dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

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Toot toot, part three! Of how many, I do not know.

Please forgive my little potshot at soccer – I’m actually a HUGE football fan and a regular at the Football RPF thread on FFA XD

Also, Bane played by Tom Hardy in this story. Because of Reasons (also I continue to just mash together continuities like a four-year-old with play dough).

---------------

Clark doesn’t remember what death felt like the first time (second time? The nuclear blast hurt, but he’s still not entirely sure if it killed him or not – he’s inclined to think ‘not’, but be still can’t be sure). He wonders if he’ll remember it this time.

He’d been doing exactly what Perry had been asking him to do, and covering the big Metropolis/Gotham soccer match when the trouble had started. The game had been going well, as far as Clark could tell – nil all – when suddenly there’d been smoke on the ground that wasn’t from the flares of the supporters, and men in black jackets had been rappelling down from the top of the stadium. Clark, sitting in the press box, had helped get the people he could see through the smoke to safety, shouting to the security guards to open the gates, to let the people out.

He’d been overcome by the smoke, then – it stung his eyes and burned his lungs, until a heavy hand had come down on the back of his neck, jerking him back.

Bane.

He’d read about this before. Bane had some kind of ‘bread and circuses’ prejudice against sports. Or perhaps he’d simply decided he needed a do-over.

“Ahh,” Bane had muttered as he reached down, fingering Clark’s press pass. “A member of the corrupt press, who claim to be uncovering truth even as they keep the people cosseted in their ignorance.”

Clark had swallowed and said nothing. He’d blinked his watering eyes, but had realised that trying to respond would only make him cough. He’s beginning to understand these things better now – what his human lungs can and can’t do.

“You, I think, will make an excellent demonstration as to the seriousness of our intent.”

Even if he’d wanted to say anything, in the next moment, Bane had shoved a shotgun under his chin, forcing his head up.

And this was when Clark had started to wonder if he might die.

The smoke had cleared, and the remains of the crowd – those who hadn’t been fortunate enough to escape – were looking down at them. His eyes still hurt, but Clark could see their faces, shocked and pale.

“Acta est fabula, Mr. Kent,” Bane says, his fingers tightening in his hair. “But I’m afraid you may not be here for your applau –”
Whatever quip he was halfway though, Bane never gets to finish it. In the next second, his head snaps back, and Clark hears the dull thunk of something bouncing off his mask.

His fingers release his hair, as Bane slowly slumps to the ground.

There’s a shocked silence. Bane’s men fidget uncertainly. Everyone seems unsure of exactly what to do next.

Then the security guards seem to come to their collective senses and rush forward, overwhelming the henchmen, drawing their pistols and handcuffs and forcing them to the ground. Clark simply stays where he is, staring down at Bane’s prone form.

What happened?

Blinking, Clark shifts his gaze slightly, and his eyes fall on a player’s shoe, lying abandoned on the grass. It might have fallen off a player’s foot, except Clark doesn’t think that’s the case. There’s a tiny smear of blood on one of the cleats.

Clark looks up, glancing around, wondering who could have thrown such a thing – who had that precise an aim, and a good enough throwing arm that they could knock a man of Bane’s stature unconscious with something so un-aerodynamic?

Clark can only think of one, but Batman’s not anywhere around her –

Then his eyes lock onto the face of Bruce Wayne, where he’s standing, scowling, in the corporate sponsors pen right by the sidelines of the pitch. Bruce makes a great show of dusting off his expensive suit before raising an eyebrow and turning away.

***

Bruce stares at the swirling, inky pocket of air in the middle of the room, which is all that remains of the trans-dimensional portal, into which the seething, writhing mass of tentacles had disappeared. He’d only just gotten here in time: Doctor Fate had given him the relevant artifact and told him what was afoot, but hadn’t actually teleported him to Clark’s apartment to take care of it.

Doctor Fate is an asshole like that.

A cough over to his left draws his attention to Clark, who’s lying in the rubble of his kitchen wall (such as it was), covered in bits and pieces of plaster, splintered wood, and… what looks like some kind of sticky alien slime. When Bruce had gotten here and kicked in Clark’s door, the… thing, whatever it was, had several of its tentacles wrapped around his body and was slowly dragging him towards the portal, while Clark scrabbled ineffectively at the floor.

“What the fuck was all that about?” Bruce asks.

Clark just coughs again, before looking away. Bruce is slightly taken aback when he sees that Clark’s ears have turned bright red.

“It said it wanted to, ah, breed me,” he mumbles.

Bruce knows he heard correctly, but he wishes he didn’t.

“What?”

Clark waves a hand embarrassedly, getting slowly to his feet. “It’s… the situation is a little complex, as I understood it. Its race have been inbreeding for some time. They need… ah, fresh genetic material. Apparently the closest match they can breed with successfully is Kryptonians, and seeing as I’m the only Kryptonian left….”

Bruce stares at where the last of the portal is now beginning to slip away, its remains carried off on the breeze. “You. Are genetically similar. To that.” A second thought occurs to him. “And what about Power Girl?”

Clark laughs a little. A nervous laugh. “Well, apparently they don’t all look like that, and they have a slight ability to shape-shift. As far as the second thing goes, it seems that in their race, it’s the male who –” He cuts himself off when Bruce raises his hands.

