by the Jack
Author's website: http://www.livejournal.com/users/buggery/59829.html
Author's livejournal: http://buggery.livejournal.com/


Thanks to Bill Finger and Bob Kane for creating the Batman; to Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel for creating Superman; to Jack Schiff and Mort Weisinger, for being the first to bring the Word's Finest team together; and to the ever-growing family of artists, writers, editors and other lovers of the comics craft at DC who have made the boys better and better over the years. Someday, I believe, DC will let Bruce and Clark (and many other heroes) come out of the closet. Until then, there is slash. Thanks to my two beta readers, whose input made this story much better than it would've been otherwise. If it is 2004 or later, click the "Author Website" link to see who they are. Finally, thanks to my assignee for requesting "NC-17 sex." I hope this is sufficiently adult-rated for you, Liz.

Title taken from William Shakespeare's Hamlet, Act II, Scene II, line 242: What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinte in faculty! In form and moving, how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! ( Read the full scene for yourself at: http://www.bartleby.com/46/2/22.html )
 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He slams into me again, and I almost can't help the breathy grunt. I don't actually want to.

For me, this is all about relaxing the control I was raised never to forget, never to relinquish. I let it go, now, moan and push back against him. It's not like this with anyone else I've ever been with. When we're together this way, I almost don't have to hold back my strength at all, don't have to constantly remember to rein myself in. There's that same terrifying freedom even when I'm the one claiming him, but this surrender has its own attractions.

I could push free of his hold, of course, but I don't put that much force into it, and he uses just enough that I barely move at all. I know Bruce isn't in fact stronger than is possible for a normal human, but oh, he can make me feel like he is.

His kevlar-gloved fingers entwine with my own, squeeze hard. Harder even than I probably would have, and oh yeah, the suit's protection has its benefits. Just like every time we do this, he's kept as much of the Batman suit on as possible. I've come privately to the conclusion that he needs it on; not for the armor, and not for the disguise, but because he's himself in it. He can almost make me feel like I'm human, myself, ground me enough in the reactions he draws out of my body that the constant mental background noise of analysis and commentary is drowned out, if not quite extinguished.

With the added leverage of our clasped hands, his next thrust into me is even harder. The thick, slick material of the Batsuit presses briefly to my buttocks and thighs as he grinds his hips. Then it's just his arms along my own, his chest covering my back, his knees keeping mine spread where I can feel his second skin against me.

This is what keeps bringing me back for more with him: that it's not just one-way, not just him trusting his fragile human body to me. When he's the one in me, like now, he pounds into me like I'm exactly as invulnerable as I am.

Another thrust that would shatter lesser men. I tighten my fingers in his, just short of how much would bruise him, I think. I suspect I often do bruise him, though I've respected his boundaries enough not to peek through the suit and be sure. He growls briefly into the back of my neck, bites the muscle of my shoulder hard enough that I worry about his teeth. Another, and another, and he's not slackening the force or pace of his strokes into me, but he's not speeding the pace any, either. Just snapping his hips in this steady, inexorable rhythm.

I moan and spread my legs a little further, tilt my own hips up in a more entreating angle. "More, harder, fuck, please--" I'm babbling, the words just spilling between the punishing drives of his hips. Bruce's stamina, like his strength, is easily mistaken for superhuman.

He just chuckles, a breath's worth of amusement, and doesn't alter his pace one bit. Which is fine, wonderful actually; his control keeps me in exactly the right place, where my own is out of reach. He knows this is the perfect tempo, knows what it does to me, how it makes me pant and curse and whimper with how good it is.

His hard length spitting me, his bunched muscles driving it in, the achingly long pull out before he does it again. I put my head down and move my hips in the lulls of his rhythm, needing more.

"God, Bruce, good, so... good," I say, or words like those. I'm barely aware of what the words are, just needing to make syllables out of what would otherwise be raw, animal noise. He'll have me insensible soon enough.

I arch my spine, push my back up against his chest, rub back and forth with the little bit of maneuvering room I have within the bounds of his arms. I can feel the difference in texture where the breastplate protects his chest, the less yielding metal under the fabric, or I imagine I can.

