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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Yay, you updated! :D I'm so excited to see a new part for this. This is just so, so beautifully written, the whole atmosphere is gorgeous, those detailed descriptions of Bruce's skin, his scars. And I love how Clark has finally figured out why Bruce asks all these questions - I love that this is why Bruce has asked them in the first place.

And, unf, Clark kissing Bruce's throat is so, so hot. Bruce slowly losing control because he's so turned on while still explaining things, perfect. Seriously, all those lush descriptions of how they're touching each other are stunning.

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.
The trust, anon, the trust. I'm having such feels here.

"I know," Clark said, "almost."
Fuck, this is so hot, Clark making him wait just a little longer for it. And the focus on Bruce's heartbeat and his gasping, god, yes. And then that kiss at the end. <33333333333 This is just beautiful, thank you so much for writing and sharing this.

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.
Nonnie, nonnie, one of my biggest ~things is characters perving on other characters even when they're not revealing much because because they're so used to seeing even less of them that even this feels like they're seeing them in their birthday suit. So naturally, this little bit just pressed all my buttons XD

But then again, there is not a single thing about any part of this story that doesn't press my buttons, every new part just makes it better and better, and I love it to tiny pieces. Clark insisting on washing up, trying to do Bruce's bed, and literally everything else -- I am so in love with it. You don't know how happy you make me every time you post :DDDD

Alfred is so great? I love him and his dry snark and for trying to be the voice of reason when Bruce is being grimmer than grim. I am also reading a whole lot into Alfred's "He is not our enemy!" but I don't even care :P

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Ahaha, no fear, nonnie. No despair.

Bruce touching him to correct his stance is, er, not at all a huge part of why I wanted sparring fic
GOOD, because it is also a huge part of why I wanted to write it, so I 100% guarantee this is not the last time it's going to happen :D

<3<3

Your buttons are my buttons, anon! It's a huge thing with another ship I write and I'm gleefully sneaking a bit in for these two as well. When it works, it works! :9

Thank you anon, I'm so so glad you're enjoying it despite the somewhat oblique approach to the prompt ;D

CLARK IS SUCH A DWEEB THOUGH! Have you read American Alien? My god. :DDD

he "should" feel pinned, BUT HE DOESN'T, DOES HE
HE FEELS SOMETHING ALRIGHT, and there's plenty of time for pinning later ;D

Thank you for your continued enabling, anon <3 <3

This ends a bit abruptly, but oh man, I'm so tired, and I have a busy weekend ahead of me :(((( To be continued!

------

Clark had sat awake most of the night, and doesn’t recall ever actually falling asleep – though he realises that he must have done, because he definitely wakes up, with a jerk that sends pain spiraling though his chest and side. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why he’s surrounded by glass and polished concrete, instead of the cramped confines of either his apartment or the hotel room he’s been staying in.

He’s still getting used to the strange need to sleep – he gets tired, even in his usual form, but ten minutes or so in the sun and he feels recharged. Sleep had been optional. The first time he’d sunk into involuntary sleep had been strange – though not frightening. He’d watched Lois drift into sleep enough times that he knew what was happening, her breath deepening as he’d stroked his thumb across her forehead.

Clark draws in a quick, deep breath.

It’s the waking up Clark is struggling with – that moment of disorientation, the strange, sudden sensation of being dragged out of one world and into another.

And then there’s the fact that his head feels like sludge.

He blinks in the grey light, deciding that it must still be morning – if only just. Someone must be already awake, because there’s a stack of clean blankets sitting next to him on the couch that weren’t there yesterday, and the towel with the melted ice cubes Clark had placed on the coffee table last night has been cleared away.

Clark blinks, recalling suddenly the way Bruce had cleaned up his cuts – the way he’d told him his ribs wouldn’t be healed for weeks. He recalls the implication that, therefore, Bruce regularly moves and fights with similar injuries, before they’re anywhere close to better.

The dab of the disinfectant against his skin had hurt, but even so, Clark had recognised it for a cleansing, healing pain. And…

Clark swallows, but he forces himself to follow the thought to its conclusion.

… And it had been nice. Just to be touched. Even when it was out of medical necessity. It had been part of what had made him feel so lost during all those years of wandering, and… it’s been a while now, too.

Since anything. He knows he’s a tactile person. Lois had teased him about it, and it’s always just something he’s known about himself. He likes being warm. He’s sometimes watched the casual way Ted and Booster slap each other on the back, and has thought…

All right.

It doesn’t really matter what he’s thought.

