COMICS BIG BANG: THAT WHICH WE CALL A ROSE (CLARK/BRUCE, NC-17) III
Fic title: That Which We Call A Rose
Author name: arysteia
Verse: DCU, but feel free to mix and match your favourites
Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Superman, Superman/Batman, Batman/Clark Kent *g*
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 12,028
Warnings/Spoilers: Apparently Big Bang fics can involve long, complicated plots? This fic... Is not that fic. Explicit sex, no spoilers.
Summary: The course of true love never did run smooth. When Clark Kent met Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne met Superman. And Superman met Batman. And Batman met Clark Kent. And Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne finally got their acts together...
Superman and Batman, Cygnus IV, 2005
Superman and Batman will never be friends. That much is obvious from the very first day they meet. It’s largely Superman’s fault, he’s a big enough man to admit that in the years that follow. He really could have handled that all important first meeting better, but then, he hadn’t expected to be accosted in the Gotham night by a man dressed as a giant bat. He overcompensates for the shock with a lecture about vigilantism even he realises is sanctimonious and hypocritical, and Batman takes it about as badly as might be expected. When he goes so far as to order Superman out of his city, the scene is set for every interaction for years to come.
For an alien, Superman is every inch a corn-fed, middle-American jackass, and it’s obvious from the moment Batman meets him. For a man who’s done so much to inspire others, has in fact done so much to inspire Batman himself, he’s judgmental, self-righteous, and totally out of line. He has no understanding of how a city like Gotham works, and Batman is quick to tell him so. In hindsight, it’s possible he could have been more diplomatic - Metropolis might be a children’s playground by comparison to Gotham, but Superman more than pulls his weight when it comes to the heavy hitters and intergalactic threats - but what’s done is done.
They work together more and more often once they form the fledgling team that will become the Justice League. They fight like a seamless unit, and they both know they make each other better heroes. The one-two punch of tactics and firepower they provide is well-nigh unstoppable, and the envy of all their comrades. The way it all falls apart when they get back to the Watchtower, however, is a mystery to all, including themselves. Their inability to be in the same room without bickering is the stuff of legend, and the fact that water-cooler gossip attributes it to a failed romance is too laughable to be annoying. Superman would never contemplate a relationship with someone who won’t show him his face, and Batman... Batman doesn’t dwell on the past, or things he can’t change.
Superman’s admiration for Batman’s bravery and intelligence is eclipsed only by his frustration at his intransigence and wilful disregard for his own safety. It’s only natural he’d attempt to downplay his relative fragility, surrounded as he is by the invulnerable and the gravity defying, but he should just accept that there are some things he can’t do. For heaven’s sake, there are a million things he can do that the others can’t - formulating a plan and allowing for every permutation and eventuality is one thing that springs immediately to mind - so he should acknowledge his physical limitations and let the others take the brunt of the punishment.
The only thing bigger than Superman’s heart is his insane recklessness. He’s so confident in his yellow sun granted strength and invulnerability that he’s never once taken the time to consider what he’d do without either. It’s a shortcoming Batman’s tried hard and often to remedy, but Superman defies him with an optimism bordering on lunacy. He’s the first into every battle, never once waiting for Batman to complete the recon or formulate a plan more complicated than See giant robot - Punch giant robot - Reveal giant robot’s kryptonite heart - Writhe in pain until Batman can neutralise and/or contain said specimen. Inevitably he then has the gall to complain that he was only doing what was necessary. “Fight smarter, not harder” is clearly a mantra missing from his playbook.
“God damn it!” Batman shouts as the Javelin flight sequence fails yet again to initiate. They’re stranded on this godforsaken rock until someone with a flight ring notices they haven’t made the rendezvous, and deigns to come looking for them. He’s got six inches of rebar piercing his shoulder, and it’s making it hard to exercise the fine motor control needed to pluck shrapnel out of wounds. Especially when said shrapnel is fragmented kryptonite from an explosion Superman would have been safely out of range of if he’d actually been standing where Batman had stationed him, and said wounds are gaping open in Superman’s beautiful face and neck, veins pulsing a poisoned, treacherous green-black around them.
