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Under Cover	By : UglyGirl Category: DC Verse Comics > Justice League Views: 6526 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Under Cover
Ugly_Girl
Rated: NC-17 Definitely Porn Without Plot
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended (at least not in the money-making sense – infringement is intended in the "I'm using your characters for my own nefarious purposes" sense). Owned by DC/Warner Bros.
A/N: Yeah, they might be a little out of character. I just want them to have a little fun, for once.

She stepped through the beaded curtains, mouth dropping open at the sight before her.
Men and women of all shapes and sizes gyrated wildly to a pulsing beat, nearly all of them clad in spandex and leather. The colored lights reflecting off the myriad disco balls dappled the dancers' costumes with garish, flashing rainbows.
A blonde woman brushed past her, her red bustier and blue hot pants barely able to contain the voluptuousness within them. She realized the woman's tiara and bracelets were made of tinfoil, and instead of boots the blonde sported red, four inch stilettos.
At least fifty other women wore some variation of the same costume, and as many sported wings and an avian helmet; others wore a feminized version of Batman's uniform, or Superman's. There were several Green Lanterns, but few in the Flash's or Martian Manhunter's uniform.
The men were similarly dressed, although not many chose to emulate the female heroines.
Looking down at her own star-spangled panties and silver bracelets, she muttered, "At least there is no doubt now that I'll fit in here."
He heard her, of course, despite the throbbing music that slammed against her eardrums. "I told you we would. That, in fact, the uniforms were necessary as to avoid undue attention."
She turned, looked him up and down, from the pointy ears to the black boots. She didn't let her gaze linger over the perfectly muscled chest, or the taut thighs, or the interesting bulges and planes in between. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow and wondered innocently, "Tell me again how you knew that? Do you visit this club very often?" She let her tone indicate that such a thing was slightly pathetic, hoping for a little bit of a rise out of him.
To his credit, however, he didn't even hesitate in his answer, or give any indication of shame. She wasn't surprised; coming to places like this was part of his job, after all. "The Hall of Justice's fame is widespread throughout the city; and yes, I've had to meet informants here before."
"Speaking of informants…" She turned back to the scene, letting her gaze linger over faces, "Do you see yours here yet?"
"No."
She bit back a sigh at the abrupt answer; this was an important investigation, one that she understood had been weighing on him for several weeks. Children were disappearing, and she knew he was worried about them; she assumed that is why he'd asked her for her help that night, to gain a fresh perspective on the information.
They worked well together; she was glad that he recognized that fact, and felt comfortable asking for her assistance.
Even if he no longer felt comfortable in her bed—he hadn't visited her in weeks.
She shook her head as if to dislodge that thought from her mind; she'd promised herself she wouldn't bring that up tonight, or even think about it. She knew he was busy, with both League business and his own work.
But she would have given anything to know what he was thinking, feeling about her. Had she just been a distraction, a temporary release from the stress of being himself?
A one hundred twenty pound Superman sauntered past them, his cape fluttering. She stifled a giggle, then looked up to see his reaction.
Not even a smirk.
She frowned at him. "You know, you might as well enjoy the ridiculousness of it while—"
A wildly dancing Hawkgirl bumped into her from behind, causing her to fall against his chest, her breastplate smashing into his upper abdomen, her chin into his shoulder. He caught her, held her against him as she regained her balance, then – to her regret – let her go.
"Oh, geez, sorry," the woman in the mask said. "I was just—"
She held up her hand to stop the apology. "No harm was done."
Hawkgirl grinned. "Thanks." She tilted her head then, said, "You know, they have a contest at midnight for the best look-alike. You've got her long black hair, and a great figure—and you're pretty. Although not as pretty as the real one, of course, but then who is?"
"Who indeed?" she returned weakly, unsure if the other woman had just complimented her or insulted her. This Hawkgirl was definitely good natured, though, so she chose to believe the former.
"Anyway, you should hang around until then, and try to win," Hawkgirl continued, then with a wave and a smile disappeared into the crowd.
She turned, looked up – now he was smirking. "Not one word," she warned.
"Not even if I say that you really are as pretty as the real one?" His smirk widened to a grin.
Her heart did a little flip – stupid heart, she told the offending organ – but she continued glaring at him. "No," she said. "In any case, if you say too much you'll be out of character, and I wouldn't want you to strain yourself." She paused, then added, "Unless you were acting like Bruce Wayne instead of Batman."
