dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

Please have a look at the extended rules here.

The important rules in short:

Post anonymously.
Negative comments on other people's prompts (kink-shaming, pairing-bashing etc.) and personal attacks of any kind will not be tolerated.
One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
Prompts should follow the format: Character/character, prompt.
Keep prompts to a reasonable length; prompts should not be detailed story outlines.
No prompt spamming.

Please direct any questions to the Ask a mod post. For inspiration: list of kinks .

Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

Here's the discussion post for all your non-prompt/fill needs.

We now have a non-DCEU prompt post for any prompts in other 'verses (comics, animated series, other movies or TV shows etc.).

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Clark moves behind him, presses again and Bruce grunts, feels his spine arch. A hot slice of agony runs up his back this time. Jesus, he hadn’t realized it would be like this—it’s been too long. He’s getting to old for this kind of thing.

“Sorry, sorry—am I going too fast?”

“No, your blundering, ham-handed approach is moving at exactly the right pace,” Bruce snaps, his voice tight. He hears the dripping acerbity in his own tone and—he winces a little, half contrite, as he feels Clark stiffen behind him. The guy is trying his best, after all.

Well, being nice has never been Bruce’s strong suit. Better Clark get used to that early on if they’re going to keep doing this.

“It’s fine,” he says shortly. “Keep going. It’s just—it’s just not the way Alfred does it.”

He feels Clark freeze again for half a second. Then he continues, a little gentler now. It’s—better. Bruce wants to twist back to look, but it’s useless. The angle isn’t right. Maybe he should keep a mirror in the tac belt; it’d be useful for these kinds of circumstances—

“So—Alfred, huh?” Clark’s voice is studiedly nonchalant. His hands are hot against Bruce’s still-damp skin. His big body is close behind Bruce; it seems to take up a lot of space.

Bruce does turn his head this time—ignores the way it makes things pull and twist, unpleasantly—and Clark stops moving. He blinks down at Bruce, innocently.

“Yes, Alfred. Why not Alfred?”

“No—no reason,” Clark backpedals quickly. It would be amusing if Bruce wasn’t distracted by his own… situation just now.

“I mean, it makes sense, of course, he’s—around all the time. I guess—I just didn’t think that you shared—this with him.”

“How about we stop talking about my life and get on with the task at hand,” Bruce says, turning his face forward again. Clark is still wearing his suit. Bruce is suddenly very aware of the air ghosting against his exposed skin. He pushes back against Clark, urging him to get on with it—

“Okay, okay.” Clark has the nerve to sound irritated again. The next press comes unexpectedly, and Bruce can’t hold back his stifled gasp. Clark hesitates—

“I swear to god, just fucking do it already. I’m going to die of old age before you finish—”

“Hold on, this isn’t working right. You need more—do you have—?”

“In the drawer.” Bruce grinds his teeth, marshals his patience. Everything is throbbing.

He feels Clark shift away from him, some fumbling noises as he roots through the drawer. Then the sound of the tube unscrewing and—ah.

Clark’s fingers are newly slick. They feel like heaven, a balm against Bruce’s taut skin.

“Yes,” Bruce hears himself gasp, “Right there—just, just like that.”

-----
;) ahaha this is so much fun

a!a: hi OP!! So glad to hear you're liking this!! And thanks for the awesome prompt, I'm having way too much fun with it. ;)

Holy innuendo, Batman! :D

This is both hot and entertaining, thank you for this gift, anon <3

Ooooooooh, this just keeps getting better. You know, at first I just thought that Bruce had a dislocated shoulder that Clark is putting back in for him, but Clark is really just giving him a massage, isn't he? :DDD Oh, Bruce, he must feel awful to allow that. Still loving how bitchy Bruce is, and how he starts to feel a little bad about it. /OP

Hahaha thanks for that! I was beginning to think I was being too, ahem, subtle... ;)

mhmmm... who knows what these boys are up to at this point? hehehe ;) thanks for commenting!!

ayrt

Ahh so excited! My preference would be for DCEU verse because hot damn, Batfleck. But I also have a weakness for college!AUs, so do your thing anon!

