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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I didn't know what to expect when you said DEATH and BONERS, but this continues to be awesome. :D Clark having very nice dreams IN BRUCE'S BED, FUCK YEAH. And aw, poor Clark, though I really love your descriptions of how freaked out he is by this whole waking up business. You do make it sound very freaky. :D

And come on, Bruce, startling the guy with the bruised ribs is just mean. ;)

Maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe he… uh… I mean, I’m sure he hasn’t noticed…
Poor, poor Clark. As if Bruce didn't notice everything. ;) And aww, Bruce saving confused Clark from drowning. Definitely not too mood whiplash-y, anon, it's not like you really made us think that Clark was going to die.

He’d decided he wouldn’t take one of the painkillers Jimmy had given him, but then, he didn’t want to put Bruce to any trouble, and he’d know he was in pain the second he looked at him….
I love Clark taking the painkillers because he didn't want to inconvenience Bruce. Oh Clark, you sweetheart. Poor Clark. I feel so sorry for him right now, I hope nice things are going to happen to him soon. And if not, I'll gladly eat up more angst, too. You're awesome, damsel!Clark anon. :DDD

Clark manages to win the day against some baddies, but kryptonite weapons and a long, hard fight have left him dirty and exhausted. He goes to Bruce, who proceeds to strip him down and dump him in a bath!

Nonnies, please give me all the bathing kink. Hair washing. Back rubs. Frilly soaps and oils. And, of course, unresolved sexual tension everywhere.

+1000 if they're both super hard at the end of it but it doesn't lead to sex.

Oh, anon, I am ALL ABOARD the death and boners train. *straps in*

(And I want to pat Clark on the head - oh, honey, trust me, no matter how much practice you have, waking up never gets easier. /o\)

This is so excellent, anon, I'm falling all over myself for poor embarrassed/helplessly aroused Clark, and Bruce splitting hairs (yeah, you didn't sleep there because you DIDN'T SLEEP, Bruce, GOD), and oh, Clark's blurry memories of the bath! :D And Bruce so studiously reading the paper while Clark tries to figure out what to do - perfection. AND THEN SUDDENLY FEELINGS. /o\ WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME.

I can't claim I'm not sad to think this'll be ending in a few more parts, anon, but I'm so delighted to see where it's going to go and so glad you're sharing it with us. :D THANK YOU.

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Oh, anon, our ids are clearly plugged into the same iddinator, because ALL THE SELF-SACRIFICING BRUCE and ALL THE PANICKED CLARK and CLARK & ALFRED TRYING THEIR BEST TO LOOK AFTER BRUCE TOGETHER and STUPID IDIOTS SAYING THE RIGHT THINGS AT THE WRONG TIMES. /o\ At this point I'm just throwing everything I like most at the wall and it's all sticking, because this is a kinkmeme and why not? And I'm so, so grateful you're enjoying reading it even a fraction as much as I'm enjoying writing it. ♥ It's a blast and you guys make it so incredibly rewarding!

it would be a smiley of Bruce's face wouldn't it?

Yes. Yes, it would. :D

:DDDDDDDDD Yes! He's branching out for the sake of the League, into whole new kinds of self-punishment and martyrdom. ;)

*claps hands* So glad you liked Alfred, OP, and Clark&Alfred - I love that combo just as much as Bruce&Martha and was so pleased to be able to get it on-page in this fill, and it's glorious, glorious icing on the cake that you liked that part! (And Alfred's dialogue, too!) :D

And then Clark telling him he's in love with him ... 'cos that's the narrative, right

:D I figured it was about time Clark had the chance to get a little of his own back, after "I'm infatuated with you" and all ... And I think it's clear that you have no one to blame but yourself, leaving me all these glorious prompts that give me all these relentless feelings and I just can't do anything about it except write, um, 24k. <-- holy shit, I TOLD YOU TO STOP ME

Look at it this way: you'll know everything by the end of the week? :D (Plus or minus a day or two, because yeah, I totally lied about the number of parts left.)

:D Haha, oh, anon, thank you so much! I'm sorry to be killing you and yet so glad all this ridiculousness is successfully giving you feelings - and I have NO IDEA what I'm doing, but I hugely appreciate your confidence in me. ♥

How much longer can I possibly drag this out? LET'S FIND OUT TOGETHER. Also, a) oh, look, I already managed to lie about how long this will be, and b) if this is actually 18 parts in the end, it'll only be because I crack 2k a couple more times. I'm sorry/you're welcome. :D

That's about the easiest it is, of course. Once Bruce has improved to the point where he can sit and stand without posing a genuine physical risk to himself, he's a completely abysmal patient. Clark was right: he does hate pain medication. It's his incapacities that bother him, the fact that he's anything less than 100%—Batman never could stand to feel hobbled—but the constant, inescapable pain gives his frustration a vicious edge. He doesn't like needing help, doesn't like to lean on Clark; but sometimes he has to, and every time Clark is there.