Clark lips his lips. “Bruce?” he calls out, tentatively.

He’s not expecting an answer. The house just feels empty. He doesn’t need super senses to know it.

Clark isn’t sure whether his relief outweighs his disappointment at the confirmation, though. Bruce likes to believe he’s impenetrable, but Clark has known him quite some time now, and he can tell when he’s unhappy. Or not… unhappy. Not in the usual sense.

But even if he couldn’t tell, it’s not like Bruce’s obsessive love of isolation is some big secret. Clark understands what it cost Bruce to make this offer, and he appreciates it. But saying he appreciates it, or acknowledging that it must ruffle Bruce to have someone else in his house would only make it worse, and draw attention to Bruce’s discomfort. Clark sighs, wincing at the pain it causes in his ribs. He’d like to say thank you. But he knows the best thing he can do is just silently accept Bruce’s hospitality, and try to leave as little evidence of his presence here as possible.

He manages to stand on the second go. He feels stiff from sleeping sitting up, and his ribs, if anything, feel worse than they did yesterday.

Maybe he should get himself some breakfast.

At least the house itself is open plan, so he doesn't have to go hunting around, trying to find the kitchen. Everything there is as cold and precise as the rest of the house – almost like it’s a laboratory, rather than a kitchen. Clark has always associated kitchens with organized chaos – not that his mom ever allowed her kitchen to be dirty, but it was always filled with jars of lemonade, sprigs of herbs she’d picked and kept in bottles of water, and the cookbooks that’d been handed down through generations. Whenever Mom had been cooking there’d been flour everywhere, eggshells in the sink, bread rising on the counter.

There’s nothing of that here – Clark feels kind of like he’s looking at an empty shell of a kitchen, something that’s been put together for show.

Turning, he’s a little surprised when he sees there’s something out of place here after all – there’s a single piece of notepaper that’s been left on the black marble counter. Clark picks it up. Hope briefly flits through his chest that it’s from Bruce.

Mr. Kent –

Ahh, no, it’s from Alfred.

Mr. Kent –

It was thought that it would be best to allow you to sleep. When you require breakfast, please contact me via the intercom on the wall to your left.

- A.

Clark squints down at the note. It was thought, not Master Bruce thought, or Master Bruce wanted. It's the kind of indirect language he uses in articles when he's saying something without really saying it. It has been said in Washington circles that, or It has been questioned whether.

Usually that was followed by some unflattering suggestions about himself or the rest of the League. He’s asked Perry not to assign him these stories, but he can’t remember the last time Perry ever actually listened to him about anything to do with that.

Clark glances up at the intercom a moment – he doesn’t feel comfortable summoning Alfred from what he’s sure is his tremendously busy day elsewhere in the bowels of the Batcave. And he’s perfectly capable of making his own breakfast.

If he can find the fixings in Bruce’s strangely Escher-like kitchen.

Ignoring the pain in his side, Clark cautiously opens cupboards, finding most of them bare; though one contains a set of immaculately stacked crockery. It’s a start, at least, and Clark allows himself a groan of pain as he reaches up for a bowl.

Right. He has a bowl.

The morning is going great.

What kind of cereal would Bruce have in the house? Cheerios? Probably not. Froot Loops? No. Trix? Definitely not.

Clark amuses himself with his musings until he finally finds a singular box of Quaker oats on the bottom shelf of the pantry. It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy at least. But he’s going to have to find a saucepan if he wants to make oatmeal, and some salt and milk and –

“I thought I told you to buzz Alfred if you wanted something to eat.”

Clark spins around, jarring his ribs painfully at the sound of Bruce’s voice. He didn’t hear him come in; he knows Bruce is perfectly capable of moving as silently as the shadows, but it’s yet another reminder of just how muted his senses are right now.

“I know,” Clark says. “But I can make my own breakfast.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, he simply moves past Clark, reaching into the pantry to grab the oats. Bruce is wearing the suit he goes to work in – three piece, criminally expensive, a silk scarf draped around his neck. Clark catches a whiff of expensive aftershave, before Bruce turns away again.

“These have probably been here for at least ten years.”

“They haven’t been opened. And the box says use by next year. So…”

Bruce half-turns back to Clark, raising an eyebrow. Clark isn’t sure what meaning he’s supposed to infer from that, but he holds Bruce’s gaze nonetheless. So he might not be so comfortable with having Clark in his home, but dammit, he basically forced him to come here – interfered with his work to make it impossible for him to refuse, in fact – and Clark isn't about to let himself be intimidated when he’s here by invitation.