He looked around them, but no one could have heard her above the throbbing music. His easy reply, when it finally came, belied his careful monitoring of the room. "Bruce Wayne would never frequent an establishment like this," he said.
That was true, she acknowledged. Bruce Wayne's cultivated tastes did not run to cheesily themed nightclubs that catered to the wilder – and less classy – crowds. Although, she thought, watching one patron slip a small bag of pills to another, Bruce Wayne's alter ego probably knew many places such as this; not for their entertainment value, but for the information that could be bought, sold, frightened and beaten from some of the people here.
Which is why they were there that night, to meet a withwith information about the missing children.
"For the sake of argument, though," she said suddenly, not wanting him to slip back into that brooding mood he'd been wearing so often of late, "if Bruce Wayne were to come to a place like this, what would he do?"
His gaze swept the room again, then settled on her. "First, even if he had brought a date, he'd make sure he knew exactly where the most beautiful woman in the room was."
His voice changed suddenly, as well as his mannerisms, until he sounded and moved like the wealthy bachelor. He reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips. "I am struck dumb by your beauty; please have a drink and a dance with me, so that I may imagine the taste of your lips, and the feel of your body against mine."
She bit back a giggle at the sudden change of personality, said dryly. "Obviously not struck too dumb. That's the worst line I've heard."
He pressed her hand to his chest. She felt the hard muscles under her hand, the slow, powerful beat of his heart. "You wound me, my beauty. My wonderful woman. My Wonder Woman."
She laughed, unable to maintain her indifferent expression. With a sly grin, she said, "You can call me Diana. After all, I look like her, almost."
His other hand snaked around her waist, pulled her up against him. He lowered his voice, gravelly, dark. "And you can call me Batman. I am vengeance. I am the night."
Her breath caught as heat rushed through her, but she forced herself to say, "You are in desperate need of a therapist."
"And you are in desperate need of a fashion consultant," he replied.
She lifted an eyebrow, intensely aware of the press of his body against hers. They fit together perfectly; they always had. "You don't like stars?"
"There is no way to answer that without getting myself into trouble." His grin turned wolfish. "But I have to admit that I enjoy looking at the stars quite a bit."
She realized that the music had slowed, and that he'd begun to turn her, taking small steps as he did—dancing with her.
Or, the more cynical voice inside her said, just taking advantage of the circumstances to circle the floor, and use the motions of the dance to keep an eye out for their informant.
She told that voice to shut up, and enjoy the moment.
"Lech," she muttered good-humoredly, then added breezily, "I have named this particular constellation—" she gave her hips a wiggle, so that he knew she meant the stars of the front of her uniform "—Athena's Pussy."
She felt him choke on a laugh, and continued, "You'd have to agree that the 'V' pattern of the stars looks remarkably like the face of a cat. Athena's cat, more specifically."
His shoulders shook, but he managed to ask, "Why Athena's?"
"Because," she explained, "Athena is the goddess of wisdom, which makes her cat a really smart cat that knows exactly who, and who should not, be petting it."
"She's also one of the virgin goddesses," he pointed out.
"What does that have to do with a cat?"
"Because a cat—" He broke off, tensed. "He just came in. Let's go."
She trailed after him as he pushed his way across the dance floor, stopping in front of a man in a Green Lantern costume.
She froze—she knew this informant. Knew all too well his grabbing arms, his not-so-secret and rather disgusting desires. Desires aimed at her.
"Skizzy," she hissed, then rounded on her partner.
He held his hands up in a defensive gesture, but his voice was firm. "You just have to sit on his lap while we talk. He doesn't get to touch you; you just sit."
Skizzy grinned, held out his arms. "Come to papa, Wonder Woman."
She ignored him, jabbed her teammate in the Bat symbol with rigid fingers. "This is why you made me wear this ridiculous thing?"
"For the kids," he reminded her gently.
She glared for a moment, then flopped herself onto Skizzy's lap, hoping that her weight would injure the part of him that was the most excited. "You owe me, Smallville," she said.
******
Three hours later, Lois was still seething; even the joyous sight of the tearful reunions between children and parents didn't fully bank her ire.
And she was still wearing that damned costume.
She was freezing.