(Before the injury, Clark didn't ever—he didn't really touch Bruce, not while they were in the house. Sometimes he's so glad to get to, now, that he starts to feel guilty. But he tries to imagine what it would be like, him back in Metropolis alone, Bruce struggling around the lake house and snapping at Alfred and hurt; and he can't regret it.

Even if he is enjoying it more than he should.)

It doesn't help that Bruce isn't sleeping properly. Clark discovers this on the fourth night, waking blearily at the sound of what he figures out is Bruce three floors away, trying to catch a tool before it can slide off the workbench next to him and making a small sharp sound when the movement is too much.

He doesn't think Bruce will appreciate being confronted about it, so after a moment's indecision, he lies back down.

But the next time, he wakes right when Bruce first slides out of bed—and it's undeniably embarrassing that he's tuning into Bruce that closely, but he decided he was going to be honest with himself: he's not sorry. Especially not when it means he can cut Bruce off before Bruce gets more than one floor into the Cave.

"You really should try to rest."

And it's a sign of how far down the injury has worn Bruce, Clark thinks, that that startles him. Not much—or Bruce is still good at covering for that kind of thing, even tired and distracted, even at this hour. But his head comes up just a little too fast, his gaze is just a little too sharp, for Clark not to have surprised him.

Plus he's still got an arm wrapped around himself, and a hand pressed to his side where Clark is fully aware the staples start. He almost never lets himself do that around Clark or Alfred.

"I realize you're not going to listen," Clark adds, and holds out one glass of water, keeping the other for himself. "But I feel like somehow Alfred would be able to tell if I had the chance and didn't say it, and he'd judge me for it."

"God forbid," Bruce says solemnly, and takes the glass.

"I get extra bacon in my morning omelet if I tell him what your heartrate is," Clark says. "We have a system and it works for us."

"My own paramour," Bruce murmurs, "an enemy agent," and he shakes his head, expression exaggeratedly betrayed, before he takes a sip.

He's sitting on the floor next to the stairs, back against the wall—for support, and Clark shouldn't draw attention to that unless he wants to annoy Bruce. Besides, if he sits next to Bruce, there's only one thing they'll be looking at. So he sits on the bottom step instead, and waits.

"I'm all right," Bruce says, after a second sip.

Clark waits some more.

"I was—I couldn't get comfortable," Bruce concedes; and it's not as though Batman can't deploy the silent treatment with the best of them, Clark thinks, so Bruce must not mind telling him too much.

"Sure," Clark says aloud. "And you figured exerting yourself until you strained your injuries a little would fix that. Seems reasonable."

Bruce exhales sharply, not quite a laugh. "If someone told you I was a reasonable man, Clark, they were lying." He settles back a little more firmly against the wall, eases his hand away from the staples.

And then, Clark sees with a lurch, he looks up past Clark, and his face turns grim.

"Bruce—"

But Bruce apparently isn't willing to let himself be distracted, not tonight. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed it," he murmurs, flat.

Clark swallows. Of course he has, it'd be ridiculous to claim otherwise: the stairs down into the Cave are worked around it, everything about the space is oriented toward it. It's the focus and the frontispiece and completely impossible to ignore. And it wouldn't be that way unless Bruce wanted it like that, but it's—it's almost brutal, in a way Clark is starting to think Bruce mostly only is toward himself. His worst mistake, the thing that hurts him most, deliberately and permanently exposed so he can never forget, never move on; so he can keep stringing himself up for it, every time he walks past it. God, it makes Clark sick to think about—but he doesn't have the right to tell Bruce that.

And he'd—he is a reporter. He knows who wore that uniform, whose laughter is scrawled across it. He looked it up. He knows what happened.

"I have," Clark admits. "Bruce, you don't have to tell me—"

"You should know," Bruce says. "I shouldn't—you should know."

God. The last thing Clark wants to be is another way for Bruce to punish himself; but he can't figure out how to say that in a way Bruce will listen to, and then it's too late. Bruce is already talking.

"I failed him," Bruce says quietly. "I could have killed the man who killed him before it ever happened. But I chose not to. I chose inaction—I placed my own honor, my private moral code, above the potential cost of that man's future decisions." He pauses, looking away, and then with careful deliberateness sets the glass down; and when his empty hand settles again onto his thigh, it's a fist, white-knuckled. "And then." He pauses again, uncharacteristic, and swallows. "And then you—"

"Bruce," Clark says, because suddenly he's pretty sure he sees where this is going; but Bruce shakes his head and holds out a hand. He's still not looking at Clark.

"Let me," he says. "Just let me—I didn't want to make that mistake again. And the cost of inaction with you felt—" He shakes his head again. "Incalculable."