“Stop. I literally don’t want to know.”

Clark obliges him, and stops talking. They survey the wreckage of Clark’s tiny apartment together.

“Well, this is ruined,” Bruce says, redundantly – but he wants to get the word breed out of his head.

Clark nods. “Thank goodness Lois wasn’t –” he starts to say, voice quiet, but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Bruce does him the courtesy of not responding. Of course Lois wasn’t. Lois wasn’t,< i>isn’t and hasn’t for several months. She took a job as the BBC’s northern Africa correspondent as part of her effort to put her life back together after Clark… well. After what had happened to Clark. She’d mourned. She’d built herself up again, piece by piece, and she’d decided that she could go forward and live after all. Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to blame her if she was leery of coming back, after all that.

Neither did could Clark, he guessed. Because Clark was that sort of guy.

“Do you have somewhere else you can stay?”

Clark shakes his head. “I’ll just stay in a hotel for a few nights.”

“I can pay for this to be fixed,” Bruce tells him. He glances around. “I don’t think that wall is structural, so I don’t think we have to involve anyone else. I can put you up somewhere nice, too.”

Clark shakes his head. “That’d be a conflict of interest. I can’t have you fixing up my apartment and paying for hotel rooms.”

Bruce draws in a deep breath, and then slowly releases it. “Do you know what a bedbug is? Because you won’t like them.”

“I’ll be fine,” Clark says, looking a little ruffled.

Bruce looks him up and down. He’s still covered in plaster and alien mucus, and his glasses are cracked and sitting crooked on his nose.

“Yeah, I’m seeing a lot of evidence for that,” Bruce says. He takes a deep breath, and grits his teeth. “You could stay with me.”

He can see the way Clark’s head suddenly flicks towards him, the surprised blink behind the one still intact glasses lens. “I – well, I appreciate it,” he says slowly. “But that’s no better. I’ll just get a hotel. Trust me, Bruce – nothing is going to happen.” Clark tries to laugh, but it sounds a little shaky. “Anyway, what could be so bad, after this?”

***

“This really wasn’t my fault,” Clark argues. It does no good, though: it’s clear Bruce isn’t listening.

To be fair, Clark thinks, it’s probably taking a lot of his strength to haul him up from where he’s dangling over this pit of lava.

***

“This is the last time I’m doing this,” Bruce grinds out as he fishes Clark out of the Metropolis sound.

***

“We have a problem.”

Clark nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Batman’s voice emanating from a dark corner of his hotel room. As it is, he drops his eggs, and he hears them crack as they fall onto the scuffed linoleum of his hotel room floor. He still hasn’t quite mastered catching things without super reflexes yet.

Sighing, he switches on the fluorescent lights, trying not to wince as they buzz to life.

“Do we?” he asks as he reaches for a broom. He’d really wanted those eggs.

“Do I really have to spell it out?” Bruce asks, his voice heavy and distorted by the cowl.

Clark swallows. “Look, I know,” he says as he throws the broken remains of his eggs into the trash. “But I honestly think that –”

“How many times, Clark?”

Clark doesn’t look up. “How many times what?”

“How many times have I had to rescue you over the last four weeks?”

Clark casts his mind back. He supposes it depends on what Bruce means by rescue, really – you can’t classify the time he pulled him out of Cat Grant’s lacquered clutches a rescue, and the thing with J’onn had been fine once Ted had arrived with more Oreos.

So…

“Seven?” Clark ventures.

“That’s a very conservative estimate.”

Clark ties off the trash bag. There’s no sense in ‘rotting egg’ being added to the already vast array of aromas he encounters on coming home from work every day. And Bruce had been right, of course – he did not like bed bugs.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” He can’t help but feel Bruce is being just a little unfair, here. This isn’t exactly something he had planned on.

“You’re coming with me. You’re staying at the lake house until your powers are sorted out. However long that takes.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Clark says, affronted. “I have a job. Responsibilities. Perry expects –”

Bruce shakes his head. Once. Firmly. “The only place Perry expects you to be is at Wayne Manor, since I told him you were the only reporter I’d allow on the property to cover the renovations for the society pages. Which means if you don’t want to lose your scoop, you’re coming with me.”

Clark stares. “You did what?”

The cowl is impassive. “Clark. This is happening. Whether you like it or not. Do not make me throw you over my shoulder.”

Clark blinks, looking at him warily. “You wouldn’t.”

The only part of Bruce’s face that he can see, his mouth, is set in a grim line. “Try me.”

OP here. Maybe have Clark meet Bruce, Batman, and Matches separately. They all drive him nuts, and he has no idea they're all the same guy. Entirely up to you (or whoever wants to fill this) how Clark discovers their identity, whether on his own or Bruce eventually reveals himself to Clark. Or even whether Bruce is also unaware Clark is Superman. That's a lot of secret identities to play with! But when Clark does find out, the boys then proceed to have plenty of sexy times together. Maybe Clark enjoys a little roleplay and shyly requests Bruce to ravish him while in his Matches persona. Just go crazy with this prompt, nonny/ies. There can never be too much identity porn in the world. :D

Haha, oh Clark, your life sucks. ;D Well, not all that much, since he always gets rescued. I'm cracked up by Bane getting knocked out by a shoe. Especially since I don't like Bane much, he should totally get knocked out by shoes. :D And of course Bruce waited until Clark saw him before he turned away, what a drama queen. ;D

Clark just coughs again, before looking away. Bruce is slightly taken aback when he sees that Clark’s ears have turned bright red.