He’s starting to lose feeling in his hand, and as the blood drips down his arm to fall in steady drops from the fingers of his gauntlet, he can feel his body temperature dropping and his head growing light as hypovolemic shock sets in. More to the point, Superman’s breath is beginning to rattle in his chest, and his usually rock steady heart beat is erratic. With a sigh Batman picks up the pair of needle-nosed pliers he’d been using on the innards of the Javelin’s control panel, and takes a firm hold of the inch of rusted metal sticking out of the front of his body armour. It takes three good twists, each more excruciating than the last, and he almost throws up as it finally gives, pulling free with a wet slurp and falling to the ground, along with the pliers, from suddenly nerveless fingers.
He tries to breathe through it; long, deep breaths in followed by short, shallow breaths out, as he learned years ago, his concentration on the soul and not the body, but it’s hard, too hard, and he knows with sickening certainty he’s going to bleed out before he can stitch himself up. His last semi-conscious memory is of reaching for Superman’s hand.
Superman’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours when he suddenly registers a change through the haze of pain and dizziness. Batman’s heart beat, a rock steady metronome beat he’s always used to centre himself, is slowing. He forces himself back to wakefulness, struggles to open his eyes. Batman is slumped over him, one black gauntleted hand clenched in the neck of his suit, the other curled loosely around his own bare hand, sticky with blood.
He follows the slowing thread of Batman’s pulse back past his heart, up to his shoulder and the gruesome wound there. Yes, he remembers now, Batman working feverishly to dismantle the last of the mines, insisting that Superman stand back as the sheer amount of kryptonite involved was affecting him even from a distance, the tell-tale click, audible only to him, as a second switch tripped, giving him only seconds to grab Batman and fly him out of the blast radius. With the last of his fading strength he focuses tightly on the wound. The effort it takes to force his vision to the right position on the spectrum, and concentrate hard enough to cauterise the wound, is enough to knock him out again.
When he comes to once more, the kryptonite splinters in his face and neck have been removed, and safely contained. Batman is glaring down at him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, his voice a growl usually reserved for the worst of Gotham scum.
“Me?” Superman asks defensively. “What were you thinking?”
It’s a debate they’ve had a thousand times before, and they could run through it in their sleep.
“Why won’t you ever do as I say?”
“Why don’t you ever say what you mean?”
“I don’t know-”
“That you’re glad I’m okay!”
“You’d be okay if you did what I said!”
“You wouldn’t be!”
This time though, for some reason, they deviate from the script. It’s hard to tell who moves first, but the next thing either of them knows they’re kissing, no less angrily than they were fighting, teeth clacking violently, lips bruising and breaking open. Superman’s still healing from the kryptonite exposure and feels every bit of Batman’s aggression. He seizes control of the kiss back, grasping Batman’s shoulders and throwing him up against the wall. Batman grunts as his injured shoulder hits the bulkhead, but doesn’t pause. His teeth scrape down Superman’s neck and shoulder, pulling aside the neck of the suit to gnaw at his collarbones.
They collapse to the floor, each fighting for dominance, never once letting go as they roll over and over in each others arms. Batman’s fingers clench, digging into Superman’s biceps, and Superman relishes in the feeling, and the knowledge that for once he’ll be marked, however briefly. Superman’s fingers curl in the edges of the cowl, wishing he could just tear it off once and for all and finally see this infuriating man who has nothing but scorn for him but would die to save him, but a growl from Batman makes it very clear just where his boundaries lie.
They grind against each other, and finally Batman finds the hidden catches in Superman’s suit, slipping a hand inside. The gauntlet he’s still wearing is rough on Superman’s sensitised flesh, almost too rough, and his uninjured hand, his left, is clumsy, but it’s still the best thing Superman’s ever felt. Batman strokes him a couple of times, then pulls the leggings of his suit down roughly, leaning in in one smooth movement to swallow Superman down. He doesn’t stop until his mouth is flush with Superman’s groin, and Superman cries out as he swallows, the impossible tightness of Batman’s throat flexing and massaging the entire length of his cock.
It’s an awkward angle, but Superman forces himself up on one elbow, and looks down the length of his body. It’s a sight he doubts anyone else has ever seen, the Batman sprawled across his lower body, his cape spread over them both like a blanket, his cowled head bobbing up and down in Superman’s lap. It should look ridiculous, comical, but it doesn’t, and Superman’s filled with a sense of genuine affection as well as mounting arousal. The visible part of Batman’s face is flushed and slick with sweat, and his cheeks form deep hollows as he sucks hard. Superman rubs a thumb across his upper lip, allowing it to just slip under the curve of the mask, then slides his hand round to cup Batman’s neck.
