(Extensively enhanced, edited, lengthened and embellished by Rick Henry, [Dec.’22 – April ’23]. Copyrights for any mentioned characters are not owned nor claimed by either writer. In this case, Captain Mar-Vell is an alien military officer from the galactic empire of Kree, who has rebelled and aligned himself with the people of earth. Nonetheless, he is quite headstrong, egotistical, and ever with the goal of becoming a supreme leader... to the consternation of his contemporaries. This is a fan fiction story for same-gender inclined males, with a definite sexual slant for adult readers only. (Any reference to “c’s” re: weights used is related to hundreds of pounds, even if a bit unrealistic.)
Captain Marvel with ease swept into New Ark City, quickly making his way to the Superhero Gym on the bottom level of the Dakota Building in Mid-Town. Since the rise of the superheroes, the Dakota had become the preeminent Headquarters and meeting place, as well as a convenient part time residence for many of the such-known heroes worldwide (depending on their very erratic in and out schedules). The mayor-general of New Ark, in a heartfelt gesture of thanks for their bringing a hithertofore unknown peace to the city, declared the Dakota as the “official home” for superheroes. New Ark, being the largest city in the nation, preempting its other notable rivals such as Metropolis and Gotham (whose other municipalities were carefully kept in check by none other than Superman in one and Batman in the other).
And what a home it was. State-of-the-Art everything in the work/living spaces, every imaginable service, communications/connections for/from around the world and throughout their near galactic expanse, all managed by a staff of the most select, secretive board. The highlight of the building was, of course, the gym, right at street level, where passersby constantly collected, watching the famous superheroes (through slightly tinted plate glass windows) keep themselves in shape. The foundation of the Dakota had been reinforced with elements from several nearby planetary systems, elements stronger and with more mass than any found on earth. This was a necessary architectural modification so that the gym could maintain its notable array of superhuman weightlifting equipment—not to mention establishing itself as a formidable fortress, and effective deterrent to any terrorist bombing threats. Normal “human” workout equipment was often inadequate for the superheroes; here, the equipment was more inclined to be measured in hundred-fold pounds rather than mere pounds and kilos. Superheroes everywhere considered this the ne-plus ultra in workout facilities and they clamored to be one of the “regulars.” Not that all superheroes were beyond Herculean in strength, but many were. And both the proud of it and the lesser enjoyed the facility’s accoutrements, built to accommodate all the ranges of the men and women necessary.
Captain Marvel had no doubts about his place in the Dakota gym. He had long been associated with the peace process in New Ark City, recognized by humans and superheroes alike as one of the developers of the new regime that brought about these changes. In spite of his fame, it still bothered him that Superman was regarded as the “founding father” of all this, and that Superman was recognized as the person without whom nothing would have been possible. Marvel scowled as he alighted on the edge of Mid-Town’s Central Park. His landing was solid and sure, and no less an impressive display of muscle and grace. His arrival always caused a stir by the locals. “I haven't noticed many of these folks swooning when Superman makes an entrance,” he smirked. Making entrances was one of Marvel’s favorite pastimes, whether on the job, arriving to right a wrong, put peace in order, or merely to walk into the Dakota and watch everyone’s jaw drop at his massive, extra-terrestrially finely cut physique.
Heading through the door and into the reception area, Marvel pretended not to notice that the place was packed with a variety of superheroes from various echelons of the superhero ranks. Acting blasé, he peeled of his mask, revealing a square jaw and piercing green eyes with a mane of wavy, brown-dark hair. Marvel possessed that trace of deep bronzish color to his skin and hair that gave him a wildly masculine appeal that turned heads, even his enemies’. Without stopping, still moving slowly across the foyer, he reached down and slowly peeled off his skin-tight shirt, letting it roll up like a snake molting its skin. With the garment half over his head, Marvel could tell that he had stopped most gym work-out traffic, and he loved it. And he knew that a crowd of humans was pressing their hands and noses to the outside windows and doors to get a glimpse of him as well. He held the garment half off his torso, as though he were struggling to get it around his massive lats. At 300 pounds, it wasn't easy, but he liked to extend the show anyway, so he pretended it was tougher than it already was. New Ark’s City police, ever stationed on the perimeters “just in case,” had to break up the crowd at the door, catatonic at the anatomy lesson of Marvel’s shredded muscular back. Not as tall as some, his width and density of structure ever a sight to behold.
“Man, would you look at the eight-pack on Marvel!” Space Ghost tapped his own abs in envy. “I'm still looking at the cuts between his abs and his waist!” answered Captain America. “Abs, yes... but wow! Look at those lats!” “And those... nips!” moaned another. More praise from the various demi-gods in the lobby.
