Politics and Superman

Bruce heard the first thud when he woke up. He reached out and found the space next to him cold.


Batman had barely climbed into bed not two hours ago. Clark didn’t really need sleep–but still, he made it a point to lie next to Bruce and doze, just so their bodies could share space and warmth.

Most nights.

“Diana,” Bruce said, putting on the com he’d left next to the bed. “Was Superman needed for anything last night?”

“No,” she said shortly. Then she sighed. “Just… you know. Reporting.”


“You know what would make our lives easier?” he snarled, that sick feeling churning in his stomach as it had for the past two years.

“We can’t,” she said, but her voice sounded void of resolve. “A vacuum is worse than a tyrant, Bruce–you know that.”

“It’s killing us,” Bruce said bluntly. “Living in this country, spending half our time fighting the policies of the traitor who’s supposed to be running it–“

I know that!” she cried. “Do you think I don’t know that? And we’re doing things–we are. You know that. But neither of you can be seen doing them, and…” She deflated. “Yesterday was just a bad day at work.”


Working as a reporter had been something Superman had been good at. Truth and justice–a reporter’s mantra. Having a president who literally spit in his face–it hurt something inside.

The thud sounded again, this time rattling the windows of Wayne manor. Fuck. Bruce needed to do something.

“Bat glider,” he rasped, knowing it would power up as he named it. With a yawn he ran toward the back of the house and the secret entrance to the Bat Cave, his bare feet thudding on the floorboards.

It took him fifteen minutes to suit up and fly to the quarry, which lay a good ten miles outside of Gotham. No machinery darkened the sky, no workers dotted the walls like ants–the place had long ago been shut down.

Today, it was occupied by one pissed off alien, using the side of the mountain as his own personal speedbag.

Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap– each small blow with the force of a jackhammer, and then, every five minutes or so, BAM. Every BAM ended with a shower of rocks from the hills above that might become deadly at any time.

Bruce launched himself out of the glider and sent it home with a verbal command, then used the fins on his suit to slow his descent until he could touch down next to a man who could kill him with one blow.

“Stop it,” he ordered.


“Go away. I”m busy.”

“I said stop it!” Bruce yelled, and the bap-bap-bap didn’t let up. “You’re going to start an earthquake!”

“Good!” Clark shouted back. “Maybe buildings will collapse! Maybe all the fracking he’s started will explode! Maybe he’ll get killed in the backlash!”

Bruce had had enough. “And maybe innocent people will too!” And with that he stepped between Superman and a quarry wall.

Clark’s first blow landed–but pulled back, and Bruce was wearing armor. Still, he’d be feeling that bruise on his rib for weeks–any harder, and they’d be pulling pieces of bone out of his heart.

“Goddammit, Bruce!”

He was crying. Clark Kent was crying, and Bruce’s breath shuddered in his chest.

“Come here,” he growled, furious. He grabbed Clark’s chin and pulled him forward, mouth plundering, tongue sweeping in and taking charge.

All of Clark’s breath shuddered in his chest then, the shaky, briny breath of a man who’d been exercising his demons instead of exorcising them.

Bruce pressed the advantage. Superman could pulverize him with a glancing blow–but Clark Kent, who respected laws and justice and order–that man needed somebody to take charge. Bruce kissed him hard and without mercy, until Clark whimpered and went boneless, melting into Bruce’s arms.

Bruce shoved at his suit, knowing that while it looked one piece, in truth the tight shirt fit into the pants.

“Here?” Clark mumbled.

“Now,” Bruce ordered. “Turn around. Hold on to the wall. Take it.”

Clark tilted back his head. “Ahh-ahh…” apparently undone just by the order. He could have flown away. He could have begged to go somewhere private. But he turned, shoving at his tight uniform, not even bothering to step out of his boots.

Batman had a loin-plate–easy removal because even superheroes had to pee. And he had lubricant–good for all sorts of mechanical things, but also surgical grade–in his belt. His gloves and loin plate hit the ground about the same time he breached Clark with two fingers, rudely, trying to drive out all the things that drove his lover to despair.

