed to be all excited you're home!" Augh! What he'd really wanted was sex, but Clark had been all "You're hurt! I can't touch you then!" which was stupid because if he really loved Bruce, he'd figure out that's when Bruce needed him most!

"Yes," Clark said shortly. "And you need to tell Alfred to stop feeding me steak whenever I'm worried about you. I'm getting older you know. It could constipate me."

"Oh like you'd need fiber if you ate a whole fucking building," Batman growled from clenched teeth. "Where the hell are we--oh. Is that all?"

"Yes, idiot, I'm taking you home," Clark told him, and in a fluid movement, he hefted Batman up in the air and stopped, going vertical, so he could catch him and hold him, hovering in front of the waterfall that protected the BatCave.

Okay, so, fine. Bruce had to admit he did like the view from here.

"What are we doing?" he grumbled, trying hard to resist the appeal of Clark's heat and the kindness in his eyes and the strength in his broad chest.

Failing.

"I know you know this," Clark said, looking at him so intensely, Bruce felt a rare compulsion to remove his cowl outside of the cave. "But my name is Clark Kent. I'm not circumcised. I'm a total mama's boy and I miss my father so badly that I want to cry sometimes."

"We bring flowers," Bruce said gruffly. "On his birthday. With your mother."

"We do," Clark said, kissing his forehead. "She thinks you're a nice boy but she wishes I'd find somebody serious."

"I'm sorry." He really was. He loved Martha--he knew Clark tried again and again to explain that Bruce was merely putting on an act, but she believed the newspapers, because Clark was a newspaperman. Yet another reason to come out of the closet and stop being a playboy, Bruce supposed, but dammit, how did he keep being Batman?

"I know," Clark said softly. "But I wanted to make a point. You know who I am, and you love me."

"Yes." That was undisputed. Adamant. Penned in iron. Bruce Wayne loved Clark Kent. Taking it back would be ripping back his own flesh.

"I know who you are, Bruce Alexander Wayne," Clark whispered in his ear. "I know why you hate Halloween so badly--no, don't say anything."

Bruce's chest froze, the air in his lungs, his windpipe, everything a layer of ice. "Bu--"

"You can tell me or you can keep it secret," Clark whispered, the two of them hovering in the mist like souls deciding whether to ascend to heaven.  "Halloween won't get better--but you'll know I'll know why it sucks so bad."

"But..." He tried again, but it didn't work any better than the first time.

"You'll know I know the worst, and I still love you."

Bruce whimpered, and pulled Clark into a kiss. Clark went willingly, zooming them through the waterfall and to their bedroom, both of them wrestling out of their work clothes alone, because they were so carefully constructed one man's help might be another's lycra/kevlar prison.

Finally they were naked, bare skin to bare skin, Clark on his back taking all of Bruce's weight because Bruce knew he could.

Taking all of Bruce's cock, hard, brutally hard, because Bruce knew he could.

Taking Bruce's guttural scream of completion, swallowing it down, taking his trembling and his gasps of anger, of fear, of pain, and giving back love, because Bruce knew he could.

Finally, the two of them were spent, skin sticky on the other, naked and rank with come.

"Do you want to talk?" Clark asked softly.

"No."

But he did anyway, the story tumbling out of him with a four-year-old's diction, his anger, his joy at defending himself, his glee as the car sank and he struggled to swim, fully clothed through the icy water.

His absolute trust when a young Alfred had pulled him out by the scruff of the neck, far from where the police had been searching, because Alfred knew what he was capable of, and hadn't despaired for a moment.

Finally, finally, it was done, and dawn was creeping in through he special drapes, and his alarm went off, calling Bruce Wayne to go be productive in the November morning.

Clark melted the alarm clock into slag.

"That's the third one this year," Bruce mumbled, falling asleep on his chest.

"So you've had a whole three full nights of sleep in a year. Fucking sue me," Clark said, his voice thick as he ran his big hands from Bruce's neck, down along his spine, to his hips.

"You're sounding more and more like me," Bruce mumbled. "No wonder your mother thinks you can do better."

He could, Bruce knew, but his eyes were so heavy, and his heart so much lighter, he just didn't have the strength to argue.

*  *  *
"She's wrong," Clark whispered, feeling Bruce's breathing even out. "There is no man better than you, Bruce Wayne. No man better for me."

Bruce didn't answer, his chest rising and falling evenly, and Clark rolled slightly so he rolled to his side on the bed.

Clark stayed there, half-dozing, as Bruce slept until the next evening, awaking groggy and disoriented and needing to pee.

"You didn't go anywhere?"  Bruce asked, yawning and squinting into falling twilight. "Why not?"

"Because I know what scares you," Clark said simply. "And nothing's going to hurt you on my watch."

They both knew it might be a lie. They both kn ew there were times when the world would need one of them and the other couldn't be there. But this wasn't about Superman and Batman, this was about Bruce and Clark.

Bruce surprised him then with his first smile in weeks. "Like anything could get through you."

Clark smiled back. "Your dick can."

Bruce's outraged grin was as close to joy as the two of them could ever get.

Close enough to warm their fingers in its glow.

Superman’s Bris

I LOVE my DSP weekend. I really do. I meet and plan and talk and even have an occasional panel to be on (which I forgot about and still showed up with an audio-visual aid!)

Anyway-- it was wonderful, and I may pull out stuff to talk about in the next week, and I have a few stories to tell about kids and dogs etc.

But while I was there, this started, and I felt it was important to finish it because... I mean, you saw the title!

While I was in Orlando, I got a very cool birthday present from a reader. She came to chat  and she sat down at our table and met me and Andrew Grey and Kim Fielding. The mug was a big hit, and the conversation turned—like they do. Of course, it was fueled by the recent Batdick controversy (and the fact that I have a picture of the original graphic novel frames on my phone that show very clearly that Bruce Wayne was circumcised) and Kim Fielding said she wanted THIS fanfic. It was important, she said. Necessary to life. The mohel, by the way? Was someone she actually met to perform a service for her family— she said I had to include him. It was NECESSARY.

Now I adore Kim, and would do ever so much to make her happy.

And of course, Andrea who gave me the mug deserves some happiness too.

So, here we go. Happy dinner table conversation—welcome to Superman’s Bris.

Superman’s Bris

Bruce kept telling Clark that the important thing was he was okay.

Six weeks recovery? Not a problem.

Broken leg, concussion, contusions? Batman had seen worse.

Superman had been there for worse.

Not a big deal.

But after their first night’s lovemaking, a couple of weeks before Bruce was allowed back in the field, Clark was driving everybody crazy.

Bruce would be up in the Eye in the Sky, analyzing data, putting together models of criminal activity to see if it linked to larger patterns, and Superman would buzz in through the electromagnetic airlock, slide his hand along Bruce’s back like he was checking for wounds, and then just buzz the fuck back out.

Bruce would be at work, laughing glibly about a skiing accident, when a mighty wind would haul through his suddenly open window, blow away all the papers, ruffle his hair, feel him up, and blow the fuck back out.

They would be sitting quietly, eating dinner, and Bruce would concentrate on his food—because Alfred cooked and fuck it all, he needed to concentrate on that shit—and when he looked up, Clark would be still be there, but Bruce would have the feeling of being surreptitiously triaged.

And Clark’s eyes would be glowing which meant he was X-raying his body through the table as he sat.

“Stop it,” he snarled.

“Stop what?” Fucking Kansas farm boy—guileless blue eyes. You could almost believe he was as innocent as all of that.

“Stop expecting my bones to shatter and my heart to stop. It’s sort of insulting. I work hard to stay fit. Unless there’s a bomb or a gun or a sword or something, I’m usually okay.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce set down his knife and fork and glared at him. “You. Lie.”