“It said it wanted to, ah, breed me,” he mumbles.
Haha, oh boy. Tentacle monsters! Clark Kent and the very bad no good weeks. Months? Year? I am obviously very sad that Clark didn't agree to stay with Bruce. Aww, Clark, come on. ;)

Clark nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Batman’s voice emanating from a dark corner of his hotel room. As it is, he drops his eggs, and he hears them crack as they fall onto the scuffed linoleum of his hotel room floor. He still hasn’t quite mastered catching things without super reflexes yet.
All of this is so cute. Bruce sneaking up on Clark, Clark being startled and not managing to catch things all that well, and being sad about not getting to eat those eggs.

AND YAY!! I'm so glad Clark is going to stay with Bruce after all. :DDD Of course Bruce just made him. I almost wish he'd have to drag Clark to his house by his hair. Or his throat. Or any other body parts. ;D Still loving this fic, anon.

Done. Always happy to save anons in distress. ;D

I have just caught up with this and I've been CACKLING WITH DELIGHT throughout and now you've just HIT ME WITH FEELS and I love every single word of this like crazy <3333

I'm not even usually into fake-dating! But the setup was so fantastic and Clark's reactions! Bruce being his sleazy Wayne self! Clark waving at the paparazzi! Bruce being self-deprecating and Clark not letting him get away with it! THE DATES.

I tried to read this slowly to make the story last but it wasn't near enough so clearly you're going to have to keep writing longer and longer updates :D (please?)

<3!

I love this so much! I love how things escalated and that CLARK IS GOING TO THE LAKEHOUSE \o/ Forced proximity is my favorite!

The tentacle monster made me totally crack up.

“Well, this is ruined,” Bruce says, redundantly – but he wants to get the word breed out of his head.
Or does he? Haha.

Bruce threatening to throw Clark over his shoulder <3

LOL YES EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS GREAT. I love all the ridiculous peril Clark ends up in, this is MAGICAL, and I don't even have words for Bruce so Brucely losing his patience, and having already set things up with Perry to back Clark into it. PERFECTION, anon, this is PERFECTION, and I cannot wait to see Clark in the lake house with grumpy Bruce. ♥ forever.

/o\ :D NO YOU. (Is it just me, or have we had this conversation before? *goes ahead and founds mutual admiration society to save time*) You have no one to thank but yourself, this prompt has seized me by the hair and dragged me around like I'm Superman. :D And you know Bruce, it was probably half brainless smalltalk and half terrible pick-up lines.

Oh, man, thank you so much - I'm so glad you're enjoying the pacing of Clark figuring Bruce out so far! Because I'm pretty sure at this point that it's going to take him a while. :D

Did he now? :D Because dating him is amazing, eh?

:D It's not that Bruce couldn't have thought of a way to casually insult Clark even when he's got a suit that fits him, okay. It's that he couldn't have delivered it properly. Even he is not that good a liar.

And this, this entire last paragraph, I would transcribe what I'm thinking except what I'm thinking is EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE :DDDDDDDDDDDD Thank you so much for every single compliment you've packed in here, this is basically everything I was hoping to get across and I'm so thrilled you like it so much! /o\ THIS PROMPT IS JUST TOO MUCH FUN. ~~DAMN YOU~~

Haha, I'm glad, anon - that part's a little more like the comics in tone than the movieverse, but I thought of drawing the comparison that way and then couldn't bear to leave it out. :D

Bruce dressing Clark like his own Ken doll or the fact that Bruce failed to realize that he would have to dress Clark like his personal Ken doll

It may be possible to tell I have a bit of a thing for Bruce spending time picking out nice clothes for Clark. :D I'm just lucky I decided to write this from Clark's POV, so I don't actually have to research designer suits!

I read this and thought it was Bruce trying to be genuine, reassuring and...flirty?

*fistpump* Yes, anon, you are exactly right - I wanted it to be the kind of thing Clark might roll his eyes at and punch Bruce in the arm for in the moment, but also sort of appreciate when he remembered Bruce saying it later. (Which was a little too long a digression to fit into that paragraph of the story! But I'm so pleased the spirit of it came through for you anyway.)

There's definitely going to be increasing amounts of angst in here, but I can 100% guarantee a happy ending, at the absolute least. As a writer I'm extremely predictable that way. :D Thank you so very much for reading this, anon, and for all these kind words - I hope so much that you're right and you enjoy the rest equally well. ♥

:D I already thanked you in the other thread for giving this a shot, but LET ME THANK YOU AGAIN. It's so lovely that you were willing to give this a try even though the premise isn't your favorite, and I'm really (REALLY) glad you ended up enjoying it so much! GREAT COMPLIMENT, OR GREATEST COMPLIMENT? \o/

clearly you're going to have to keep writing longer and longer updates

Oh, that part'll happen pretty definitely. :D They just keep cracking a thousand words, no matter what I do ... Seriously, anon, thank you so much for all your encouragement across multiple WsIP, it's so excellent of you and I appreciate it so so much. ♥

Haha, thank you mod, you are a gem XD

AT LAST \o/ THE REASON I STARTED WRITING THIS THING IN THE FIRST PLACE

oh my god someone stop me

But for all that he's picked up the pace a little, Bruce still doesn't kiss Clark until the sixth date.