He stops again, struggling—struggling in a really Bruce way, silently, carefully contained; but Clark can tell anyway, because he knows where to look these days. And he wants to tell Bruce to stop, not to worry about it, to go back upstairs and sleep, except maybe that won't help. Maybe this is something Bruce needs to say.

And if Bruce needs to say it, then the least Clark can do is hear it.

"I didn't realize," Bruce says slowly, "that the cost of action would be, too. I thought I had learned my lesson, that I knew how not to be wrong about this, but I—"

His jaw works; he looks at the wall, drags a breath in and lets it out.

And then he says, "You died too. I—no matter what I do, someone dies who shouldn't."

Clark looks down at his own glass, swirls the water around absently. He licks his lip, trying to think what to say, and then finds himself biting it, because—

Because he knows what to say. He knows exactly what to say.

He sets his glass down next to Bruce's, and now he understands why Bruce did it: he doesn't want to break it, and he might if he's still holding it while he talks about this.

"If you'd been there," he starts slowly, "when he died, you'd—you would have done something."

He risks a glance: Bruce has closed his eyes, bowed his head, but that doesn't mean he's not listening. "Yes," Bruce says.

"But you weren't," Clark says carefully. "You were—you regret not having acted earlier, but at the moment he died, there was nothing you could have done to stop it. And I—Bruce, you couldn't have done anything about me, either. We needed the kryptonite, nothing else would have worked—"

"Diana could have handled the spear," Bruce says flatly, "I could have handled the spear—"

"You wouldn't have lived through that either," Clark says, shaking his head. "I was—I got impaled, Bruce, Diana wouldn't have survived that and neither would you. And there wasn't time to hand it off anyway. Besides, I'm—I'm fine." And he is. He likes the dark a little less now; he dreams sometimes about looking down, finding a hole in his chest, that sudden understanding of what it means to need to breathe and not be able to. The pain. But Diana or Bruce—odds are they would've been dead, really dead. Clark died, but then he got better. He's fine. There's absolutely nothing he can regret about that, no better way that fight could have ended. He's glad it was him.

But that's not actually the point.

Clark looks at the wall—at the display case, now that it feels like he can, and the joke is on him, isn't it? He squeezes his eyes shut and makes himself say it: "When my father died, I was there."

Bruce is silent—so much so that Clark actually opens up a little to make sure he's still there.

"I was—I was right there. I was watching. And I could have—I'm Superman. There's nothing I can't do, nothing I couldn't have done—" He has to stop and swallow, suck in air, and it sounds more like a gasp than it should.

"Clark," Bruce says, but Clark doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to listen to Bruce try to make him feel better about this.

"And he wanted me not to, but I didn't have to listen. I had a choice. I was scared and I didn't know what to do, I didn't want anyone to see me, and I was—I was selfish. I was selfish and I let him die." Clark shakes his head and can't stop himself from pressing the back of one hand against his mouth—just for a second, just to help him get a grip. He doesn't have the right to cry about this. He waits until he's pretty sure his voice won't crack; but it's still tight, hoarse, when he tells Bruce, "Whatever you did or didn't do for me, for Jason—you would have, if you could. You're a good man, Bruce. And you—you weren't wrong, to be worried I wouldn't be—"

"Clark," Bruce says again, low, much closer than Clark had expected. A hand comes up against the side of Clark's face, warm and solid and strong, and Clark keeps his eyes shut but can't help curling his fingers around Bruce's wrist.

Bruce moves. This time Clark's listening: the legs of Bruce's sweatpants brush each other, Clark's knee, and his bare feet shuffle on the concrete; the angle of his arm changes, too. He sits down beside Clark, close, and pulls—turns Clark's head, and in the end Clark's weak. He can't refuse the invitation, can't not turn his face into Bruce's shoulder.

Clark's not sure how long it lasts. Bruce's hand shifts to the back of his neck at some point, but other than that they don't move. Clark isn't—he's not crying, he can't. He just stays where he is and breathes Bruce's air, listens to his heart, and they sit there together and hold each other up.

Sooner or later, though, his brain starts working again. This is—Bruce is being so kind, so patient with him, especially coming right after he's explained to Bruce that he maybe doesn't deserve that. But this is kind of weird, and Bruce is tired and in pain; Clark shouldn't be making him sit awake on metal stairs at two in the morning, soothing Clark's hurt feelings, when they started out talking about Bruce's bad memories in the first place.

(At least Bruce learned from his. This only goes to show: Clark's exactly selfish as he ever was.)

So Clark takes a deep breath, and then makes himself pull away a little, blinks his eyes open and clears his throat and says, "Sorry—"

"Don't be," Bruce says, very low. And then—

Then he tips Clark's face up, knuckles gentle under Clark's chin, and kisses him.

It's not—there's nothing strange about it, it's nothing Bruce hasn't done dozens of times already. Clark would probably be better off if he didn't know how Bruce's mouth felt, hadn't measured the exact curve of the lower lip with his tongue a few too many times; unfortunately for him, though, he does and he has, and it's all excruciatingly familiar.