Clark fiddled with his own cutlery, a complete uneaten steak on his plate. “Superman does not—“

“Maybe not, but Clark Kent just told a solid gold whopper. Christ on... on... on fucking crutches—“

“Which you still have to use!” Clark muttered.

“You’re being a child,” Bruce snapped. “Oh my God—did you never skin your knee as a child...”

And it hit him then. Like a clock to the jaw.

“You never skinned your knee as a child.”

The silence fell, a jagged granite boulder, plummeting through a black lake.

“No,” Clark said simply.

Bruce had a sudden thought. “You’re uncircumcised.”

The shock that washed Clark’s face scoured away Bruce's irritation. “Uhm...”

Bruce Wayne's smile was not sweet. It wasn’t pleasant. But it must have done something, something hot and wicked, because Bruce could see Clark's face flush from across the table.

His next words were enough to make Bruce strangle on his own tongue.

“They tried to have a Bris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Kents. Martha’s family was, uh, Jewish. They were adopting me. They tried to have a Brit Milah. A Bris.”

Bruce put his elbow on the table and balanced his chin in the palm of his hand. “Do tell.” He may even have batted his eyelashes.

“It didn’t work.”

Bruce let out a positively filthy chuckle. “I know.” Clark's foreskin was wonderfully sensitive. Bruce particularly liked pulling it back and licking under the head, because Clark made the most delicious noises.

Just thinking about it, Bruce could almost smell his come.

And Clark was still stammering, still fumbling for words that didn't send the erotic flush rolling off him in waves.

“The, uh, mohel was... well I met him as an adult. He was sort of terrifying. Like, you know, this tiny man from Poland. He glared at me. We went to temple with Martha's family sometimes. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur... you know. Most of the time we did midwest Methodist, but... I guess..." He gave a weak smile, and Bruce got it. Jewish/Christian, Kryptonian/Human--theirs was not the first mixed marriage in Clark's family history.

"So, a circumcision," Bruce said, to get the conversation back where he wanted it.

On Superman's penis. Because who wouldn't want to have a conversation about Superman's penis?

"Yes."

"And the mohel held a grudge."

Clark fidgeted with his silverware some more. "I... uh... apparently broke his favorite Kvellar. That's a, uhm--"

"Bris knife. I know. You broke it?"

Clark started to roll his knife. Like, a tube of toothpaste. Into a tiny little tube.

"Well, it, uh... you know. Broke off. On, my, uh..."

"Superdick."

He started to mold the ball of silver in between his thumb and forefinger. The knife was no longer a knife, it was now malleable silver clay.

"Foreskin." Still not meeting Bruce's eyes. "He, uh... broke three of them, actually. So, like, his favorite, and his two backups, and in the end, he just said I wasn't really Jewish. Cause, you know, you have to draw blood."

"So you're not Jewish."

He started to roll the little ball around on the table, like a marble, and Bruce wondered if it would be worth it to point out he was putting a divot in Alfred's favorite antique banquet table.

"No Bar Mitzvah," he said with a shrug. "But, uh, you know. Dad didn't take advantage, so no baptism either. Just... sort of let me choose what I wanted."

Bruce stood, without crutches, and used the table to balance as he walked over to take Clark's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"What you wanted," he repeated.

Clark met his eyes, his cheeks a blooming red, white teeth sinking into his plump super-lips. "What I wanted."

"Do you want me, Clark?"

He dragged in a breath, and Bruce could hear the rasp. "So bad."

"I bleed."

Those Kansas-sky blue eyes closed. "I've noticed."

"I'm circumcised."

That lush mouth, sinful really, curved upward. "I've noticed."

"Would you like to know what I believe?"

Bruce could hear the bob of his adam's apple. "What?"

He bent his head until his lips brushed Clark's ear. "As God is my witness--any God--as long as I'm breathing, as long as my heart beats, I'll love you. And when I stop breathing, when my heart stops beating, the love will still be there. But I won't be able to play with your glorious, amazing body then, so you should use me while you can."

He nibbled along Clark's jaw, surprised when Clark tried to evade his kiss.

"I'm afraid," he whispered.

Bruce tried to make him smile. "You? Even your foreskin is stronger than steel."

But Clark would still not be tamed. "My heart--"

Bruce captured his mouth then, not wanting to hear it. Of course his heart was fragile. Tissue paper and promises fragile. Cornsilk thin. As substantial as a cloud in a a blazing sky.

But he opened for Bruce, groaning in need, and Bruce took over, straddling him carefully as he sat. Kiss, plunder--taste.

Clark returned then, hauling him close, and Bruce nibbled another path to Clark's ear. "We can eat later. Care to fly us to bed now?"

"Why bed?" Clark panted, and Bruce slid his hand between them, pushing the heel of his palm against Clark's burgeoning erection.

"I want to show you the blessings of a foreskin of steel."

Clark laughed--a fractured, needy sound--but Bruce wanted to tap-dance in triumph. "That's terrible."

"I'm going to tongue it, and nibble on it, and play with it and--"

The world swooshed around his ears and he found himself in their bed.

Naked.

A very naked, very muscular Clark Kent was underneath him, bucking up against his stomach, leaking a copious puddle of pre-cum.

"Hungry?" Bruce taunted, worming his way down, making sure the corrugated muscles of his stomach rubbed harshly against Clark's cock.

"You made promises," Clark growled. "Or were you all talk--alk!?"

Bruce loved his taste. Loved his width and thickness. His foreskin. All of it.

But as he played and nipped, nibbled and sucked, what he loved most was having Clark Kent at his mercy.

He was not feeling particularly merciful this night.

He teased and played until Clark gibbered with need, practically sobbed with it. "Bruce! Oh my God! Please--I need to-- you can't-- please--"

And then Bruce oiled his own aching cock and slid upward, thrusting into him without warning, knowing--after three years, knowing--that the roughness, the quick bite of pain, the intensity would put him over in the first stroke.

And render him helpless as Bruce pounded inside him, chasing his own climax.

He held it off as long as he could, watching Clark--flushed, sweating, head thrown back, eyes closed, body shaking with pleasure, with stimulation, with an orgasm that was still rippling through his cock, his taint, his ass.

Watching him abandoned, naked, losing all knowledge of his immortality, of his carefully instilled mores and manners, with his adorable farm boy shyness stripped away.

Just as vulnerable in spirit as Bruce was in body.

More so.

Afraid.

Afraid of losing the man he loved.

Bruce's climax roared through him, a cleansing fire, screaming out of his chest, his balls in a pump and a throb of come.

Bruce collapsed on his chest, still rutting, even after he'd slid out in a sticky gush.

"I'm afraid too," he whispered between their harsh breaths that filled the room.

"Yeah?" Clark's hand slid through the lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead, pulling it back into place.

"Of losing this. Of losing you. You've never skinned your knee, Clark. But you've had your heart broken plenty of times. It's no different for me."

Clark chuckled rustily.

"But you've skinned your knees."

"It was a warning," Bruce agreed. "That's all." He closed his eyes, his face buried against Clark's throat, and then opened them quickly. "Did I give you razor burn?"

Clark grunted. "Mm hm. It's that thing I do. During sex."

"Where we vibrate in quantum resonance." Bruce wasn't going to say it, but he had to. "I could hurt you. When we're together. Right?"

Another grunt. "I guess."

"I won't," he said softly. "Who needs a bris when you've got a foreskin of steel."

Another rusty chuckle and Bruce knew he would be okay. No more super-whooshing and triage-on the fly. Clark could deal now. Thank the deity of choice.

Whoever that may be.

*  *  *

Clark listened to him fall asleep, thinking about skinned knees and razor burns, quantum resonance and sex.

Bruce Wayne and how his fragile body held Clark Kent's fragile heart.

