Archive: Ask first, please.
Fandom: Modern comicverse. Batman/Superman. (Sorry, Lois. Call this one-universe-over, and she’s in the waiting room. ;)
Warnings: M/M sex, yep.
Disclaimer: All characters property of DC Comics. What I have done with them is mine.
But the Batman was never nervous, so he dismissed it and went on.
Except J'onn, imperturbable J'onn, had taken to wearing his "unreadable alien" face when Batman was in the room, and particularly when Superman was there as well. Not that he pretended to understand the Manhunter's heart, no matter how much he'd come to respect the last son of Mars. It was just...odd.
Still. It was his job (self-appointed, but even so) to watch over his teammates, to make certain they were all functioning at peak efficiency. It was his duty to make sure of it, so he found an excuse to stay after a standard JLA meeting. It took a little while for the others to leave, and by the time they had he was unsettled again. Something about that smile, *knowing* somehow, and the look Superman gave him as he left the Watchtower.
Too full of some kind of...awareness Batman wasn't used to seeing on either Superman's face (full of honest truth justice and the American way) or Clark Kent's (full of honest broad Kansas farm-boy "trust me" openness). Somehow darker. Somehow...more like his own.
J'onn was seated in the Monitor Womb, watching the world pass by. He turned when Batman came in, looking mildly inquisitive. "How can I help you, Batman?"
"I was wondering--" Horrified, he heard himself. Batman never "wondered." If he had a question, he asked. More usually he simply demanded the information he sought. He certainly never *hesitated.*
He was hesitating now. "...have you noticed--"
Ridiculous. If there was a problem, J'onn would have said. He was jumping at shadows. "--Never mind."
J'onn was still looking at him calmly, rather too calmly as if he already knew what Batman had meant to ask, and was suppressing a grin. Now *there* was an absurd thought, far too close to the paranoia certain of his teammates (Kyle. Wally. Even Arthur, who should know better) accused him of under their breath. But J'onn just nodded politely and said, "Of course."
He chose retreat in an attempt to save his shredded dignity, and wondered if he'd really seen the ghost of a smile cross the Martian Manhunter's lips as he'd turned away.
The meeting went as they usually did. Superman did his duty as chairman efficiently and without conceit. Green Lantern doodled on a ring-created pad and complained softly to the Flash about being stuck on monitor duty on Friday nights. Wonder Woman watched them with a tolerant eye, then turned her attention to Aquaman, who had started pushing again for JLA action against ocean polluters. The Martian Manhunter counciled patience, though Batman suspected that a few weak-hulled oil tankers might never leave port again once J'onn had performed some very quiet sabotage. Plastic Man, his flexible limbs everywhere, made vague and harmless and occasionally useful suggestions in between jokes.
Batman watched it all, as always silent unless something demanded his response, given in a low terse tone that forced the others' attention. That was only one of his weapons, and still an effective one.
When the meeting ended J'onn called him for a consultation over the computers and certain linkages to Oracle's database. That finished, the Manhunter retreated again to the Monitor Womb, explaining that he was going to run a thorough diagnostic to ensure the new connections were all functional. All internal sensors would be inoperable for a few hours. Annoying, but necessary, the Batman reminded himself as he paced through the Watchtower levels; their security was only as good as the systems and the minds behind them. He trusted Oracle's programming and Steel's hardware and Scott Free's intruder baffles, but it all still needed to be checked, integrated with other systems, double-checked. There really wasn't any reason for him to stay here when he had work to do in--
Superman stood in the meeting room, staring out one of the wide clear panels down to Earth below. His cape lay carelessly draped over a chair; strangely, without it he seemed even bigger, his body outlined in blue and red spandex that clung to him, hiding nothing.
He turned when Batman came in, that same too-knowing *look* of the past few weeks blossoming now into a wide and somehow disturbing smile. "Bruce."
It was a terrible breach of protocol, but they were the only ones here. He could play at this game, too. He wasn't addressing Superman, then.... "Clark."
Still with that odd smile, the other man shook his head slowly. "Try again."
...and belatedly, Batman realized just who stood in the room with him.
Not Superman, a living symbol of all that was Good, the world's greatest hero. Not even Clark Kent, a man raised in America's heartland with all the morality his Earth-born parents could instill in a child who fell from the stars.
Here stood Kal-El of Krypton, and for the first time the Batman had no idea what the man who walked toward him was going to do.
Coming closer. He should have tensed, prepared for an attack, but the habit of trusting this man was too deeply ingrained. Although he wasn't quite sure--
Superman, he knew. Superman chose without choosing to use his powers for justice and right. Superman led the Justice League but deferred to Batman in matters of tactics and strategy. Batman and Superman were the world's finest team; human brilliance and ingenuity and superhuman power and strength of will. Their motives and methods differed, but their objectives never did.
Clark Kent, he knew. Clark blushed at a coarse word but was tenacious enough to finesse interviews with world leaders. Clark Kent lived under Superman's skin, a constant tempering human factor in an alien body. They'd always been opposites: Where Clark put on a cape and became Superman, Batman put on a suit and became Bruce Wayne.