He knows me well enough to know what I want. A shift changes his center of gravity, and the weight of his chest presses down on my back. I moan.

I know what his chest looks like, underneath, more densely muscled than my own, sparsely haired and thickly scarred. His body is gorgeous, in a way completely different from my too-perfect figure, toned and honed and used, and I've long fantasized about seeing it in this context.

The image is hard to hold on to when I can feel that unmistakably unnatural texture slip and shove against me, feel it everywhere we're touching. I whimper, stroking his gauntlets with my thumbs, twitching my hips to feel that wrong friction during the instants when his pelvis is flush to mine. And somehow he deduces or intuits what I need, or it's just the happiest coincidence of the year, but he presses his bare cheek to my shoulder. There's a barely noticeable hint of stubble, and I savor the way it tries to abrade my impervious flesh. My own skin is damp with sweat, making it hard to tell, but I think his is, too, so the salt of his body is mixing with mine. It's such a human thing, this almost alchemical bonding, that I groan. The rough motions of our bodies drag his jaw across the back of my neck.

"Yes, God, just-- just like-- just like that--"

Sometimes I wish he would let me take the suit off, so I could feel his naked skin touching mine everywhere. Part of me wants that more typical intimacy. But then he'd be just another lover I had to handle like a blown-glass figurine. And with him, of course, doing this with the Batsuit on is far more intimate than it could ever be if he were naked in the way I am.

He shifts again, and I wouldn't have thought I could get any harder, but that's what it feels like. He's fucking me so hard my own erection is slapping against the clenched muscles of my stomach, a quarter-beat after each slap of his sac against mine, a repeating tease that the new angle just inflames that much more. My eyes are rolling up in my head and my hands keep wanting to steal down to relieve the ache of frustration in my groin, but the fingers twined in mine tighten again, and I drop my head further.

Acquiesce, again.

"Bruce, fuck, touch me--"

"No."

"Please."

"No."

He's not breathing nearly as hard as he should be -- not even as hard as I am -- and his voice is maddeningly steady. Controlled.

"Bruce-- fuck-- I need-- tell me-- just-- oh, God--"

I think he's going to stay silent, but when a sob interrupts the gush of words, his low voice steals in to cover mine.

"Tell you... what?" It's the Batman asking, dark, almost menacing, and I gasp. I can feel the vibration right through into my own lungs and larynx.

"That you're tight? Sweet?" His words are as even as the thrusts into me that just don't stop. "That no one but me can do this to you?"

I moan long and loud at that, but he just talks over me. "That only I" --thrust-- "can make you weak?" He's speaking in the tempo his hips are beating into me, so unwavering it makes me shake with the desire to force some reaction out of him, shake with the effort not to try. He raises his head, licks up the curve of my ear and rumbles into it, "That only I can bring you to your knees and make you beg?"

And I would beg, oh, I would, but I can't form the words to do it anymore, just keen my need, a high, hurt wail. His voice is just one more stroke teasing me closer to orgasm, and I have to get away from it. I drop my shoulders, bury my face in the mattress.

It's so close to enough...

The change in angle is so good I half-expect him to order me back up, with the part of my awareness still able to consider such things. Instead he gives my hands one last squeeze, lets go and lays his palms flat on my shoulderblades. Pushes. "That only I can hold you down and make you mine?"

All I can do is nod spastically, smearing sweat and spit and salt into the fabric under my face. My fists close so tightly I think I'd break the skin of my palms with my own fingernails, if that were possible.

"Say it," he growls. Something below my gut convulses, and I can't believe I'm not coming, but it's still just beyond my reach. He slides his hands down, wraps my neck in a kevlar grip, squeezes. I gasp for air like he's actually strangling me, gasp for breath my body's forgotten to draw and gasp for the focus I need to answer him. "Say it," he repeats, sounding almost inhuman, like something's got him by the throat.

I'm gasping helplessly, gulping huge lungfuls of air but I just can't find the equilibrium I need to be able to answer between his still-even strokes.

Then he stops.

Shoves into me and holds there, pinning me down with hips and hands. I wrench my head to the side, holler "--yeees!"

