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.

Batman's Hot Cousin--Part 5: Letting Go

Did you all have a good weekend? Mine was quiet--but productive. I'm ALMOST through an edit that may end my life--but the point is, I'm almost through it.

Anyway-- the edit is non-fiction and I'm dying to write fiction and my solution? Fanfic on the blog. Are we ready for the finale of Batman's Hot Cousin? I don't know--it's been unexpectedly heartbreaking.

Let's go!

*  *  *

Letting Go

"Tim!" Bruce sat up in bed shouting, his face and body contorting as he fought to transition from female to male as the original DNA-altering toxins sweated out of his body. "Jason! Clark, where's Jason! Dammit, Clark, we can't lose him!"

Clark sat by his bed, where he'd been for most of the transition, and stroked his hand. "Baby, Jason's dead. Tim's in another city--"

"No..." Bruce's voice broke, and for the thousandth time, so did Clark Kent's heart. "No. He was ours. Where's our baby? Where'd he go?"

"He's a dream, Bruce," Clark said patiently, hating himself. "Honey, you've got to let him go."

"I could see him," Bruce whimpered, falling back in bed and curling on his side. "He looked like you. He was so kind--"  Another cramp of muscle and mass and bone assimilation hit him, and he didn't finish the thought, howling with pain.

"Here," Diana said, sounding cool and calm and collected. "Alfred, hand me the syringe."

"Yes ma'am." Clark looked sharply at Alfred and gasped. So impervious, so practical, pragmatic, and efficient. Alfred's face was streaked with tears.

Diana injected something into Bruce's arm quickly and then backed away. Clark didn't. Bruce had been thrashing for hours--he'd clocked Clark in the jaw, the stomach, and once, uncomfortably, in the gonads. The fact remained Bruce Wayne was a man, albeit a powerful one, and Superman was an alien, and it just didn't hurt that much.

Unlike, say, watching Bruce in pain, calling for the children that had died or been scattered to the four winds.

"Damien?" Bruce begged, voice falling pitifully.

"In the desert with Talia," Clark said, hating Talia Al'Ghul all over again. Stealing his DNA and presenting him with a son fait accompli was bad enough--but taking him back just as Bruce had made some peace with the boy... well, it had been five years before Clark and Bruce had gotten together or Clark might have killed her and just not told anyone. Two years after that, Jason had died. Clark had watched his heart break again and again--why was the fact that it was still in pieces such a surprise?

"Everybody leaves," Bruce murmured. "Everybody leaves."

"I won't." Two years of promises. Two years by Bruce Wayne's side. Prickly, argumentative, bullheaded, beloved man.

"You'll leave," Bruce sighed, eyes closing. "Why would you want to stay? I let our son slip away."

He fell asleep then, the sedative apparently working. Great. Fucking finally. For a moment there was silence in the infirmary and they all watched as Bruce's body trembled and contorted. He was asleep, but pain was going to be his ever-present companion for the next few hours.

"If you'll excuse me," Alfred said, his voice barely under control. Then Diana set the syringe down and wrapped her arms around the old man's neck and sobbed.

Clark watched them, glad they had each other. It was his job to sit by this fucking bed and hold Bruce Wayne's fucking hand until this was over.

He'd promised. He'd stay until their atoms reformed to quantum dust. He still remembered the vow. It wasn't just poetry to him. He was the only one who knew what he'd planned when Bruce Wayne died, and right now the idea gave him comfort.

*  *  *

Bruce groaned, feeling as though every atom of his being had been pounded by a sledgehammer. "Clark?" he mumbled, wondering why he thought Clark would be there.

"Here."

Oh God. Bruce felt weak tears trickle onto the sheets under his cheek. The bedsheets felt clean, and so did his body, although he could clearly remember sweating until everything around him had been sopping and salt-stinging.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'm sure you've got someplace to go."

"No place but here. Diana is taking care of another lava monster. We'll have to put a capper on whatever's doing that, you know."

Bruce grunted. "On my to-do list for tomorrow."

Clark let out a weak laugh and Bruce felt trembling fingertips running through his hair.

"What happened?" he asked weakly.