He could handle either of those men. But this one....
"Kal," he said softly, almost desperately, and then Kal-El's mouth was on his.
*He could have asked,* the outraged thought flashed through him, and just as fast the reason why Kal hadn't. The answer would have been "no," of course, what other answer could there be? But this...
If he'd made a sound, moved, the tiniest motion that he didn't want this, it would have ended.
He didn't. He *couldn't.* That mouth on his, searing him with a deep kiss, a *serious* kiss that he felt all the way down. Kal's hands--big, strong, incredibly gentle hands despite the awesome strength they contained--on his body, pulling him closer still. Kal might have given him the option to pull back. His own body, his own whirling emotions, didn't want anything but this.
No choice then but to kiss him back, hands scrabbling frantically at that broad muscled back. It went on, Kal's lips sliding firmly over his, tongues tangling, starting to feel the need for oxygen but unwilling to pull away because the body against his had become his new center of gravity, an irresistible force he needed more than breath.
Kal finally took mercy on him, pulling back just enough to let him gasp for air. Unbelievingly, he felt himself blushing. The Batman didn't blush...!
But *Bruce* might. In this situation.
"Kal." Just the name, layered in tones of acceptance and acquiescence. He reached down deep, to that rarely accessed place where Bruce Wayne lived, and let it happen.
Kal-El smiled, his hand coming up to sweep the shrouding cowl away even though the mask of the Bat had already fallen. "Bruce. Nice to see you. Finally." Which was apparently enough talk, because Bruce felt himself pulled in again, went willingly. Another kiss, deeper still, and this time Kal's hands were wringing sounds out of him. A gasp, and then a moan. He would have begged if he'd had breath for it, or any coherent thought at all. Nothing now but sheer need, Kal rubbing against him hard everywhere but most especially *there,* an insistent pressure against his thigh, and his own arousal making him arch helplessly into Kal's body, aching for a touch.
A chuckle, low and deep, and Kal's hand dropped down to stroke him through his costume. His breath hissed out, turned into a groan as Kal stripped away the kevlar and nomex from his lower body, lifting him with that effortless Kryptonian strength. He was turned, placed half-sitting at the edge of the table, all without breaking the kiss.
When it ended he thought to say something, anything, but his words were lost at the enveloping touch of that mouth on him, around him, burning heat and he cried out because it was just too *much.* Kal's hands stroked at his sides, soothing and stimulating at the same time. That tongue, far too knowledgeable, teased, circled, tasted. Hot wet pressure making him writhe, shuddering helplessly, forgetting discipline and control and everything that made him the Batman as Kal straightened, hand replacing mouth, and whispered in his ear. "Let go. Now."
Bruce surrendered to that undeniable command, and did.
Still trembling he was gathered up, kissed again while slick fingers slid around, into him. He clutched at Kal's shoulders, moaned into his mouth, a wordless "yes." Gently but relentlessly Kal turned him, bending Bruce so that he could see his own breath misting on the table under his harsh panting. The name escaped him a third time--"Kal!"--this time pleading for something he'd needed, never knowing it.
Kal-El leaned over him, his voice still gentle even now. "Bruce." He felt himself spread, opened, entered slowly and steadily, slight pain fading swiftly and replaced with more than just physical pleasure; the feeling that this, finally, was something that Bruce Wayne could have for himself.
Kal's hand stroked down his back in rhythm with his unhurried thrusts. Bruce rocked under the motion, his breathing matching Kal's, moving under Kal's pace. He was in control of nothing at the moment, not even his own body--
The realization was as exhilarating as it was shocking. Liberating. In surrendering both mind and body to Kal-El's whim... he'd found himself.
"Pay attention, Bruce," Kal murmured in his ear, and lifted him again, turning his body so that Bruce faced him again, all while still connected. Bruce hooked his legs around Kal's waist and this time *he* initiated the kiss. Opening his mouth, opening his body, letting Kal in as deeply--emotionally as well as physically--as anyone had been since the Bat had come to him.
And then there wasn't any thinking at all, just the movement of their bodies together, and the sounds they made, and finally the way they shuddered against each other and held on even after the wave had crashed over them, and subsided.
Kal-El just smiled. "I've spent enough time around you, did you think I wasn't paying attention?"
"...so you set me up, is that it?" Outmaneuvered by the Kryptonian; if he weren't so exhaustedly content with the result, he'd be embarrassed.
"Are you complaining?" Kal teased, and then more seriously: "You needed this. We needed this."
On so many levels. "Yes," he said, and laid his head on Kal's chest, and rested.
Quite awhile ago, I wrote that I wanted to see this: "Clark losing control. Letting himself be Kal-El. Letting himself act as a sexual being, which Superman cannot be. Forgetting power, and responsibility, and the weight of the world if only for an afternoon.
"And this: Bruce losing control. Forgetting about the Bat for a minute or an hour. Crazed with lust, forgetting his training, losing the discipline that keeps him locked in his own head."
Took me awhile, but here's a shot at it. :)