He grunts, withdraws -- and goes back to that same damn rhythm only finally, finally it's just a little faster, just a little harder. Not enough more, yet; I'm still working my hips into his with rising urgency, still whimpering like a hurt animal. My legs spread further apart. The arch of my back crushes my cheek into the mattress, lifts my rear to the sweat-slick synthetic smacking rhythmically against it.

His thrusts feel like they're sparking fire along my spine, a blaze that could flare up and consume me if the friction wasn't still deliberately too slow. It's tempting to levitate us right off the bed; my body's learned that trick won't get it what it craves, though. The tempo is building, but at a rate that won't quite be enough to push me over the edge for hours, and there's a dim feeling of panic that Bruce is going to make me wait exactly as long as he's capable of doing.

Friction and slickness and brute force, and Bruce's drives into me are striking at just the right place, so nearly the right pace. I'm so close to being able to come just like this, so close it feels like my cremaster is going to cramp and I can already see the white at the edges of my vision... but I can't, quite, actually get there. I'm all but crying into the sheets, begging Bruce with incoherent noises and the desperate movement of my body to let me climax.

I know he's coming only by the slightest hitch in his harsh breathing, the faintest contraction of his hands, the feel of him spasming inside me. He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, just keeps fucking me like his dick won't wilt if he wills it not to. Past experience indicates that, in fact, it won't.

"Oh, God--"

He laughs, above me, squeezes my shoulders in a way that might be comforting at some other time. Drags his hands down my sides, gloved fingertips brushing lightly enough to tickle if my body wasn't long past the point of reacting to stimuli so mild. Still stroking into me, he hooks his hands around my waist, fingers slipping into the hollows of my hipbones. So close -- so –

"Are you ready for me to let you come?" I almost don't hear him over the roaring in my ears, the distraction of a line drawn from my thigh up to my ribs with the point of a knuckle.

I could have answered, I think, would have, even, but he takes hold of my testicles, enfolds them in one big hand and clenches it tight. My mouth gapes open like a fish's, like I'm drowning in air; I can't remember how to breathe. His fist closes tighter, tighter, until I hear him grunt with the effort. I could probably come just from this, this delicious, intimate and unfamiliar pinch, but my body is too confused to know what to make of it at this point. Pleasure, pain, privation, all blurred together.

He pulls downwards, making skin shift, pulls and pulls. It's like the ghost of a hand fondling me. I gasp, gasp again at the shock of air flooding back into my lungs. His hand tightens one last time and returns to my hip.

"I--" I have no idea what I'm trying to say, if I'm trying to say anything at all. Maybe I'm simply giving voice to my need in time to his thrusts, "I-- I-- I-- I--" Maybe not "I" at all, just another animal cry.

Bruce's pelvis creaks audibly as he plunges into me with one last ferocious lunge, and then pulls abruptly all the way out to sit back on his haunches behind me. I push back for the contact that's been so suddenly withdrawn, not even thinking about it, my body moving on instinct. But he just chuckles and grabs me by the hips, holding me away from him.

"Turn over, Clark," he says, voice gruff, overlaid with amusement and affection.

I roll onto my back with all the speed available to me and spread my legs in wanton need. When his reaction catches up, I've startled a smile out of him; it looks sinister beneath the cowl. He's still half-erect, still not tucked away, and I stare at the narrow band of damp, dark hair that's exposed. He chuckles again, making me realize I'm licking my lips. I glance up to find him licking his own, deliberately and suggestively. Every muscle in my groin flexes, and I moan like I'm mortally wounded.

He crouches forward, gloved hands on my thighs to spread them further as much as to take his weight. Eases himself slowly down, down over me.

"Bruce," I say, and then blink, startled at how intelligible I sound. It doesn't matter. I know he won't let it last.

He's smirking again, still leaning in in the world's slowest pounce. He doesn't stop until he's almost on me, until his breath is on me, highlighting the sticky wetness of pre-ejaculate that's dripped and daubed down my foreskin and abdomen. My hips twitch one way, my shoulders twisting the other; he tightens his grip on my legs enough that I get the message not to move too much. I settle for arching my back, leaving my hips still.

I'm so contorted by need I can only barely see him over the rise of my own ribcage. He dips his head, and I close my eyes against the frustration of not being able to see his mouth touch me.