:D Haha, that is a perfect mental image, anon, thank you! I'm so pleased to hear you're enjoying this, and I hope you enjoy the next part too. ♥ And thanks right back at you for reading, I know this is getting quite long! /o\

I think some more praise kink is inevitable with this set up, oh what a pity what a shame. :3

Thank you anon! I'm glad the bits that aren't actually sparring aka THE PROMPT aren't terminally boring. :D

There is nothing better than someone slowly wearing away the stoic character's defenses, right?! Especially when the one doing the wearing doesn't want to admit he's got it bad, either :3

<3

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Apparently so does Clark! ;)

This hurts so good, the pining

/o\ OH YAY. Obviously at this point I shouldn't be surprised, braintwin, but I'm planning to wallow a fair bit in the pining, and PSYCHED that that's another thing you're into. *high-fives* :D And I'm so glad you enjoyed that conversation with Lois - when I outlined this I was mostly focused on how it would segue to Martha, but when I actually started writing it, that's what came out.

I'm really looking forward to that very awkward dinner with Bruce

:D Haha, I'm glad to hear it - and man, OP, you make me want to write like six of this exploring each different way this could fall out! *shakes fist* But I hope you like the route I've chosen and if you don't then tell me and I'll go back and try another! D:

NO U :P ♥

...I may have accidentally some plot. /o\

Clark's not sure if it's the siren call of frying bacon that wakes him, or if it was the long, raucous growl that his stomach is still making even as he rolls out of bed. He showers as quickly as he can (hesitantly uses a dab of the body wash; does not think about how familiar the scent is already), pulls on jeans and a clean shirt despite his shoulders' strenuous objections, and then does his best to make the bed up exactly as he found it, with limited success. Hospital corners are not in his repertoire.

Clark follows his nose into the kitchen. "Good afternoon, sir," Alfred says, at command of the stove in shirtsleeves and an apron, deftly agitating the contents of a skillet. It smells transcendent. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Afternoon?" Clark turns to look out over the lake. There's no morning fog rising from the water; the sun is directly overhead, sloping through the low clouds. It's almost perplexing, and he wonders if he earned this lazy morning or if it's a holdover from the odd tension of last night. It doesn't seem like Bruce to go easy on him, though he'd buy it as an avoidance tactic.

"Master Bruce sends his apologies," Alfred says, as if reading his mind. "Something came up."

Clark pulls a stool up to the counter and fends off a weird little jolt of disappointment. "Things come up a lot with him, huh," he says, as Alfred sets a plate in front of him and heaps on a generous serving of crisp bacon.

"He does tend to keep his hands somewhat full." A stack of toast materializes, along with a glass of orange juice (freshly squeezed), a mug of coffee (phenomenally strong) and a folded newspaper, while Clark becomes increasingly awkward about being waited upon. "Your eggs, Mr. Kent?"

"You don't have to do that, Alfred," Clark says. "I really don't mind making my own food."

"That as may be, but it's on Master Bruce's orders."

"Oh. Well, wouldn't want to get you into trouble." Clark flashes him a wry grin around a mouthful of toast. "Over easy, then. But! You have to call me Clark, and let me wash up. Those are my terms."

"Oof. You drive a hard bargain." Alfred's smile is small but genuine, and Clark decides that he likes him a lot.

Clark flips open the paper as he eats--it's the Gotham Gazette, naturally--and there's Bruce, glowering below the fold. It's a candid shot of him on the steps of his company's building, jacket unfastened and hair just slightly unruly. Clark doesn't believe for a second he was caught unawares, but his stomach drops anyway.

WAYNE INDUSTRIES TECH LEAKS, the headline declares. CEO SCRAMBLES TO SAVE FACE.

"Like I said." Alfred slides a couple of fried eggs onto Clark's plate. "He has his hands full. Though, I hasten to add, it's not as bad as it looks."

"I don't know," Clark says as he scans the article. He thinks about Bruce's tired face, the tension in his shoulders. "It looks pretty bad." Apparently some prototype WayneTech has shown up on the black market and filtered onto the streets--not weaponry, thank god--but security and surveillance devices. Hugely embarrassing, even for Wayne's dubious boardroom reputation.

"It's mostly under control," Alfred says. "The media got wind of it late in the day. The leak has already been identified and dealt with, and a few more broken links shaken out of the company at that. Bruce just needs to prostrate himself in front of the shareholders for a while and all should be well."

Clark can imagine how much Bruce is not enjoying that. "And the tech?"

"Merely a case of, ah, reacquiring it. Not difficult, just time-consuming."

And Clark knows that if had an ounce of his powers back, he could help. He could pick out a particular broadcast frequency, pinpoint the equipment and have it back in Bruce's hands before he could blink. But he doesn't, and he can't, and it's not a great feeling.

He helps Alfred with the dishes as promised, which Alfred seems to find endlessly amusing for some reason. Clark figures it's because the coffee has kicked in and he's jittering with the over-caffeination. It's a new sensation and one he doesn't care for--he holds his hands out flat in front of him, tries to get them to stop shaking through sheer force of will.