"You sweated out the last of whatever made you a girl. You didn't notice dangly bits?"

Bruce closed his eyes, literally too weak to move. He tried to take inventory but couldn't. Something, though. Something felt lighter. As though the universe had clicked into place and he was who he was supposed to be.

"I have no idea. I lived?"

"Mostly. You don't remember any of it?" Something in Clark's voice throbbed, like this would hurt him.

"I had... a dream," he murmured. "A child. Our child. And every time you touched me, it felt like he was getting further away."

Clark let out a shuddering breath. "You never told me you wanted children."

Bruce managed to look at him, saw he was unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed and shiny, his hair unkempt. Bruce may have been freshly washed on clean sheets, but Clark hadn't showered in days. "I have already shown myself to be a shitty fucking parent," he rasped. But then, because he was apparently too tired not to tell the truth. "But your son would be beautiful."

"You're not a bad parent," Clark protested, surprising him. They'd always been honest with each other. "You made mistakes. But you took in orphans like yourself, and raised them the only way you knew how. The way you'd raised yourself. You did the best all parents can do, Bruce."

"Jason..." So weak. The thought of Jason Todd gutted him on the best of occasions.

"Even good parents suffer loss." Clark threaded his fingers through Bruce's hair. "Or have their kids grow up to be dicks like... well, Dick. I didn't mention children because... well, because we're..."

"A little busy," Bruce rasped. He was falling asleep. "I didn't even know it was a dream until..."

"Until you got a built-in womb. I get it."

"You sound awful," Bruce said. "Crawl into bed and hold me."

"I smell worse."

"Don't care."

"Good. Because..." And Clark broke a little. "I really do need to hold you."

Good.

It wasn't until Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce's chest that he realized his muscle mass hadn't come back, that his frame was still heavy but his chest, his arms, his stomach were soft and thin.

"Cup my balls, will you?" he asked, not even being facetious. "I need to know that hasn't shrunk too."

Clark's hand was big and all-encompassing and familiar. Oh yes. Yes. All his parts were back. It wasn't just the euphoria of being himself again. There were dangly bits where dangly bits should be.

"Thanks."

"My pleasure. I hope to do that when you're feeling better, yeah?"

"Yeah. Clark?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever made you stay here, that whole time. Thank you."

"Love, jackass. You're welcome."

"I love you too. Not having children with you--that could be the only thing I'll ever regret about the two of us."

"Nothing," Clark said, voice breaking. "I regret nothing. Not a goddamned thing." His arms tightened to the point of pain, and he was weeping softly into Bruce's hair.

Batman's Hot Cousin--Part 4 --The Dream

Some fanfic tonight because I am DESPERATELY tired of editing.

* * *

Bruce--known as Bryson--Wayne surveyed his employees in the R&D division with exasperation. Joy Connors was a sharp woman, in her fifties, personable and kind--she was in charge of the beauty and hygiene departments and oversaw nearly a hundred employees. Carla Li--barely thirty with a Doctorate in chemical engineering-- ran the specialty pharmaceutical department underneath her, with nearly twenty people reporting.

Both women were looking at Ms. Wayne as though the poor dear just needed to go lay down for a little while.

"Mr. Wayne wants us to what?" Joy asked, surprised.

"Women's health, Ms. Connors. Mr. Wayne feels that there are not nearly enough painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs made particularly for women. There is so much we don't know about the menstrual process. You do realize that a woman's cramps can be more painful than a heart attack, don't you? And that the protocol for addressing a woman with painful menstruation hasn't changed since the thirties, right?"

"Oh!" Carla said, excited. "I saw that on Samantha Bee! That's true!"

Bryson Wayne nodded. "Yes. Yes it is."

"But it seems to me that it's a big fuss about nothing," Connors snapped. "Women's products don't sell. Everyone knows that!"

"Well I understand that those pot blueberries for hot flashes do pretty good," Li confessed. "I mean, my mom, menopause? Now there's a thing we should research and develop. How come we've got five kinds of boner pills out there, but something to kill a specific kind of pain or discomfort in women is completely ignored."

"Right!" Bruce cried, because finally somebody was getting it. "This is the gap in our research that Mr. Wayne wants to address!"