But Clark freezes beneath it anyway, because there is one thing that's different: this time, there's no one looking.

For one extraordinary moment, Bruce stays where he is, and Clark can catalogue it all—the warmth of him, the closeness; the symmetry, the two of them and a set of stairs and a dark sky somewhere over them; the perfect unbroken stillness of the utterly empty Cave around them, no Mom coming out of the kitchen with cake and no flashes snapping through a restaurant door, not one single damned shutter clicking anywhere.

And then, before Clark can even get it together enough to touch Bruce back, it's over.

"Bruce," Clark says, wanting to ask him to—to wait, to come back; but Bruce is already standing, turning away to retrieve his glass of water from the floor and then facing Clark again with an easy smile.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Clark," he says, "not to me."

"Thank you," Clark says automatically, wrongfooted. Did he—was that—he hadn't imagined it, he couldn't have; he wouldn't have, he hasn't let himself go there, because that's a terrible idea when he's staying in Bruce's house.

But Bruce's face is nothing but friendly, pleasant, as he passes Clark on the bottom step and knocks a hand lightly against Clark's shoulder. "And you win this round," he tells Clark, "I'll go back to bed. Though I can't promise I'll sleep."

"Alfred and I grade on a curve," Clark manages.

Bruce grins at him and then heads on up the stairs, further; and Clark listens to the sound of his feet crossing polished hardwood, lets out a breath, and tries to decide what the hell just happened.

Death and boners! I figure being dead, even for a short time, has to make you reassess your priorities in life at least a little bit, and if that means accepting that apparently you're now having boner-inspiring dreams about the guy who tried to kill you, well, you can deal with that XD (esp when guy who tried to kill you is criminally hot and feels so bad about it he's now being very overly solicitous, even if he hides it behind a growly exterior XD)

Thank you so much, I am SO glad you're enjoying this still XDDDD I think I'm going to put Clark through the wringer just one more time, but then, well, we'll see XDD

Thank YOU, nonnie, for all your kind comments -- it is an absolute pleasure to share this with you all, I can confidently say you guys are the BEST people I have ever been in a fandom with, and it is such a delight to write and read and discuss things with all of you :DDDDDDDDD

Haha, welp, I think Clark is going to have to have one last peril, and, Bruce is going to have to think p seriously about things, AND THEN... XD

Thanks again :D

"You really need to be liked," Bruce says, just loud enough for Clark to hear. "Don't you."
OH MY GOD, NONNIE, when the payoff to this came I grinned SO HARD, Clark wanting to do someghing nice for Bruce because he just knows he must be hurting from the leak, and Bruce being all resistant and then grinning -- my heart, my heart!!!!

He stands in front of the mirror each evening and traces the blooming yellow-purple across his ribs, over his arms; the marks Bruce has left on him. It's humbling.
:))))))))))))))))) <- a self-portrait as I read this line. Okay I have ~~~~issues surrounding this kind of thing, it's one of my bullet-proof kinks, thank you so much for putting this line in.

And then touching on the back of the neck, and then Clark gasping helplessly, and nonnie, I actually have to go out into the day and DO THINGS and all I want to do it sit here and grin like an idiot about this fic. Thank you so, so much, this is awesome. I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying it :DDDDD

I WILL BE HERE TO FIND OUT WITH YOU JUST HOW LONG WE CAN DRAG THIS OUT! :DDDD SO EXCITED. I love everything about abysmal patient!Bruce. Of course he doesn't want to take meds (since they'd just make him sluggish on top of weak), of course he hates being injured and vulnerable, of course he hates needing help. And eeeeeeeeeh, Clark getting to touch him and guiltily enjoying it. <3 Bruce who doesn't sleep and insists on working. *facepalm*

and it's undeniably embarrassing that he's tuning into Bruce that closely
<333333333 I love this. And wow, Clark actually startling Bruce is downright worrying.

"I get extra bacon in my morning omelet if I tell him what your heartrate is," Clark says. "We have a system and it works for us."

"My own paramour," Bruce murmurs, "an enemy agent," and he shakes his head, expression exaggeratedly betrayed, before he takes a sip.
THIS IS AMAZING. Clark and Alfred bonding and Bruce's snarky comment, oh my god. <3 And then Bruce actually opening up a little, anon, everything that happens in this part is just so wonderful.

it's almost brutal, in a way Clark is starting to think Bruce mostly only is toward himself.
The entire paragraph is great, but especially this line, because it's so true. Bruce really is more cruel to himself than he ever is towards anyone else. And god, Bruce talking about THAT ... sure, it's another way for him to punish himself, but it's still Bruce opening up to Clark specifically.

