A Batman Transformation Story
(M to Mastiff)

Bruce glared venomously towards his captors, a little ironic given the fact that one of them consisted approximately of forty percent venom. “Isley. Harleen,” he grunted, utterly taciturn in spite of his predicament.

Somehow they’d seen through his plan, backup plan, and thirty-seven contingency plans, and had managed to drug him with some form of combination of Smilex and biochemicals. Despite his natural immunity to the Joker’s toxin of choice, the concoction still left him rather open to suggestion, as evidenced by the fact that he now thought of himself as his alter ego.

Neither of the women responded, and Bruce glowered. The glare was admittedly a little less impressive without the cowl, but he’d practiced it on Alfred enough to know he could stop a septuagenarian’s heart from thirty paces off.

Unfortunately, it seemed the scalding glare was able to do little more than wither the occasional frond on Poison Ivy’s dress. The supervillainess pursed her lips angrily, brushing the wilted leaves from her bodice. “You really need to stop doing that.”

“Make me,” replied the trapped hero. A small vein bulged from his head from the effort of maintaining the look, but he was rewarded by another cluster of leaves turning brown.

“Harles, just do the thing,” Ivy sighed, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temples, massaging away her developing headache.

“Huh? Aw, but I was enjoyin’ the show!” Harley sniggered, looking to her increasingly nude friend. As she did, Ivy scoffed, and a new wave of leaves bloomed, covering her décolletage. Harley scowled at that, blowing a raspberry. “Fine, fine.”

“Do your worst,” growled Bruce, using his patent-pending Bat-Voice.

“Aw, hon… You don’t even know what my worst is,” Harley said with a smirk. She leaned in close, working the tricks she’d learned across her foul days as a psychologist. “Bats, I could make you tell me your every secret with just a click of my fingers.”

“My secrets are so unfathomable that,” Bruce began, only for Harley to snap, “I have a secret fear of sleeveless shirts. The Justice League didn’t invite me to their last party. I learned how to perform emergency resuscitation on Alfred on his seventy-first birthday.”

Harley snapped again, rolling her eyes. “And to think you didn’t believe me,” she looked to Ivy with a smug grin.

“I… Don’t think I want to believe you,” Ivy muttered. “I mean, he’s sent us to Arkham how many times?”

“Clearly not enough!” Bruce rasped, coughing. His eyes watered from maintaining the Bat Voice, and he sent a quick sidelong glance to Harley. “Do you… have any water? You would not believe what this does to the throat.”

“Hon, we can see your face.”

“It’s a matter of principle!” Bruce roared, shaking his chair from side to side, struggling to break free. He managed to tip the chair, falling hard enough to splinter it into shards. Free of his restraints, his only concern now was which of his seventy-six martial arts to apply to the villainesses.

“Whoopsie!” Harley squeaked, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “Whatever are we going to do?”

Bruce grinned triumphantly, diving onto her and letting instinct take over. His hands clasped her shoulders firmly, and he brought his head in close. Anticipating a headbutt, he closed his eyes to brace himself, only to find his mouth tainted with the chalky flavor of clown makeup.

His eyes snapped open, and the man realized that he was licking her like some sort of non-bat animal. His rear wiggled in a distinctly flightless fashion as well, and he felt mingled distaste and disgust at the sensation.

“Aw, who’s a good boy? Who’s a gooOOood boy?” Harley dragged out the words, playing her hands along the sides of Bruce’s cheeks.

Immediately, a physical change washed over his body. His metaphorical nose for crime turned into a literal nose for it, darkening and flattening on his face. His tongue stretched longer, all the better to lick at the demented bimbclown… Clownbo?

His brow furrowed, as he struggled to think of a good term to describe the villainess. Ivy noticed the expression, and mistook the source. “Aw, is someone confused about what’s happening to him?”

Bruce’s next words were mangled, slurred by his tongue and driven to a guttural tone by his changing vocal chords. “No! Agm juth wondrin’ whaddoo call ‘er.”

“I like Pierr-ho,” hummed Harley. She played her hand along Bruce’s shoulders, watching as they cracked and popped, forcing him to put more of his weight on her. He didn’t notice that he’d lost the ability to stand on two legs so much as he noticed that Harley was rather warm, in a very pleasant fashion.

“If you ask me, jestramp seems more fitting,” muttered Ivy, sotto voce. Her words were low enough for Harley not to hear her, but Bruce’s lengthening ears were more than able to pick up the words.

Bruce huffed with a distinctly canine amusement, still tongue-bathing the clown. A few more hours of this, and the chill would doubtless afflict her with pneumonia. In that, justice would prevail. His rear wagged harder at the thought of his new master plan, and slowly a long and furry tail slipped over his toned buttocks.

“Easy there, Green.” Harley looked past Bruce, giving her friend a glare. “Or else I might not give you naming rights.”

“Too late,” Ivy smirked. “I’ve already settled on Oakley. Isn’t that right? Who’s a good mastiff?”

Brucely blinked in surprise at that. A… Mastiff? That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t a bat, and therefore… He struggled to form a logical thought, his brain smoothing more and more as he tried to focus. “Ahm uhrrr bat!” He barked, surprisingly coherent despite the forming flews on his face.

“Huh?” Ivy blinked. “I’m… Sorry, I don’t speak crazy. Harles, this is your turf.”

“I’m going to choose to believe that you meant that about my time as a psychologist, and not for more derogatory reasons,” replied Harley. Still, she turned towards their changing captive. “Sweetie, you ain’t a batman, you’re a batdog. Get it?”

Broakley panted, his head bobbing up and down in a contented not. That made sense, he thought. “BrrOOF!” He barked, spraying a bit of drool on the smart lady’s face. He was used to being the smartest dog in the room, but he had to admit that his owner could be pretty clever too, at times.

He wagged his tail harder, his chest losing all trace of humanity, his legs thinning into limbs better befitting a dog. Most telling of all, his face took on some of the goofy wrinkles common to his new breed. Oakley didn’t mind one bit. After all, he was with his owners!

“See? And just like that, we’ve got a wonderful pooch,” Harley grinned, hugging her new dog’s broad back, subtly trailing a sharpened nail down his back and splitting his outfit along the seams. She giggled as Oakley licked her all the harder, and had to turn her cheek to keep his tongue from working its way past her lips. “By the way? I like Oakley, I think that’s a cute name.”