Marvel was satisfied that he was ever still the object of almost anyone’s desire—even among other notable males, not to mention the few women present—and pulled his shirt the rest of the way off. Relaxing his shoulders, he bounced his smooth, planetary pecs up and down. “No one,” he told himself, “not even Superman has pecs so full and round, and so heavy that they almost drop-point at the floor.” (Although he would later be startled to see otherwise.) He casually, innocent-stroked over them causing a stir among several of the lesser-known heroes as he moved. His wide, 2-inch dark areolae well-featured, and their out-nubs like giant grapes... proud-set headlights on an 18-wheeler, he ever loved to display. Roll-flexing them, they often appeared to literally wink at viewers. “Rocks,” he thought, “‘State-of-the-Art’ pectorals! Eat your hearts out, guys. Reserved for but the very few.” He threw his spandex shirt over his shoulder and signed in, then headed for the locker room. He knew the serious muscle was in there and he was ready.
Marvel was in his glory as he noticed face after face of well-built superhero muscle turn and stare at him. His 6’2”, 300-pound frame was unforgettable, and he knew it—reassured from no less spending plenty of time in front of the mirror, particularly after a workout. He shook out his mane of dark brown, near shoulder-length wavy hair and headed for his assigned locker area.
Passing one row of lockers, his own head did a double-take, noticing Batman seated, getting ready for his workout. Marvel had known Batman off and on for a bit of a while, occasionally spending some adventure time in Gotham, the city that Batman called home. He recognized Batman at once, though Batman’s back was facing him, a broad expanse of V-shaped muscle, tapering to a nicely maintained waist. Batman had a full head of rich blackish hair, rarely seen (except as Bruce Wayne), which came as a surprise to those who were not often treated to the sight of the man without his cowl and superhero suit. Here, however, he was never worried who saw him, or would “out” him. He wasn’t called “the Dark Knight” for nothing; his eyes just as sharp and deeply near black... but actually bright and friendly. Marvel remembered seeing Superman once chatting jovially with Batman, and the 6’3” quite lesser Caped Crusader (at a very sculpted 260 lbs.) had seemed to be loving Superman’s attention. Batman was considered one of the elites of the superhero ranks. And with that distinction or not, his physique was one of the prizes of the universe, with a fine hirsute covering, which did get into him. Marvel imagined an eternity-with, to be the definition of paradise.... Well, him, or Spiderman. Marvel shook the thought from his mind and turned into the row of lockers where Batman sat.
“Batman, buddy,” Marvel slapped him on the back, gently, pressing down for a feel of his thick traps. Batman looked up with warm, but piercing coal eyes, and Marvel wondered if he could get in a serious work out with all this muscle on display. He was drawn out of his reverie by Batman’s compliment. “Man, Cap, you look more massive every time I see you! What are you at now, 290-plus?” Marvel grinned, loving the attention, especially from someone as well-built as Batman. He had hoped others in the gym could hear it. “300, Batman, 300 pounds of rock-solid cut beef!” He bounced his pecs at Batman and grinned.
“Whooo-OO, Cap! Not many that can match you in the physique department. Even with all my workouts, I don’t think...”
“—Supes!”
Batman was cut off by a throng of minor superheroes who rushed toward the locker room doors. Marvel’s face tightened when he heard them again: “Superman!” But he couldn’t see him around the corner of lockers. “Superman is here?” Batman turned toward the noise and stood up, clad only in his skin-stretch pants, with a startling notable bulge. (Something the egoist Marvel could never stop wondering about, his own surely as fine, or a bit beyond?) Bruce’s chest a wide and beautiful dark-haired enchantment, with just as noticeable pec-nubs gracing from them, his shoulders broad and thick, and no less than 22-inch guns slung at his sides. Slipping into a zip-up sleeveless jacket, he headed for the crowd. “Come on, Cap, “the man’s” here!” Marvel fumed at the sight of Batman retreating, but had to smile at the view of his perfect, firm-packed glutes.
Marvel was in a state. This had been going on as long as he had known Superman. From day one when they set up the Superhero Federation, he felt that Superman had always taken control of everything. He didn't feel that Superman recognized his own notable contributions to all this. He looked down at his massive, cut-from-stone body, having to bend forward slightly to see his feet over his muscular pecs. And thought, “That man doesn't have a body truly BUILT as fine as this! No way. And if it ever came to a showdown,” he continued thinking, “I bet I could put that piece of hamburger away... yesterday’s meatloaf.” He marched around the corner, determined to garner away some of the locker room attention for himself.