“Am I allowed to eat the oats?”

Bruce shrugs, putting them down on the counter. “Sure, if you want. But I’m going to have Alfred make me some French toast and coffee.”

Clark blinks, opening his mouth and then closing it again. “Haven't you eaten yet?”

“I don’t like eating in the mornings. I just have coffee.”

He opens a drawer and takes out a little foil pod of coffee; he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to call Alfred.

“Those aren’t recyclable, you know.”

“They are now.” Bruce shrugs, plucking the pod from Clark’s fingers. “At least, that’s what the scientists I pay to tell me these things tell me.”

Clark frowns. He can never decide what he thinks of this version of Bruce – the louche, playboy, saving the planet is great PR, you know version. He knows it’s not Bruce, even as it is. And this is what he finds most confusing about him, in many ways – everyone likes to say Batman lives in the shadows, but Clark sometimes wonders if they know just how right they are. Just when he thinks he’s starting to get Bruce pinned down, he moves, changing shape, and Clark realises that he has, once again, been left holding nothing.

“Have you iced your ribs yet this morning?”

Clark starts a little. “Uh, no.”

“You should go do that.”

Bruce’s eyes are on the bruise on his side, and Clark can see something approaching disdain in them.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing, as Bruce hands him a cup of ice.

I love everything about this. Clark moving about the house all carefully, thinking about how nice it was to be touched (touch-starved Clark <333), Clark deciding to make himself breakfast because he feels uncomfortable about summoning Alfred for that.

And then Bruce just sneaking up on him in his glorious suit and being all Bruce at him. And I'm always here for little whiffs of identity porn, Clark wondering which sides of Bruce are real, which parts of what he's seeing aren't just an act. So good. Thanks for writing this! :D

lol so glad you enjoyed it!! thanks for commenting!

Yayy so glad you liked the ending OP!! Thanks again for the prompt and for all your comments along the way. The whole thing is now cleaned up & posted on AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/6982441). If you'd like to de-anon, I'd be happy to "officially" gift it to you! Just drop me a note in the comments or on tumblr if so. ;)

Just a short little scene, I hope you'll also get a longer fill and that you like this one until then.

“You're really not going to have it rebuilt?”

Dick was sitting on what remained of the wall between what had once been the manor's main parlour and the corridor. The afternoon sun was filtering through half-crumbled, blackened walls, ragged shadows dancing over his face, his hands folded in his lap. He looked younger with his eyes so wide and sad, gleaming just enough that Bruce wondered if there were tears in them.

He looked away.

“What for? For most of my life, this house was a tomb. Too big, too empty, filled with nothing but remnants of generations past.” Even now Bruce's mind could retrace the rooms and corridors of the manor effortlessly, he remembered every door, every window, every carpet, every piece of art on the walls. He probably could have rebuilt it from memory alone. And there wasn't a single room that hadn't been filled with memories of his parents, of his own childhood, of his sons. He continued quietly, “After my parents … this place didn't feel like a home until …”

He interrupted himself again. If Dick didn't understand, he wasn't sure he could explain it.

“Until?” Dick prompted.

“You. And …”

“Jason.”

The name was like an iron vice around Bruce's chest. He wasn't sure he'd said it out loud even once since finding his son's broken, burnt body in the ruins of his family home.

“He's gone.” Bruce blinked once, twice, took a steadying breath. He still couldn't bring himself to look at Dick. “You're gone. I don't need to rebuild an empty mausoleum.”

“I'm not gone, Bruce,” and there was an almost pleading tone in Dick's voice. “You told me not to come back.”

“After you left.”

“I never wanted to leave for good. This was my home, too, you know? Not just yours. Maybe I'd like to have a place to remember him by. The place we shared growing up.” Reproach now, anger even, or maybe Bruce just imagined that, imagined that Dick had to hate him as much as Bruce hated himself.

“I can't.” He turned to leave, and he could feel Dick's gaze in his back, so sorrowful and lonely, a painful reminder that Bruce had failed him as much as he'd failed Jason. But maybe there was at least something he could offer Dick, even if he couldn't give him back his home nor his family.

“You're welcome to stay the night at the lake house. There's only one bed, but I won't be back until morning.”