"Why?" Li asked, arching a perfectly groomed black eyebrow. "Seriously. Who put him up to it? Is he seeing someone?"

Bruce fought a sob. "I did," he said, hating the irony. "It was one of the caveats of me taking over while he went to explore the water possibilities in the Sahara."

"So how would you like us to address this?" Connors asked, her eyebrows up in doubt.

"I would like you to hire a ten person team to look into the science, and one person to specialize in marketing," Bruce said. And then, feeling foolish because it needed to be said. "Please make the team 80% women. I mean, don't discourage any male geniuses invested in the project, but I don't care what his credentials look like, if you so much as see one of those assholes roll their eyes, they get blackballed from Wayne Industries for life!"

God, his lady parts hurt. He needed his own motrin and a nice warm cup of coffee. And some chocolate. And to curl up in a ball and die.

But he was going to settle for doing his part to make things right, dammit! He really was.

* **

The cramps had settled down a little by the time he got home, taking the recently repaired specialty elevator instead of the car so he could shower and put on sweats before he even walked through the front door.

Things had been "leaking" all day. He'd walked through his day fighting the urge to push his pad in from the back and fidget with the tampon that was currently scrubbing his vaginal walls raw.

He was pretty sure that there should have been more female mass murderers at this point in history. He wanted to become one.

But after his shower--and some cookies and a heating pad--he took some Motrin and went back down to work out in the gym, doing everything he'd do as a man just using smaller weights. He didn't think the bulkier muscles would work on his lighter frame--right now speed and agility were his strengths and he would play to them.

He was in the middle of giving the sand bag a workout when Clark flew in, standing behind the bag to hold it.

"Good day?" he asked, then grunted as Bruce leveled a roundhouse kick at it. "So, no."

"Cramps are better," he muttered, hitting the bag with some fast and furious jabs.

"That's good."

"We're working on a better cramp relief in R&D."  And hook and hook and jab and jab.

"Well done."

"The women acted like I was crazy just asking." Jab jab jab jab.

"They had to be tougher than the guys to get there," Clarke reminded him. "That's some damage to overcome."

"I still want to kill someone." Wham! Wham! Wham!  "In fact--" Kick!  "If I didn't know any better--" Hit! Pound! Pummel!  "I'd say I was horny!"

Full stop.

Oh my God.

"Really?"  He asked himself.

"Really?" Clarke asked him.

Bruce was so relieved to pinpoint the source of his moodiness he almost cried.

"YES!  Oh my God, I could fuck a tree right now!" He stopped and--swear to God--blushed. "I mean, you know.  A tree."  Still not any better. He leaned his head against the bag. "God, Clark. I just... you know..."

Clark--still in his uniform--leaned around the bag.

And whispered a suggestion in his ear.

Bruce straightened up. "That's true," he said.

Clark blushed. "I mean, if you don't want to. Your lady parts are sore and--"

Bruce shook his head. "No--no. I want to. I so want to. I'm just... you know. Surprised I didn't think about it. I mean, it's not like you haven't been there before." Although Bruce went there more often, with Clark. "There's nothing going on in that, uhm, department right now. I mean, for one thing, I eat like a flea. No food to process. But seriously--you, uh...wanna?"

Clark was nodding furiously. "Oh my God, do I wanna."

Bruce wiped his sweaty forehead on his shoulder. "Let me shower and, uhm, prepare." Finally, a reason not to throw all of the tampons into a giant incinerator for the sake of women everywhere.

"I'll be upstairs, also showered," Clark said, smiling prettily. "It's, an, erm, date."

And it was. It was a bare skin to bare skin, thrillingly invasive date with Clark's cock in Bruce's ass. Lovely orgasm after orgasm washed over Bruce, and he pounded the bed as Clark fucked him from behind. Oh, damn. This was the most amazing plan ever. Sex! Sex that gave him endorphins and worked out frustrations! Wonderful, amazing, healing sex!

His final orgasm rocked him and he collapsed, mindful of his sore breasts, grateful that Clark rolled off immediately, careful not to squash him on the bed.

"Good?" Clark asked, panting with his own climax.