"Hmm. Might I suggest a constitutional, Master Clark?" Alfred says, stowing the last of the cutlery away.

Clark laughs. "Probably a good idea." It would do to loosen up a bit, as well as work off the shakes. A bit of fresh air and what passes for sunshine in Gotham definitely holds some appeal.

"Indeed. While you do that, I have some errands to run. Is there anything you need?"

"I could use some soap," Clark says. Then he has an idea--pauses for a moment to second-guess himself, but decides to cave to his impulse instead. It can't do any harm. "And whatever Bruce's favorite dessert is."

Worst-case scenario, he'll have to eat it himself.

*

Clark jogs along the gravel-strewn road parallel to the lake. It feels good, the sun on his back and the steady rhythm of his own footfalls, his heartbeat and his breathing. It's no Kansas summer, or even a Metropolis one, but he can feel the ache lifting out of his body, transmuting into something bearable.

By the time he has to stop and catch his breath, he finds he's not far from the ruins of Wayne Manor.

The closer Clark gets the more oppressive its broken bones become, and with it a compulsion to see more. He finds himself drawn through the long grass and wildflowers, up into the cool interior. The daylight has been cut away here, laying open the shadows.

Clark turns slowly, taking in the wreckage under the tepid slats of sun: the shattered columns and soot-stained stone; charred beams collapsed against the floor; soda cans and fast food wrappers and graffiti spidering over the walls.

(If he closes his eyes, he might hear the metallic grind of armor, could almost taste his own blood.)

He crouches to track his fingers through the grime. No doubt there was polished marble tile under here, once. Luxurious rugs, wood-paneled walls and chandeliers overhead; host to a hundred soirées, spaces imprinted with the memory of generations upon generations. Gone, now. Left to decay. Seems like Bruce is determined to be the last of his line.

When Clark turns back to the entranceway he's there, silhouetted the door. Bruce, his hands in his pockets, wool coat caught in the breeze. "You shouldn't be here," he says, voice hollowed out and echoing in the gloom. "It's haunted."

Clark is pretty sure it's not the building that's haunted. "Lucky I don't believe in ghosts, then," he says, picking his way out through the rubble.

*

Bruce threatens him with another session of nothing but ukemi, but after a half-hour he is apparently satisfied with Clark's progress. Clark has decided this must be the case because the Batman isn't one for pity, regardless of how many pathetic whimpering noises his victim might be making.

"Okay, enough. Let's move on to something else," Bruce says, after Clark turns a backward roll push up and sticks the landing with a loud groan. Bruce rubs his forehead and mutters something under his breath.

"Headache?" Clark asks.

"You could say that." He links his fingers and stretches his arms above his head, muscles bunching and pulling under his thin black t-shirt.

(Clark had maybe stared a bit when he came down to the cave in bare feet and judo pants and that tee, hair slicked back and wet from the shower, but that's because he's never actually seen more of Bruce than his hands and his face.

He has a lot of scars.)

"Clark," Bruce says, snapping his fingers. "Get your head in the game, son."

"Sorry, sorry." Clark gives himself a mental shake and stops pondering the bruise on Bruce's collarbone. This somehow gets harder when Bruce rolls his shoulders back and stretches again. "What, uh. What are we doing?"

"Kata," he says. "Watch me closely."

"Alright, okay, no problem."

Bruce shoots him an unreadable look and then drops smoothly into a ready stance, knees bent, hands fisted. He flows through a series of forms and strikes, stepping and turning with a precise grace, and it's familiar from any number of movies with karate training montages that Clark watched as a kid.

"I know you're thinking it," Bruce says, sweeping to a standstill and bowing. "So get it out of your system."

Clark grins. "Wax on, wax off, Daniel-san."

"That was even worse than I thought it would be." Bruce shakes his head, then returns to his first stance. "Okay, now you try. Move along with me."

Clark does his best to mirror him as he goes through the techniques--downward block, lunging punch, rising block--and he feels like he's doing okay once he gets the transition between stances down, but Bruce stops him and makes him hold his current form.

"Like the falls you learned," he says, and adjusts the position of Clark's arm with gentle pressure on his biceps, "these techniques will become second nature, embedded in your procedural memory. So, let's make sure we do this right."

"Sure," Clark says, Bruce's hand in the small of his back. Just encouraging him to lean forward a touch, no big deal. Then on his knee, turning his thigh slightly.

Then on Clark's chin, angling his head up so he can see how Bruce is staring at him. He should feel pinned under his critical gaze.

"There," Bruce murmurs. "Perfect."