Clark begins to think something's up almost right away. Bruce is different from the start, though Clark's not sure how to measure it: a certain intensity to his face, or maybe the way his gaze follows Clark from the second Clark gets into the car with him. He leans back into the limo seat and looks at Clark with dark eyes, the barest hint of amusement slanting the line of his mouth; and now Clark's looking at his mouth, oops.

Clark clears his throat and glances deliberately out the window. "Where to this time?"

"I thought perhaps modern dance," Bruce says, in his smoothest, warmest Wayne voice—and he's doing it on purpose, Clark knows that, which makes it even more annoying that Clark finds himself wanting to lean toward it. Jesus. He absolutely cannot afford to let Bruce Wayne start messing with his head.

"Modern dance," he repeats, inane.

Bruce shrugs, an easy shift of the shoulders—the line of the suit obscures it a little, Clark thinks dimly, but of course he knows what they look like anyway, Bruce's shoulders: Batman's been sprayed with acid at least twice, has had to disassemble the body armor around his undersuit, and why is that what Clark's thinking about right now—

"You seemed to enjoy the ballet."

Clark blinks. "Yes, I did." He hesitates, but—but there's no reason not to say it, is there? "That's very thoughtful. I—thank you."

And that, of all things, seems to trip Bruce up, a brief instant of total stillness like a hitch in his step—but then he smiles at Clark smugly and relaxes back into the seat. So maybe it was just Clark's imagination.

"No need to thank me, Clark," Bruce says, and then, voice dipping, "At least not until we're somewhere a little more private."

Typical, Clark thinks sourly, but that doesn't stop the heat rising into his face. "You're terrible," he tells Bruce. It doesn't come out nearly as flat as he wanted it to.

Bruce smiles, and still—still—doesn't look away. "And yet you're still here, in my car, wearing—" and oh, here it comes: Clark tries not to squirm under the scorchingly thorough onceover— "a very, very nice suit. So I must be doing something right."

"Oh my god," Clark mutters, and steadfastly ignores Bruce's melodramatic wince when he sticks a finger into his collar and tugs to loosen it. Somehow it's always really hot in Bruce's cars.

The performance is a reprieve in more ways than one. Bruce is merciful, he doesn't just stare at Clark through the entire thing the way he was in the car; and truthfully, it's absorbing enough that Clark can let everything else fade into the background. He's not even sure what the name of the troupe is, and it's not as though he's any kind of expert, but to his untrained eyes the dancing is spellbinding—wrenching in its intensity, sharp and loud and desperate right up until it all breaks open for an unexpected moment of quiet grace. It pulls him in so completely that he's almost disoriented when the stage empties and the lights come back up.

He sits back in his seat and breathes while people file out around him; and Bruce—

Bruce doesn't rush him. Clark expects him to make a joke, to tell Clark that if he takes any longer they're going to miss their reservation. But Bruce doesn't say anything until Clark finally turns to look at him; and then all he does is smile, just a little, and say, "You liked it."

"Yes," Clark says.

"Good," Bruce says, low, and then abruptly stands, raising an eyebrow and holding out one hand like Clark is a princess he's helping out of a carriage. "But if you take any longer, we're going to miss our reservation."

Of course. Clark grins helplessly at his knees, shakes his head, and then he stands up, too; and he pointedly doesn't take Bruce's hand, but he doesn't shake it off when Bruce settles it at the small of his back, either.

After all, it's not going to hurt anything, Clark reminds himself. Maybe if they're lucky, somebody in the lobby will take a picture.

By the time they reach the restaurant, Bruce is turned up to eleven again. Clark can barely even remember what they get, and it's possible he lets Bruce order for him; it seems like the only thing in his brain is the look in Bruce's eyes when he holds out a mouthful, the way he lets Clark wrap a hand around his on the fork but then doesn't actually yield it.

"What—"

"Try it," Bruce murmurs, and the tone of his voice fills Clark's gut with something Clark would really, really like to call anxiety. The angle of his mouth turns just a little wicked, and then he adds, "You'll like it. I promise."

Jesus, Clark thinks, sweet hopscotching Jesus, but there's nothing else for it: it seems weird and rude to just—leave the fork hanging there, and Clark's not going to use the strength on Bruce over this. It's just food, Clark tells himself; and he closes his eyes while he ducks down to close his mouth around the tines, but it doesn't matter. He can hardly taste it for picturing the expression on Bruce's face.

And anxiety is definitely not the word for what it does to him to sit back up and open his eyes again only to watch Bruce watch him swallow.

He clears his throat and then drains half his water-glass in one pull.

(It doesn't occur to him for another couple minutes that he never actually told Bruce what he thought of the food; but Bruce doesn't seem to mind.)

The entire dinner passes almost in a haze. They talk about something, Clark's pretty sure, but all his attempts to start a fight are twisted around into banter instead, or else Bruce somehow manages to reply with outrageously ridiculous compliments that only make Clark laugh. And Clark can't concentrate well enough to keep trying, because Bruce keeps—keeps touching him, brushing their hands together when he passes Clark things, wrapping his fingers around Clark's the same way Clark did to him earlier when Clark belatedly offers Bruce a taste of his own meal.