"Dreamy," Bruce mumbled. "Here--let me get dressed. Then we can cuddle."

Normally, he'd cuddle naked. But... well. Leaking.

God. So inconvenient.

Clark grunted as Bruce threw his pajama clad body on top, then ran his hand down the contour of Bruce's much curvier behind.

"How was it for you?" he asked curiously. "I personally missed my prostate, but, you know. Everything else was pretty sensitive, so that was good."

Clark looked at him candidly. "I... I miss the shape of you in my hands," he said, shrugging. "I don't know how to put it. It's a small price to pay for having you warm and safe in my bed, but..."

Bruce sighed. "It's not normal."

"No."

"And it will never feel normal."

Clark kissed his temple. "Not for you."

Bruce's sigh seemed to tarnish their afterglow, and Clark, in an effort to get him to smile, said, "Hey--at least your not pregnant."

Bruce laughed a little, and then curled up against his great lover's side and fell asleep.

But something about what Clark said must have stuck with him.

Because he dreamed about their child. Clark's blue eyes, Bruce's nose, Clark's irrepressible smile. God. Bruce had failed as a father so many times--but with Clark, maybe, he could manage. Maybe with their son or daughter, he could not bury the poor child under expectations, under worry, under the weight of his other life.

There was a sort of hope with that, even in the dream, until a jagged flash of pain ripped through Bruce's abdomen, and the dream changed. He dreamt that he was invaded by an alien, consumed, destroyed from within by something that didn't belong there and was ripping its way out.

He woke up screaming, thrashing on the bed in the throes of an agony that seemed to be devouring him whole.

"Clark!" he cried out, afraid and disoriented. "Clark, what's happening!"

"Sh!" Clark pushed him back into the bed and wiped the hair off his forehead. "You're burning up. And your face is... is changing." His fingers rasped against stubble on Bruce's jaw. "Baby," he said, sounding afraid, "I think you're changing back."

"Oh." Bruce was rocked by another terrible pain, and suddenly that dream, that painful, sweet, forbidden dream was ripped out of him by force. "I'll never have your baby," he said, letting go of a thing he'd never known he'd wanted.

Clark grimaced and kissed his forehead again. Bruce saw his eyes, red-rimmed, and his worry line etched deep in his forehead. "Oh Bruce. You couldn't have survived like this, not even for our child. Diana's on her way, love. We'll bring you back on the other side."

Bruce couldn't help the tears, not from pain, but from the dream. "I"m sorry," he said. "I"m sorry I"m like this. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to hold on for that. I'm so sorry."

Clark rocked him, his arms the haven Bruce had never known he'd needed. "No sorry," he rasped. "No room for sorry. Live through this. Live through this, beloved. Never be sorry you did what you had to do to live."

Another pain slammed through him, ripping him in two.

Bruce screamed again, and concentrated on living.

SuperBat--Batman's Hot Cousin Part 2

So, it's the lazy part of winter break, where the kids play all the games and chill all they want, and I go out of my mind because there is SOMEBODY THERE all the time.

Mate and I are going on a date tomorrow night--that's exciting.

Anyway-- it's time for some SuperBat--and I feel dumb because I have written some SUPERHOT sex in my fanfic before on this blog, but there's going to be girl parts here.

Most of my readers will deal, I know, but... *rolls eyes*  Here's your warning. Imminent vagina.

Anyway-- enjoy the hot girl sex and some angst.


*

Batman's Hot Cousin, Part 2

If Bruce had ever thought about it, he would have assumed there would be something different while kissing someone as a woman instead of a man. There was certainly something different about kissing a man or kissing a woman--but Clark's mouth felt the same as it always had.

Hard, demanding, tender, responsive.

Bruce pushed the kiss like he ordinarily would and twined his arms around Clark's neck, only a little frustrated because he felt so... so delicate.

He was still strong, still muscular, but the manhandling he usually indulged in because Clark could take it didn't feel appropriate. And then Clark reached gently for his breast and massaged, thumb on the nipple in the classic "boobs are good" maneuver.

Bruce's nether-parts gave a tremendous throb and he let out an audible gasp.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt?"