He started to plan then, for the end. For the many ways Bruce Wayne could die.

For the many ways Clark Kent could use the quantum resonance of his heartbeat to end his own life.

Bruce would never know. Clark would never tell him.

It was Clark's own covenant though. Bruce would love him after death--he'd promised.

Clark would be there, wherever Bruce was. Sustaining that love in whatever realm and whatever form they'd become.

Breaking Point-- SuperBat

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Photo Op

Yes, I admit it.

I'm doing SuperBat again because I'm in more of a fiction mood than a non-fiction mood. I mean, I was going to blog anyway...

*  *  *

"Mr. Wayne?"  Clark fought the urge to adjust his tie and his glasses, and simply extended his hand in greeting. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, playboy, urban renewal champion, caught him in a crushing grip and smiled.

"Mr. Kent. I'm surprised they sent you out on this one. Don't you usually do crime beat?"

Clark fought the urge to roll his eyes. Bruce was there--impeccable in an earth-brown European cut suit, complete with--oh my God--the cravat that Clark had helped him tie that morning. Bruce knew goddamned good and well that Clark had been put on this story because Lois Lane had bribed Perry White with cookies to have Clark go because she was in Dubai following a lead on Lex Author, and she wanted him to dig up dirt on her favorite crush.

He liked Lois-- loved her like a sister, in fact--but he was tempted to lock her in a lead vault for all eternity because she mooned over Bruce Wayne like a love-struck teenager.

And dammit, Bruce was his. Which was--he could admit it--why he'd planted the lead that led Lois to Dubai.

Bruce had told him the interview was coming weeks ago. He was here as the Wayne Enterprises' front man, making himself at home in the penthouse of Metropolis's best hotel, surrounded by his entourage of PR personnel and engineers.

Tim Drake, who was working as his publicist for the moment, met Clark's gaze dryly.

Oh yeah--Tim knew. Bruce had mentored the boy, through his Red Robin days and into his service for Dick Grayson. He hadn't disclosed why Tim was back at Wayne Enterprises now, but Clark had a feeling it had something to do with the improvements Bruce was paying for in the Eye in the Sky. Bruce didn't admit he needed help often, but that project was a monster.

And his projects in Metropolis were the cover for that monster.

"I do, in fact," Clark said easily. "But it's not every day that an industrialist from Gotham beats out Lex Luthor's company for a contract in Metropolis. My editor thought this deserved a second look."

Clark was maybe the only one who knew what that tiny tick about Bruce Wayne's eyebrow meant.  Uh oh. Clark shifted in his seat, aware that tomorrow, he might not be able to so much as sit down.

"Well, there's not much to see here," Bruce said, smiling that disarming, playboy smile. "There was an opportunity to develop the margins between the thriving urban area and a rather depressed suburb, so I took it! Lots of money to be made in offering services, Mr. Kent--that's not really newsworthy."

Clark's eyes narrowed, and he was reminded again how much he hated Bruce's playboy persona.

"You're building a youth center and a daycare, Mr. Wayne. That's hardly a goldmine."

"But we're hiring the parents to work in the engineering firm nearby," Bruce told him, smiling disarmingly. "Really, I'm just getting a less distracted employee, that's all."

"You started the firm," Clark snapped. "It's renewable energy. From what I understand it'll cut the drain on Metropolis's power grid by ten percent."

Bruce waved at Lucius Fox airily. "Well, Lucius would know all about that. I just signed where he told me to, isn't that right, Lucius?"

"Sure," Lucius said, face impassive. "That paperwork doesn't do itself."

Bruce sent Lucius a killing look that the older man didn't bother to return.

Clark eyed Lucius with mild interest--and pretended he didn't see his wink.

"Did you have any other questions?" Bruce asked, leaning back in his seat. "We were going to have lunch brought up. You're welcome to join us."

Clark shrugged. "As long as it's all still on the record."

Oh, you bet it was on the record. It was on the record as he overheard Bruce's board talking about how much more money they could have made if they'd started a fracking plant instead but had refused. It was on the record when Bruce took a tearfully grateful call from the local WIC program, and another one from WEAVE, because the mothers were so relieved to have a job and childcare, and low income housing in a nice neighborhood. It was on the record as Bruce made arrangements with a local junior college for the workers at the plant to learn computer and management skills so they could more efficiently staff the engineering firm, as well as a mentor program that would funnel those truly gifted in math and spatial relationships into the sections that did actual engineering.

The only thing that was off the record was when the local mob boss called and told Bruce that he was so grateful for a chance to keep his little brother out of the family business, he and his boys would not only leave the area alone, they'd make sure any other "families" would lay off as well.

But Clark took note of it, and his eyes didn't leave Bruce Wayne once as he charmed and flattered and played the fool for his board members and staff and even the mobster, who all left that room convinced that the man was an idealistic ass who would find himself firmly taken advantage of in the end.

Clark was there in the morning as Bruce did his numbers.

He was highly aware that Bruce Wayne would make money off of this enterprise as he did off every other, and he would funnel the profits back into the community just as he did in Gotham.

Finally, the afternoon was over, and Bruce and his entourage were heading for the jet. Clark tilted his head, just a smidge, and Bruce smiled at them all as they got on the elevator.

"Lucius, please see everybody home. I'm going to spend one more night in Metropolis. Do you mind?"

Lucius gave a shrug. "Not at all. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." His eyes flickered to Clark. "Or would."

And then the elevator doors shut and Clark was on him and naked in the time it took to fly across the room.

"Are you crazy?" Bruce hissed, and Clark ignored him, ripping his three piece suit down the middle, like cracking an egg in half.

"Yes," Clark snapped, falling to his knees and burying his face in Bruce's taut, iron-ripped belly. "I am crazy, because I'm one of three people in this room who didn't think you were an arrogant idiot trying to impress the Metropolis social scene."

In one swift move, he engulfed Bruce's cock and sucked hard.

"Nungh!" Bruce tightened his fingers in Clark's hair and tugged hard, but Clark didn't yield. "I don't care what they think!" he hissed and Clark deep-throated him again, swallowing deliberately, knowing it would grip the head of the thing with powerful ripples.

Clark pulled back, gripping Bruce's prick with a solid stroke. "I care," he snapped. "Every time you joke about what an idiot you are, it's like you're disrespecting my property, and I hate it!"

"Well your property needs you to bend over," Bruce ordered. "Because otherwise I'm going to come on Superman's--"

Clark tugged on his balls, and he exploded.

Over Clark's closed eyes, his cheek, his open mouth.

Bruce's knees gave, and he sank slowly to the ground. Before Clark could wipe his face off, he felt Bruce's mouth moving over him, tongue extended.

He licked and suckled, and mouthed, eliminating his come from Clark's skin as he eliminated any trace of the man Clark knew him to be.

"Feel better?" he whispered.

Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist and buried his sticky face against his neck. "No."

Bruce dropped a tender kiss in his hair. "Will you feel better after you write the article you're planning?"

"Maybe."

And he had the nerve to chuckle.

"Will you feel better if we make it to the bed and I do that thing I was planning to do when I told youth bend over?"

"It's a possibility. You know what would make me really feel better?"

Bruce sighed. "Not yet."

"Why not? You're nearing... an age. Why is it important everybody assumes you're an idiot and Lucius is the one behind the company even accidentally making money?"

"Because there's still a lot of good I can do by acting the fool," Bruce said patiently. "Why is it so important that anybody knows I'm not one?"

Clark groaned. "Because I love you, and you're brilliant, and you're kind, and you're brave. And nobody will know it and that kills me!"

"Nobody will know Clark Kent is Superman," Bruce said, standing up and offering Clark a hand up.