And Clark's not an idiot. He realizes this is the Bruce Wayne Show he's getting, one hundred percent grade A extra-dark. It's just that knowing what it is doesn't stop it from working. There absolutely is a tiny cynical part of Clark's brain wondering how many people Bruce has used this or that line on before, whether he prefers the swoons he usually gets to Clark's snorting—whether Clark would be able to tell if he did. But it's slowly drowned out by the accumulating touches of Bruce's hands, by the almost narcotic intensity of having Bruce Wayne's completely undivided attention, by the heavy simmering feeling of being—not half-hard, quite, but maybe a quarter, right on the edge of getting somewhere, in suit pants Bruce bought for him in the first place.

(Clark had already realized this was starting to get to him in ways he hadn't anticipated. But the sixth date is the first time he understands: when this comes apart, when this ends, it's—it might actually hurt.)

Bruce kindly waits until Clark's swallowed the last of his extremely good glass of wine to say, in the same warm, intent tone he's been using all evening, "I'm going to kiss you by the doors."

To his credit, Clark thinks, he manages not to startle too much. "What?"

"I'm going to kiss you by the doors," Bruce repeats, unapologetic. "In the entryway. We can't put it off very much longer. We haven't been interrupted, you haven't had to leave early—it's a good night for it."

It's like the flip side of the night on the roof: Bruce Wayne's talking, but the words are Batman. Strategy, tactics, planning.

(Clark wishes vaguely that that made more of a difference to his dick, but he's starting to discover that it doesn't.)

"Not outside?"

"Outside is where we'd kiss if we were putting on a show," Bruce says.

"Oh," Clark mutters, "of course."

"You go and wait for me," Bruce says, still in that same low heated tone; in case anyone's trying to eavesdrop, Clark realizes, close enough to hear that but not the actual words. "I'll take care of the bill and then catch up to you. We'll talk quietly for a second, and then I'll kiss you—close enough to the doors for somebody to catch a partial. That's the best we can do."

It should bother Clark a little, probably, to hear it laid out step-by-step like a sports play. But he's looking at Bruce Wayne and listening to Batman, and it's like the combination, knowing both of them, lets him see what Bruce really means. That's the best we can do—Bruce is trying to find a balance, to make this as painless as possible. Give the media a decent kiss without forcing Clark to fake it really publicly: half-shielded by the restaurant doors, a glimpse instead of a full frontal.

It's kind, is what it is; so when Clark stands up, he lets himself touch Bruce's hand and say, "Thank you," before he walks away.

Batman's plans usually work; this one's no different. Clark waits just inside the restaurant doors—they're wood and glass, enough that he can see the crowd of photographers outside, which means they can also see him. He wonders whether Bruce timed all this, had Alfred call someone to tip them off so they'd be waiting. Probably.

The footsteps that come up behind him then are Bruce's; he wastes a second wondering why he's so sure, whether it's the heartbeat and breathing he's recognizing, or maybe the faint scent of Bruce's cologne, or it's just that he actually has learned what Italian leather and custom soles sound like.

And then he turns around, and Bruce is—Bruce is right there. Bruce is close and stepping closer, lifting one hand to settle his fingertips against Clark's throat, his thumb against the line of Clark's jaw. "This is so trite you should probably slap me," he murmurs, "but you have the most astonishing eyes."

He doesn't even give Clark a chance to reply. He just leans in, and Clark's eyes close before he can stop them.

Bruce starts slow: one brief hot brush, another; and then a firmer press of mouths. It's—they're—they really are kissing, and the thought, the fact of it, makes Clark breathe in sharply—makes him part his lips, in other words, and that's the beginning of the end.

Clark almost wishes, after, that he could tell himself it had done nothing for him and mean it—that knowing Bruce was doing it all for show had ruined it before it began, and allowed the whole thing to leave Clark cold.

But it doesn't. Bruce is good at this, endlessly good: his mouth is hot and his tongue is clever, and the way he uses his teeth, God. He can't make Clark bleed, not like this, but Clark almost wishes he could. And surely he's doing all this on purpose, but the way it feels, the way he starts out so light and sweet and then licks in deeper, a sudden desperate plunge like he can't stop himself, before easing back again—

When it's over, all Clark can think is that he wants another. He wants another and another and another, he wants to drag Bruce back and shove him into a wall and—

He opens his eyes, and a flash goes off—not the first, surely, just the first Clark's noticed. (Clark can't stop himself from tracking down the picture later: the photographer caught the two of them just staring at each other, intent, too close, the barest shine of wetness on Clark's lower lip.) Bruce turns and laughs, pushes the restaurant door open and shields his eyes, just barely in time for the flurry of followups, popping white lights strobing across his face; and then he smiles at Clark, smug and sly and Wayne straight through, and leads him toward the car.

Stop you? We will never stop you. This fic will ride eternal or something like that. :D ALSO KISSING IS HAPPENING KISSIIIIIIIIIIING. I may be a bit overexcited here.

I love how Bruce is really starting to get to Clark, which is exactly what I wanted from this prompt, really - Bruce being ~Bruce Wayne~ and Clark being kind of annoyed an STILL falling for it. And ouch, Bruce covering up any real feelings with innuendos, of course.

and he pointedly doesn't take Bruce's hand, but he doesn't shake it off when Bruce settles it at the small of his back, either.