Dick had slept in his bed for years, for far longer than he'd probably had to just to stave off the nightmares, but Bruce had never been bothered by it. He'd enjoyed the company, the warmth, the steady breathing against his neck, the smile on Dick's lips when they woke up curled into each other. Back then he'd wondered how he'd ever managed to live without Dick. Now he knew that living without Dick wasn't much of a life, and yet he couldn't ask him to come home. He had work to do, work too dangerous to get Nightwing involved. He had already caused the death of one of his sons, he wasn't going to watch the other one die as well, crushed under Superman's fists, ripped apart by those laser eyes. He hadn't only pushed Dick away out of grief, but out of necessity. It was the only way to keep him safe. And keeping him safe now mattered more than even that pleading, despairing look in Dick's eyes.

He came home in the early morning hours to a still warm bed, slept in, but empty. Bruce fell asleep with Dick's scent in his nostrils and hoped that he'd survive long enough to beg his son's forgiveness one day.

ANON. MY FEELINGS. *gross sobbing* This packs such a punch that I hate you a little, and yet I don't because this is amazing - I love Bruce's reasoning, it feels so IC to me, and Dick trying to talk him around breaks my heart like TEN WAYS. And Bruce's excruciatingly lonely internal monologue at the end, oh, god. GOD. Especially imagining Superman killing Dick. /o\ OW.

tl;dr: A++, would cry again!

Oh, anon, I owe you so much more for this than just a heartfelt +1 to the anon above me, but they are so right about everything! The writing here is so absorbing - I love how utterly focused they are on each other, how much shows in every single way they choose to touch each other, the ACRES of implicit trust (is trust a kink? Because HNG) and how much Clark realizes it means to him at the end.

Basically I am SO SLAIN BY THIS MAGNIFICENCE. Thank you so much for sharing this fill, it's amazing.

Aw, anon, no need for apologies, this is lovely! I adore Clark's musings about how weird sleep is, and ooh, yay, just a hint of touch-starved Clark, MY FAVORITE. :D And then Clark being so sweetly, Clarkly stubborn about making his own breakfast, and comparing Bruce's scary overdesigned kitchen to Martha's! BE STILL MY HEART. And then identity porn, anon, what an EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. This:

he moves, changing shape, and Clark realises that he has, once again, been left holding nothing

is PERFECT, ugh, yes. YES. This is great and so are you! ♥

Thank you, that's just what I wanted to hear. ;D I think I hurt myself a little by having Bruce imagine Superman killing Dick.

(Cut to Superman and Nightwing hanging out and being total BFFs post-BvS. ;))

:D Clark can be a great fake boyfriend if he just puts his back into it, I have no doubt!

And of course it doesn't work because Bruce is only awful when he thinks he needs to be

TRUER WORDS, ANON. :D Thank you so much for all of this - this fill has expanded so wildly from what I originally had planned, and I'm so delighted and grateful that you're enjoying all this push-pull of Clark quasi-pining. /o\

:DDDDDDDDD Haha, thank you!

/o\ It may be possible to tell how much I love the idea of people hugging Bruce when he's not mentally prepared for being hugged. :D Because, lbr, Bruce was NOT READY. He thought he was, but he was not. OH BRUCE And thank you for the reassurance, OP! (I didn't mean to pressure you or anything, I just know it can be kind of a bummer when a promising fill starts going off the rails. :) ) I'm so very pleased you're still liking this. ♥

Apparently I have a lot of feelings about Bruce&Martha! Which I'm sure comes as a huge surprise to everyone. I JUST WANT BRUCE TO HAVE FRIENDS, OKAY. ALFRED IS AWESOME, BUT BRUCE NEEDS MULTIPLE PEOPLE PLATONICALLY INVESTED IN HIS WELFARE.

Dinner is wonderful. The fish is great—"Not quite as good as what your father used to catch on weekends," Mom says, with a wistful little smile, "but it came out all right."

And Bruce—there aren't any words for Bruce, Clark thinks, or at least none Clark's used to using. He does put his hand close to Clark's, and shoots Clark a wicked glance when their knees brush once, again, under the tiny dining room table; and then Mom says loudly from the kitchen, "You better not be getting indecent out there!"

"Mom," Clark squawks, and Bruce—Bruce laughs, not a low easy Bruce Wayne chuckle but an almost accidental-sounding snort.

Clark's still uneasy about the prospect of outright lying to Mom—letting her make assumptions and deliberately not correcting them is bad enough. But if Bruce says something blatantly untrue, how can Clark not back him up?

Except he doesn't. It must just be luck, but Mom doesn't ask him anything that would force the issue, and Bruce doesn't push it himself. He doesn't make any lewd remarks, not even milder ones; he doesn't tease or joke or give Clark his usual long heavy-lidded stares. Compared to what Clark is used to, in fact, Bruce barely puts on a show at all.