The gentleness is at odds with the roughness of everything else, but there’s something so endearing and fragile about the bones of Batman’s skull shifting under his grasp it makes him pause. He thinks for a fraction of a second of the only other man he’s ever done this with, but shakes the memory off as ill-timed and inappropriate. Batman pulls off briefly to lick around the head of his cock, and back down to his balls, sucking each one in turn into his mouth. Superman moans and comes, and Batman greedily drinks him down, before patting him once, an oddly comradely gesture, then tucking his limp, spent organ back into his suit.
They lie there for a few moments, Batman’s head pillowed on Superman’s thigh, in companionable silence, then Superman shoves him off and rolls him onto his back. Batman remains silent, teeth clenching on his lower lip as Superman takes him into his mouth. His inexperience is still obvious; it’s clear he hasn’t made a habit of this sort of thing in the last few years, and it makes it even better, knowing that the Man of Steel would never do this for anyone else, that all his strength and raw power is caged just for him.
What Superman lacks in experience he more than makes up for in enthusiasm, slurping wetly, nuzzling Batman’s balls, licking up and down the length of him, and pulling off to hold just the sensitive head in his mouth. He can’t take more than half Batman’s length in his mouth at a time, but he uses his hand on what he can’t reach, stroking gently. He pulls off at the finish, leaning up to capture Batman’s mouth in a kiss, swallowing his groan as he comes, hot and wet in Superman’s hand.
His whole body’s shaking, and his eyes are tightly closed, he can’t bear to look. Superman just pulls him close, heedless of the mess smearing sticky on the front of his suit, and holds him till he stops shuddering. For that brief moment he’s the fledgling hero again, kind and comforting and so very, very sweet, and it’s horrible how much Batman misses someone he never even met. The console starts beeping soon after, and they both put themselves to rights as best they can - Batman’s well-stocked utility belt never more useful - before the others arrive.
Superman and Batman do eventually become friends. Best friends even. It’s entirely possible that they’re the last to know, a fact which causes Superman great amusement, and Batman untold irritation. They grow to be comrades in arms, shield brothers, even occasional lovers, from time to time, when the fear is great enough, the battle close enough, the emotions high enough. It’s just a shame that the need for secrecy means they’ll never be more.
Part IV
Author name: arysteia
Verse: DCU, but feel free to mix and match your favourites
Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Superman, Superman/Batman, Batman/Clark Kent *g*
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 12,028
Warnings/Spoilers: Apparently Big Bang fics can involve long, complicated plots? This fic... Is not that fic. Explicit sex, no spoilers.
Summary: The course of true love never did run smooth. When Clark Kent met Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne met Superman. And Superman met Batman. And Batman met Clark Kent. And Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne finally got their acts together...
Superman and Batman, Cygnus IV, 2005
Superman and Batman will never be friends. That much is obvious from the very first day they meet. It’s largely Superman’s fault, he’s a big enough man to admit that in the years that follow. He really could have handled that all important first meeting better, but then, he hadn’t expected to be accosted in the Gotham night by a man dressed as a giant bat. He overcompensates for the shock with a lecture about vigilantism even he realises is sanctimonious and hypocritical, and Batman takes it about as badly as might be expected. When he goes so far as to order Superman out of his city, the scene is set for every interaction for years to come.
For an alien, Superman is every inch a corn-fed, middle-American jackass, and it’s obvious from the moment Batman meets him. For a man who’s done so much to inspire others, has in fact done so much to inspire Batman himself, he’s judgmental, self-righteous, and totally out of line. He has no understanding of how a city like Gotham works, and Batman is quick to tell him so. In hindsight, it’s possible he could have been more diplomatic - Metropolis might be a children’s playground by comparison to Gotham, but Superman more than pulls his weight when it comes to the heavy hitters and intergalactic threats - but what’s done is done.
They work together more and more often once they form the fledgling team that will become the Justice League. They fight like a seamless unit, and they both know they make each other better heroes. The one-two punch of tactics and firepower they provide is well-nigh unstoppable, and the envy of all their comrades. The way it all falls apart when they get back to the Watchtower, however, is a mystery to all, including themselves. Their inability to be in the same room without bickering is the stuff of legend, and the fact that water-cooler gossip attributes it to a failed romance is too laughable to be annoying. Superman would never contemplate a relationship with someone who won’t show him his face, and Batman... Batman doesn’t dwell on the past, or things he can’t change.