Clark pulled his hand away and Bruce grabbed it back. "That was great. Don't stop." It came out as a command, in his flinty Batman voice, but about two octave's higher and sort of whiskey soaked.

Clark's eyes all but rolled back in his head and he lowered his mouth to the edge of Bruce's tightly-clenched towel.

"Wha?"

"You thought that felt good..." Clark said, lips quirking like he was battling a smile.

Bruce moaned and gave up the towel, and there they were, boobs, and a slender waist and lush hips and plump, muscular thighs.

"Damn," Clark said, pulling back and smiling slightly. "Bruce, my beloved, my man, you are built like a brick shithouse!"

"I'm a horny brick shithouse!" Bruce complained. "Now do that thing... that  thing with your mouth you just promised! I need to not feel like this so I can think!"

Clark laughed throatily, and Bruce's uterus practically caught fire. "You can think fine when you're horny," he said before licking a circle around Bruce's aureola. "You do it all the time. You once ordered an op when I was balls-deep in your ass!"

Bruce moaned, the thought turning him on far more than it should--and damn Diana for making an off-coms override for emergencies.

"But I know how those parts feel!" he panted. Clark closed his mouth over the whole pink-tipped sugar mountain and it was all he could do not to squeal. "Right now everything is a surprise--flick your tongue! God yes, like that! No, don't stop--yes!"

An earthquake went off in his lower parts. That was the only way he could think of it--everything below his navel clenched and quivered and practically pranced with joy.

Without thinking about it, Bruce leaned back and pulled his feet up to the edge of the infirmary bed, opening up the whole area to exploration.

Clark chuckled. "God, this is fun."

"My... my... oh my God I don't even know what to call it anymore! It's on fire!"

Clark laughed some more and Bruce could swear his uterus exploded.

"Jesus--lick that or something!" he begged.

"You know, it is your pudendum. You can call it anything you want!"

Except he couldn't, could he? He was still a man underneath that glistening labia. He still didn't have the right to claim that naughty word, even for erotic use, did he?"

Confusion swirled around his brain and then Clark very carefully swiped his tiny erotic button with a rough tongue and confusion went to fuck itself because Bruce was in need.

"OH dear God fuck that thing!"

But Clark just licked again, this time the aching area between his spread lips, and he must like doing this for women as much as he loved doing it for Bruce because he buried his face in there and really went to town.

Bruce lost time.

He was wandering in a sexual havoc, Clark's tongue, his fingers, his surprising expertise sending him into the stratosphere, so high, so intensely, that he barely noticed the two fingers of intrusion until the faint twinge of pain.

"Hello..."

Clark gave him a heated glance over his new playground body. "Sorry sweetheart--it appears you have a hymen."

Bruce wiggled his hips, impaled on Clark's fingers, and pushed down. Another twinge of pain, but he didn't care. He wiggled some more and Clark spread them and stretched him a little and the pain bit a little bit deeper, and then faded.

"Not anymore," Bruce panted. "Fuck me."

"One more minute."

Clark's tongue on his clitoris was no joke and Bruce didn't even have a brain cell to question it. The two fingers inside him were wonderful--but not enough, not when Bruce knew what would fit perfectly in there, and then, oh God, one gentle, tentative finger, slick with juices he didn't ordinarily have, knocked on his back door.

This time the orgasm was enough to make him scream.

Clark lunged up over his body, driving inside of him and claiming his mouth at the same time.

For a moment, Bruce was caught up in sharing girl juices with his male lover--his taste on Clark's mouth, different, sweeter, ear-to-ear--and then he realized oh my God where is his penis and oh wow it really fuckin' fits there doesn't it!

He wrapped his legs around Clark's hips and screamed. "Don't! Stop! Don't! Stop! Don't! Ever! Fucking! Stop!"

Clark drove into him so hard Bruce could swear he tasted cum in the back of his throat, and then, oh dear lord, the big one, the 10 on the  Richter scale, the orgasm that split the foundations of the world, washed over him, clenching around Clark and taking them both over.

The infirmary table gave out underneath them and collapsed in a puddle of useless chrome with a mercilessly uncomfortable mattress.

