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Okay, Bruce. Deep breaths. In and out. In and out.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Batman doing breathing exercises? What's next, taking up yoga and journaling my feelings? Yeah, no.
The thing about Uterine Armageddon is that it doesn't give a shit about you. It doesn't care that you've fought the Joker a thousand times, wrangled wannabe Greek gods, or dealt with a puzzle-obsessed man-child. Uterine Armageddon has its own agenda, and that agenda is to make you want to rip your own insides out.
So, yeah. Breathing exercises are allowed in this case. I am the Dark Knight. I do what I want.
Riiiiight, Bruce, because nothing screams "Dark Knight" like lying in the fetal position under a weighted blanket at 9 PM on a Friday, praying for unconsciousness.
Here's what nobody tells you about being Batman: I can take a punch from Superman. I can strategize my way out of any death trap. I look damn good. I have nine abs. And I can intimidate with nothing but a look. But the moment my uterus decides to throw a tantrum, I'm reduced to making noises that can only be described as a pathetic-kicked-puppy whimper.
The iconic Bat-grunt? Gone. MIA. And the worst part? I loathe weakness. I've built my entire life around being the strongest, the smartest, the most prepared. And yet, here it is, squatting in my pelvis, un-fucking-invited.
Period cramps: 1.
The greatest detective alive: 0.
I've tried everything. And I mean everything.
The painkillers? Top-shelf, black market stuff strong enough to KO an elephant... barely dull it. The searing, knife-twisty agony just becomes a mosquito buzz. It's still there, just slightly less murderous.
A hot bath? Steamed the bathroom nicely, but turned me into a goddamn raisin.
A heating pad? Offered thirty seconds of peace before the cramps came back, even more pissed off than before.
Meanwhile, Alfred—unflappable, reliable Alfred—is off in Switzerland sipping Rivella on a romantic getaway. While I'm stuck here, with no help in sight. Not that I need it...
Suddenly, the manor windows shudder. And I mean, really shudder. Like someone just yeeted a car through them.
Superman doesn't knock. He's never knocked on a door in his entire existence, I'm pretty sure. He just bursts in like the force of nature he is. My window hinges are now a casualty of this mid-crisis intervention. I'm gonna have to hire someone to fix it for me. Ugh. Manual labor makes me break out.
He lands on the floor, big, blue eyes already full of that sparkle thing he does. You know... the look. I can feel the concerned-husband vibes radiating off him before he even opens his mouth. God, he's such a Hallmark card. Or a romance movie. One of those sappy ones that makes people with feelings cry in the theater. Heroic entrance? Check. Damsel rescue? Double-check. Me as the damsel? Gag me with a batarang.
"Golly, B," Clark zips to the bedside like the universe's sexiest EMT. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"
Golly. In the year 2026, this man said "golly." Sweet Jesus, this country boy...
I grunt. It's a sound that translates roughly to "go away" with a side of "but maybe don't." Clark gets it. We've been married long enough that he understands my various grunts like they're a language. They kind of are.
He crouches beside me, those big farm-boy hands hovering cautiously above the blanket. "Is it the cramps again? Talk to me, Bruce."
"Clark," I croak, eyes slitted, "just... laser-eye me."
I'm only half-joking. Mostly not. A heat vision spa treatment sounds pretty fucking good right now. Just cauterize the whole region. Problem solved.
"Is it really that bad?" His brows knit in that earnest puppy-dog way that could melt polar ice caps. The Man of Steel, undone by his husband's whimpers. This is what I get for marrying a Boy Scout.
I muster the Bat-glare, the one that sends goons scurrying like roaches. But it comes off more like a soggy kitten scowling, which defeats the entire purpose. Clark's hands still hover, second-guessing whether touching the disaster zone might trigger a Bat-meltdown.
Look at him. Tiptoeing around like I'm rigged with Kryptonite-explosives. Cute...
"I've got you," he purrs, warm as a freshly-baked apple pie. "Two minutes. Just trust me."
Trust. Riiight. Because Batman's default setting is warm, fuzzy faith. But okay, Boy Scout. You get two minutes before I start throwing things...
I grunt again and start wrangling my traitorous silk romper into something vaguely presentable. Two minutes in cramp-hell feels like a thousand years.
Thankfully, Clark returns before I can explode. One hand holds a steaming mug. The other holds... something. Glowing. Vibrating. Very sci-fi.
"...What the hell is that?"
"Tea?" Clark blinks, like I'm the confused one here.