After all, it's not going to hurt anything, Clark reminds himself. Maybe if they're lucky, somebody in the lobby will take a picture.
Haha, oh Clark, right, they're doing it for the press, of course. ;D Even if Clark is enjoying himself so, so much. Seductive Bruce is so, so much fun to watch. Especially from Clark's POV.

And Clark's not an idiot. He realizes this is the Bruce Wayne Show he's getting, one hundred percent grade A extra-dark. It's just that knowing what it is doesn't stop it from working.
YES YES YES. So you basically said what I just rambled about in my comment, but better. Braintwin. :D And the entire following paragraph is beautiful, and then that line about how when this ends, it might actually hurt, oh Clark. Clark. Bruce had better not hurt him, I'm feeling protective here. ;)

It's like the flip side of the night on the roof: Bruce Wayne's talking, but the words are Batman. Strategy, tactics, planning.

(Clark wishes vaguely that that made more of a difference to his dick, but he's starting to discover that it doesn't.)
The first line is such good identity porn, the second line made me cackle. :D And I love how calmly Bruce announces this. But my favourite thing must be Clark realising that Bruce is trying to make this as easy on Clark as he can. My heart. <3

AND THEN YOU HAVE HIM TOUCH CLARK'S THROAT!XKJF BGDFIRGBDIPGD AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. BEST FIRST KISS EVER, ANON, THE BEST! Clark gets so carried away and Bruce is a great kisser of course, and the thing about Clark wanting to bleed, unf, and Clark wanting more - I'm with Clark here, I WANT MORE. ;D And the Wayne smile at the end, oh my god. I'm wibbling. I need to know they're going to be happy together (okay, you said this would have a happy ending, but I need to know how). (Don't mind my whining, of course, you are an absolute saint for updating this amazing WIP so often. <3)

/OP who would like to, like, fake marry you for real or something like that ;)

GAHHHHHH! Oh my heart, anon! I am incomprehensible right now. You have killed me with your awesome writing and UST! This is too perfect!

I'm such an overjoyed OP right now that you've put in all these scenarios that range from intimidating to hilarious.

Bruce throwing a cleat to knock out Bane is beautiful. Random shape shifting tentacle creatures that want to kidnap Clark for breeding purposes because he's the last of his kind is beautiful. Everything is beautiful! But especially Clark now being forced to live with Bruce until this blows over (just for things to still go wrong I bet).

I look forward to whatever other scenario you have cooked up.

Bruce keeps buying Clark expensive things. Maybe it's because it's the only way Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy knows how to show affection. Or maybe he does it unknowingly, like he gives Clark fancy technology, encrypted phones or something for security/Justice League purposes. Clark is baffled at first, but ends up liking it.

Seconds! Identity porn is such a kink of mine. And esp with sleazy Matches Malone!

Haha, thank you so much XD Everyone just wants Clark! I can't say as I blame them, really.

And yeah, I mmmmaybe spent too much time looking at that delightful gifset yesterday :O

Thanks again!!!

LISTEN, THE ONLY PERSON WHO'S GOING TO BE BREEDING WITH CLARK IS ME, Bruce screams as he kicks the trans-dimensional tentacle monster back from whence it came!

XD Thank you so much!! I'm so glad you're enjoying, and yesss, the moment when Bruce threw Clark over his shoulder in the movie was the moment they had to stick a fork in me, because I was done.

Thanks again XD

Bruce never does anything without a plan XD If Clark is going to come to the lakehouse, Clark is DAMN WELL COMING TO THE LAKEHOUSE.

Thank you so much!!! :D I'm so happy you're enjoying it -- these two are WAY too much fun to play with.

OP, I am SO happy you're enjoying the fill :D I loved all the scenarios you came up with so much I couldn't resist using them -- thank you for leaving such an excellent prompt!

Haha, unfortunately yes, even Bruce cannot protect Clark from himself XD

Thank you again!!!

"That's very thoughtful. I—thank you."

And that, of all things, seems to trip Bruce up...

I can’t decide how I feel about this; I love it clearly. But I don’t know whether Bruce just doesn’t know what to do with genuine courtesy or if it’s just an extension of him figuring out Clark.

Oh, my! Six dates and already Clark can predict Bruce’s jokes. I love Clark’s point of view, but I can’t help wondering what’s going through Bruce’s head throughout it all. I can see the Batman of it—Clark liked the ballet. Take him to a recital to put him in a better mood for the kissing! But I can’t help but wonder if tailoring the date more for Clark’s enjoyment is less a calculated move and more something else? O.o

Sweet hopscotching Jesus! Clark internal dialogue is adorable!

Guh… Bruce feeding Clark. Just…Clark being so flustered!

I am of the opinion that Bruce is unapologetic about not putting off kissing Clark for more than his stated reasons.

Give the media a decent kiss without forcing Clark to fake it really publicly. I am also of the opinion that yes, it may be a calculated kindness, but I have to believe that it’s also calculated to be as close to private and just for Bruce to have, without raising Clark’s suspicions. :-D That, and Bruce has probably figured out by now that Clark can’t to lie or fake his way out of a paper bag.

Somehow, I don’t think it’s Bruce Wayne turned up to 11 that’s remarking on Clark’s baby blues.