He's actually kind of—normal. Not that he isn't making an effort: he eats his fish with gusto, compliments everything from the sauce to the silverware, and even lets Mom serve him heaping seconds. "I've learned my lesson," he murmurs to Clark while she's dishing it up. "I skip lunch before I come to your mother's house. She always cooked like—"

He stops short, the smile sliding off his face.

"What?" Clark says.

And Bruce looks at him like—like Clark's not sure what, mouth pressed into a sharp line, eyes dark. "Like you were still there to eat it," he says, low, and then looks away, and his hand's pressed flat to the tabletop so tight his fingertips have gone white.

Mom comes back in, then, so Clark doesn't say anything; but he puts his hand over Bruce's on the table for a moment, even though no one's taking pictures.

Bruce is like that for the rest of the evening: not the grimness so much, but that—that openness stays with him. Bruce has never talked about Clark's death before, at least not where Clark can hear him; he's never stopped smiling on one of their dates, never been less than effortlessly smooth. But he's different here, somehow less opaque—enough to say things he didn't quite mean to say, to let cracks show where Clark hadn't realized he even had any.

Just how many times had he come to see Mom, anyway? Clark knew Mom had learned Bruce's identity, but he hadn't expected her to ask Bruce about Diana, to tease Bruce so easily, to smile at Bruce so fondly. She'd said it was lovely to see Bruce, but Clark's realizing it wasn't just a pleasantry: she'd meant it when she'd said it had been too long. She's—she's missed Bruce, Clark thinks, she cares about him and she's missed him. Clark hadn't even known she liked him.

And Bruce—Bruce has apparently told her all kinds of things. "I had Alfred choose the vintage," he admits, when he pours Mom her third glass; and Mom laughs like she knows who that is, looks at Bruce almost indulgently.

"Of course you did," she says, and pats the back of his hand before he sets the bottle down. "And I've been meaning to ask—did you solve that problem you were having with the grappling hooks?"

Clark feels like he's slid into some kind of alternate universe: his mom is making conversation about the contents of Batman's utility belt.

And, even more oddly—Batman is letting her.

He doesn't get the chance to ask Bruce about it until later. He doesn't want to do it in front of Mom—it would seem weird and confrontational, and if he and Bruce were actually dating, presumably he'd already know this stuff.

But once they're all so full even Bruce has to turn down another serving, Mom sends the two of them out to the back porch while she checks on the cheesecake. "Just to make sure it's cooled enough," she tells them, and then makes little shooing motions with her hands until they go.

"You realize she's probably going to cut that thing into thirds," Clark says, once they're outside; and Bruce makes a face.

"And here I'd hoped she might be merciful," he murmurs, and Clark can't help smiling.

It's a beautiful night, clear, the wide dark sky glimmering with stars and a breeze coming at them across the fields, the grass shushing faintly—at least to Clark's ears. He's not actually sure whether Bruce can hear it.

He sits down on the top step and looks up, and he waits for Bruce to sit, too, before he says, "So you and Mom know each other pretty well."

There's a small pause. But Bruce doesn't sound like he feels cornered when he says, dry, "You were dead for a while. You missed a few things."

"She told me that she'd met you," Clark concedes. "That she knew about you. She didn't say you'd visited that often while I was gone." He risks a glance, and something about the way Bruce looks—gazing off into the distance, face such a perfect picture of serene unconcern—makes him abruptly sure he's on to something. "And then you stopped."

Bruce doesn't say anything.

"When I came back," Clark adds, prodding.

Bruce is still for another moment, two—and then he shoots Clark a little smile. "I wouldn't lie to your mother, Clark." He pauses, and then amends, wry, "At least not about that. I am busy."

"I'm sure you are," Clark agrees. "And I'm sure you were equally busy while I was dead. You just didn't let it stop you then."

And maybe it's too direct; maybe Bruce is full and tired and not actually a robot, despite the impression Batman likes to give; maybe being back in the Kent house is throwing Bruce off more than he'd anticipated. Whatever the reason, Bruce doesn't manage to brush it off. Clark can almost see it happening, a step at a time: Bruce examining his cards, trying to decide which one to play, becoming grimly aware he's out of trumps.