*

:D

I had briefly wondered about her earlier

Yeah, I prrrrrobably should have brought her up earlier, but then again this is all Clark's POV and the point is that he forgot to say anything, so. :D

I cannot picture a conversation between Bruce and Martha that isn’t entirely honest

:D You're not wrong, anon - the dinner's not quite this, because after all Clark is still there, but I'm a big fan of Martha as sort of Bruce's kryptonite, which I hope very much will show.

You’re not going easy on him. I approve!

Haha, I'm glad to hear it - there's a fair bit of Clark angst ahead of us, though I'll do my best to make sure it's not too OTT.

Thank you so much for your thoughts, anon, as ever! I'm thrilled you're still liking this so much and so grateful for your comments. ♥

OMG, anon, this is BRILLIANT - I'm not even sure I can call it innuendo when it's THE WHOLE THING, but it's fantastic and so are you. :D

I love how domestic this is. The breakfast with Alfred, Clark trying not to use too much of the body wash and trying to make his (Bruce's) bed all neatly, and his surprise that it's afternoon. Avoidance technique sounds about right. ;) I love that Clark is sad about it even though his muscles probably appreciate the reprieve.

while Clark becomes increasingly awkward about being waited upon.
I always love when this comes up in fics, because of course Clark would just be weirded out by this. And this bit here is so cute: "Oof. You drive a hard bargain." Alfred's smile is small but genuine, and Clark decides that he likes him a lot.

And this: He helps Alfred with the dishes as promised, which Alfred seems to find endlessly amusing for some reason. I love Alfred so much, and I love his interactions with Clark, I do think they'd like each other a lot. Oh, and I love how Alfred explains to Clark what's going on, no questions asked. <3

"I could use some soap," Clark says.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. ;D But I love that scene of Clark in the ruin of the manor, it's beautiful.

And woot, more sparring! :D (Clark had maybe stared a bit when he came down to the cave in bare feet and judo pants and that tee, hair slicked back and wet from the shower, but that's because he's never actually seen more of Bruce than his hands and his face.

He has a lot of scars.)
UNF UNF UNF. Scars! And I am always here for Clark feeling that it's just so ... intimate to see Bruce in anything other than either a suit or the Batsuit. And Bruce calling him sooooooooooon, yes. Oh, and Bruce touching him to correct his stance is, er, not at all a huge part of why I wanted sparring fic or anything. O:-) And a bit of praise kink to finish it all off. You're wonderful, author anon. <3

:D :D :D :D :D

Probably with "he's just nice this way"

:D Pretty much. If I were to write his POV of this, I'd say he started out after Clark came back from the dead by being a dick as Bruce Wayne; but he's toned it down since they've started dating. STRATEGICALLY, you understand, because Clark is a bad liar and needs to not visibly hate him. So when Clark smiles at him like this, it's - well, it's working. That's optimal. Strategically speaking.

/o\ Haha oh god BRUCE'S SECRET CUDDLY FEELINGS, YOU AND I KNOW THEY ARE THERE BUT CLARK SO DOES NOT. (OH CLARK.) And yes, absolutely, Bruce is walking a tightwire between letting Clark like him just enough that the dating doesn't look fake, but not too much because ~emotions oh no what do

:D Basically this whole thing is just going to turn into one long, long paean to "idiots who are REVOLTINGLY in love but will probably never say so", because apparently for this pairing that's all I write. /o\ I HOPE YOU HATE ME ~~MORE~~ ~~LESS~~ MORE AS WE CONTINUE ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ thank you so much, anon, your comments give me life!

I don't even know anymore, this is writing itself while I grip the keyboard and desperately try to hang on for the ride. *hands* ENJOY?

They decide on Friday. Travel time isn't a factor, Clark figures; he doesn't have to pretend to use a car around Bruce. But Mom doesn't want any morning meetings or anything hanging over Bruce's head, or any deadlines over Clark's, and that means Friday.

"I'm sure he'd clear his schedule for this anyway," Clark says, trying to guess what Bruce's actual boyfriend might say—and then it occurs to him that maybe Bruce won't. Maybe there's a reason he's been planning all their dates, besides Clark being a terrible fake boyfriend. Keeping this thing alive where the press can see them is hardly a good rationale for going to Clark's mom's house in Smallville for dinner. Really, it's the opposite: if Clark does fly them there, nobody can know they've gone or it'll raise questions.

And Clark finds himself almost hoping Bruce does come up with an excuse. Maybe he'll even make Clark regret asking—look disdainful at the prospect of going to some farm in the middle of nowhere, make some kind of rude joke about Mom's cooking.