But Clark wasn't. No, the overgrown Boy Scout was having a great time talking to the police, laughing about his Bat costume, and giving them the details of the rescue.
She tried to console herself with the knowledge that Bruce would find out that Clark had dressed up as Batman, and probably shove the kryptonite ring up Clark's ass.
In fact, she was going to call Bruce right now, and suggest he do that very thing. And then she'd tell him that she was wrong, that she really did want to be with a schizo billionaire instead of an alien farm boy. Then, just for fun, she'd use Bruce's money to buy Metropolis, and make Clark move to California where girls in bathing suits liked to sit on perverts' laps.
She watched as he said his goodbyes to the officers, as he turned to her. Strode over to where she was waiting.
Finally, goddammit. Now she'd tell him just how angry she was. How dare he use her like that? She opened her mouth—
"I'm sorry, Lois," he said.
She melted. Just like that.
She imagined that under the mask, his face was wearing an abashed expression, his spit curl hanging charmingly down his forehead, his eyes intensely blue and honest.
"It was either you on his lap, beating him up, or waiting until information came up from another source," he explained, then lifted his gauntleted hands. "I don't have the stomach to do what this costume demands on an innocent man, and I felt time was of the essence."
Dammit, how did he get to her like this? A few words from him, and she didn't care that she'd sat on an erection that she'd rather not have sat on.
At times, his effect on her scared her to death.
Not that she'd let him know. Nor would she let him know that it was her fear that fueled some of the anger now rising in her.
"Innocent man?" She snorted her disgu&quo"He may not have been involved in the kidnappings, but he's hardly innocent."
"No, he's not," he said.
"And you're an ass."
"Yes, I am," he agreed.
Why did he have to do that? Why wouldn't he argue or try to defend himself, so that she could retain her anger?
Now she just felt like a raving (and fucking!) bitch, and that made her mad. "Take me home," she demanded.
She realized her mistake the second his arms closed around her, drew her against him, wrapped her in the warmth of the cape.
She should have called a taxi.
She should have walked – a nice, lonely, cold five-mile walk would have had her livid at him by the time she got to her apartment. She could have sworn at him the whole way. She could have planned revenges. Many, many revenges.
Instead, he lifted her into the air, and her breath caught as it did every time she flew with him.
Below them, the lights of the city welcomed, beckoned. Above, the stars shone clear, the moon like sculpted marble.
This, she thought, this is how he can be so agreeable in the face of her anger. This is why he's a Boy Scout. Not because of his powers, but because of the perspective that his powers allowed him. Away from the dirt and grime of life, Superman so often had a view of the larger picture: the order and the beauty behind the chaos. Not that he couldn't see the grime, or felt the pain of it; but he could also see the rest that was so often hidden from the rest of them.
Either he'd felt the tension drain out of her and no longer feared her tongue, or he simply decided to try to lighten her mood, because halfway to her apartment he said, "I think the kidnappers thought the real Wonder Woman had descended upon them." She could hear the smile in his voice as he remembered.
"Because I yelled 'Great Hera!' when you punched through the door?"
His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her back. "That, and the way you were spinning that piece of yellow rope like it was a lasso." He paused, then added seriously, "Although I wish you had stayed outside like I'd asked."
She hadn't because she'd known he'd protect her; but instead of admitting that she said lightly, "Wonder Woman doesn't fear danger."
"She doesn't?" His voice deepened, took on a timbre that Lois had heard from him far too seldom lately, a timbre that reminded her of sweat and heat.
She licked her lips; the moisture immediately dried in the cold night air, the wind created by their flight. "Nothing…except for dangerous, mysterious men."
"Like, for instance, Batman?" His voice was playful. The hand that moved around to her front, the insistent fingers that slipped below the red bustier and golden breastplate were not.
He brushed the tip of one breast, and she gasped, said, "Clark—"
"Batman," he corrected, changing his tone to match the Dark Knight's.
Her giggle was cut short by a blast of cold air as he opened the cape, turned her so she was held belly to belly with him, then re-tucking the cape around her.
"Wonder Woman," he growled into her ear, still using Batman's gravelly tones. "I am tortured, dark and mysterious. And I want you."
She pressed herself against him, torn between laughter and arousal. "You want me?" She blinked, pretended innocence, playing along. "Whatever do you mean? I come from an island of women; I have no idea what you are talking about, Batman."