"But they'll know Clark Kent worked for a better world," Clark said, taking the hand and wrapping Bruce into the hardest, most all-concmpassing hug in his arsenal.

"And you'll know Bruce Wayne did." Bruce melted into his arms bonelessly, as though Clark was the only one on the planet who could take his weight.

Maybe because he was.

"You deserve more," Clark muttered, but they'd had this discussion before. There was no changing it.

Bruce laughed and pulled him toward the bed. "I don't even deserve you, but I'm taking you! Now bend over! I"ve got plans!"

Clark did, wrapping his wrists voluntarily in a towel, submitting his body to all the things Bruce craved.

Bruce craved Clark. Not money. Not accolades. He yearned to set the world right. He craved farm boy and  Boy Scout reporter, Clark Kent.

Clark would give him everything.

It's the only reward Bruce would ever take.

Date Night for Titans

Okay-- so last night I started a SuperBat fic and sent it out and went, "Sorry, no sex!"

But I ended it RIGHT BEFORE they went on a date.

So their date has been playing out through my head all day.

It's VERY X-RATED.

You're welcome.

*  *  *

Superman kept him wrapped in his cape for the trip, torpedoing them through the stratosphere fast enough to freeze them both if he didn't.  Bruce didn't even ask where they were going--he assumed there was only one place they could go and be themselves that wasn't Gotham and wasn't the Eye in the Sky, and if Clark wanted to spend the odd night at his place that was fine.

As long as they were both spending the night at his place, because they spent enough nights out fighting crime and not by each other's side that Bruce got crabby about squandering any possible time together period.

Clark touched down lightly and Bruce tried to move from his chest.

"Stay," Clark whispered, and the embrace, which had been purely functional, so that Bruce Wayne might not fall through his lover's arms and freeze to death, became tender.

"Mm..." Bruce rested his head on Clark's shoulder again. Damned farm boy alien was really frickin' tall.

"You know I'm proud of you," Clark said softly. "For not just letting bad things happen to good people. It's a good part of you. I like it."

"You have the same part," Bruce objected--but he didn't move.

"Yes, but yours is more personal. I'm all about saving Metropolis. You're all about saving the kid living in the poor part of Gotham who got screwed over. Maybe together we can save the world."

Bruce smiled and raised his face to Clark's for a kiss. "Save the world later. Save me now."

Clark chuckled and gave him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth, and then stepped back.

"I'll save you later," he said, gesturing to the interior of the Fortress of Solitude. "Right now, we should eat."

Bruce took in the living area and gasped appreciatively.

Everything--furniture, bookshelves, video screen, technology-- was configured with a Kryptonian polymer. It's density could be controlled--so the couches were comfy and the table didn't sag in the middle--but it was all transparent, like perfectly frozen and sculpted ice. Fun to look at, but the effect was a little... cold.

It was modeled to look like an ice castle on the outside. Go figure.

Clark had decorated, just for this date.

The "table" --which was normally a big block of polymer--had been covered with a scarlet cloth, and white roses sat in the middle, in a perfect state of bloom.  It was set, a big tureen of soup in the middle and various covered dishes around that. Bruce assumed that the food in the platters was warmed and had been warming since right before Clark had come to get him.

Very clever. Bruce had no idea how long he'd been in the air but he was pretty sure he was going to sit down to a hot dinner.

"Who cooked?" he asked impishly, and Clark managed to look sheepish.

"Alfred," he sighed. "I told him we'd be gone all night if he could make something good for dinner here. I think you need to let him update the kitchen at your place. He almost cried when he saw mine."

Bruce grimaced. "Yeah... I don't think we can replace gas with Kryptonite powered flame, buddy. Some new pots and a rack I can get him. I think your power source would burn down my house."

Clark chuckled a little, and a crescent of pink appeared on his cheek. "You're right, of course. Here--you take off your coat and I'll go..."  He gestured to his uniform.

"Please tell me you're putting on the millionaire day-wear pajamas," Bruce said, knowing his eyes had gotten big and excited.

Clark rolled his eyes. "I'm putting on slacks," he said, that eternal prissiness that Bruce loved about him very much to the fore. "Because we're dressing for dinner, dammit. Now hang up your coat, wash your hands, and open the wine."

Bruce had to admit it. He got hard when Clark got bossy like this. "Of course," he said mildly. "White or red?"

"It's prime rib," Clark said, knowing Bruce sometimes did his own thing with wine.

"Red it is. Now go change. If we're going to dine, we're going to do it right."

Clark smiled warmly and float-glided through the dining room to the bedroom. You could actually see into the bedroom--there was a doorway but no door, and the walls were lightly frosted over. This was a fortress of solitude. If Clark invited someone over, they either didn't mind seeing him naked, or slept on the couch with no hard feelings.

Bruce business himself with the wine, and Clark came out in caramel colored slacks and a dark red dress shirt. No tie, and he was barefoot, but... but...

Damn.

"What?" Clark adjusted his cuffs and tried not to blush.

"That's not your broke reporter outfit," Bruce said. A little bit hard had just changed to a lot hard, and he took a hasty sip of wine while handing Clark his glass.

"No. You keep putting money in my bank account. It's embarrassing. I finally spent some."

Bruce chuckled a little. "Careful, farm boy, people are going to think you're a kept man."

"Shut up and sit down," Clark muttered, but his cheeks were still pink so Bruce knew he was pleased.

They sat and ate--and the food was amazing, but of course it was. Alfred had done it--when was Alfred not amazing?

But what was better than the food was the... the effort. 

"What?" Clark asked during a lull in the conversation. They'd both finished their steak and crossed their utensils, and Bruce couldn't help it. He needed.

"I want you," he rasped. "So damned bad. Tell me no, right now. Tell me dessert won't keep. Tell me my dick'll fall off if I take you here. Give me a reason, or I will have you bent over the table so fast it will feel like I've got super speed."

Clark stared at him, eyes going big and round, cheeks flushing completely.

And then he licked his lips, sinking his teeth into the pillowy bottom one.

Bruce shoved the plates out of the way and pulled him up by the back of the pants, licking at his ear as he did so.

"No reason?" he demanded. "No reason you can think of?"

"You don't fuck me over the table at your house," Clark taunted, and Bruce nipped his earlobe hard.

"This material's impervious to anything but an alien invasion," Bruce muttered. "That monstrosity at my house is an antique. And if Alfred walked in on us fucking on an antique, he'd die."

And with that, Clark bent over the table, arms spread submissively, ass thrust out.

Bruce let out a happy little keen and tugged at those pretty, loose fitting slacks.  The puddled at Clark's feet and Bruce gave a chuckle.

"Why Clark Kent, you are naked under your pants."

"Nungs..." Clark wiggled his ass. Actually wiggled his ass. 

"Are you sure you don't want dessert first?" Bruce asked, stripping off his jacket and his shirt while toeing off his shoes. He had a few items in the pocket of his slacks, and he pulled them out and put them on the table in front of Clark's eyes before removing the slacks and socks completely, draping them all on the giant comfy piece of acrylic polymer that doubled as a chair.

"Eating dessert now could be grounds for divorce," Clark moaned as Bruce ran fingertips down his spine and along his flanks.

"Not if I tied you up like this and dripped ice cream on your cock," Bruce sang, parting Clark's cleft with his thumbs, and Clark bucked up against the table a few times.  "Now hold still. Nobody can hear you scream out here, and I want to know what's going to give first. Your pride or my tongue."

And with that he sank to a naked crouch and began to lick between Clark's asscheeks.

Clark didn't hold back.

He moaned, he begged, he whimpered--but he didn't scream.

Bruce reached around and teased his cock, pinching the head, flicking the frenulum gently, rubbing a careful thumbnail between his testicles.

Clark buried his face in his arm and moaned, his thighs shaking with the effort to hold him upright, to keep himself calm.