Bruce's jaw goes tight—and that isn't right, that's not what Clark wants. He didn't bring this up because he wanted to make Bruce feel bad about it. "I don't mind if you're friends with my mother," Clark says quietly, and when Bruce's profile still doesn't ease, Clark leans over until their elbows bump. "She likes you—God knows why," Clark adds, and he's glad he did because it makes Bruce snort again, brings his gaze swinging around to Clark's face. "And I know you heard her. She'd love to see you any time you get a chance."

"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce says, and he does his best but can't quite manage to make it sound dismissive.

"Good," Clark says.

He doesn't know why he does it; he doesn't know why it seems like a good idea, like a thing that will be okay. Partly because they're still staring at each other, probably. And they're sitting close enough together for it, too. Bruce's face is half shadow and half starlight, but Clark thinks maybe this is the first time he's seeing it clearly in the ways that count. And it's so easy: all Clark has to do is lean forward and tilt his head a little to catch Bruce's mouth with his own.

The movement presses their near arms together from shoulder to elbow. Bruce doesn't startle so much as he just goes still. It feels strangely close, intimate, Bruce with the railing at his back and Clark in front of him, and all the vast space of the Kansas night around them secondary to the four inches of air between them, to the small almost-sound Bruce makes in his throat when Clark parts his lips—

"Cake's cut—looks like you two are already getting into something sweet, though, hm?"

Clark breaks away with a laugh, groaning, "Mom," helplessly and turning to look: Mom's propped the door open with her hip, and two plates of cheesecake are in her hands. The slices actually look pretty reasonable, Clark thinks, but maybe Mom's trying to be restrained, since Bruce forged his way so bravely through seconds at dinner.

"I didn't ask you over so I could not make fun of you, Clark," she says, shaking her head at him, and then she smiles down at Bruce and holds out the plates.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," Bruce says, taking one.

His expression looking back at Mom is so warm Clark might not have noticed anything, except that he turns away from her once he has the cake in his hand and it's gone: the change is so quick, so complete, that Clark double-takes in surprise. The motion must catch Bruce's eye, because he glances up from his cheesecake toward Clark. His face is—it's almost as good as Batman's cowl, Clark thinks, when it goes blank like that. And then he meets Clark's eyes and gives Clark a tiny nod.

For a half-second after Bruce looks away, Clark is completely bewildered. And then he replays that little nod in his head and understanding rolls through him, a sick slow wave of it.

Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming.

And why shouldn't he? Clark could have—Clark should have. Clark should have heard her, and that should have been why he kissed Bruce. There's—there isn't any reason for Clark to have done it otherwise, or at least not any reason Bruce will want to hear. Bruce is just pretending. And Clark's been letting Bruce make all the moves, because so far Bruce has been the best equipped to make them; but Bruce doesn't have superhearing, and that would have made this a perfectly reasonable moment for Clark to step up to the plate.

Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming; and Clark can't even imagine trying to correct him.

The cheesecake is probably really good—Mom's usually is. But Clark finds, after, that he can't really remember how it tasted.

AYRT

I think I hurt myself a little by having Bruce imagine Superman killing Dick

I HOPE IT'S AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT AS MUCH AS YOU HURT ME :(

Cut to Superman and Nightwing hanging out and being total BFFs post-BvS. ;)

The perfect unicorn chaser! :D Maybe I can forgive you for doing this to me after all.

Awwwwww, this is so cute, anon. I love Bruce actually being himself and enjoying himself, and I love how surprised Clark is by it. And then this: but he puts his hand over Bruce's on the table for a moment, even though no one's taking pictures. My heart! Clark trying to comfort Bruce just for the sake of comforting him, not to put up a show. I hope Bruce appreciates it. <3

And I agree that Bruce needs friends, not that Bruce would ever admit that. And I love how Bruce and Martha are getting along, warms my little heart. No wonder she approves of Bruce being Clark's totally not fake boyfriend.

"And I've been meaning to ask—did you solve that problem you were having with the grappling hooks?"

Clark feels like he's slid into some kind of alternate universe: his mom is making conversation about the contents of Batman's utility belt.

And, even more oddly—Batman is letting her.
I am laughing so hard, this is beautiful. <3 Bruce and Clark sitting outside on the porch is just cute. I love that they have this genuine moment of, well, actually honestly talking to each other. And I love that Clark is figuring out how to talk to Bruce when Bruce gets all grim and brooding: "She likes you—God knows why," Clark adds, and he's glad he did because it makes Bruce snort again, brings his gaze swinging around to Clark's face.