Superman’s admiration for Batman’s bravery and intelligence is eclipsed only by his frustration at his intransigence and wilful disregard for his own safety. It’s only natural he’d attempt to downplay his relative fragility, surrounded as he is by the invulnerable and the gravity defying, but he should just accept that there are some things he can’t do. For heaven’s sake, there are a million things he can do that the others can’t - formulating a plan and allowing for every permutation and eventuality is one thing that springs immediately to mind - so he should acknowledge his physical limitations and let the others take the brunt of the punishment.
The only thing bigger than Superman’s heart is his insane recklessness. He’s so confident in his yellow sun granted strength and invulnerability that he’s never once taken the time to consider what he’d do without either. It’s a shortcoming Batman’s tried hard and often to remedy, but Superman defies him with an optimism bordering on lunacy. He’s the first into every battle, never once waiting for Batman to complete the recon or formulate a plan more complicated than See giant robot - Punch giant robot - Reveal giant robot’s kryptonite heart - Writhe in pain until Batman can neutralise and/or contain said specimen. Inevitably he then has the gall to complain that he was only doing what was necessary. “Fight smarter, not harder” is clearly a mantra missing from his playbook.
“God damn it!” Batman shouts as the Javelin flight sequence fails yet again to initiate. They’re stranded on this godforsaken rock until someone with a flight ring notices they haven’t made the rendezvous, and deigns to come looking for them. He’s got six inches of rebar piercing his shoulder, and it’s making it hard to exercise the fine motor control needed to pluck shrapnel out of wounds. Especially when said shrapnel is fragmented kryptonite from an explosion Superman would have been safely out of range of if he’d actually been standing where Batman had stationed him, and said wounds are gaping open in Superman’s beautiful face and neck, veins pulsing a poisoned, treacherous green-black around them.
He’s starting to lose feeling in his hand, and as the blood drips down his arm to fall in steady drops from the fingers of his gauntlet, he can feel his body temperature dropping and his head growing light as hypovolemic shock sets in. More to the point, Superman’s breath is beginning to rattle in his chest, and his usually rock steady heart beat is erratic. With a sigh Batman picks up the pair of needle-nosed pliers he’d been using on the innards of the Javelin’s control panel, and takes a firm hold of the inch of rusted metal sticking out of the front of his body armour. It takes three good twists, each more excruciating than the last, and he almost throws up as it finally gives, pulling free with a wet slurp and falling to the ground, along with the pliers, from suddenly nerveless fingers.
He tries to breathe through it; long, deep breaths in followed by short, shallow breaths out, as he learned years ago, his concentration on the soul and not the body, but it’s hard, too hard, and he knows with sickening certainty he’s going to bleed out before he can stitch himself up. His last semi-conscious memory is of reaching for Superman’s hand.
Superman’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours when he suddenly registers a change through the haze of pain and dizziness. Batman’s heart beat, a rock steady metronome beat he’s always used to centre himself, is slowing. He forces himself back to wakefulness, struggles to open his eyes. Batman is slumped over him, one black gauntleted hand clenched in the neck of his suit, the other curled loosely around his own bare hand, sticky with blood.
He follows the slowing thread of Batman’s pulse back past his heart, up to his shoulder and the gruesome wound there. Yes, he remembers now, Batman working feverishly to dismantle the last of the mines, insisting that Superman stand back as the sheer amount of kryptonite involved was affecting him even from a distance, the tell-tale click, audible only to him, as a second switch tripped, giving him only seconds to grab Batman and fly him out of the blast radius. With the last of his fading strength he focuses tightly on the wound. The effort it takes to force his vision to the right position on the spectrum, and concentrate hard enough to cauterise the wound, is enough to knock him out again.
When he comes to once more, the kryptonite splinters in his face and neck have been removed, and safely contained. Batman is glaring down at him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, his voice a growl usually reserved for the worst of Gotham scum.
“Me?” Superman asks defensively. “What were you thinking?”
It’s a debate they’ve had a thousand times before, and they could run through it in their sleep.
“Why won’t you ever do as I say?”
“Why don’t you ever say what you mean?”
“I don’t know-”
“That you’re glad I’m okay!”
“You’d be okay if you did what I said!”
“You wouldn’t be!”