The kiss. Guh. For the record, so worth the buildup. And, yeah. Just, yeah.

Poor baby! He’s already starting to tear himself up with analyzing the “Bruce Wayne Show.” Being self-aware sucks.

Thanks for my daily dose of happy (heartbreak)!

Thank YOU for filling it!

And ha, the glory of comics based canon means getting to have lots of fun with years of "I can't believe that happened"

ACTUAL TOUCHING! AT LAST!

----------------

It’s only once Bruce has Clark sitting down on the expansive leather couch of the lake house that he really starts to see these things; he wonders why he didn’t earlier. He has, after all, been watching him carefully these past few weeks, and Clark is usually so impervious to anything and everything that hits him that even the slightest change in his demeanor should have been like a warning broadcast to him.

But for whatever reason, it’s only just now that Bruce is seeing that he’s not sitting back on the couch, but rather holding himself stiffly upright, his left shoulder held higher than his right. There’s small cuts and grazes over the backs of his hands, and Bruce can see he’s not quite turning his head to what should be its full rotation as he watches Bruce walk back and forth across the room, clearing the cushions off the couch so Clark will have somewhere to sleep.

He takes them down the corridor and stores them in one of the invisible closets built into the wall. He takes a deep breath before he comes back into the living area, and stands in front of the hearth, staring down at Clark.

“How long have you had cracked ribs?”

Clark glances up, surprised. “How long… sorry, what?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Are you really going to do this?”

Clark opens his hands, and Bruce watches as a wince runs down the full length of his face. “I just… only since yesterday. I didn’t know that’s what it was.”

Yesterday, yesterday… what had happened yesterday? “I didn’t have to rescue you yesterday. So I know that’s not true.”

Clark shifts a little, looking uncomfortable. “Look, it’s not important.”

There’s a cold feeling in the pit of Bruce’s stomach. Had Clark been in some kind of danger yesterday, and he hadn’t known about it? Was there some kind of flaw in his surveillance? Had be been inattentive? How could he have –

“I got run over by the Daily Planet snack cart, all right?” Clark says, not looking at Bruce. “I was crouched over in the aisle to tie my shoelace, and the guy didn’t see me, so –”

Bruce feels a kind of hysterical laugh welling up inside him. All these weeks of protecting Clark, and he goes and gets hit by a fucking lunch trolley. There’s not a lot of things that have made Bruce laugh over the years, but this, this might just do it.

“Let me look at it.”

Clark glances up, a quick movement of his head that clearly causes him a lot of pain.

“It’s fine, Bruce.”

“It clearly isn’t. Have you been taking any painkillers for it?”

“Children’s aspirin.” Clark looks – and sounds – sheepish. “I didn’t have anything stronger. I never thought I’d need it.”

“So I’m guessing that didn’t put a dent in the pain.”

“I… no.”

Bruce lets out a long sigh. The need to laugh has subsided. He doesn’t know how familiar Clark is with pain – well, that’s not entirely true, a voice in his head reminds him – but cracked ribs are cracked ribs, and that can’t be pleasant.

“You’re going to have to put some ice on them,” Bruce says. “Did you bandage them? If you did, we’re going to have to get those off, right now. How’s your pain level?”

Clark grimaces. “I don’t really have that much of a basis for comparison, but… pretty bad. I think.”

Bruce nods. “Fine. Take your shirt off.”

There’s a sharp intake of air, and Clark blinks, as if he can’t possibly fathom why that my might be necessary.

“So I can put ice on you,” Bruce clarifies, as if he’s talking to a not-so-bright child. “It helps.”

“Oh. Sure, I know,” Clark says, but Bruce sees his eyes shift away uncomfortably.

Bruce leaves Clark to his own devices and goes and gets some ice from the fridge, letting the cubes drop into a glass from the dispenser. Vapor rises from their surface as they clink out, one by one. For a moment, Bruce considers getting himself a drink, before deciding against it. He grabs a towel and heads back to the lounge.

Clark is still struggling with his shirt when he gets back – he’s managed to pull one arm out, but apparently does not have the mobility to finish the job. He looks up at Bruce a little helplessly, his eyes startlingly blue under the light of the lamp.

“Here, I’ll do it,” Bruce says, exasperated.

He knew from the moment he’d decided that Clark could not be trusted to look after himself out in the wider world that there was really only one solution; he’d also known from the first time he’d made the offer, back when Clark’s apartment had been destroyed, that it’s a bad solution.

The only person who’s welcome here for more than a few hours at a time is Alfred – and even then, Bruce tends to throw him out as soon as the bitching about the wine cellar and the women’s underpants down the back of the couch and the stains on the rug get to be too much. He hasn’t been in the mood to hear it lately.

But Clark could not be out in the world in his current state. That’s been proven enough times already. Really, Bruce should have offered sooner, if only for his own convenience. But then…

But then, Clark would have been on his couch, in his space, looking at him with a kind of mixture of defiance and helplessness because he can’t even take his own damn shirt off.

A fucking lunch trolley.

“Look, just hold still.”

Bruce has cracked his ribs more times than he can count, so he knows the limits of Clark’s movements as he slowly moves his white shirt down over his arms.