AND THEN THAT KISS. OH MY GOD! ANON! THAT WAS EVEN BETTER THAN THE FIRST KISS 'COS THIS ONE WASN'T FOR SHOW. This little detail here is so perfect: to the small almost-sound Bruce makes in his throat when Clark parts his lips— And damn you, Martha, you can't just kissblock them like that! But then she doesn't know that they don't usually kiss.

Bruce thinks he heard Mom coming.
Oh no! Why do you hurt me so, anon? D: Of course Bruce doesn't think that Clark just wanted to kiss him. Why do you have to make me so sad? I'm not sure I can handle this much pining and feelings. (Meaning, you're still the best. <3)

/OP

I love, love, love touch-starved Clark XD I kind of see him as naturally really tactile, and he misses being touched so badly, either romantically or platonically. I have to get over writing Clark being desperate to be touched so that, uh, actual touching can happen XDD

And yesss, identity porn XD God I love it.

Thank you so very much, nonnie :DDDDD

Poor naturally tactile touch-starved Clark is my favourite, favourite thing, and I am so glad I have found my people in this regard XD

Thank you SO much for your lovely comment, nonnie, I am so glad you're enjoying!!

Oh nonnie, I only have time to leave a short comment before I have to dash away, but oh, my heart, what have you done. This is SO gorgeous and I love everything about it -- poor Dick, poor Bruce, poor all of them. The house being like a tomb is the perfect description.

He had already caused the death of one of his sons, he wasn't going to watch the other one die as well, crushed under Superman's fists, ripped apart by those laser eyes. He hadn't only pushed Dick away out of grief, but out of necessity. It was the only way to keep him safe. And keeping him safe now mattered more than even that pleading, despairing look in Dick's eyes.
OOOF, MY HEART. I adore this, nonnie. Amazing :D Thank you so much for posting :DDDDD

No! Clark, use your words! Tell Bruce that you wanted to or even you don't know why! Just...

*sigh*

You take pleasure in serving a daily dose of happy with the gentle application of salt to an open wound, don't you?

Thanks, again, you know, for hurting me and making me want more.

Thank you for taking the time to comment. :D I hurt myself thinking about this, so I figured I'd share the pain. ;)

This is wonderful and delicious and hot. And the praise kink! And Clark finding himself fascinated by the glimpses (literal and figurative) of Bruce he catches! UNFFFFF

Keep up the amazing work, nonnie, I hope there are many, many other parts to come :D

It's Friday, a few minutes before one a.m. and Clark is in his awful plaid shirt and glasses, flight bag bristling with luggage tags still slung over his shoulder as he pins Bruce against one of the massive lakehouse windows.

"I missed you," he says against Bruce's neck, his hands on Bruce's hips, pulling him in tight. He's hot and firm against Bruce's thigh and god, Bruce missed him too even if he could never say it so easily, but it's been a long, heavy week. Superman may be able to jaunt across the planet at the blink of an eye, but Clark Kent had an international story to chase, and halfway around the world, he was the middle of his working day while Bruce was in the dead of Gotham's night. It's nothing the Batman couldn't handle on his own, of course--and he's certainly not become reliant on Superman's abilities--but he's not as young as he used to be, either.

When it comes down to it, the spirit is willing, as they say, but the flesh is utterly beat.

So Bruce cups Clark's jaw and kisses him lightly, just a soft press of lips because it wouldn't be fair to drink him in the way Bruce wants to, not when he's just going to send him home to his own bed.

Clark's forehead worries into a frown, then smooths out as he takes in Bruce's face, obviously inventorying the dark shadows under his eyes, the stress lines and the concealed bruises. "You're exhausted," he says.

Bruce lifts one shoulder and valiantly stifles a yawn.

"Then go to bed, idiot," Clark says fondly.

I was waiting up for you, Bruce doesn't say. "I was on my way when you barged in."

"Uh huh, sure." Clark tugs Bruce's tie off, and his jacket, shepherds him into the bedroom with alarming ease. It's not so hard to resist Clark's hand on the fly of his slacks, but only because he can't bear to disappoint him.

"It's okay," Clark says, hand stilling under Bruce's. "I just want--"

"Come by tomorrow, I'll be more--"

"I just wanted to see you--"

"--capable, I'm just, right now, I--"

"--I guess I hoped you missed me too, and--"

"I did," Bruce says, surprise knocking the words out of him. "Clark."

"Then let me stay!" Clark says, laughing. "God, Bruce. You're so bad at this."