Maddeningly, he pauses, turns his head to rake teeth over the point of my hipbone, and it actually hurts with not being where I need that grazing scrape. I try to say his name again, but it comes out a whine that would probably be embarrassing if I wasn't so far gone with desperation. His breath tickles over my skin when he chuckles again, but he soothes the sting with a wet press of his mouth, licking and sucking in the hollow of my hip. My head thrashes against the mattress.

He pushes my legs wider apart, pushes up and back, and trails his tongue down to where I'm still throbbing in time to the thrusts that so recently filled me. Laps at the stretched opening, lightly, then with the flat of his tongue, and then dipping in, not deep or hard, just enough to tease the rim from the inside. Pulls his tongue back into his mouth and clamps his teeth down in my cleft like he's trying to bite me a new orifice.

Reaching down, I grasp the backs of my knees and hold myself open. Another gooseflesh-raising laugh, then he licks a long, slick stripe up from between my spread cheeks to where his tongue tangles in the loose skin surrounding my testicles. He probes there, the muscle even of his tongue impressively strong. His whole mouth gets into the act, lips nipping, suction pulling flesh in to catch against his teeth. Opening his jaw wider, he sucks in a good mouthful and bites down. There's an image of a movie gangster cracking nuts in his teeth which barely registers under the rush of startling pleasure, but that part of me knows I'll laugh at later.

And then my full length is engulfed in his mouth, his shift up so fast it's my response that lags this time. The sensation is almost too much after so much hyperstimulation without direct touch, and my body doesn't quite know how to react at first. He takes advantage of my stunned stillness to shift his shoulders into position against the insides of my thighs, freeing his hands to pin my hips down. Just in time, too, the wet working of his teeth and tongue and cheeks finally registering on me to provoke a serpentine, shoulders-to-waist roll, my torso flexing back and curling forward again. And I stay there, letting go of my knees to prop myself on my elbows and watch.

Though there's a lot more to feel than to see as the last of me disappears up between his lips, I crave, as much as ever, the sight of his mask pressing flush to my abdomen. My eyes try to roll back in their sockets when he swallows me into his throat; I force them to stay open, to refocus on the cowled head between my legs. He's moving in that same rhythm again, and now it's nothing but right. Heat and wet and suction, and hunger enough for both of us. I'm the one who can actually do without breathing, but Bruce is the one who gives head like he can, going down and down and sliding slickly back up and so smoothly down again and I can't figure out why he's not gasping for breath and I can't believe I can still think and he's so perfectly good at this—

And his brutal grip on my pelvis shifts from holding me in place to prompting me to thrust up -- and I do -- thrust up, fucking into his throat, and he takes it seemingly effortlessly, this deadly jab at his windpipe and carotid and spine and only his control is keeping me from rupturing all that vulnerable tissue -- and I'm screaming, my orgasm finally overtaking me, squeezing pleasure from me as forcibly as the contraction of his throat. He pulls back while I'm still pulsing through it, tongue swiping against my slit, teeth raking the ridge of my glans, but I'm only dimly aware of it. Perfect recall does have all sorts of uses.

I wonder if this is what exhaustion is like, trembling and feeling sweat crawl down my forehead into my scalp and waiting for the strobing haze to clear from my eyes.

Bruce lets me slip from his mouth, leaves my spent cock to soften against my thigh, aftershock twitches smearing the skin there with spit-slickness.

My vision must have returned to normal, because I can see him as he crawls back up to face me, see how wetly swollen his mouth is. My lips part wider, anticipating the touch of his reddened ones. I want to see his eyes, can imagine what they'd look like behind the mask -- sleepy with satiation, sharp with humor, shining with something deeper -- but don't actually look. I can taste the coming kiss, his breath stealing into my mouth from mere inches' distance.

Then he stills, reaches up; pushes the cowl back from his face. And it's not fair that his tongue steals into my mouth so seductively my eyes close, but he lets it end in a messy riposte of lips; and when I open them again he's smiling, just enough to be discernible, with his mouth and with his eyes.

I can't hold back a matching grin, and there's no reason not to let it show.

 ~End~