this is a basically abandoned fandom writing + edit blog!
all posts employ a teaser and the read more feature so as to prevent long post feed clogging; though a lot of works I don't tag, and they can't be rbed.
im no professional, so if you do stumble upon my work...be nice? don't repost? most of it's also on ao3 so...
there will be no oc or x reader work here, so if you see your fandom/ship, read away!
So [this psychiatrist] says, “Well, what you’re doing is, there’s something bad happened.
"And you’re going back thinking that you can make it right. Something went wrong, and you keep going back to see if you can fix it, or somehow make it right.” And I sat there and I said, "That is what I'm doing."
And he said, "Well, you can't."
Elinor Wylie, "Cold Blooded Creatures"; C.P. Cavafy, "The City"; Bruce Springsteen, from an introduction to "My Father's House"
SuperBat/ClarkBruce (Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne or Superman/Batman)
Warnings: none!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He knows strange. He’s a superpowered alien who’s friends with more superpowered aliens, and give or take a couple of regular guys. He saves the world as frequently as the average human brushes their teeth; at least twice a day if they’re good ones.
Humans, that is. Good humans. Yes. He knows strange. He knows how to live with it, to adapt and to condition. He prides himself on this - on his abilities, his connections, his identity; his Kryptonian and Smallville roots alike. He knows strange. He gets over strange.
But this? This is different.
This is the first time anything even remotely close to intimacy (along with permanence) has weasled its way into poor old Clark Kent’s lousy little life. But then again, this isn’t Clark Kent.
Clark Kent is not bundled up in a thousand-dollar duvet, nor is he bombarded with the scent of expensive shower gel and the slight hint of blood. It is not Clark Kent who carefully opens his eyes to gaze upon his morning companion, just as it is not the billionaire playboy on last week’s front pages of both The Planet and The Gazette’s papers who shifts in his sleep, perceptive even when essentially unconscious.
No, it is not Clark Kent. It is not Superman. It is not Brucie and it is not The Bat.
It’s just Kal, who isn’t from around here. And Bruce, who decided to change that.
Kal (he prefers Clark, although he can’t help but recall the jolt of energy which coursed through him that night when Bruce had referred to him by his traditional, given name) knows strange, yes. And this? This should be strange. And really, it is, technically. It is strange that the man with the great big ‘S’ on his chest has slept in, and has awoken to find himself in the grip of not an enemy, but of his teammate and good friend - very good friend.
His mind drifts to the headline, and he feels himself smile softly into the filtering sunlight. Who knew the Dark Knight left his blinds open in a show of admittance toward the morning sun? Perhaps it was for him? For Clark Kent? The thought would have melted him, had the sun not been rejuvenating him.
‘BRUCE WAYNE: THE BISEXUAL(!?) BILLIONAIRE IS NOW IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH AN OUT-OF-TOWN REPORTER - CLARK KENT?’
He won’t tell the man beside him - the same one who he has yet to become accustomed to the hardcore cuddling skills of because, really - Batman? A cuddler? - that he has The Planet’s article stowed away somewhere in the depths of his apartment, but he’s sure he already knows.
Jason has it framed in his rarely inhabited room in the manor, where the Superman just so happens to be; the place where he engages in procedures such as sparring with Batman and talking over important data and JLA operatives and beating him in Mahjong and watching him brood before offering to take him to that fancy Mexican place that makes the country boy feel impoverished and very, very white, all before fighting over the love life of his third adopted son and subsequently tiring each other out by entirely unrelated means down in the master bedroom - you know, the usual teammate stuff.
And it’s strange that the pair of them should be able to engage in such behavior. It really is, but it isn’t bad. It means that the world is changing and, however daunting change may be, this change is for the best. Earth is reforming at long last, and the World’s Finest are a very, very large part of this executed eventuality. And so they find solace in this, in the sum of the fortune which they have waited years upon years to be repayed.
That article was published three years ago on a Monday morning. This day exactly, Clark thinks. It was strange then. So new and so fragile. And it is fragile still. However, he has now come to the realization that it is not strange to sink into the arms of your lover in the shining light of the early morning.
Superhero or not, Kal who is long since from around here has that right, and he is perfectly aware of it. It is not strange for Bruce Wayne to be faithful, to be happy and to be healthy; for Batman to finally find the right notes in the harmony, to work with his team - with his beloved.
It is not strange when Clark buries his nose into soft, dark hair so very similar to his own and yet completely, devastatingly unique. It is not strange when he allows his eyes to flutter shut and to focus on the stuttering heartbeat of Bruce Wayne as he awakes, groggily grasping his partner’s forearm and leading it to lay atop his muscular abdomen. No, it really isn’t strange.
“I love you,” Clark says, slightly still hampered. Even without any super capabilities, he can see Bruce smile. Who knew Batman smiled? Kal.
Kal did.
“Mmh,” is his reply. Bruce leans into the tender kiss which is planted on his temple as his Superman holds him close, like Clark is afraid his Bat will fly too close to the big ball of light right before their window. Clark loves him. He hates to quote his cousin, but Great Rao does he love him.
Batman falls deeper into his silk pillows and almost nuzzles his way somewhat under Superman’s head, his hot breath on the shell of the man’s ear.
“Kal,” he whispers.
“Mmh,” said man grins, opening his eyes. He is met by eyes the color of the sky after … a hurricane. And that- that is okay. He loves him.
Bruce brings a large hand up to his face - cradles him, the near invulnerable Man of Steel - and brings their lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. It’s more effective than any dosage of morning coffee. “Kal." His eyes flutter closed while he breathes against Clark, lashes brushing his bruised cheekbones.
“Clark,” he inhales. “Clark, I believe- I believe I have to marry you.”
A beat. A few more, with the appearance of some particularly chatty birds down below in the courtyard outside. Clark grins widely, pointedly gazing into the dark circles of his fiance’s shut eyes.
“Have to?
The man sighs, running a hand down the entirety of his bone structure - which is very good, even Superman says so - before meeting Clark's eyes once more. Bruce grumbles, but Clark knows him, knows the raw sincerity in his rasp and the emotion in his clear eyes. “I want to, Clark. I want to marry you.”
No, he tells himself, knows himself. It isn’t strange at all.
“Then I guess I’ll have to make a trip to the thrift shop for a new suit,” Clark kisses his future husband, “Something vintage, maybe ‘73?”
Bruce scoffs. “I retract my offer.”
“Well, I retract your retraction!”
“You can’t-”
“I’m calling Dick.”
“Clark-”
“I’m calling Jason. I'm getting up to do it right now."