Maybe he'll be enough of a jerk to make Clark stop thinking about kissing him again.

But when Clark does ask, Bruce doesn't beg off. Bruce isn't a jerk at all, in fact.

Clark goes to his office again—he could have called, but then he wouldn't have given himself a chance to get photographed outside Bruce's building. It's tactics. Batman would be proud.

And when he finally blurts it out, Bruce looks at him silently for a long second and then says, "It should work, if we take the jet."

"What? Bruce, we don't need the jet—"

Bruce raises an eyebrow and does that annoying thing where he leans back, lacing his hands behind his head, and oh, Clark really wishes that didn't draw Clark's eyes to his shoulders, to the gap of his unbuttoned collar, as irresistibly as it does. "You know that," Bruce says, "and I know that, but Clark Kent's mother's address is a matter of public record. Going to see your mother is a perfectly reasonable move at this stage, and the jet is a perfectly reasonable way to do it.

"I certainly could vanish for an evening and lie about it, to cover up having gone to Kansas with Superman, who I'm already lying about not knowing, to tell an entirely separate lie to your mother. But that's a little much even for me."

Which is fair, Clark supposes. "Fine, okay. We'll—we'll take the jet."

"Excellent," Bruce says, and gives him that Wayne smile. "Please tell your mother I'm looking forward to it."

Clark can't imagine any way in which this won't be a disaster—in fact, he spends the week imagining all the ways it will be. Bruce using his terrible ridiculous lines on Clark in front of Mom; Bruce casually resting a proprietary hand on Clark's knee under the dining room table; Bruce making thoughtless comparisons between Mom's cooking and some—some zillion-dollar steak he'd had in Paris last week, or something, looking around the place Clark still thinks of as home with barely-veiled disgust—

Maybe they can break up after this. That happens sometimes, right, when meeting somebody's parents goes badly? People break up over things like that, don't they? Clark thinks so. (In his extremely limited experience, you break up with someone by dying in front of them and staying dead long enough for them to mourn you before you come back from the grave. And that probably only works the once.)

Maybe they can break up after this, and Clark will never have to look at Bruce ever again. That seems like a solid plan.

Bruce's jet only takes about an hour to get to Kansas, because of course Bruce Wayne can outfly any commercial airline. (Superman would still have been faster, though.) Clark can't help being braced for a spectacle, but the car that's waiting for them at the airfield—a private runway? They're not at any airport Clark recognizes—is actually pretty demure, for Bruce.

Bruce drives it himself, too, which is unusual. He doesn't ask Clark for directions, and he doesn't use the GPS, either; but then again he probably looked it up beforehand. (He's Batman—he probably looked it up beforehand, decided on three or four alternate routes he could swap to in case they're tailed, and then drove all of them ten times in some kind of Bat-simulator in the Cave.)

Clark is silent for the whole drive, mentally preparing for the worst, and Bruce seems willing to leave him to it. Neither one of them says a word until Bruce brakes to a stop in the driveway and tells Clark, "Go on. I'll get the wine."

Clark hadn't known they'd brought wine. But he does know an escape route when he sees one. "Sure," he says, and makes a break for it.

Meeting Mom at the door is his last chance to fix this, to quit miring himself deeper in deceit and idiocy and Bruce. But he finds himself going in for a hug instead—a good long one, in case Bruce says something awful and Mom never wants to speak to Clark again—and then Mom's ushering him inside and somehow it's already too late.

"And where's Bruce? Don't tell me he couldn't make it—"

"No, no, he's just—"

"I'm right here, Mrs. Kent," Bruce says, catching the screen door with an elbow before it can swing shut behind Clark. He smiles, and it looks—it looks weird, quick and a little uncertain. (It looks—real, even.) "Clark said you were planning on fish, so I brought a white."

He holds the wine out like an offering; and it's probably ridiculously expensive, ridiculously good, but that's not enough to earn it Mom's attention.

"Bruce!" she says instead, warm. "How lovely to see you, it's been so long—"

Call me Martha is the next thing Clark expects to hear, and he's already wincing, wondering how Bruce is going to manage to parry that one—except Mom doesn't say it.

Instead she steps in close, ignoring the wine, and actually hugs Bruce; and Bruce falters, suddenly awkward, even after Clark carefully removes the bottle from his still-outstretched hand.

"I hope you know you don't need to wait for Clark to die again before you come by," Mom adds, wry, when she lets go.