"No. The vibrating alien tech." Duh. But that adorable, farm-boy blank stare gets brownie points. It's the Kryptonite to my cynicism.
"Oh! Right! It's a Kryptonian-tech therapeutic pressure pad," he says, like he's describing a toaster. "Built it for you. Robin helped with the interface. Kid's a whiz."
Robin. Helped. Because, of course, my sixteen-year-old was involved in crafting my period relief gadget. Just slap a Bat-logo on it and end me now. I'm never living this down. The kid's gonna hold this over me for the rest of my life.
Before I can roll away and expire from secondhand embarrassment, Clark scoops me up and plops me directly onto his very sturdy, very ridiculously well-sculpted thighs. I consider protesting. I do. But come on. Who in their right mind fights being in Superman's lap? Plus, I'm too tired to put up a fight. My body's already waving the white flag.
Clark lifts open the blanket to move behind me, props me up, and slowly slides the pad down my tender chest and over my tummy. The pad activates. Gentle pulses roll into my abdomen.
I freeze.
"Oh. Damn."
Immediate, full-body hallelujah. This thing just overthrew Midol, ibuprofen, and the entire field of Western medicine in two seconds flat.
"That's magic," I breathe, already melted across Clark's gigantic super-breasts. I am.. Bat-butter.
Clark beams like he just cured world hunger. "Just a little elbow grease. And looove." He coos that last bit. It's cheesy as hell.
"You could bankrupt the entire medical industry with this," I admit, sinking deeper into his plump pecs.
"No way," Clark says. "This one's just for you, dollface."
My entire body short-circuits. Dollface?
"...You did not just call me that."
Clark's chuckle is 100% corn-fed Kansas smugness. "My fierce little warrior."
I attempt to gripe. But the pressure pad's working too well, and I'm too comfortable, and honestly, I don't have the energy to fight him on the pet names right now.
"You should've called me," he whispers against my ear. "When it got bad."
"You were off-planet," I grumble. "Intergalactic affairs don't wait for menstrual cycles. That's not how alien diplomacy works."
Clark's arms tighten around me with infuriating gentleness. "For you, I'd have rocketed back."
Great. Now I'm the reason Superman would abandon an entire galaxy in peril. That's a new one for the neuroses collection...
I sigh deeply. "...It always hurts worse without you here."
The words hang there. Being this open feels like taking the cowl off. Vulnerable. Exposed. Everything Batman isn't supposed to be.
Clark goes still. His next breath stutters. Then those Kryptonian arms wrap tighter around me, like I just became the sun. It's sickeningly sweet. I'd hate it if it didn't feel so good.
Still, I scramble to recover. "I meant, not just pain. I mean, when I'm solo, my system glitches out. Hormones, software bugs, whatever. I crash harder."
Smooth, Wayne. Next, serenade him with a Taylor Swift song—specifically, Love Story or Superman. Eh... the latter is too on the nose.
Clark plants a kiss on the top of my head. "Then lean on me. You don't have to go solo anymore."
Lean? Batman doesn't lean. Batman perches... ominously and alone on gargoyles, judging humanity from on high. And yet, here I am. A puddle across Superman's thighs. Word of the day? Hypocrisy.
Clark reaches for the tea mug on the nightstand and holds it up. "Want a sip?"
"Need to pee first." The moment is shattered. The bladder knows no romance.
"I'll carry you."
"No bridal carry," I snap.
"But you're my husband," Clark pouts, full doe eyes and emotional manipulation.
"I. Am. Vengeance." I furrow my brows so hard it might stick permanently.
Clark super-laughs, shaking the bed. "That's right. And my baby bat."
"...Screw you." It comes out like a cat hiss... a very tired, helpless cat.
"Later, darlin'," Clark grins, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind my ear. "I'm here now. You're safe," he hums, way too sincere for my comfort.
I groan and surrender. I am now fully one with the Super-lap. Resistance is futile.
Here's the thing about the word safe: I hate it. Don't trust it. It's weak. But the way Clark strokes my hair like this, the way he holds me like I'm something important instead of a brooding asshole in a cape, it's doing things. Dangerous, cheesy things. And eventually, it lulls me to sleep until I'm a drooling mess against his chest.
Quietly, as I snooze, Clark mumbles against my hair, "I watch you battle every day, for the city, the kids, for us. Let me be your fortress for once."
There's no reply from me. But I cling tighter.
And that, to him, says everything.