"This, Wonder Woman." His mouth covered hers, and Lois's world ted,ted, reeled. She clung to him as he delved past her lips, tasting, devouring. Her knees went weak; belatedly, she realized that the fact they couldn't support her indicated that she needed to be supported—they'd arrived at her place, were standing on her balcony.
He broke the kiss, left her breathless. She turned blindly toward her French doors, trying desperately to recover, not to let him see how much she wanted him to come in.
She wouldn't beg. She wouldn't.
"Can I come in?" Clark asked, and his voice was his own. She heard the slight hesitation behind the words, as if he wasn't quite sure he was welcome.
That hesitation made her feel, suddenly, ashamed. Dammit, she should be begging. This was Superman.
This was Clark.
She swallowed past the tightening in her throat, smiled. "Only if I get to tie you up with the lasso."
Following her inside, he pushed his mask back, revealing his features. God, she just wanted to nibble all day on the line of his jaw, suck on his lower lip, worship his ear. He was perfect: ridiculously handsome in that boy-next-door way that made her want to corrupt him, turn him into a bad bad bad boy from across the tracks, across the universe—
"Why aren't you with Wonder Woman?" she blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Oh, she hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't realized that she was even thinking it, but now her big mouth had once again betrayed her—betrayed her to him, to herself. She swore internally, but couldn't even think of words foul enough to apply to herself.
He paused in the act of removing the cape and cowl completely, watched her carefully. He could obviously tell her question hadn't been a part of their earlier play-acting. "What do you mean?"
In for a penny, in for a goddamn ton, she thought. "You know. Why aren't you with Diana? Look!" She gestured to her body, then to him. "I'm not perfect, I can barely fill out this damn costume. She is, and so are you. Your powers practically match. She's super nice, like you, whereas I make Joan Rivers look like a sweetheart. I've been nothing but a bitch to you all night. All year. Since we met!" She threw up her hands, realized that tears were starting to blur her vision. "Jesus Christ, even your fucking uniforms match!"
She choked on a sob—God, she hated crying—and forced herself to look at him, at his reaction.
Was he laughing?
She was getting snot-nosed and red-faced and she was wearing those dumb starry panties and her heart was breaking because she wasn't good enough for the only man she would ever love and he was laughing?
Her fist shot out, aimed for his chin, but he caught her hand easily. "You are really cute when you are insecure, Lois," he said.
"Why, you condescending bast—ahhhh!"
Her back hit the bed, and he came down gently atop her. Naked, she realized dimly. It was a good thing he couldn't get fabric burns from removing his clothes so quickly—
"Gghaaa!" And now her own offending panties where gone, and the bustier, too, and how the hell did he do that without giving her whiplash or something—
"Eeee…uhhhmmm—" Because his head was between her thighs now, and he wasn't going fast but slow slow slow, licking up the inside of her leg, using one hand to push her right knee up over his shoulder, baring her, exposing her to him.
He trailed his tongue from side to side, never quite going where she wanted—needed—him to go, but the anticipation had her squirming, trying to get him to Lick. The. Right. Spot.
He teased and teased, and finally she grabbed his head, threaded her fingers through his thick hair, forced him to the center, to the flesh that was screaming for attention.
And sweet, sweet man that he was, he didn't resist.
But now she was squirming again, because the slide of his tongue over her sensitive clit was too much, way too much, and she was going to explode if she didn't get away from that mouth, that horrible terrible wonderful mouth, so she squirmed as he licked, and she moved away and the pressure eased for a moment, but then he was following her and now holding down her hips to keep her in place but that was okay because she didn't re'>really want to get away.
And then she felt the thick slide of his fingers into her, pressing deep, and he began sucking instead of licking and that was it; her orgasm tore through her, and she screamed, yanked his hair but thank God it wouldn't hurt him, and he kept at it, kept lightly licking and sucking until the shudders faded and the ceiling stopped spinning.
He scooted up to lie on his side next to her, propping his head on his hand, looking down at her.
Lois couldn't move, didn't want to; she was liquid, lanquid, replete.
But, of course, he wanted to talk.
"Lois, you know me better than anyone; do you really think I'd be with you if I wanted to be with Diana?"
And, of course, it had to be about that stupid thing she'd said earlier.