Bruce's own cock was leaking copiously, hard, so painfully hard, but Clark had gone to so much trouble.

Bruce needed to give him the best dessert possible.

He reached to the table for the objects there and picked up the silk scarf first.

"Tying around your eyes," he decided. "Because it's pretty, and I know you can use heat vision but you won't so you won't wreck it."

Clark grunted and allowed himself to be blindfolded, and Bruce grabbed his necktie from his clothes pile.

"Now I'm going to tie your wrists, and we both know you can make a hash out of this in a heartbeat, but you bought me this tie and I love it and I wish you wouldn't."

This time Clark whimpered. This was playing dirty.

"And now..." Bruce drizzled just a little bit of lubricant into the crack of Clark's ass and took the other item-- a four-inch, flared base vibrator--and teased him with it. "Now, I'm going to give you not enough."  He thrust the thing in, waiting for the sound Clark made.

A full on, groin rumbling groan that shook the floor.

But not a scream.

"Close," Bruce teased, grabbing the thing by the handle and tugging. "Now to the bedroom, my man. We've got some shit to sort."

Clark didn't float-glide this time. He walked. Painfully. Knees obviously having trouble working. Sweat breaking out over his naked lower half.

By the time they got to the bed, Bruce's hands were shaking. He was going to have to give in. He was good at self-denial. Great at it in fact. But this was supposed to be fun for both of them.

He turned Clark so he sat on the bed, sat on the soft rubber handle, pushed the plug as deep as it could go. Clark moaned again, and Bruce could swear he felt the floorboards rumble under his bare feet.

He got to his knees before Clark and took his thick, dripping cock into his mouth.

Clark started to beg.

"This is good, oh God, I love your mouth, but please, please Bruce, this thing in my ass, it's... it's not you. Please, I'll scream if you fuck me, I promise, I just need you inside me and I'll scream!"

Bruce paused, puffing gentle air on Clark's exposed flesh.

"So, I can fuck you," he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his arousal, "but I won't get to taste your come."

"Please!" Clark begged, and if they'd been home, he would have rattled a couple of windows with that word.

Bruce pulled him to his feet and turned him around, bending him over and yanking out the plug before the vibrations completely eased.

He surged inside Clark's body with enough force to shatter another man, but not Clark.

Clark screamed, raw and guttural, the air around them blurring with the volume of his need.

Bruce fucked him without mercy, throwing his body forward with everything, brutally ravaging him with all the desire in his heart.

Their climax--their climax--took him by surprise. Clark moaned, and then screamed again, and clenched so tightly around Bruce's invading flesh that Bruce was thrown over in a heartbeat.

They both screamed, waves of pleasure, waves of orgasm, crashing into their bodies and shattering their souls.

Bruce collapsed over Clark's back, fumbling with the tie around his wrist so he could move.

Clark shoved his rumpled dress shirt up over his head, taking the blindfold with it and Bruce fell out of him, come running generously down the back of his thigh.

With a groan, Bruce fell on top of him again, never wanting to leave.

"That was... amazing..." Clark breathed. "That was worth the trip."

"You went to all that trouble." Bruce was never sure if he could convey what this meant to him. "Just... just for us. All we do, try ing to make the world better for other people. That was just for me."

"It was my pleasure," Clark murmured, voice serious as Bruce kissed the back of his neck and burrowed under his hair for his ears again.

"Just felt like dessert was the least I could do," Bruce told him, loving when his chuckle rumbled through them both.

"Get into bed, Bruce," Clark ordered gently. "We've got the kind of dessert you can eat."

Clark Kent, guileless farm boy, Superman, planet saving alien superhero, walked naked from his bedroom to the kitchen, Bruce Wayne's come marking his skin.  When he came back he had a plate filled with a confection of delicate pastry and ice cream and chocolate layers that was meant to be cleaved in half and served on delicate plates.

They ate it in bed, side by side, sharing the same fork.

They made love slowly, face to face, when they were done.

They promised to do it at least once a month afterward. Have time for both of them, here where nobody could intrude.

They made it maybe every two, sometimes once a season, but that was okay.

"A visit to the Fortress of Solitude" became Justice League code for, "A trip to get laid."

They sort of treasured that.

Date night--even superheroes need one.

I'm Free!

So, in honor of no jury duty for me...

Let's have no jury duty for Batman.

*

Clark looked at the little envelope in surprise.

"You're not going to try to get out of it?"

Bruce grimaced. "Everybody has to," he said patiently. "It's part of our justice system. Aren't you supposed to believe in that by the way?"

Clark rolled his eyes and reached for the milk. They were in the breakfast room, preparing for their day, both dressed in day-drag and reading their phones like the rest of America. It's just that Clark didn't expect anything so... pedestrian in the pile of domestic mail Alfred had brought Bruce that morning.

"I believe in it fine. I just don't think you--you in particular--are capable of participating in a fair, unbiased way."

Bruce gave him the side-eye. "And you are?"

Clark snorted. "Of course not! That's why I've had Diana hack the database and pull my name! It's only fair."

Bruce tilted his head. "You're cheating."

"I am not." But Clark shifted uncomfortably. He was. A little, yes. He was cheating. "But it's a small cheat to avoid a bigger one. I know if they're lying--I can tell if they're sweating, I may have even seen them commit the crime." He tried to control his runaway gestures. "So have you!"

Bruce chuckled.

"You know, it'll be fine. Don't worry. Odds are good my group won't even get called."

"Sure."  If there was a bomb within a fifty mile radius, Bruce would be sitting on top of it when it blew up. If there was a call to jury duty, Bruce would DEFINITELY get called.

"I tell you what," Bruce said casually, taking a swallow of premium sustainable mountain blend. "I'll serve my civic duty, and I'll do it without intervening as Batman."

Clark's eyes narrowed. "What about as Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne is a fair bet. Bruce Wayne has resources--"

"No giant mainframe computer with it's own server and secret encrypted routes to almost every public service," Clark said bluntly.

Bruce shrugged. "Sure."

"No going out and punishing criminals by night," Clark continued.

"You mean, other than normal."

Oh. Yeah. That would be hard to measure. But still... "If you run into someone you've been introduced to in the courtroom, that's fine. But no searching him out."

"Deal."

"And if you go in and get rejected for a jury and don't have to serve, you and I get a date."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "In public?"

"I will take you someplace--anonymously--and we will have dinner and a view and sex."

"So my reward for not doing my civic duty is anonymous sex?"

Clark just stared at him. "As opposed to no sex of any flavor if you don't stop being an... uh... jerk."

"You can't even say asshole when you're not just boiling mad at me, can you." Clark gloated, secure as a cat by the hearth. "Deal. Trust me. You're going to have to spring for the big meal in the private chateau. It'll be great." He smiled the super disturbing Batman smile with extra teeth. "I'll see if I can get you to say asshole then."

Clark's flush actually heated the air around them both, and Bruce threw back his head and laughed.

Well, with any luck, he wouldn't even get called in.

*

Bruce looked at the jury website and sighed. Yes, he had to go in. He grabbed his briefcase and called a car to the courthouse, making sure to give his assistant all of the salient instructions for the rest of the day.

"What if you don't get called?" poor Stella asked, legitimately confused. It wasn't like Bruce to not milk all of the daylight out of a work day.

"If I don't get called in, I'll have plans," Bruce said smoothly. "But do be active on the com. I may have to... issue instructions, as it were."

Stella stared at him, appalled. "But... but... you can't tamper with the system!"

"I don't plan to tamper with the system," he said, patting her cheek. "I just plan to use my resources to make sure justice gets done."

An hour later, he was sitting in a room with a dozen other jurors getting quizzed to see if they thought the 20 year old who'd gotten popped for a pocketful of party drugs should go to prison for life.