And Clark was still buried inside him, hot and pulsing and amazing.

"Can you," Clark panted, collapsed on top of him, "think any better now?"

Bruce chuckled, and then chilled. Clark inside him felt right--but everything else felt... empty. He closed his eyes and ran his hands along Clark's familiar muscles, along his back, down his spine, at the same time feeling his breasts squashed under Clark's chest, his vagina parted and welcoming--when usually it would be a penis, thrusting and deflating. The aftermath to sex felt much the same--except for the loneliness that swamped him.

And, oh fuck, fucking estrogen levels, rising.

His eyes burned.

"It was wonderful," he whispered. "You were exactly right. You feel exactly right. I wouldn't have you any other way."

"Sh." Clark kissed his temple, where the first tear slid. "I may feel right. But you don't."

"That was amazing," Bruce said, trying to make it clear. He'd wanted it--wanted everything they'd done. Would want it again, and again--although hopefully now that he knew how it felt, it wouldn't consume his brain. Diana and Barbara and the other women functioned perfectly well with bodies like this--he was pretty sure it was just the newness that had overwhelmed him.

"But it wasn't you," Clark clarified.

And the tears wouldn't stop. "I want my body back," he said, feeling foolish. "I...you feel great, and the sex was awesome but it wasn't me."

"Or not the you you're happy with," Clark said, kissing his temple. "Believe me, Bruce. I knew exactly who I was fucking. It wouldn't matter what the parts were--I'd know who you were in the dark. But it's not my body we're talking about. It's yours. Now that we're both thinking again, tell me about the rest of it."

Clark rolled off him and grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the broken bed. He pulled it up over both of them and Bruce rested his head on Clark's chest, bitterly aware that they often traded back and forth, who spooned whom.

And then he told Clark about the virus that infected his chromosome, and how he could stay a woman forever, probably, and be fine, or he could not re-infect himself and maybe die and maybe go back to being the person he'd worked so hard to be.

"So," Clark said, and now his eyes were red-rimmed and his voice was raw. "You'd really rather die?"

Bruce was pretty sure the tears now weren't just a matter of estrogen. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But yes. Oh God. I want myself back. I want you to hold me as I am."

Clark nodded without words and held him tighter, and Bruce sobbed into his chest.

SuperBat--Batman's Hot Cousin

I hope you all had a Happy New Year!

Ours was simple-- ZoomBoy went to a friends and Squish stayed with Mate and I, watched comforting television, drank sparkling cider, and watched the ball drop. Happy New Year!

But sometimes, having an uneventful holiday is the best thing in the world--and in this case, I had enough time to look at Pinterest, and saw a fan-art picture for this stunning plot bunny.

The picture was Superman, holding a female Batman. What if Bruce Wayne was female?

Well, I could either do this AU--but I sort of like my Batman with a penis--or I could do it IU, and figure out what he'd do if he were, temporarily, without one.

Warning-- this is gonna be hella sexual and there's girl parts. Hide your eyes now if that's a problem, cause I'm goin' in!

Batman's Hot Cousin

The change was in the DNA-- they figured that out--and it was degrading, which was a relief. This mishegas, no matter how upsetting, really was only temporary. A couple of weeks, a month at the most, and a night of sweating, fever, some complications, and then everything would be normal.

Oh how Clark prayed for normal.

He hadn't even been there when it happened--he'd been handling a Luthor-corp reactor meltdown when he got the call from Diana.

"Clark? What's your status?"

"70% contained. I can't leave yet."

"Roger that. Let us know if you need help, and let us know when things are 100%."

Superman didn't stop this heat-gaze arc-welding, but he did detect a slight uncertainty in Diana's voice. "Diana? Is there something I should know?"

A slight hesitation. "Yes, but it is nothing--believe me--nothing that won't wait until you're done."

Uh-oh. "Bruce? Bruce, are you on com?" Arc-weld, arc-weld, arc-weld--oh! Hey! There was Metallo, Luthor's poor deluded machine, jumping in to help. Apparently nuclear detonation was bad for everybody, right?

"He's fine, Master Clark," Alfred said, and only years of discipline kept Clark from widening his eyes and searing a hole through a melting down nuclear reactor.

