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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Congrats on figuring out how the rest of this will work out, anon! :D I'm sure it's going to be amazing. This part definitely is.

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.
Identity pooooorn. I am always here for the two extremes of Batman and Bruce Wayne and the real, private Bruce somewhere in between. God, that bit about Bruce somehow just not being there is so great. And Bruce being a good patient after everything before is just ... wrong. Poor Clark!

You do so many amazing things with all their different kisses in this fic, it's the most impressive thing. And a filthy dirty Bruce kiss should not make me so saaaaad, because Clark! Think of Clark's feelings, Bruce! Just breaks my heart how completely Bruce is withdrawing because omfg, no, he showed feelings! And then even slipped and kissed Clark, so of course now he has to make up for it by not making those public kisses too gentle and tender and meaningful. D: I mean, this, ouch, why do you hurt me so? 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.

watching, gauging, checking for a reaction. Waiting to be shoved away. He's trying to find a line Clark won't let him cross.
God, is Bruce trying to get Clark to call things off? He is, isn't he? Because feeling Clark up in the dark of theatres, when nobody can't even see, he doesn't even have much of an excuse for that other than trying to drive Clark away.

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.
THIS IS BRUTAL, ANON, BRUTAL. (And perfect, you are so great.) As is that symphony scene, I feel so sorry for poor teased Clark. And Clark apologising for reacting to EXACTLY WHAT BRUCE WAS DOING TO HIM, THE BASTARD. I'm repeating myself, but poor Clark!

"Why not?" and, oh, there's something dangerous about that sharp-edged smile, something Clark needs to be careful of.
Ooooh, is this the part where we're going to get fucking while they're still complete and utter idiots about their feelings? I'm wibbling again. This part was emotionally devastating and so great. Can I by founder of your fanclub or something? :D

/OP

ON THIS *cracks fingers*

Trust is absolutely a kink, and it is a huge one of mine, so I'm really happy that's come through! Thank you so much!

Yay, I'm glad you're liking it. I had not expected the wait between parts to be so long, it's a little disheartening, so I really appreciate how enthusiastic you've been, thank you <3.

Thank you!

OP

Hell to the yes, nonnie! Can't wait to read your fill!

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

Oh, Clark. For all that he can read Bruce better, I think he still sometimes misses the mark.

...and all the superpowers in the world can't make Clark anything but helpless to follow.

and:

But it feels like Bruce is slipping through his fingers somehow anyway, and that's—

Then this:

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

Ugh! You're killing me, Smalls!

I'm all for resolving the sexual tension, but it seems to me that sheer volume of repressed feelings and emotions and that sexual resolution might make for a volatile combination--especially with these lovely idiots. But who can say?

As always, thanks for killing me softly with your beautiful words, you sadist.

:-D

Good news, a tiny bit of identity porn is back in the mix! Bad news, I think I lost sight of the competence porn for a bit because Clark was having feelings. Hope you guys still like this part, and I promise we'll be back to your regularly scheduled competence kink next time. :)

3. Children.

Most of the time Bruce Wayne and Batman were two entirely separate entities, antithetical in every possible way. Bruce Wayne smiled a lot and talked even more, Batman scowled and was frustratingly taciturn. Bruce Wayne was a charming fop with no useful skills to speak of, Batman was devastatingly competent in more areas than Clark could count. Bruce Wayne was easily excitable, Batman was a stoic. Bruce Wayne was a people's person, Batman was an abrasive loner and, most of the time, not particularly pleasant to be around.

There was only one area, and a very unlikely one at that, in which they resembled each other – when it came to children. Even if Clark didn't know it for the longest time.

Maybe it was that even Bruce didn't have it in him to be Bruce Wayne at wide-eyed, lonely children when he visited an orphanage he'd funded. Maybe it was that nobody would have trouble believing that even a vapid, arrogant billionaire had a soft spot for children who shared the same fate he had suffered as a little boy. After all it was public record that Bruce had even adopted two orphans when he'd been younger. Clark didn't believe that even Bruce was cynical enough to use those unfortunate children for nothing but good PR and conversation pieces, and in this one instance Bruce's interest seemed actually genuine.

And for a long time Clark thought that Bruce Wayne's uncharacteristic gentleness with children in no way compromised his secret identity. Everyone knew that Batman was curt, gruff, brutal. The least gentle person one could imagine.

That's what Clark had thought.

Most times when he saw Bruce suited up, they were battling some kind of extraterrestrial or metahuman threat, or fighting perfectly common but still powerful criminals. Clark didn't even see Batman interact with a child until – until that night when they finally found a black market lab Clark had been investigating for weeks. They didn't know who was behind the whole operation yet, only that whoever ran the place been producing – and testing – some kinds of drugs and chemicals in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Metropolis.

Children had been disappearing for weeks, which was how Clark had first got wind of the operation, and their main priority while taking down the lab had been to get those kids to safety. Things being what they were, between Clark and Diana and whatever the hell those security robots they were facing had been, the factory had still ended up pretty much in shambles.