That's right: Bruce had been at Clark's funeral. Obviously Clark hadn't known it at the time, and Mom had tried to tell him about it once—too soon after he'd come back. She hadn't gotten much further than the list of attendees before starting to cry. And Clark had been too busy comforting her to think it through then, but—how could Bruce even have known where to be? He'd saved Mom from Luthor's guys, and he'd told her who he was, and then she must have invited him.

And come by—Mom didn't mean the graveyard when she said that. Bruce had come by before? Here?

Clark clutches the wine bottle and listens to Bruce chuckling, apologizing to Mom for being too busy, and he tries to imagine it: Mom here in the farmhouse alone, all these empty rooms, nothing but bleak silence where Dad and Clark both used to be. And then a knock at the door, Bruce Wayne standing on the step and asking to come in. And Bruce can be considerate when he wants to be, Clark knows that now—he would have worked even harder at it for Mom than he has for Clark, too, because—

Because Bruce knows what it's like to lose a family.

"—give that here, Clark," Mom's saying, "let's open it now so it can breathe," and Clark automatically hands over the bottle, gaze meeting Bruce's over Mom's shoulder.

Bruce is—Bruce looks like he's a half-second away from offering to leave; from asking to, claiming he's forgotten a meeting and making his apologies. And Clark spent the whole trip here wishing there were a good way to get Bruce to go, but suddenly he can't stand the idea. Suddenly that's the last thing he wants.

"Here," he finds himself saying, "here, let me—give me your jacket," and he steps forward, between Bruce and the door, to find a free hanger in the front closet.

"Come on, come in," Mom adds, taking Bruce by the elbow the moment the suit jacket's off, and now he's definitely not going anywhere.

Clark's surprised by how satisfying that thought is.

OH NO A PLOT, MAKING THIS LONGER. HOW AWFUL. :D

The details in this continue to slay me, anon - every little thing about Clark's interaction with Alfred is just lovely (down to him getting Bruce dessert, ♥), and I ADORE poor power-deprived Clark wanting to help but not being sure how to. And then! CLARK IN THE OLD MANSION. BRUCE'S SCARS. BRUCE CALLING CLARK "SON" AGAIN. CLARK BEING A DWEEB. And he "should" feel pinned, BUT HE DOESN'T, DOES HE. Oh, Clark.

Wonderful, anon, thank you so much for this! Every new part just makes me more thrilled by this fill. ♥

I am cackling about Clark being a terrible fake boyfriend. I hope you feel bad, Clark, maybe do something nice for your fake boyfriend one of these days. ;)

And Clark finds himself almost hoping Bruce does come up with an excuse. Maybe he'll even make Clark regret asking—look disdainful at the prospect of going to some farm in the middle of nowhere, make some kind of rude joke about Mom's cooking.

Maybe he'll be enough of a jerk to make Clark stop thinking about kissing him again.
Oooooh, I love this, it just hurts so good, Clark hoping that Bruce will be awful so Clark can get over him before this gets worse. And of course it doesn't work because Bruce is only awful when he thinks he needs to be, he's just almost disgustingly practical about it. But seriously, I'm just making weird pathetic seal noises at Clark worrying about Bruce being terrible here.

(In his extremely limited experience, you break up with someone by dying in front of them and staying dead long enough for them to mourn you before you come back from the grave. And that probably only works the once.)
I am laughing so hard about this. :D Also cackling about the whole part about Bruce knowing the way.

Bruce is so beautifully awkward when Clark's mother hugs him, oh my god. Clark should hug him, too, clearly. And then this: Bruce is—Bruce looks like he's a half-second away from offering to leave; from asking to, claiming he's forgotten a meeting and making his apologies. And Clark spent the whole trip here wishing there were a good way to get Bruce to go, but suddenly he can't stand the idea. Suddenly that's the last thing he wants.
I love that this comes after Clark's realisation that Bruce knows what it's like to lose his family, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. All the feels. I'm definitely loving how this is going so far, anon, no worries! :D /OP

Clark rubs, gently, right at the edge of—there. He’s just using the tip of a finger, now, a barely-there ghost of impression against Bruce’s sensitized, twitching skin. It numbs the—burn, and after a second Bruce’s whole body relaxes again.

Clark is being uncharacteristically silent; Bruce can’t sense him at all other than the soft, insistent slide of that one finger.

Bruce isn’t sure if he entirely believes that the guy has never done this before. If he’s not lying, the kid definitely has a knack for—

Clark pulls the slickness away, suddenly, then immediately comes back to press again at Bruce’s body—with a lot more than just his finger now.

Bruce can’t hold back the next long groan that escapes him. He holds perfectly still, drops his head and lets Clark do it, lets him do what he needs—

Jesus, he really is getting too old for this, it’s real challenge not to move, not to—

“Okay, almost—almost there,” Clark says, near the end. His voice is—thready.