This time though, for some reason, they deviate from the script. It’s hard to tell who moves first, but the next thing either of them knows they’re kissing, no less angrily than they were fighting, teeth clacking violently, lips bruising and breaking open. Superman’s still healing from the kryptonite exposure and feels every bit of Batman’s aggression. He seizes control of the kiss back, grasping Batman’s shoulders and throwing him up against the wall. Batman grunts as his injured shoulder hits the bulkhead, but doesn’t pause. His teeth scrape down Superman’s neck and shoulder, pulling aside the neck of the suit to gnaw at his collarbones.
They collapse to the floor, each fighting for dominance, never once letting go as they roll over and over in each others arms. Batman’s fingers clench, digging into Superman’s biceps, and Superman relishes in the feeling, and the knowledge that for once he’ll be marked, however briefly. Superman’s fingers curl in the edges of the cowl, wishing he could just tear it off once and for all and finally see this infuriating man who has nothing but scorn for him but would die to save him, but a growl from Batman makes it very clear just where his boundaries lie.
They grind against each other, and finally Batman finds the hidden catches in Superman’s suit, slipping a hand inside. The gauntlet he’s still wearing is rough on Superman’s sensitised flesh, almost too rough, and his uninjured hand, his left, is clumsy, but it’s still the best thing Superman’s ever felt. Batman strokes him a couple of times, then pulls the leggings of his suit down roughly, leaning in in one smooth movement to swallow Superman down. He doesn’t stop until his mouth is flush with Superman’s groin, and Superman cries out as he swallows, the impossible tightness of Batman’s throat flexing and massaging the entire length of his cock.
It’s an awkward angle, but Superman forces himself up on one elbow, and looks down the length of his body. It’s a sight he doubts anyone else has ever seen, the Batman sprawled across his lower body, his cape spread over them both like a blanket, his cowled head bobbing up and down in Superman’s lap. It should look ridiculous, comical, but it doesn’t, and Superman’s filled with a sense of genuine affection as well as mounting arousal. The visible part of Batman’s face is flushed and slick with sweat, and his cheeks form deep hollows as he sucks hard. Superman rubs a thumb across his upper lip, allowing it to just slip under the curve of the mask, then slides his hand round to cup Batman’s neck.
The gentleness is at odds with the roughness of everything else, but there’s something so endearing and fragile about the bones of Batman’s skull shifting under his grasp it makes him pause. He thinks for a fraction of a second of the only other man he’s ever done this with, but shakes the memory off as ill-timed and inappropriate. Batman pulls off briefly to lick around the head of his cock, and back down to his balls, sucking each one in turn into his mouth. Superman moans and comes, and Batman greedily drinks him down, before patting him once, an oddly comradely gesture, then tucking his limp, spent organ back into his suit.
They lie there for a few moments, Batman’s head pillowed on Superman’s thigh, in companionable silence, then Superman shoves him off and rolls him onto his back. Batman remains silent, teeth clenching on his lower lip as Superman takes him into his mouth. His inexperience is still obvious; it’s clear he hasn’t made a habit of this sort of thing in the last few years, and it makes it even better, knowing that the Man of Steel would never do this for anyone else, that all his strength and raw power is caged just for him.
What Superman lacks in experience he more than makes up for in enthusiasm, slurping wetly, nuzzling Batman’s balls, licking up and down the length of him, and pulling off to hold just the sensitive head in his mouth. He can’t take more than half Batman’s length in his mouth at a time, but he uses his hand on what he can’t reach, stroking gently. He pulls off at the finish, leaning up to capture Batman’s mouth in a kiss, swallowing his groan as he comes, hot and wet in Superman’s hand.
His whole body’s shaking, and his eyes are tightly closed, he can’t bear to look. Superman just pulls him close, heedless of the mess smearing sticky on the front of his suit, and holds him till he stops shuddering. For that brief moment he’s the fledgling hero again, kind and comforting and so very, very sweet, and it’s horrible how much Batman misses someone he never even met. The console starts beeping soon after, and they both put themselves to rights as best they can - Batman’s well-stocked utility belt never more useful - before the others arrive.
Superman and Batman do eventually become friends. Best friends even. It’s entirely possible that they’re the last to know, a fact which causes Superman great amusement, and Batman untold irritation. They grow to be comrades in arms, shield brothers, even occasional lovers, from time to time, when the fear is great enough, the battle close enough, the emotions high enough. It’s just a shame that the need for secrecy means they’ll never be more.
Part IV