Afterwards both Clark and Bruce were combing through the half-ruined building, to see if they'd missed anyone. Clark picked up a fluttering, too fast heartbeat – a child, and a scared one at that. And right beside it the steady thump of Bruce's heart. Clark sped up, figuring that no frightened, traumatised child should have to deal with a man who put fear into the hearts of Gotham's most hardened criminals. He turned a corner to find a little boy cowering behind a fallen arch. No more than six years old, curly black hair, dark eyes. He was crying and his face looked more hollowed out than on the picture Clark remembered, but this had to be Terry Young, one of the most recent disappearances. Batman was sitting on the floor next to him and shot Clark an venomous glare.

“Stay back,” he growled quietly. “You're scaring him.”

Clark only noticed then that the little boy was looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Part of him wanted to protest – Superman wasn't scary, Superman helped people – but then he realised that the last time that boy had probably seen him, lasers had been shooting out of Clark's eyes. Judging by the look of the room, Clark's heat vision might well have been what had destroyed this part of the building. So Clark fell back to the unhinged door of the room to give the boy space, but he didn't leave. He was curious, and the rest of the factory was quiet – they'd got everyone out in time and Clark wasn't needed elsewhere for now.

“He's not going to hurt you,” Bruce said to the boy. His voice modulator was still on, that same guttural growl Clark was used to, but even so his tone sounded much softer than usual. And then Bruce added, “He's a friend. You're safe now.”

Clark didn't think – no, Clark was absolutely sure that Bruce had never, ever referred to them as friends. He barely even allowed himself to think of Bruce that way, since he could just about imagine how much Bruce would bristle at the suggestion.

“He looks scary,” the boy said, his voice small and hoarse from crying.

“Someone needs to scare off the bad guys,” Bruce said with the smallest quirk of his lips, as if that wasn't his job. “That looks like it hurts.”

He'd raised his gloved hand to point at the cut over the boy's eyebrow. As far as Clark could tell, it wasn't serious, but like most head injuries it was bleeding profusely. Bruce's movement was deliberately slow, carefully designed, Clark realised belatedly, not to startle or threaten the boy.

“Is it okay if I have a look?”

The boy hesitated, but then he nodded, sat still while Bruce produced a cotton pad and disinfectant from one of the countless pockets on his belt so he could carefully dab the blood away. The same precision in his movements Clark had grown used to from him, but so much slower, gentler. Reassuring. A stark contrast with that frowning black cowl, and yet the boy seemed not one bit intimidated by him. Clark could hear his frightened heartbeat slow down a bit.

“You'll be all right,” Bruce commented after a moment. “But you're going to need stitches.”

“I hate stitches,” the boy replied, his tone already closer to that of a regular unwilling child than of someone who'd just been held captive in a drug lab for two weeks. Clark half expected Bruce to make some callous remark about how the boy should stop whining and man up, but instead he shrugged briefly.

“Everyone does.” Bruce turned himself to the side so the boy could glance at his arm, the tear through the black body armour, crusted with blood. “I'm going to need stitches, too.”

The boy looked a little sceptical about that, but he seemed solely focused on Batman now rather than on the destruction around them, or on whatever memories he'd accumulated in the two weeks he'd spent in this place.

“We're going to get you down to a doctor in a moment, but do you think you can answer a few questions for me first?”

For a moment Clark wanted to get annoyed that Bruce prioritised their investigation over getting this child out of here, but then Bruce could probably see as well as he did that the boy didn't need immediate medical attention. And Clark could hear the brouhaha down by the street, the sirens, the emergency services, the press and the cameras and the curious bystanders, and he figured that a few minutes longer up here might actually be less stressful for the boy.

Terry seemed to think about it for a moment before he bit his lip, stubborn determination despite the tears, and nodded again. Bruce's tone was calm and unassuming when he started asking, free of any demand, of any threat. Simple questions that wouldn't overwhelm him, if he'd seen any faces, if he could describe any of the men who'd brought him here, if he'd ever heard them use any names, but he never asked them like he thought the boy was stupid.

Clark remembered reading an article once, written by a retired police detective, about how hard it was to get accurate witness statements from children, especially children who'd lived through traumatic events. How easy it was to overwhelm them or accidentally lead them into saying what the questioning police officer wanted to hear.

Bruce probably could have taught classes on how to get detailed, accurate witness statements from children under ten. And he was so careful about it. Gentle even. When tears welled up in the boy's eyes, Bruce relented, shushed him softly. He didn't hug him, just offered an arm and – to Clark's surprise Terry all but threw himself at Batman. Wrapped his short arms around his neck while Bruce held him close, carefully angling his body and his arms so as to keep the sharp edges of his body armour away from the boy's skin. He stroked his hair, a light, soothing touch despite the fact that he was still wearing heavy gloves.

“It's okay,” he mumbled. “You did great. What you just told me will help us find these people, make sure they don't hurt anyone else.”