"Do you think the defendant's youth will influence your decision?" asked the prosecuting attorney.

"It should," Bruce responded. "As should the severity of the crime. If we're about to ruin somebody's life for what won't even be illegal next month I think it's important that we take into consideration the entirety of what was committed."

"Juror number twelve, you're excused. Report back to the jury pool for another selection."

Bruce scowled at the prosecutor--and at the judge-- and stood up, walking briskly through the courtroom to the hall beyond, buttoning his jacket as he went.

And hitting the com in his ear.

"Stell, I need you to find an outstanding defense attorney and send him to room 1202, to minister to docket XJ289."

"Sir?"

"Did you get all that?"

"Yes sir. What are my instructions for him?"

"The kid doesn't deserve to go to prison and to get him to do community service or something. He's being railroaded because prosecutor doesn't like party kids. It's gross. And since I'm not serving on the jury..."

"You can interfere. I understand sir."

"Be on standby for the next one."

"Yes sir."

The next one was a horror show.

"Wait," Bruce said as they were being seated. "That can't be the defendant in this case."

He recognized the young college student looking scared and vulnerable at the table.

"Looks like it," the juror next to him whispered. "Why?"

Bruce shook his head. He couldn't very well say Batman had actually caught the murderer and hung him from a streetlamp for all to see.

"Stella," he whispered into his com.

"Sir?"

"Need another defense attorney--make it the best--my location stat."

But even stat, it wasn't soon enough to avoid answering questions.

"Sir, have you met anybody in this courtroom before?"

"Yes," Bruce answered. "I've seen the defendant on his way too and from his junior college classes."  Usually late at night, as Batman watched his neighborhood. It sat on the border of a true den of drug addicts and criminals, separating them from the older, safer neighborhood on the other side. "He's kind to his neighbors, helps little old ladies across the street, and once found a kitten for a little girl in his building."

"You're ex--"

"And since I'm excused, why is he being charged with this crime? It's my understanding another person--somebody with deep ties to a local gang--had been found tied up with a bow and hanging from a streetlamp nearby!"  It had been in the papers, dammit. Bruce had looked!

"Well, the district attorney made the consideration--"

Bruce scowled. Dammit, the one thing Two-Face had been was not a schmuck on the little guy.

"That since the guy hanging from the lamp sounded batshit crazy you could pin it on this guy who saw the whole thing? That's fair."

Bruce was aware that the kid was staring at him like he was a god.

"This is not your concern, Juror 14--"

"But it is! This kid doesn't belong here! He doesn't belong in jail! He doesn't belong in debt! All he did was make sure nobody in his neighborhood got hurt!"

"Juror 14, you can be charged with contempt of court if you continue to--"

"But he's innocent!" Bruce bit out, and he heard it.

There was Batman in his voice.

An hour later, his own attorney was bailing him out of jail.

"Contempt of court," William said dryly.

"They were assholes."

"And that's contemptuous."

"Look, did we get actual attorneys to the other two people?" he asked, irritable.

"Yes, yes we did. And you know what else we got?"

"What?"

"A moratorium of Bruce Wayne serving jury duty any more. I swear, both judged and prosecutors almost shit their pants. It was lovely."

Bruce grimaced. "Where's the roof?"

"Why do you need the--"

"I've got an appointment. I don't want to be late."

Clark was doing that thing where he pointed one toe down and hovered a good six-inches off the surface of the ground.

"You interfered," he said severely.

"Not as Batman," Bruce answered.

"That's not true! You know the one defendant was innocent--"

"I k new he was innocent because I'm Batman. I intervened because I'm Bruce Wayne."  Bruce smiled playfully. "Do I still get my date?"

Clark sighed and opened his arms. Bruce stepped into them and allowed himself to be enveloped in the red cloak.

"You going to teach me where my asshole is?" Clark whispered into his ear, and Bruce shuddered.

"Since you came to get me and let me win, sure," Bruce replied, leaning his head against Clark's shoulder. Then he smiled. "Besides. You know where your asshole is. He's right there, interfering in all the things he can."

SuperBat: A Touch of Frost

So, it's been a definite writing day--not a whole lot to blog about other than ZoomBoy's Finnish line joke, so I'm going to do some fanfic moments here. 

First of all, this: 

If you haven't seen the movie, do.

Next of all, this.  

SuperBat. I'm in a mood:

It all started so innocently.

"Oh, hey." Clark ruffled his fingers along the hair at Bruce's nape as they lay in bed, about to fall asleep. "You're getting gray."

"Shut up," Bruce mumbled. 

"No--seriously. The whole bottom layer here is gray. It's fantastic!"

Bruce rolled over and Clark recoiled. He didn't often show his Batman face when they were together alone. Right now his eyes were like rebar bullets--to anybody but Clark, they'd be deadly.

"What?" Clark asked, honestly hurt. "What did I say?"

"Nothing of consequence," Bruce said, voice stiff. "Good night."

It was hard to sleep when the warm man in his bed suddenly morphed into a human ice berg, but Clark tried.

The next morning, Clark woke up and Bruce was gone. Not a kiss on the cheek, not a word, and Clark started to worry. Seriously. What did he say?

Alfred brought him breakfast--two giant omelets with cheese and steak and peppers--and asked him the same question.

"I don't mean to be forward, sir, but what. Did. You. Say?"

Clark shrugged and took a bite of omelet. Flawless as usual. "I have no idea," he said through a bite of eggs, cheese, and steak. "I said his hair was getting gray and the world came to an end."

Alfred  winced and brought a thin, liver spotted hand to the back of his neck. "Are all your people this stupid, sir? Or just you?"

Clark regarded him with an open mouth and a blank mind. "Uh..."

"Because seriously--this could be the reason your people went extinct. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go update my will. You can clear your own tray, I am sure."

Clark gaped after him, and took another bite of omelet. Very faintly, in the back of his lizard brain, a thought began to percolate.

He gazed at the teddy bear that he kept on the chair by the bedstand to remind Bruce to take care of himself. "BatMan Bear," he said as he chewed, "I have the feeling this is going to get very, very, very bad before it gets better."

BatMan Bear regarded him impassively, but it didn't matter. Clark was beginning to see how bad he'd fucked up. 

Bruce Wayne went from work to a business engagement to haunting the streets of Gotham without a single text or even voice in the hidden com that day. Clark ran around Metropolis and pretended to be interested in stopping purse snatchers and bank robbers, but the whole time he was waiting for it.

He wasn't sure what it was, but he'd know it when he saw it.

"Oh Clark..." Diana sang sweetly into the com.  "Are you paying attention?"

"To what?" Clark asked, playing for time.

"To what your boy is doing here in Gotham. Cause it ain't standard Justice League shit."

Clark's stomach dropped. "Dear Lord. What--?"

"Well, he apparently walked into Cillian's disguised as a dock worker," she told him, and his stomach knotted even further. He remembered that morning's omelets with a little bit of panic. They were coming right up if he wasn't careful.

"He does that," Clark said, hoping this wasn't what he though. "He gets a lot of information that way."

"Yes," Diana said slowly. "Yes he does. But tonight, he walked into the biggest villain bar in Gotham and snarled, 'I'm Superman's bitch, who wants to take me out!'"

Clark covered his eyes with his hand, like that would make the rest of this sentence just not possible. "And..."

"And he proceeded to wipe out the entire bar. There are a lot of very confused bad guys in the Arkham infirmary tonight, and I'm not sure why it was necessary!"

"Is he all right?" Clark asked, already flying at light speed from Metropolis toward the Bat Cave.

"I don't know. He had to summon the BatMobile to pick him up at Cillian's, and the place is toast. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but I think the Justice League needs to make a private donation to a dive bar for repairs."