Clark sighed in acquiescence. Needy. So needy. Well, Bruce thought, his erection battering at Clark’s entrance, we all like to be told what to do. Even people who fight against rules want to know they’re there for a reason.


He slid in to his balls and rested for a moment, his forehead against Clark’s neck, his cock throbbing inside Clark’s ass.

“PLease,” Clark whispered.

He didn’t beg often.

Bruce obliged, throwing himself forward, intent on domination, not pleasure.

Pleasure they had in their bed, naked, the two of them intimate and sweet.  Pleasure was joy and hidden moments of being two people in love.

This was different.

This was Bruce shoving his cock inside Clark because Clark needed to know his cock was there and it had a purpose.

Sometimes knowing that thing had a purpose was the only line between barely holding on to order and the screaming void of chaos.

Clark fucked Bruce into the wall because order, dammit–the order of cock and asshole and fucking and come.

Their orgasms tore through them, Clark’s first, the clenching of his tight muscle around Bruce’s cock driving Bruce into the final drive. Their screams of climax echoed through the quarry, loud, profane, desperate. Clark sobbed once, twice as Bruce twitched in side him, and then Bruce pulled out and turned him gently, taking his distraught lover into his arms.

A few moment’s peace.

Clark sobbing onto his shoulder for the people hurt, the children brutalized, the country vandalized by the pig at the wheel.

Bruce whispering in his ear about how it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, they’d known from the first that the good fight was all they had in them, it was all they could fight, and winning wasn’t the object.

Winning wasn’t the object.

“Well what’s the point?” Clark snapped bitterly, still being rocked in Bruce’s arms.

“The point?” Bruce laughed, the sound soft and muffled against Clark’s neck. “The point is that I had you naked and needing, fucked naked against a wall. And you cried out my name as you came. The point is, you can have me the same way. The point is, I love you because you’ll go out and fight the good fight–and you love me for the same reason. But neither of us said a damned thing about winning. It was the fight that mattered. I’ll fight for your soul every day of my life. That’s the point.”

Clark pulled back and nuzzled his temple. “You have my soul,” he said. “YOu’ve had it for years.” He let out a breath. “Now pull up my pants and do your… whatever is going on with your armor, or we’re going to end up on someone’s satellite, okay?”

Bruce’s eyes went heavy-lidded and half-mast. “Sure,” he said, bending down to pick up his gauntlets and loin-plate–and giving Clark’s cock a quick slurp while his head was down there. “We’ll get dressed. You’ll take me home so I can–“

“Get some sleep,” Clark said, wincing guiltily.

“Whatever floats your boat. But you and I know what just happened. And your ass is going to tingle from it all day. And when you get tempted to give in to despair, you know what you’re going to remember?”

Clark’s fair skin flushed easy, two pink crescents appeared on his cheeks. “I’m yours,” he confessed roughly. “Nothing can change that.”

“That’s right.” Bruce refastened his loin-plate. “Remember that the next time you try to start an earthquake. Remember that I will rock your fucking world.”

Superman ducked his head and kissed him, solidly and squarely on the lips, slipping his tongue in for good measure. “Understood,” he whispered. “I’ll remember that you rock my fucking world. And that’s why I fight for this fucking world. Because people like you make it good.”

Bruce smiled lazily. “No. People like you make it good. I just give you what you need sometimes.”

“Hold on to my shoulders, Bruce,” Clark said, because they were both dressed. “I love you. You give me what I need all the time.”

“Well you make the world good all the time,” Bruce said. His mission done, he could relax against Clark’s chest then, secure in the knowledge that Clark wouldn’t drop him on the way to the Bat Cave, because Bruce wouldn’t drop Clark any other time, or any other place. Holding each other up kept the world spinning.

It was the only way they knew how to do that, when all their other safeguards failed.

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