"Just let me—I didn't want to make that mistake again. And the cost of inaction with you felt—" He shakes his head again. "Incalculable."
Gah, this is such amazing reasoning for Bruce. And then this here: "You died too. I—no matter what I do, someone dies who shouldn't." Ouch. Ouch. You really know how to hurt me. That whole conversation is just so great, Bruce sharing his pain and guilt and Clark actually ... knowing what to say. Seriously, so good. Just the fact that they're actually talking to each other, not making small talk, not talking strategy, just ... talking. And then that hug. Heart eyes, nonny. <3 Bruce hugging him. I can't. I am dead.

AND BECAUSE I WASN'T DEAD ENOUGH YET YOU HAVE THEM KISS!!! EEEEEEEEEEEH!!!!!!!!!! DEFINITELY DEAD NOW!!!! And no possible excuses this time. My heaaaaaaaart. But then Bruce seemed so weirdly relaxed afterwards and now I'm just worried??? What was Bruce thinking??? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, as always, I need to knoooow, anon. You're killing me in all the best ways.

/OP (who was so, so not prepared for this glorious, perfect fic when she prompted this little prompt ;))

"And the cost of inaction with you felt—" He shakes his head again. "Incalculable."

- Guilt from Jason and Joker... that's a very good explanation for Bruce in BvS, actually. Headcannon accepted.

But Clark freezes beneath it anyway, because there is one thing that's different: this time, there's no one looking.

- clark no. what are you doing. kiss back.

I CHECK THIS EVERY DAY

Clark enjoying getting to touch Bruce.

BRUCE COMFORTING CLARK *cries*

BRUCE OPENING UP TO CLARK. *_____*

THAT KISS. AND THEN BRUCE PLAYING THE WAYNE CARD, NOOOOOOOOOO.

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDD Haha, I had no doubts you would stick with me, OP, you've been so very patient with this beast of a fill! ♥ THANK YOU.

I love everything about abysmal patient!Bruce

*braintwin high-five* Seriously, I'm just stuffing every single scenario I like and haven't written yet into this thing, and I am SO LUCKY that you're not interested in calling me on it. :D All the grumpy injured Bruce, all the overly-protective Clark - I just can't stop myself! /o\

:DDDDDDD I don't even know how to tell you how thrilled I am that you liked this whole conversation, OP, I'm just. I CAN'T. It was kind of a sharp change in tone (especially from the first couple parts of this) and I wasn't 100% sure whether I'd really managed to nail it, especially when it's such a difficult talk for them to have - that it worked for you is just AMAZING. *does a wee joyous dance*

/o\ THERE'S NEVER TOO MUCH KISSING, RIGHT? :D

now I'm just worried??? What was Bruce thinking???

Oh, you know, probably something extremely reasonable about what a huge mistake he just made and how best to pretend it never happened. Something Batman-y. ;)

♥ ♥ ♥ ONLY A FEW MORE PARTS, FOR REAL THIS TIME. SOON YOU'LL KNOW EVERYTHING. Thank you thank you thank you, as always, for all your thoughts and all your enthusiasm - I REALLY hope you like the rest, you've made the whole process of writing this fill such a delight!

that's a very good explanation for Bruce in BvS

Thank you so much, anon! I hadn't entirely figured out where I was going with this conversation when I outlined this part, only that I wanted Bruce to draw some kind of line between Jason's death and Clark's - and then I started writing it and it suddenly seemed SO OBVIOUS AND PERFECT. So I'm glad it actually does make sense and I wasn't just kidding myself. :D

clark no. what are you doing. kiss back.

But then they might actually unravel this whole ongoing misunderstanding, anon! :P

:DDDDDDDD /o\ I'm so glad you're enjoying it, anon - thank you!

:D

:DDDDDD

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

... >:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

SORRY, ANON. I SWEAR THEY'LL GET THEIR SHIT STRAIGHT IN THE END?

The question mark is gone! I'm pretty sure I know how the rest of this will work out. In other news: oh, look, no one understands anything that anyone else is doing or feeling, and everything's a mess! IF ONLY I WROTE THESE CHARACTERS LIKE PEOPLE CAPABLE OF HAVING EMOTIONALLY HONEST CONVERSATIONS

OH WELL

THEY'RE PEOPLE CAPABLE OF HAVING UST, AT LEAST

THAT'S NICE :D

Bruce doesn't make it easy.

It should be simpler somehow, Clark can't help thinking. He'd imagined that Bruce choosing to kiss him like that would be the impossible thing. But it's talking about it that's impossible. What Bruce had done afterward, being so strange and casual—Clark hadn't seen it for what it was, at the time. Clark hadn't known it would be so hard to come back from.

Bruce has been frustrating, taciturn, as Batman, and obnoxious and excessive as Bruce Wayne; he's turned the charm up, turned it down, flipped the switch between sleazy and stoic. But he's never put this much effort into sheer featurelessness.