"I'm so sorry," Clark said numbly. "This is entirely my fault. I'll help rebuild tomorrow night, I swear."

"But Clark!" Diana laughed. "What did you say?"

Clark didn't want to tell her, but she was his best friend. "I said he's getting gray."

"You fucker," she snapped. "Fix it. Fix it!"

And then she signed off, which was just as well because he'd arrived at the Bat Cave by then.

He slowed down so he didn't roar in hot and as he floated near the infirmary he got a glimpse of Bruce Wayne and Alfred as they might have been without him.

Alfred, for all his usual competence, elegance, and dry wit, was starting to hunch. His bones were getting brittle, and while he'd still be as tough as a gnarled tree root in battle, he was seventy this year, and not getting any younger. His back hunched, his fingers were thin, and so were his bony wrists. 

For the first time, he looked frail.

And Bruce--powerful, nude but for a towel, stomach, chest, thighs thick with muscles, and with scars. 

So many scars. 

His head drooped on his neck, and  Clark could see the gray in his hair, but more than that. He had gray in the hair on his chest. He ate one omelet in the morning, no cheese, extra veggies, because he was worried about how his body was aging.

And his body was aging.

In his late forties now, he was a little slower than he had been when he and Clark had first gotten together. A little heavier.

Clark wouldn't have noticed--every moment Bruce Wayne, millionaire, let Clark Kent, country boy, near his guarded, twisted heart, seemed like a miracle. 

But BatMan was growing older, and Superman was not.

And if  Bruce and Clark had never touched, these two men would be alone here, in this lonely, sterile place, one doctoring the other's hurts, both of them locked in the dance of Bruce fighting on the streets and Alfred picking up the pieces, until one night, there weren't enough pieces to stitch up and Alfred simply withered away, his life broken, like his heart.

But Bruce and Clark had touched, and they had breakfast in the morning, and dinner together when they could. They had banter and humor and a certain grim competitiveness that often led to highly destructive and highly enjoyable lovemaking. 

But Bruce was getting older. 

And Clark was not.

Clark would leave his lover behind. 

We will be quantum dust together.

Clark remembered those words, uttered the first night they'd made love. He still meant them. His hair would never go gray, and he would never have love handles, and he'd never have liver spots--but he would never live without Bruce Wayne.

He knew that in his heart.

He floated into the infirmary silently and tapped Alfred on the shoulder. "Get some sleep, my friend," he said softly. Alfred inclined his head and pulled off his gloves. 

"He should have some morphine, and you need to stitch his shoulders. Beer bottle, sir. Nasty things."

"Of course."

Wasn't the first time Clark had stitched him up. Wouldn't be the last.

Alfred faded into the night and Clark took over the doctoring in silence.

After he'd finished the last stitch and the last wrap of gauze, he stripped off his gloves and crouched before his lover, the last one he'd have on this earthly plain.

"Proud of yourself?" he asked.

"I beat every goddamned one of them," Bruce snarled, the hurt in his eyes obvious, now that Clark knew where to look.

"Of course you did," Clark said humbly. "You're goddamned BatMan. You'll always beat the fuckers. It's who you are."

"I am not old!"  He glared at Clark, daring him to say otherwise.

"You will never be old," Clark said, his heart breaking. "And I will never leave you. Our bodies will fade into dust together, and we'll mingle together with the stars. I promised you that, Bruce. I wasn't full of shit."

"You can't keep that promise," Bruce said, looking away. 

"The hell I can't!" Clark snarled. "You look at me, Bruce Wayne. Look at me!"

Bruce met his glare defiantly. "I'm almost fifty!"

"I don't care! You will always be the same, exasperating irritating son of a bitch I fell in love with! I didn't care how old you were then, I didn't care how old you were when you came to your senses, and I don't give a damn how old you are now!"

Bruce's hand on his cheek was tender, even if his words were not. "You haven't aged a day, motherfucker. You will be this young--thirty-something--for the rest of my goddamned life! And I"m going to have to leave you and you won't follow me--"

"Yes I will," Clark said, feeling weak.

"No, Clark. I'm going to grow old--"

"I'll follow you!" Clark yelled, rising to his feet. "You're not getting away that easy!"

Bruce was hurt--but he was often hurt. He was bloody--but then he was often that way. And Clark didn't care--didn't give a good goddamn, if he didn't feel up to passion--passion was the one language they spoke that they both understood.

His mouth crashed down on Bruce's and he ravished it, demanding a full response, taking everything Bruce Goddamned BatMan Wayne had to give and more.

There was no age here. There was no finish line. Clark stripped off his suit right there in the infirmary and took Bruce on the infirmary table, Bruce's legs around his ears, his ass offered up without reservation. The quantum vibrations of Clark's body enveloped them both, made their sex possible, made, for the moment of their joining, Bruce Wayne just as invincible, just as proof against the vagaries of time and physics as Superman himself.

Clark drove himself inside his lover--the one human he would ever love with all his being--and prayed for them to be one forever. 

"Don't leave me!" he screamed, as orgasm shook them both. 

"Never," Bruce whispered, broken. "Never."

Clark buried his face against Bruce's throat. "Never. That's a promise."

"Okay," Bruce panted, probably in pain, but Clark couldn't make himself not thrust, not shudder, not come one final, agonizing time. 

"A promise!" Clark breathed, so he'd know.

"Okay," Bruce conceded, as submissive as Clark would ever see him. 

"Okay," Clark finished on a sob. "I'm not leaving you."

"Okay," Bruce said again, pushing Clark's sweaty hair back from his brow. "Okay. You're not leaving me."  

He was humoring Clark in a way, but he wasn't desperate or hurt anymore. Clark would show him. Clark would prove to him that there was no Clark Kent without Bruce Wayne.

"And you are not getting old," Clark finished on a hiccup.

Bruce managed a laugh. "And you are not getting soft."

Clark pushed up on his elbows and started to thrust his hips again. "Prepare yourself, old man," he warned. "This is not over. Not even close."

Bruce didn't answer. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting this next round wash through him. 

He surrendered.

Good.

Clark Kent would keep his promise if Superman had to die in a ball of flame.

Their dust would mingle under the stars. That was the only way it could be. 

Quarks

*** In Amy news, huzzah! I wrote my e-mail and talked too much and Zoomboy's principal said he could switch math classes.

Now, holy crap baby, you'd better not suck. That's all I've got to say, you'd better not suck.  Anyway-- on to SuperBat, and I think the ending of this chapter.  Should I tag all these or something? Or hey! I could put them on GoodReads!  Ooh… I'll have to remember to do that.

Anyway-- on to the end.

***

They never knew the room was bugged. But that was okay--Diana cleared the observation deck as soon as she saw them sitting, hips touching, Bruce with his head on Clark's shoulder.

Finally it was going to happen.

And it wasn't like she was a born voyeur, but hey-- she'd known both of them biblically, and…

Well, at the very least she wanted to see them happy.

*  *  *

Clark fell into the kiss like a rock into a well.  Oh… everything. Everything he'd ever hungered for in sex, but had been missing, it was in the taste of Bruce Wayne's mouth, in his rough-skinned touch on Clark's biceps, in the urgent way he cupped Clark's neck and urged him closer, harder, more.

Clark barely had the presence of mind to lift his head.  "Bed," he rasped. "Shouldn't we… bed--nung…"

Bruce lay on his back, hands busy at Clark's leather belt.  "We're on mats here," he panted. "Bed too far."

Bed too far, words too complex, Bruce shoved the jeans down past Clark's hips and groaned as he grabbed himself a double handful of super-ass.  He kneaded, and licked Clark's ear, then nibbled, then nipped.