He heard the commotion down the next set of lockers and turned the corner. He stopped in his tracks, trying not to look surprised. With a legion of fans at his feet, Batman included, Superman was stripping off his own outer nylon-lycra shirt. As it rolled up, Marvel looked disdainfully at the sleek covering of the body-tight, blue tank Supes always wore underneath—more of wrestler’s style singlet, which was cut high on the legs, with a narrow-scalloped waistline, and a very prodigious cup, soft-mounded but firm, inset at his pubis—never for any reason allowing his torso to be seen, or his full body naked— the crisp raft of hair otherwise revealed on his form no less as wondrous as Batman’s. Nor could his silky-dark hair and tank suit hide the four-paired , cobbly-ridged abdominals lining his mid and lower torso. As Superman struggled with his outside shirt, he also revealed two heavily thick, armor-wide pectorals, as much thrust forwards as stretched to their sides, topped with a foresting of hair tufting from his upper neckline... with some very odd, notably thick and fleshy-oblong mounds protrusively down-slanted from his lower pecs (which no one dared consider mentioning, but most had an inkling what they might be).
Superman, more prudish than most, one didn’t discuss overtly sexual things in his presence. And was known, for all his wonderment, to be more righteously inclined than a monk. A rarity, indeed. Though there had been rumors he had once had a long-standing, arms-length involvement with the almost never seen, jungle hidden Tarzan; and “possible” trysts with Thor and Aquaman, who were known to be unshy womanizers. Supes, the best built, handsomest man of all, (besides the secretive Bat, the breathtaking Hawkman, and the surly grinning Marvel). But no one knew anything for sure except those involved, who never said a word to affirm or deny it.
Few people also knew Superman was not all-over smooth. His uniform somehow always gave the impression that he was. The tugged shirt stretched tightly over his head and with a brief struggle he pulled it off, then put his haired arms down. A set of melons paired were his carved hairless shoulders, and growing out of each were a set of arms that rivaled just about anyone in the universe, cannonball biceps and horseshoe-bulged triceps that looked too big to carry on any one man’s body. “Except these,” Marvel noted to himself, and brought up his own massive benders, flexing them in an attempt to draw some of the attention to himself. His biceps exploded across his front as he flexed his forearms up and down, muscle so thick that it filled the space between his bent arms. To his dismay, no one much noticed, as the 6’4”, lighter 275 pound Superman held the group with his spell. Marvel’s gaze was suddenly drawn to Superman’s face, covered with a thick, yet neatly styled beard. Superman had been off-duty for a well-deserved vacation and had let his beard grow in. It drew attention to his already square and virile jawline, and when he smiled, it seemed like a galaxy of stars shone from his face. Eyes blue-deep as radiant sapphires.
“How about a double biceps, Supe?” Marvel was about to offer, when he heard another person indicating Superman to do so. And that person was Batman. Marvel was not enjoying what he’d first thought was going to be a nice leisurely afternoon of workout and mass adoration of his body. Superman’s arms slowly rose into the double biceps, boulders exploding skywards, his substantial hairy forearms equally touching the peaks of his biceps, and the broadening expanse of his torso spread out monumentally, easily delineating his pecs, lats and abs. Batman almost fell over backwards watching Superman’s biceps expand until they had that defined shape of a huge ball sitting on top of his arm. Batman, and everyone else, mouths hanging open, could see the line of his definition where the biceps muscle broke from the arm muscle, the triceps’ markings underneath. The balloon shape expanded not only up, but out. Superman grinned through his beard. Batman somehow found his voice. “Supes, you’re the best, man!” Batman got up and stood next to Superman, doing his own double biceps. No less narcissistically proud, but indeed the lesser. “Man, I’ll never look like you...!” he sighed. Then: “Hey, Cap, let’s see yours!”
Marvel didn't need the fan club prod. His arms were already on the way up. With all eyes on him, and Superman’s as well, he lifted his arms slowly, perpendicular to the floor. He loved doing this slowly; it gave the drooling fans the thing that they wanted most—anticipation. “Never let any of these buffoons say I don't know how to work a crowd.” With Superman still in his doubles’ pose, Marvel let his thick forearms rise. As he did so, he concentrated on his biceps’ peaks. Knowing his biceps were very different in shape from Superman’s, and peacock proud of their double-ridged display, in contrast to the round, fuller melon-shaped ones Supes had.