Bruce grits his teeth. Just a little longer, just a little more—

Then—

Abruptly, Clark is pulling away. “All done.”

Bruce lets out a slow breath. He lifts his head. Jesus Christ.

After a long, rallying moment, Bruce gingerly raises his left arm to check the joint. It still aches a bit, but that’s normal enough after a dislocated shoulder. Clark had managed to pop it in without causing any further injury.

When he stretches his arms forward, Bruce can feel the many small pressure bandages now affixed against the angry red slash that had sliced painfully across his back—right through the armor, right where he couldn’t reach himself. The numbing ointment underneath will help things heal up faster, but Bruce is pretty sure he’s going to have a new scar to add to his collection.

“Sorry that took so long,” Clark is saying, “I couldn’t just use one long strip of gauze, the way the cut runs across your skin is—”

Bruce gets to his feet, stiffly. He turns to reach for his shirt. Now that he’s not distracted by the injuries, by the manhandling, the cave air feels newly cool against his skin. Against his sweat-slick chest.

“Uh, anyway,” Clark says, then raises his gaze. “Are you—um, are you feeling better now?”

Bruce considers the lingering aches and pains all over his body. Unpleasant, but nothing that won’t mend.

“Hmm, well enough,” he allows, grudgingly, then—

Bruce looks at Clark. The kid’s eyes seem more black than blue just now, oddly.

“Not bad for your first time, anyway.” Bruce smirks.

---

THE END! ;)

hahaha glad you like it! thanks for your comment!!

hi again OP, I just now realized that this comment was from you! hahaha. Anyway, the last section is up and, see - I was prompt complaint after all! ;) Thanks again for the awesome prompt & I hope you enjoy the conclusion! I certainly had a ton of fun writing it!!

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD PERFECTION.

I feel like I should say something longer, but I just. PERFECTION.

orz

Bruce went willingly enough, so much Clark was surprised at how easy it was, not just drawing Bruce from his work, but getting him laid out on his bed with Clark propped up on one hand over him.

The fine wool of Bruce's vest scratched against Clark's fingertips while he unbuttoned it slowly, contemplatively, and then did the same for his shirt.

Every thing Bruce had ever loved or desired was a weak point to be exploited by his enemies. They weren't always so different. Clark had been so worried about what Bruce wanted out of him that he hadn't paid any attention to what Bruce had given him. Every question he'd asked was a point of interest: Clark's control over his strength, his breathing and invulnerability, his senses.

"We don't need to wait for a vote to know what to do in bed."

Clark's smile curved against his shoulder. "I'm gathering intelligence," he said, but he pushed his hands under the vest and dress shirt together to let Bruce shrug them off, then smoothed them down over his stomach to get Bruce's thin white undershirt over his head and settle against him.

Something else Bruce had given him: all that skin. Acres' worth, when you could get as much out of it as Clark did. If he closed his eyes and concentrated he could feel the slight change in the tissue on all but the oldest of Bruce's scars, the musculature that spoke of the hours and years he'd worked to mold his body to the peak of human capabilities. Stories Bruce would never bother to tell. The heat and pressure starting to pool against the front of Clark's khakis were the only signs of his impatience. Fascinating, he'd called Clark. He had no idea.

"Hear the blood rushing through someone's veins," Clark said, lips barely brushing the perpetual five o'clock shadow on Bruce's jaw, a prickle that never stung. "That's a very specific phrase."

Bruce breathed evenly through his nose, mouth sealed tight to keep quiet. His bare stomach tensed under Clark. There was nothing Bruce needed to hide and very little he could. He'd been transparent about pretending to, all of that careful reserve bent to get him exactly what he wanted with as little risk as possible. It was the only way Bruce knew how to get something he cared about. When Clark could see it all as a plan unfolding it was more like he was being led in a dance than manipulated. Step after step Bruce moved and left an opening for him to move into. Clark rolled his hips down and their pants skid-jumped together in a slow drag of friction, enough to make his eyelashes flutter. He was aroused in the truest sense, every nerve alive and keenly aware as the understanding of exactly where Bruce had led him began to crystallize.

"You wanted to know," he said against Bruce's collarbone, "if you would be able to hurt me if you were gentle. So it was somewhere you wouldn't use much force if you could. Somewhere I couldn't use much force, or you wouldn't care about my control over my strength, or how well I can monitor your vital signs. Am I asking the right questions yet?"

"I'll let you know when I hear one." Bruce swallowed hard. It would've been audible to someone without Clark's hearing.