"Ah-ahhhh…"

"Does it hurt?" Bruce asked, breath shivering in the cave of Clark's ear. "You're Superman… you topple buildings… my teeth, right there…"  he nipped again, and Clark heaved against him, grinding his bare cock into the crease of Bruce's thigh.

"Nungh…"  Clark couldn't make words, couldn't explain the weird inversion of quantum mechanics that controlled the density of his body when he was in close proximity with humans, couldn't give voice to why he'd never fucked a woman to death and had never shot a hole through a man's ass with his super sperm. He couldn't talk about hickeys on his skin, or why he'd never clench someone's dick off, or the time he'd masturbated until he was raw, hearing Bruce's voice in his ear while he was far away, visiting Krypton, receiving reports from the JLA for no other reason than they missed talking to him.

He could just quiver, and grind against Bruce's leg, and shudder, because it had been long, so long, and he'd wanted this man with unrelenting need.

Bruce's low laughter was edged with desire. "Don't care if it hurts," he muttered. "As long as it drives you--"

He went to nip again, and Clark let out a roar of frustration.  He ripped off Bruce's T-shirt, and shredded his sweats, watching in fascination as Batman, scourge of Gotham city, went boneless underneath him, staring at him hungrily with parted lips and hooded eyes.

"Insane," Clark panted, so there was no mistake, and then he lowered his head to Bruce's chest.  Nipple… suck… lave… nip… feel Bruce's fingers, tightening in his hair.  Other nipple… suck… lave… nip--

"You gonna get to my cock soon?" Bruce goaded, thrusting his hips up.

Clark's moan sounded broken, even to his own ears. Bruce shoved at his head, not gently, and Clark followed his lead, wanting to taste, wanting it in his mouth, while Bruce lay helpless beneath him.

Helpless. The man hated being helpless.

Clark wanted his body in full fighting trim-- wanted his muscles hard and impervious, wanted his cardio muscle beating strong and rhythmically.

It was Bruce's figurative heart Clark wanted to hold in his hand.

Clark couldn't cup it there, next to his chest, make sure Bruce Wayne was never hurt again.  His body, his humanoid, animal body, was urging him to mate, to claim, with mouth, and ass and cock, and that was the best he could do.

He lunged at Bruce Wayne's cock--thick and hard, wider than any man Clark had been with, and only a little shorter than Clark's own.  Clark stretched his mouth around it, took it deep into his throat, swallowed hard, fed from him, and Bruce's breathless yelps of pleasure/pain were sustenance to his soul.

He cupped Bruce's ass, spreading it, hefting Bruce's hips closer so he could take that cock to the bottom  of his throat.  Ah-- ah… Bruce grunted, allowing a little precum to spurt, and Clark wanted it, all of it, lining his throat, filling his stomach, making him human--you are what you eat.

"If I cum now,  you'll have to top," Bruce panted.

It was enough to make Clark pause.  He pulled back, allowing Bruce's cock to flop on his cheek and bounce off.  "No," he whispered, tortured.  "No. Fuck me. I… need…"

He needed Bruce inside. If Bruce was trapped inside him, they could never be separated, never be parted, their atoms would mingle, their cosmic dust would form the same stars.

He shredded his own clothes and while Bruce was still kicking off sweats and shoes, he blurred, to the bedroom and back, for the bottle of high end personal lubricant that had been sitting there, hopefully, since he'd moved in.

Bruce laughed softly when he returned. "You are an optimist," he muttered, pushing gingerly to his knees and pulling Clark in for a kiss by his bare shoulder.

"Why?" Clark couldn't seem to get his breath.

"That's a big bottle."  Bruce smiled, inviting Clark to get the joke, but Clark couldn't.

He squirted a dollop and turned around, hands and knees, and reached behind him, plunging his lubed fingers in without hesitation or second thought.  Helpless. He was helpless before the desire that consumed him.

He thrust hard and deep, grunting, body lost in the throes of the animal act, and when Bruce grabbed his wrist he almost did the unforgivable and shook him off.

But he didn't.

He succumbed to the whispered, "Sh… sh… it's okay. I've got you. I'll take you. You need me."

Superman, most powerful man on the planet, buried his face in his arms and waggled his bare, stretched ass in the air. "I do," he half sobbed. "I do. I ned you. I need you. I need you so bad…"

Bruce's hands on his hips reassured him, and his cock, thick and still wet from "super drool" breached him slowly, carefully, until Clark wished he could clench and rip a man's dick off because he was dying, begging, every sob, every syllable, a cry of debasement, of acknowledgment.

I'm helpless without you. I'm nothing. I'm space dust. I'm only real with you inside me, in my head, in my heart, in my body.

Bruce seemed to know. He slid all the way in and then gentled his hands over Clark's body, tender touches, and he was murmuring words.

My beautiful one… my sky. My blessing, my promise, the matter of my heart. 

Oh God… Bruce Wayne spoke poetry during sex.

Clark Kent closed his eyes and howled, needing the animal, needing the fucking, unsure of when he would ever hear words like that again.

But the fucking was inevitable, like colliding planets but faster, fuller, until it wasn't just a cock in an orifice, it was a Bruce Wayne inside Clark's skin, inside his body, taking residence in his heart, until Clark couldn't hold him there anymore and he exploded, detonated, became atoms, electrons, protons, quarks.

He came, his cock spewing semen like any other man.

And his ass clenched, triggering Bruce's climax, hard and strong, still arousing Clark, even as his arms trembled, went out from under him, and he collapsed in a puddle of his own cum, Bruce on top of him, sweaty, and laughing and exhausted.

And still murmuring. Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

Clark felt tears start. Bruce was mortal, Clark was not, but no. No, he didn't want this end, not for them.

He spoke his own poetry.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.

Bruce nuzzled his ear, and they both stopped telling each other silly words.  "My leg hurts," he confessed, and Clark almost broke down right there.

"Get off me, asshole. I'll carry you to bed."

He did, too, feeling like he'd actually succeeded in the JLA goal, and rid the world of evil.

He'd earned Bruce Wayne's trust, could see him helpless, could prostrate himself before his heart's god and be given sweet release.

It was a quark of happiness in a universe of chaos. It was enough.

* * *

Diana saw it all-- heard their vows, watched their sex. And yes-- a part of her needed a lover desperately after that, and she would go find one, because she had no qualms about sexual gratification, nor should she.

But a part of her was troubled. She would remember their words--for forty years, they would haunt her. Bruce Wayne grew old, eventually retiring to the watch tower, where his fine mind continued to benefit the world, even if he could no longer execute acrobatics in the field.

Clark Kent aged slowly, looking fifty to Bruce's eighty--but still looking at Bruce Wayne, every day, like he hung the sun and the moon and the stars.

The day the Watchtower exploded was the worst day of her life.  Bruce was inside, scrambling desperately to reroute the reactor leak that had been created by an enemy, and Clark, flying faster than light, faster than thought, but not faster than time, trying to get there to save him, as he'd always saved him, even from that first bomb that had nearly destroyed them both.

He was too late.  He'd felt the heat of the blast as he'd reached into the flare of it, and as Diana screamed, "Clark, no!" she watched it happen.

It was an act of will.

She saw his body fade, his molecules spreading, the density and power that was Superman becoming thinner, more human, until, as the blast wave expanded, he was taken out, vaporized, like Bruce Wayne had been but a half-second before.

When the bad guy had been caught--because they were always caught-- she'd presided over their services. In front of the entire world she'd recited the words that only she had heard, the vows the lovers had said before each other and one reluctant voyeur:

 Of course I love you, how could I not? And when I die, I'll become dust, and I'll fall through the heavens to touch your skin.

When you die, my matter will fly outward, our dust will mingle, we'll be the same, particles, neutrons, atoms, quarks, we'll be inside each other, creating, recreating, the planets, the suns, the stars.