Both men’s flexed arms were enormous and Marvel was salivating for the day when he could drive his double-peaked guns up with a measuring tape around them, giving them that extra push that would out-do the ever “intrepid” Superman. He had a particular talent for getting each peak to rise separately. It always outmuscled and surprised everyone. “Biggest fucking arms in the universe!” he roared as he felt his adrenaline flow. And the crowd was astonished, not only from the biceps display... but Marvel, whenever posing, made every effort to display his whole physique no less! Where other musclemen singularly focused on say a biceps pose, or were awkward moving from one pose to another, Marvel was an expert at mastering the rare “posing-flow,” putting a leg or a shoulder in just a certain position to make the whole picture look even more stupendous. (Hours having been spent in front of his mirrors perfecting it.)
Spiderman had just come into the locker room and he dropped his bag with a thud when he saw the back view of Marvel’s double biceps’ pose. “SHIT! Is that the fucking incredible, super-mass, muscle monster, Captain Marvel?!” Marvel’s grin filled the whole room, a huge cocky, self-adoring grin. He slowly turned and faced Spiderman. “The same, Spider,” he confirmed. “But you haven’t felt them yet; and it ain’t the full kahuna until you’ve seen and explored this incredible body...” raising one eyebrow with a come-hither look.
Spiderman needed no further invitation and walked right up to Marvel, running his hands over those hugely rounded pecs, heavily overhanging his washboard abs. Boldly, with no trace of restrained shyness. (Having forever ached inside to be close and far more intimate—he quivered quietly at their toe-curling feel.)
“What, you’re not testing these babies?” Marvel taunted him. Spider’s mouth partially agape, he ran his hands up to Marvel’s arms, never letting them leave the surface of Marvel’s skin. When they got to the peaks, Marvel relaxed his forearms down and tightened them upwards again, letting the double peaks rise within Spider’s grip. Knowing the younger man was definitely popping a hard-on.
“Oh yeah, Spider, when have you ever seen a body like this!” Marvel was getting cockier now that two of his favorite people, Batman and Spiderman, were together to worship him. Marvel could never decide who was the fairer of the two: Batman, at 6’ 3”, intense-eyed with a night-dark head of hair, or Spider, smaller/shorter at 5’11”, 175 pounds... sinewy as a whip, yet incredibly muscled as if sculpted by a Michelangelo, with big chocolate brown eyes, his chestnut-colored hair never combed, giving him a wild and disheveled look. (Cappy, having heard the boy had a commendable 9 ½ incher, with low-slung balls like plums; and had been spoken of more than “fondly” by a discreet few.) Both men had bodies that could stop traffic, dressed or undressed. Spiderman, the classic lean, ectomorphic type... and Bruce Wayne, the more sturdy, masculine mesomorph. With, of course, himself— “Marvel of marvels” in his own right, outclassing them both! For sure!
Superman grinned, still work-flexing his forearms up and down. “Now, now, Cap, let’s not get carried away.” Marvel turned sharply, pulling himself out of Spider’s firm grip. Superman placed one hand on his hip, turned sideways and faced his own right biceps. Flexing it high into a huge, rock-like cantalouped mass, he grinned, his thick beard jutting out toward the peak.
“Fantastic, Superman!” Batman reached up to feel it. “May I?”
“... my guest, Batman,” almost softly.
(Strange, how these paragons of manhood were still compelled to tread carefully—overly built men, or those hugely endowed, forever enamored of themselves and each other... yet constrained. Often cloaking their true desires to be fully engaged physically/sexually. Although these men had to be discreet, no less: their hero reputations keeping them out of general earthly reach and appetites. Secretly admitting none of them had ever built themselves up... just for mere trophy-desired acclimations. But to be given/taken/shared and hopefully loved with other equals.)
Marvel was silently raging at Superman’s remark, deliberate or not. There he stood, massive bi-peaks flexing, and Batman wanted to feel Superman’s arms?! He walked over, still in double-biceps position and stood facing Superman, Batman now in the middle. “Feel these boulders, Batman!” Marvel barked out authoritatively. At once, Batman’s gaze shifted to Marvel’s incredibles. His face whipped back and forth, mesmerized by the colossal muscle display. He reached out with each hand and felt of both men. Marvel instinctively crunched his biceps further. “Oh man, Cap, these are like—oh, man, I can't describe how hard these are!”
Superman turned his wrist more and stressed his biceps higher. Batman, interrupted from his reverie over Marvel’s arms, felt a sudden surge of power underneath his left hand that barely capped Superman’s muscle. He could feel it grow. His hand dropped from Marvel’s arm. “Supes! I love it when you twist your forearm like that. And your biceps get even bigger!” Superman flashed a broad grin at Batman. “Give it a squeeze, Bat.” Batman was already perspiring from the rush of his hands feeling over such a phenomenally hard muscle. He was further drained by the natural heat emanating from Superman’s thick, hirsute body. Bruce could almost see the radiation coming from the carpet of hair that swirled around Superman’s massive torso. His senses secretly over-charged with the nearness of their close-drawn, very desirable similarities.