"Does it disappoint you," Clark said to the soft skin under Bruce's ear, "that I don't need to breathe?"

"Does it matter?"

"So it is both," Clark said patiently. "All right. Blood or air, which way's safer?" Bruce started to tremble, but there was something odd about it, and Clark scraped his Adam's apple with his teeth hard enough to make Bruce hiss and arch. Somewhere under there Bruce was laughing at him. "Well, excuse me if I'm not up on the minutia of chokeholds. Not everyone can be a ninja.

"Let's try this another way," Clark said with his lips over the throb of Bruce's pulse. "What are the risks? Tell me what happens when something goes wrong." He idly covered Bruce's throat in lush kisses, enjoying the strain in Bruce's voice when he finally started to talk.

"They both cause unconsciousness and a," Bruce's voice stuttered at Clark sliding his hand down over the front of his slacks, "a risk of cardiac arrest. Constricting bloodflow causes hypoxia in seconds. Going for the airway's—"

Bruce's hand bumped Clark's, and Clark caught his wrist, nothing Bruce couldn't push through. "I would rather you didn't do that." He did appreciate it though. To act instead of talk, that was Bruce. "Going for the airway is. . ."

"Harder," Bruce said, though whether it was an answer or a plea Clark couldn't tell. "Suffocation takes more time and pressure. It's more painful, easier to damage cartilage or fracture the hyoid."

"Ah. Definitely slow." Clark clamped his hand on Bruce's throat like a vice. Not much pressure, but unforgiving. "Now you can take them off." It was as easy as breathing for Clark to lift up and push back against gravity, moving through it, to take his weight off of Bruce so he could shuck his slacks and boxers together. He waited until Bruce had kicked them off to give a gentle squeeze. "Just take them off," he warned. Bruce's hand flew to grab Clark's wrist, but the grip eased as soon as it formed, and Bruce only stroked his thumb over the soft underside of Clark's wrist.

When Clark had let his weight rest on Bruce's thighs to straddle him and finally got a hand wrapped around his cock. Bruce sighed and sank limply into the pillow with a deep groan that vibrated through Clark's hand. A finger could have crushed his larynx and he was utterly relaxed, the way he should always be when they were together like this. His heartbeat was a slow and steady push-pull in the cage of Clark's palm.

"God, you're beautiful."

Bruce inhaled sharply, and before he could disagree Clark poured more weight into his hand, reveling in the bedrock certainty of it. "You don't want to argue right now." He was magnanimous giving Bruce what he wanted, cutting off his breath with a faint whisper of air--powerful in a way he never could be otherwise. No matter how strong a man is, there will always be something stronger: you can force surrender, you can't force someone to want to. This was exactly where Bruce had led him.

The room was nearly silent except Clark's own breathing and the crumpling of the sheets. Bruce could make noise a little, involuntary gurgling as his face started to redden and his hips started to move more insistently, fucking himself against Clark's hand. Eventually Bruce's fingers tapped jerkily on Clark's wrist, lines of real distress creasing his face.

"I know," Clark said, "almost."

He let Bruce's hips rock in two more yearning contractions before he opened his hand enough to let him take in full sucking breaths, and Clark held his own and listened so the only sounds in his world were the bass drum of a heartbeat and that gorgeous desperate gasping. He spent so much trying to be someone who didn't want that kind of power, and Bruce's surrender would never be an always, but it was there--more than before and more to unfold, a future. Clark pressed their foreheads together and whispered, "God, Bruce," against his dry, tacky lips, choked with his own shame at having so little faith while Bruce panted in hot, damp huffs as he came all over his stomach, shot all over Clark's clothes they were pressed so close.

He eased up from Bruce's throat to cup his cheek, holding him so he could kiss him the way he deserved to be, gratitude and apology together.

Wow, the conclusion of this is just so great. :D And this whole thing is just incredibly hot. Perfect, anon, thanks for writing this.

Bruce looks at Clark. The kid’s eyes seem more black than blue just now, oddly.

“Not bad for your first time, anyway.” Bruce smirks.
Oddly, huh? Oddly. Mr World's Greatest Detective. ;D Love it. /OP

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

[Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: Bruce/Clark, sugar daddy

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (9/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (4/??!? help)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (4/??!? help)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (9/?)

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (5/whatever)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (9/?)

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (5/whatever)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (9/?)

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (10/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (5/whatever)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (10/?)

[Mini-Fill, part 3/3] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 2] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 3/3] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort

FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)

Re: [Mini-Fill, part 3/3] Bruce/Clark, antagonistic hurt/comfort