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.


“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.


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.

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