"Alfred, where are you?"

"Back at the mansion, with Master Bruce. Please don't concern yourself. It just needs a bit of explaining, that's--"

"I'm fine." It was a woman's voice.

Superman took two deep breaths and didn't stop arc-welding. "Who the fuck are--"

"Everybody off coms," said the woman, and there was a decided chorus of moans as the buzzing in his ear shut down.

"Who are you--"

"Clark are you going to die if we surprise you?"

Clark took a look at the reactor. 80% done. "No, but I'm still needed on site." Whoever this is, she knew her priorities.

"Then we will solve the mystery as soon as you're done. Fly to the mansion, ignore Diana, and you and Bruce can talk."

"Yes ma'am--how should I address--"

"Over and out."

Who in the fuck was on the com?

* * *

Bruce grunted and activated everybody else on his com. "You had to do that while he was working?" he demanded, and for once Diana sounded sheepish.

"Bruce, you have to admit, it's imp--"

"Am I dead?"

And now she sounded ashamed. "No."

"Am I mortally wounded, with only moments to live?"

"No."

"Am I in any sort of situation in which seeing me right now can fix anything?"

"No, Bruce. You're right. We're sorry."

"I know this is hysterical--"  In the background he heard Hal and Barry snicker. "Yes, guys. It's hilarious and fuck off. But it's not... life threatening. Please remember that when you want to dick with him, okay?"

"Yes, Bruce," she said, unusually humble. "It... it felt like an emergency."

Bruce looked down at himself as he sat on the exam table, a bath towel pulled tightly around his chest. "It's not an emergency. It's not a bomb. It's not the end of the world. Jesus, Diana--they're tits. You've got a pair and we're all fine with that." He accidentally brushed a nipple and a major sexual shockwave coursed through his body. "It's just going to take some getting used to," he muttered. "How long did you say I have again?"

"Probably a month. Can you handle things at Wayne Industries?"

Bruce pulled out his palm unit and scanned his fingerprints, palm prints, and eyeball, just to make sure. "Yes. I've got breasts and a vagina, but my identity is intact. I'm just..." He studied his profile in the mirror in the infirmary, noting the thinner chin, the slender neck, the gamine features underneath his standard short haircut. "Darned fetching," he said grimly. Female Bruce looked to be in her late thirties--elegant, and probably stunning in evening wear, not that she'd ever be out in public.

Male Bruce was not particularly attracted to her--but then, he didn't like his masculine features either.  Clark's wide-eyed farm boy looks were more his style.

Diana's laughter on the other end of the com was actually a relief. "If you don't send me a picture I'm doing to die of curiosity," she confessed, and Bruce was not immune to humor.

He sent her a selfie. "If I see that anywhere but your com, I'm sabotaging your jet," he promised direly, but it was too late.

"Hello, pretty lady!" Hal whistled. "What do you think, Bar?"

"She's a little old for me, but very nice."

"You think you can outrun me but you can't," Bruce threatened, and Diana laughed.

"And he definitely can't outrun me. Be respectful, youngster."

"Fine, fine. I'm going to go look at my girlfriend who is my age." The other voices faded and it was just Diana again.

"He's almost done with his assignment," she said quietly. "Look-- I get what you said. Not life threatening. But your relationship has had tremendous ripples to the Justice League in the past. Many of them good, but not all. This--this isn't going to be easy on you two."

"He's a big boy," Bruce said, not wanting her to worry. "I mean... a month. I'll have my own body in a month, right?"

Her hesitation was not promising. "This thing the Joker did--it looks like you inhaled a virus that altered your chromosomal DNA. Bruce, if you recover from this--when you recover from this--it's going to work like you're withdrawing from a drug that's been keeping you alive. You might die in recovery, do you understand that?"

Bruce grunted. "I have better than even chances of not," he told her. "And we'll cross that bridge when--"

"I can replicate the virus," she told him bluntly. "I'm not so sure about a cure."

"So... you can keep me a woman--and healthy--for the rest of my life but you can't change me back?"

She let out a breath. "That might be the shape of things."