He still needs a little help from Clark over the next few days, especially in the evenings when the pain has gotten bad. But even when they're eating dinner right across from each other, even when Clark's got an arm around his back to help him to bed, he manages to somehow not be there. He says all the right things, smiles ruefully when he asks Clark for a hand, doesn't snap or get impatient. He's the least difficult, most congenial version of himself, nothing real in it at all, and Clark has no idea how to get him to cut it out.

And it isn't—Clark can't figure out what he means by it. Even setting the kiss aside, no matter what Bruce had intended by it, he still isn't sure he understands. Remembering what he'd said himself, how he'd let Bruce comfort him, makes him feel sharp-edged and brittle, a little sick. And Bruce had said nearly as much. To Clark, even—if Clark had had to say what he'd said right to Dad's face, he'd be even more of a mess after than he already is.

And Clark is a mess. Bruce has to know that—has to know that it would be okay if he were a mess, too.

But he isn't. He's got a grip. He's in control. He's all right; he's making that about as aggressively clear as he possibly could.

So maybe—as ever—it's just Clark.

And Clark might have kept thinking that, except Bruce starts acting different outside the house, too.

Obviously it takes longer to notice—it's not until the end of the second week that the staples get taken out (not at Bruce's own hand with a pair of needlenose pliers, though it's a close thing at one point). And it's only afterwards that Bruce is comfortable enough to start making public appearances at places other than his office. (Much as they frustrated him, Clark figures, and much as he'd rather have acted like he was perfectly fine, he couldn't have risked anyone noticing or taken the chance that he'd tear them open in public. You don't get surgical staples for the flu.)

And once they're going out again, he's as dizzying as ever. Maybe even more so, Clark thinks ruefully. The worst thing about having fallen for Bruce so hard is that seeing Bruce's abrasive, stubborn, self-blaming side hasn't done a damn thing to make him less attractive.

At first he thinks that accounts for it. Bruce isn't actually different; it's just that being out with him now, after that conversation on the stairs, feels different to Clark. Bruce can Wayne as hard as he wants, but he can't wipe that memory away, and even when he's being outrageous a small quiet part of Clark is aching for him.

But other than that, everything seems normal at first. Or normal for a date with Bruce, at least. They go to a film premiere, at an enormous gleaming theatre right in the middle of downtown Metropolis—and Bruce Wayne is probably the most famous person there, but there's still an actual honest-to-God red carpet and everything. Bruce spends the movie murmuring sharp dry commentary into Clark's ear until Clark can't stop snickering, and then—

Then Bruce kisses him outside. He doesn't make eye contact beforehand, and it's not the brief warm brush Clark would've been expecting if he'd been expecting anything. He just reaches out—to straighten Clark's shirt, Clark's thinking, or pick off a bit of lint, and so Clark holds still for it. And then what Bruce actually does is thumb the button at the hollow of Clark's throat open, slide his hand inside Clark's collar; Clark sucks in a breath, startled, even as Bruce's hand is still moving, and Bruce catches his half-open mouth and—well. Bruce has never been in the habit of wasting opportunities.

And compared to the worst Bruce Wayne tabloid-level debauchery Clark had been trying not to think about when they'd started all this, it's nothing. But compared to what Bruce has been doing, to the casual distance he's been keeping—the hand he slides up the length of Clark's back is practically pornographic.

"Wh—Bruce," Clark says, breathless, when he finally can; but Bruce is already turning away, sliding a bill into the valet's hand with a grin and stepping off the curb toward the car.

"Don't dawdle, Clark, we have places to be," Bruce says, tossing a careless smile over his shoulder, and all the superpowers in the world can't make Clark anything but helpless to follow.

He drags Clark in after dinner, too—Clark mostly just tries to hang on—and then breaks away and says easily, "See you tomorrow."

"I—what?" Clark manages, still reeling.

Bruce smiles at him and leans in, and it's just like that very first night they'd kissed, the gaping mismatch between the low hot tone of Bruce's voice and the actual words he's saying. "I've officially recovered from the flu, Clark. The car will take you back to your apartment," and then, that easily, he's walking away.

The quiet disinvitation from the lake house only makes it all even more disorienting. Not that Bruce is really being unfair—he isn't hurt anymore, and it's his house; Clark can't just keep living in it indefinitely.

But Clark still ends up there half the time, the evenings Bruce deems it appropriate. And that he has to wait for Bruce to ask, that he never knows where he's going to end up for the night—and he doesn't even know what to hope for. Bruce's amiable, mirror-bright politeness whenever they're alone together makes Clark feel like an intruder, where two weeks of Bruce only putting up with him because of Alfred somehow hadn't. And it's turning into a grim kind of torture to have Bruce all over him outside and then giving him a friendly smile, moving away, the second they get inside. Compared to that, Clark's own dark, silent apartment is almost a relief.

(Which means Clark probably ought to like the nights he ends up there better than he does.)