She looked for a distraction, found one jutting deliciously out from his loins, long and thick. She wrapped her hand around it. "No, of course not," she said and smiled sweetly, stroking his length.
"Lois—" He sucked in a breath between his teeth, but managed to continue. "For such a successful investigative reporter, you can be very dense."
She focused on the rigid sex in front of her, trying to ignore him. She wouldn't be drawn into this discussion, wouldn't give any more of herself away. Instead, she was going to make him forget why he wanted to talk, and hopefully even forget what she had said in the first place.
She trailed her fingernails lightly up his shaft. His muscles tensed, but he kept on talking, and she kept on not listening.
"—the most stubborn, bullheaded woman—"
It always amazed her that even if she tried she could never hurt him, even in this most vulnerable of areas; but at the same time, he felt pleasure from her gentlest touch. He wouldn't flinch at a sledgehammer, but her fingers could make him tremble.
"—you even call me 'Smallville,' so I know you know that I'm not the type of man—"
Dipping her head, she circled the tip of him with her tongue, tasting the salty flavor of the precum that had beaded there, the moisture indicating that, despite his determination to talk, his body wanted something more. And she was going to give it to him, oh yes, if only to shut him up.
It had nothing to do with her own growing arousal, her certainty that she was going to die if she didn't feel that large, thick cock buried deep inside—
"—with you because I love you."
Her head shot up, eyes wide. "What? What did you just saaaaayyyyy—"
He flipped her over and kneed her legs apart, thrust deep. She was wet, more than ready, but the friction was incredible and she was full. So full. His voice was a growl. "I love you, Lois."
She couldn't take it in, but she took him, and gave. "Clark—" She was breathless, couldn't finish what she was going to say, didn't know what she was going to say, could only think of him, above her, the stroke of his cock and ah, God! it felt like heaven.
Her hands slid over his back, clenched at his shoulders, ran over the taut, perfect muscles of his ass but she couldn't touch him enough. She rose to meet his thrusts, forced his head down to hers so she could taste his mouth, capture the heat and wet of him.
But it wasn't enough.
"More, Clark." Whispering the words into his mouth, she wrapped her legs around his hips, held on, and she was the one making those breathy, desperate pants as she writhed under him, taking him deep.
And—Christ, were they floating?
His hands under her bottom and back, he pressed her tight to him; digging into her, grinding against her, sliding just right into her, just right against her clit so that every thrust took her higher, wound her tighter. "Clark…Jesus! Clark, I can't—"
But she could, and she did, her body bowing under his, shaking with the force of her release. He joined her, the pulse of his orgasm throbbing deep within her.
He eased them back down onto the bed, turning so that she lay atop him, never relinquishing his hold on her, within her.
Trying to control her ragged breathing, she was pleased to note that his own breathing was uneven, his skin as slick with sweat as hers. In fact, she realized that there wasn't a part of her that wasn't pleased, suf suffused with a warmth both physical and emotional.
"Great Hera," she said breathily, and listened to him laugh. When he quieted, she raised her head, regarded him with serious eyes. "Clark, I—" She broke off; it was more difficult than she thought. "I feel for you, too."
No, that was wrong; that was an awful thing to say. He deserved more, he deserved the truth—
"I know, Lois," he said, and she could see that he did know.
But she still felt as if she'd given him something inferior, tried again. "Clark, I—"
He pressed his lips to hers. "Shut up, Lois," he said. Her mouth fell open, and she was immediately ready to argue, but he continued, "I know how you feel, but I also know you can't say it yet. I'd rather you say it easily and freely when you can, not because you feel obligated or think you owe me something."
She dropped her head back to his chest, listened to his heart; she was embarrassed, ashamed, yet overwhelmed with a strange joy.
But she wouldn't cry.
Her vision was tingting to blur, though, so she looked around desperately for something that would avert the seemingly inevitable tears that threatened to form any moment.
The star-spangled panties. They were wadded up and pushed part of the way under a pillow.
The burning in her eyes began to fade—oh, thank God for those panties.
"So, Smallville…"
"Hmm?" His sound of contentment echoed through her, filled her. She smiled against his chest.
"How do you think Bruce and Diana would react if we told them we role-played them getting it on midair?"
Clark stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Finally, he said, "Maybe I should steal that kryptonite ring back from him…"
The End
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Under Cover