Unbidden, Bruce raised a hand to cup his breast, rubbing his thumb experimentally across the nipple again. Wowza. "Well, not that it's not a nice shape," he said, "but I'm pretty sure I want my old one back."

"I'll look into it. We've got some time before the virus degrades so much that you have no choice. In the meantime--"

"Shit!" They both said together.

"He's on his way!" she told him frantically.

"He's here," Bruce said, grimacing under Clark's exasperated glare. "Batman out."

"What in the actual hell?" Clark was jus staring at him as he hovered, his farm-boy blue eyes bigger than should be legal.

"I'm sorry she panicked you." Bruce clenched the towel around his breasts tighter. "I... I went running through a chemical plant--there was a blue cloud, I made the mistake and breathed in. When I came to..."  Well, Nightwing and Batgirl had been standing over him, breathers in place, asking him what the hell he'd been thinking.

And he'd been down with cramps and nausea for the rest of the morning, which was a good thing, because listening to Dick's bitching in peak condition might have prompted him to fratricide.

Finally, after a final bout of vomiting, he'd awakened with only Barbara in attendance, and she was drawing blood and having a freaked out conversation with Diana and Bruce was in one of her old nightgowns from back in the day when they'd shared a bed.

God.

He'd come down to the control center for more tests and then Diana had tried that ill-advised contact. Looking at Clark now, he was guiltily glad that the poor man had gotten some warning.

"This... this... what are we supposed to do with this?" His arms were flailing and Bruce smiled a little.

"I... I mean, you like women, right?"

"But you're not one!"

"Well I'm still me!" Bruce felt absurdly hurt. "What--you're suddenly going to move out now and move back in when I've got my own dick?"

"Were you fucking me with someone else's?"

Augh! "No! I was just... you don't have to look at me like I have the plague! It's just... breasts! Tits! Vagina! It's not a bomb!"

Clark's lips quirked, and Bruce glared at him. "I don't know. I, uh, haven't been there yet. Maybe it will make me explode?"

Bruce buried his face in his hands and laughed and cried at the same time. What in the hell-- what in the actual hell were they supposed to do with this? Jesus, he wasn't even him--

Clark's hands on his pulled him from the brink of hysteria. "Bruce?"

"What?"

"You're a very pretty girl."

"Fuck off."

"Well, maybe we should get to know each other first."

"We do know each other! We've been living together for two years and flirting for ten years and--"

Clark's mouth on his took his breath away--and pulled his brain out of the death spiral of gender and confusion and all of the freaking out he'd been trying not to do because--as he firmly believed--having tits was not the end of the  fucking world!

Clark pulled away and Bruce realized that his.... his nether-regions ached. The ache was familiar--the location was... not.

"What?" Clark asked.

"My... uh..." Bruce wiggled his bottom. "I'm wet," he said baldly. "That's... that's unusual and now I'm confused. And horny. And you're wearing your uniform and... I mean, not that I haven't noticed it before, but... you look really good in your uniform and--"

"And you'd like to know how I look out of it?" Clark said, a gentle smile on his face.

"This is not the time!" Bruce wailed, and then covered his face again.

"Why--what else do we do at the end of the day?"

"Well, usually I top," Bruce said bitterly.

Clark's smile went wicked. "Maybe not this time."

Bruce let out a sigh. "Diana," he said, tapping his ear. "I do believe we need to go off-coms."

"Try not to let your vagina blow up the Justice League," Diana said dryly.

"I make no promises."  Because his unfamiliar nether-regions were... were hot and achy and needy, and Clark Kent was stripping off his uniform while still in mid-air, and...

And just like when he had a penis, his mouth was dry and his brain was toast and the world was screaming madly to a halt.

"Good boy," Diana said softly, and the com in his ear went dead.

Clark glided over to where he was sitting, six-feet-plus of naked floating alien, looking at Bruce with such compassion, Bruce's exploding lady parts turned to melted wax.

"This," he said, his breath and heartbeat unsteady, "is going to be very interesting."

"God, I hope so," Clark said. "For however long it lasts."

* * *

Okay-- full on sexy times tomorrow. I hope you enjoy!

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

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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.