Under the shirt, Clark’s skin is marked by a cobweb of scratches and minor lacerations; the small bruises and grazes he’s picked up since he lost his powers, and the whole world apparently decided it was Let’s Murder Clark Kent Day. Bruce isn’t sure whether he’s surprised or not at the sight of Clark’s – of Superman’s – usually pristine form being marred by this evidence of his current mortality. He’s been there when Clark acquired most of these; he’s seen him take worse (much worse).

But for some reason, this time, it unnerves him a little. Possibly because it’s so obvious that Clark hasn’t been treating them. Hell – is Clark even up to date with his shots? Could he even get shots as a child? Would a tetanus needle just have snapped off against his skin?

Aside from the cuts and bruises through, Bruce is mildly shocked by the size of the massive purple bruise that spreads across Clark’s side, yellowing on the edges. It’s… it’s ugly. Like something that doesn’t belong.

“Jesus, Clark,” Bruce mutters as he surveys the damage. “Did you say he hit you with a lunch trolley or with a tank?”

“I wasn’t sure how long it should be taking to heal,” Clark says. “I mean… I’ll be fine in a couple of days right?”

Bruce laughs. Bitterly. “A couple of days? Try a couple of months. Your cuts will clear up if I get some disinfectant onto them, but your ribs won’t heal for six weeks, depending on how bad the crack is.”

Clark’s eyes widen. “Your cracked ribs don’t take that long to heal.”

“Yes, they do.”

The silence that hangs between them in the second that follows is heavy – Bruce can see that Clark is about to ask, before comprehension dawns, and his snaps his mouth shut quickly. Bruce watches his Adam’s apple dip as he swallows.

“Let’s get this done,” he says, not wanting to discuss this any longer.

He wraps the ice in the towel and ignores Clark’s shocked, hissing inhalation when he presses it against his skin. He twitches, abdominal muscles clenching.

“That’s cold.”

Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Hold it here. It’ll bring the swelling down. I’ll go get the disinfectant.”

There’s Q-Tips and peroxide in the bathroom cabinet. Bruce briefly sees his own face in the mirror before he opens it up, but he doesn’t look for long.

When he gets back, Clark still dutifully has the ice pressed against his side, just like Bruce showed him, but his eyebrows are furrowed, and Bruce can see it’s proving to be a test of character for him. The ice has melted slightly, and as Bruce sits down across from him, he notices a trickle of water escaping from the towel and running over Clark’s skin, tracing its way between the grooves of his muscle.

He clears his throat.

“This’ll sting; try not to move.”

And it does, and Clark does – though he still can’t quite suppress the full range of small shudders and twitches as Bruce dabs the peroxide over the worst of the cuts. There’s a nasty gash just below his collarbone that Bruce has to clean a lot of dried blood out of; really, this is just sad.

“Don’t you know anything about basic first aid?” he murmurs as he cleans, not really expecting a response. He’s concentrating on the wound – bright against Clark’s pale skin, sitting just above the swell of his pectoral muscle and just below the arch of his clavicle.

“I… do,” Clark says, his voice sounding a little strained. “But I just never thought… I didn’t really know how bad these were. I thought they’d just clear up after a day. People must get this kind of thing all the time, and they just… you know…”

Bruce resists the urge to shake his head. All right, fine. He supposes it would shock Clark to know of all the petty and not-so-petty pains and twinges humans carry around with them on a day-to-day basis. The aches and pains that have simply become integrated into their bodies.

He lays the bloody Q-Tip aside, and reaches for another. Clark hisses when he presses it against the gash, slowly stroking away the dried blood and bits of dirt, the cotton fluff from his shirt that have gotten stuck in it.

Once he’s satisfied, he tears off a strip of medical tape with his teeth and sticks and square of gauze over it. Provided Clark has enough of his natural good health left, he should be fine. Nothing looks infected.

Bruce sits back.

“Is that it?” Clark blinks, and Bruce realises he’s had his eyes closed. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his face.

“Sorry of that hurt, but there’s no way around it,” he says, keeping his voice gruff. “You’ll get used to it.”

Clark shifts a little on the couch. “No, it’s not – it’s not that,” he says. “I – actually, I –”

He doesn’t finish, and Bruce turns away to screw the lid back onto the peroxide. “You’ll have to sleep sitting up,” he says. “You should be warm enough. I’ll leave the heat on.”

Bruce stands, and tosses Clark a blanket. He can sort it out himself, he decides, as he walks down the hall towards his bedroom.

*CLUTCHES AT FACE*

the way he starts out so light and sweet and then licks in deeper, a sudden desperate plunge like he can't stop himself,

*SILENT SCREAMING* BRUCE TOTALLY COULDN'T HELP HIMSELF. GOD.

I swear I want to cry in frustration from this. Because I'm not the one getting wined and dined and kissed by Bruce, because Clark aches so beautifully, so painfully. And so does Bruce! Which just makes everything worse. But also better, because UST = <33333 even when the Unresolved Feels just about slay me.

That kiss was so hot, so hot, ugh *ugly sobbing* I HATE EVERYTHING, BUT MOSTLY YOU.

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Page 20 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

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Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (7/?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (7/?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (7/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Mod!

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (8/?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (8/?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (8/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Bruce/Clark, sugar daddy

Re: Matches Malone/Clark, identity porn

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (8/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Three

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Four

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (8/?)