Like Clark is any better--but he isn't wrong. Bruce falls back against the mattress and sighs inwardly, lets Clark pull his shirt away, lift his hips and tug off his slacks. He remains resolutely limp, despite how much his lizard brain is clamoring. Years of training and meditation and razor-edged discipline, and apparently all it takes is this insufferable ray of sunshine to set his nerves buzzing, even when he's physically incapable of acting on it.

"This is new," Clark says, finger tracing the outline of a bruise on Bruce's ribs.

"Tuesday," Bruce offers by way of explanation. Clark leans in and kisses the edge of it, then tumbles Bruce against the sheets, that terrible shirt filling Bruce's vision. "Get this off," Bruce says, tugging at the top button, "or I will actually kick you out."

"Gosh. Well, if you insist."

The next thing Bruce knows there is nothing but flagrant nudity going on; Clark is pressed against his bared skin, his natural warmth like a balm against Bruce's aching muscles. He manages to stifle a groan, but there's no way Clark missed the deep inhale, the hitch in his breath.

"I thought about you all the time," Clark murmurs into Bruce's shoulder. "It seemed a lot longer than a week."

"Mm."

Here is where he'd consider rolling Clark onto his stomach and bracing his hands in the small of his back, edging inside him by increments until he's babbling pleas and curses, endearments and indictments. But that's not happening tonight. Even turning over seems far too laborious.

So instead he presses his face into Clark's shoulder, nuzzles into his familiar scent and sighs, deep and complacent as Clark buries his fingers in his hair.

"I just wanted," Clark murmurs. "This." He drops a series of kisses on Bruce's forehead, his graying temples, his cheek. Another on his chin, followed by a brush of his thumb. "Just, you."

Bruce doesn't really know how to respond to that--Clark is the strongest weak point he could have, but he still amounts to a vulnerability and that's not something he countenances easily--but he is saved from having to formulate a response by Clark's mouth covering his, gently testing his guard.

(Sometimes the dissonance threatens to wreck him; the compulsion to push Clark away even as he willingly pulls him into his confidence.)

But nobody else is here to listen to his groan of need, so he lets it happen and dives into the kiss, licking Clark's mouth open, teasing him with the edge of his teeth, light enough that it wouldn't hurt him even if it could, but enough to make Clark gasp against him and hook his leg over Bruce's, entwining them closer together.

"I could kiss you forever," Clark says against his mouth, breath hot on Bruce's lips.

"I don't have that long," Bruce says, pulling himself flush against Clark's body, pressing into the firmness of his youth. "But feel free to try."

"Bruce," Clark breathes, "don't say that."

It's not something they talk about: how Bruce has a head-start to begin with, even without taking Clark's theoretical longevity into account. The invulnerability is gulf enough.

Bruce kisses him harder, apology and confession all at once: I would too, if I could.

Clark's hand is on his shoulder, stroking down over his arm and waist and stomach, fingertips pressing and relaxing as they kiss, seeking the tenderest spots of his body only to brush over them in soothing circles or curl into a fist. Bruce can feel how hard he is and how unconcerned he is about it, no needy jerk of the hips demanding attention, only a sincere indulgence in Bruce's pleasure and the occasional gentle roll against Bruce's thigh, incidental to the attention he's lavishing with his mouth and his hands.

It seems to last for hours; Bruce slides toward and is tugged from the edge of sleep again and again by Clark's slow mouth, the leisurely turn of his tongue against his lips, aphrodisiac and soporific and all idle affection until he eventually draws back to rest his head on Bruce's chest. He exhales in a long, contented sigh.

*

It's Monday, five a.m., and the bright summer dawn is pushing through the glass of the lakehouse, blooming over the walls and the sheets and the curve of Clark's shoulder. It's hard on Bruce's tired eyes so he closes them, shuts the morning down into something softer and more manageable.

He doesn't open them even when he feels Clark move down his body, not even when he feels the press of his lips against the inside of his thigh, nor the molten heat of the inside of his mouth.

"Morning," he whispers, as Clark twists his tongue around him, teases him into a hard-earned half-hardness.

Clark pulls off him with an obscene noise, takes his hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. "Morning," he says, low and resonant against Bruce's skin. "Up for much?"

"Don't know," Bruce says, smiling down at him, easy and genuine. "Want to find out?"

***

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Page 23 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

Re: [Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

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

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

Re: [Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

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

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (11/?)

Re: [Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (11/?)

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

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

Re: [Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (11/?)

Re: [Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor

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

[FIll] Pilgrim Soul; Bruce/Clark, age difference, sweet sex