He's got as much of Bruce as he's ever had—more, even, with how Bruce keeps kissing him, touching him, settling his hands farther and farther up Clark's thighs when they're next to each other in theaters or booths. But it feels like Bruce is slipping through his fingers somehow anyway, and that's—

That's why Clark lets him.

It turns into some kind of weird awful game of chicken. Which sounds ridiculous, but Clark doesn't know what else to compare it to. Bruce has been the one putting all the distance between them in private, but for some reason he seems to want Clark to be the one to do it in public. He pushes and he presses and his gaze is on Clark every time: watching, gauging, checking for a reaction. Waiting to be shoved away. He's trying to find a line Clark won't let him cross.

Which means it was only ever a matter of time before he learned there aren't any.

(Once Clark's pretty sure they almost fix it—it, this, whatever the hell has gone wrong. Bruce has paused for a second to push Clark up against the side of the car, and Clark kind of wants to apologize to the driver but it's going to have to wait until Bruce lets him have his tongue back.

And then, out of nowhere, without even a warning rumble of thunder, it abruptly starts to rain.

Heavy fat drops spatter across their faces, and even Bruce can't keep kissing someone through that—Clark sputters and pulls away, careful not to dent the car's frame when he shifts back, and then he lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squints up into the storm and can't help laughing. Mom had threatened to turn the hose on him and Lana once, after she'd caught them in the hayloft a few too many times; and the sky over Metropolis has certainly gotten an eyeful of him and Bruce lately—

He looks back down at Bruce, still grinning. But for once—for the first time in days—Bruce isn't smiling. He's just sort of staring at Clark; his mouth is red and his eyelashes are sticking together in clumps, and he looks wet and a little cold and—and maybe sort of lost.

"Bruce," Clark says quietly, but even that's too much: Bruce drags in a breath, swallows, and then the smile is back. Not as bad as usual, Clark thinks, but a little too sly in its angles, a little too sure of itself.

"I don't suppose this means you'll let me get you out of those wet clothes," he says, shifting a little closer. It makes something in Clark's chest feel like it's cracking, weird and sad and hollow, to know with so much certainty that he doesn't mean it. He can't, not when his face looked the way it did two seconds ago.

But saying so isn't in the script. And Bruce wouldn't thank him for ad-libbing.

"I'll consider it," Clark says instead, and lets Bruce open the door for him, and gets in.)

It's the symphony that does it.

Well, no, it's not the symphony—it's Bruce. It's every little thing he does, from helping Clark into the car with a lot more extended contact than is necessary all the way to guiding Clark toward their seats with a hand much, much lower on Clark's back than he's ever gone before.

But the symphony doesn't help. It's some kind of special event, a nice round anniversary of the founding of Metropolis and Gotham's shared orchestra; the space they're using for the performance is enormous, the seats lush and soft, and they announce right at the beginning that there will be no intermission.

Which means that when Bruce's hand finds Clark's knee, about five seconds after the lights go down, there won't be any escape.

By dint of an effort worthy of Superman, Clark manages to concentrate pretty well for the first movement or so. There's a heavy hot feeling settling into him just at the pressure of Bruce's palm, the relentless awareness that there's only Clark's suit pants between skin and skin—but it's not that bad. He can still keep his eyes open, he can still hear the music, and maybe he swallows a few too many times, but nobody's counting.

And then Bruce shifts a little in his seat, rearranges himself, and when his hand's settled back into place, it's maybe an inch higher. That's when Clark starts to lose his mind.

Something happens, some particularly interesting musical motif, and Bruce leans forward; his hand shifts, fingers brushing across the skin on the inside of Clark's leg, and Jesus, how can any motion that small feel that good? A buildup, a thunderous impressive crescendo, and when it's over Bruce sits back again, satisfied—the jackass, Clark thinks blurrily, because somehow his hand's slid even higher, and "satisfied" is the absolute last word Clark feels able to use. And then Bruce moves again; this time Clark can't stop the breath from rushing out of him audibly, and in the dim faraway corner of his eye, he sees Bruce's head turn.

Crap, Clark thinks—oh, crap, and then Bruce is leaning in, saying in that deep near-Batman murmur, "Ah—enjoying the performance, I see."

"Bruce," Clark whispers, helpless, not daring to do anything but stare straight ahead.

And he swears he can feel Bruce's lip touch the hinge of his jaw—just for a second, barely catching against Clark's skin—when he says, "Only another hour. You can last that long, can't you?" And then, even lower: "I bet you can."

Clark doesn't remember anything else about the music after that. Things happen in front of him, bows sway and drums pound and brasses blare, and the performance is probably excellent; but Clark doesn't see any of it. He shuts his eyes at least three times without meaning to, but even when they're open, he's sightless. There's nothing in the world except for Bruce, Bruce and his stupid hand.