“Spider,” Marvel barked. “You got a measuring tape in that bag?” Spider needed no further instruction.
“Hey Supes, you don't mind if we do a little posing exhibition, do you?” M. grinned, trying to make it look friendly, but inside he was dying to pop Superman right out of his pose (and singlet). See what this touted stud had—or didn’t! “A little friendly muscle competition?”
Batman turned in awe at the thought of two men like Marvel and Superman flexing together. His gaze shifted from Superman to Marvel as Marvel propped his hands on his hips, stretched his out lats and let his pecs rise. “Damn, Cap! What a spread—I could almost fall asleep atop those massive things!” (Instantly chagrined at what he’d said; or implied, reddening.) Yet Bruce’s eyes were so locked on Marvel’s bared pectorals, so pillowed huge and thick they seemed to flatten out horizontally as he pushed them up in his wingspread.
Superman grinned, unfazed at the major muscle show in front of him. “Cap, I say we pump up a little, first. Agreed?” Superman was itching to get at the weights anyway, and he knew he would look gigantic after a heavy workout. He nonchalantly ran a meaty hand along the top tufts of his chest, then down, cupping over the edges of their mounds as well... although he forever mysteriously kept any portion of his lower titanic pec-rocks hidden from being viewed.
Batman’s head whiplashed at the sight of Superman stroking his “loaded,” fur-covered mammorals. The Captain, now steaming and stoked from his lat spread, called to Batman. “Hey, Bats, thought I couldn’t get any more massive—bet! ” Batman looked like he was at a tennis match, head bobbing from side to side at the two muscle monsters. When his eyes shifted back to Marvel, he had to concentrate to stop his lower jaw from dropping. Marvel’s trim waist seemed to get slimmer as his lats increased further, expanding wider, and compressing his balloon-swole pecs higher into a massive display of upper body power. “Oh yeah, Batman, feel the power! The Cap has the POWER!” Marvel almost roared. And Batman was completely under his spell, both hands drawn hypnotically onto Marvel’s pecs. It was like touching heated iron.
Marvel’s boldness was infectious, and Bruce couldn’t tell whether to look at his pecs or the monstrous arms that spread out on either side. Marvel, the expert poser, had arms that exploded when he did a lat spread, not to mention his pecs, a talent that most superheroes were unable to match, having to concentrate on the lats when they performed this pose. Marvel had complete control of his body when he moved. And his face showed his absolute confidence, drawing in everyone who was lucky enough to witness his display. Batman, not underdeveloped himself, was mesmerized by Marvel’s own admission of his masculine egotism. Spiderman tried edging past him for a better view, but Batman wasn’t giving up much space between him and the sensational Captain Marvel.
“I’ll have these two boys eating out of my hands, soon,” thought Cap, “then I’ll take my pick. Maybe both . But first, it’s time to finish off Superman, once and for all.”
Superman watched over Batman’s shoulder as Marvel continued to preen. “Very impressive, Cap; now how about those weights? Those pecs get any bigger after some freaky pumping?” Superman headed past Marvel, who halted his posing, and sudden-stepped in his path—brazenly facing Superman, pec to pec. He grinned wickedly. “Love to Supes.” His face took in the awe of the gathering crowd. “You up for some real “definitive” competition?”
The crowd was salivating now, anticipating something out of the ordinary. Superman grinned, looking slightly down at Marvel. Marvel pushed his protruding pecs into Superman; he was still in a semi lat-spread. Superman, feeling all eyes on him, and sensing more than a friendly workout coming, took a slight step back. Being about three inches taller than Marvel, Superman’s no less startling pecs were much higher than Marvel’s. Superman roll-flexed them several times and stepped forward until his prominent boys tapped hard into Marvel’s own. Superman’s height gave the impression of his pecs landing on Marvel’s, pushing them down as he skill-worked them adeptly. “I think I can give it a shot,” he said smiling, hiding his sarcasm.
Marvel, aware of Superman’s wan psyching technique, amazed the onlookers as he bounced his dual-mounds while still in his latissimus spread. Marvel’s control of his pecs moved Superman’s back as he flexed. “Let’s go—” Marvel shrug-turned and headed for the weight room, leaving a wry Superman standing flushed in front of the gaping crowd of mixed others and superheroes. The Kree turned to his audience, never at a loss for words. “Time to pump up,” he said, and raised both arms in another double biceps... swelling his chest, crunching his abs. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. And he ducked away.
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