And it's so—he doesn't even touch Clark, not in any way that's actually illegal in public. His palm's slid all the way up Clark's thigh by the time the symphony is over, but all he's doing is stroking his thumb gently back and forth across two square inches on the outside of Clark's leg.

There's nothing indecent about that except the way Clark's shuddering under it.

When the lights come back up, Clark stands as soon as he can get his wobbling legs to cooperate, and is dimly grateful for two things: that he wore a suit jacket that actually fits him instead of one of his old too-short ones, and that he skipped the tie this time. He doesn't need to breathe, but somehow he still can't get enough air.

He hangs on to Bruce's wrist—it's stupid to keep touching Bruce right now, but he honest-to-God might not be able to find his way out of this building otherwise. There's someone in the lobby that Bruce knows; Clark's pretty sure he manages to smile at the right time, to keep his mouth shut and look vaguely interested until they can move away, but he can't be sure.

He can't be sure of anything, except that his hand's around Bruce's wrist and it's not enough.

They have to wait for the car to come around for them. Bruce walks him off to one side of the entryway and then kisses him the way he's starting to get used to: abrupt and hot, delving deep, unfairly easy to melt into. But the knee he angles between Clark's—that's new. Clark can't help but surge against the pressure, as mild as it is; and Bruce makes a rough sharp sound into his mouth and jerks backward.

"Clark—"

"Sorry," Clark says, and then grimaces at how breathless he sounds—his face feels like it must be red as a brick, and he's not sure whether he's vibrating with superspeed or just trembling. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I wasn't—"

Bruce is staring at him. A tiny frown furrows his brow, just for a second.

And then he tilts his head, gaze flicking down Clark's chest, lower, and then back up, and—and his eyes go heavy, oh, and he leans in much, much too close, and says softly, "Stay the night, Clark."

Clark feels his eyes go wide and can't help swallowing. "You—really?"

"Really," Bruce murmurs, and, God, slides a hand underneath Clark's jacket, eases it over the small of his back and then lower. "Why not?" and, oh, there's something dangerous about that sharp-edged smile, something Clark needs to be careful of. And there's so many reasons why not that Clark could make a list: Bruce kissed him and hasn't talked to him since, not in any way that means anything; Bruce confided in him and then shoved him away, and Clark still doesn't know why. Clark is in love with Bruce, and Bruce—Bruce maybe thinks Clark is pretty, maybe considers him a friend. (Maybe did—maybe doesn't anymore, after whatever went wrong in the stairwell, and surely this can only make that worse.) But—

But it's Bruce. It's Bruce, and even before Clark opens his mouth, he knows he's not going to say no.

UNFFFFFFF, I am DYING OVER HERE. Forget about Clark getting turned on out of his mind, I AM 100% LOSING IT, DEAR GOD.

I did not think that a measure of identity porn could still be found when they both know the other's ~super identity, and yet! And yet!

Ahahaha, omg Bruce is such an asshole for playing chicken with Clark this way, you don't have to do this Bruce, he loves you toooooo!!!

Clark can't help but surge against the pressure, as mild as it is; and Bruce makes a rough sharp sound into his mouth and jerks backward.

"Clark—"

"Sorry," Clark says, and then grimaces at how breathless he sounds—his face feels like it must be red as a brick, and he's not sure whether he's vibrating with superspeed or just trembling. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I wasn't—"

Bruce is staring at him. A tiny frown furrows his brow, just for a second.

UNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. BRUCE BEING SURPRISED. THEN WHAT? DOES HE THINK CLARK IS JUST HORNY AND NEEDS TO GET LAID AND THEN WILL GET BORED? OH, BRUCE.

<33333333333333333333333333

UST and slow burn are what I live for and you make it so painfully delicious, nonnie <333333

/o\ Oh my gosh, thank you - it's really been a joy to write this and I'm so glad you're enjoying it, anon! ♥

Eeeeh, that is an amazing comment, thank you so much! :D Made my day.

I wasn't even planning on the hand touching until I was writing it and realised that I could so, so easily get away with it. :D I'm trying to build up their relationship bit by bit throughout these fills, but I'm not sure yet if that will work out the way I'm hoping. We'll see.

Sorry I killed you. It's not my fault, it's Bruce and his ridiculous standards. ;) Thank you so, so much. <3

You made me incredibly happy with that awesome comment, thank you so much. :D Glad the competence kink works for you, since that's what this is about, even if I keep getting distracted by a bunch of other things I want to include. Bruce is just so, so hard on himself, it must be frustrating for everyone around him.

How can you cram so much tension into this??? Poor Clark. Bruce, what are you doing?

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Page 27 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

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

Bruce/Clark - h/c, bathing kink

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

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (14/17ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (14/17ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (14/17ish?)

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

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

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

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (6/?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (15/18ish?)

Re: [Fill, 2/6] Bruce/Clark, competence kink

Re: [Fill, 2/6] Bruce/Clark, competence kink

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)