Clark watched in disbelief and fascination. Bruce Wayne was kind to children when he met them, especially orphans, but still in a somewhat distant, too smooth way. This felt far more genuine, almost raw. Like a glimpse at what lay underneath the masks of both Bruce Wayne and Batman. Bruce met Clark's eyes over the boy's shoulder, and the look on his face was one of barely restrained fury, even as his hand on the boy's hair was unfailingly gentle. It lasted only for a moment before he turned his attention back to the boy, who was straightening up a little, wiping at his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, clearly trying to be brave. “My dad says boys don't cry.”

“I think when your dad sees you again today, he's going to cry, too.”

Clark felt his chest tighten, thinking back of his own father, and then – then it struck him that Bruce had lost a son, that Bruce never got to cry tears of joy at having him back, but only tears of sorrow at his funeral. It was hard to imagine Bruce crying at all, even though he must have, but seeing what he saw now, seeing the way Bruce ruffled Terry's hair one last time before he rose, the way Bruce didn't even flinch when the little boy took his hand firmly in his, Clark realised for the first time the enormous loss that Bruce had lived through. Not just the guilt and shame of failing the boy who'd fought by his side, symbolised by the bloodied suit he insisted on keeping in the Cave, but the incurable sorrow of a father who'd buried his son.

“Superman here is going to fly you down to an ambulance.” The mention of his name tore Clark out of his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed that Bruce and the boy had walked over to him. “It'll be safer than if I carry you over the rubble.”

The boy looked up at Clark, fear mixing with scepticism in his still wet eyes, then glanced back up at Bruce. “Are you sure about that?”

“I'm sure,” Bruce said, but he didn't push him, waited patiently until Terry let go of his hand and made another step towards Superman. Clark gave him the best reassuring smile he could muster before he picked him up, exchanged a brief look with Bruce and took off. He delivered the boy to the emergency services, made sure he was being taken care of before he returned to the factory. Bruce had already moved to a mostly intact office two floors up and was rifling through files now, eyes quickly scanning the documents. He didn't even acknowledge Clark's return.

A few months ago, Clark would have left it at that and found some other way to make himself useful. But since then he'd spent more time with Bruce, and, well, if Bruce referred to him as his friend, even if just to reassure a child, Clark had every intention of taking that as an invitation to talk to him more.

“I didn't know you were good with children,” he said. It wasn't really what he meant – or rather, it was a part of it, but the fact that Batman was good with children should have been as unsurprising as that he excelled at frightening criminals into telling him what he wanted to know or that Bruce Wayne could charm people and cajole them into just about anything. Sometimes it seemed as if Bruce had perfected every skill he could possibly need some day. And yet, despite Bruce's careful questioning, Clark didn't feel like he had merely witnessed another one of Batman's skills. This hadn't been Batman coldly manipulating another person to get what he wanted.

But there was no way of saying that this was the most human Clark had seen him since their first fight, since Bruce had promised him to save his mother in a voice that had erased every doubt in Clark's mind. He'd promised to save her, and Clark had believed him not because of Batman's skill, but because he had so obviously cared. It wasn't something Clark had let himself dwell on too much since his return, and maybe he should have.

But what he said was “I didn't know you were good with children”, and Bruce didn't even glance up from the file cabinet, only replied with a a low huff.

“The paramedics are patching Terry up, and the other kids, too. Their parents are being called.” Another non-committal grunt, but then Clark wasn't telling Bruce anything that wasn't painfully obvious. Clark was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you think he's going to be okay? Him and the others?”

At that Bruce finally stilled and looked up. He seemed to consider the question for a minute before he met Clark's eyes, the look in them quiet and thoughtful.

“I don't know,” he said eventually. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. Instead he set his jaw and turned back to the file cabinet. “It's not up to us. All we can do is find out who's behind this, if there are more labs like this one.”

What you just told me will help us find these people, make sure they don't hurt anyone else.

Clark felt that tightness in his chest again. He'd spent years thinking Batman merely hunted criminals to see them punished, to make sure they got what they deserved for their crimes. Somehow it had never occurred to him to look at the other side of this – that Bruce did what he did because he cared about the victims of those criminals. That he wasn't merely driven by an abstract ideal of justice, but by wanting innocent people not to get hurt. By wanting to spare other people the horror of burying their murdered parents, their murdered son. It should have been so obvious that it was probably a credit to both masks Bruce liked to wear that Clark hadn't seen it earlier.

Of course he wasn't going to comment on any of it, not when he was aware of how much Bruce would hate it that Clark felt like he knew him better now. With a smile tugging at his lips, Clark stepped closer to Bruce and let his hand hover near his elbow.

“What is it with you and that left arm?” The annoyance on Bruce's face only made his smile widen. But it was Bruce's normal level of grumpiness, not that sudden complete withdrawal Clark remembered too well from the last time. “You do need stitches, you know? You're going to bleed all over those files.”

Bruce seemed to consider this and then asked, a lot more cooperative than Clark had hoped for, “If I let you stitch me up, are you going to shut up and let me work?” He also certainly hadn't expected this particular suggestion. He opened his mouth to argue that there were other people better suited to patching Bruce up, but then Bruce was hardly going to risk some paramedics getting a sample of his blood, nor was he going to waste time flying back to Gotham to have Alfred tend to his wounds. It was either Clark helping him out or Bruce continuing to bleed unnecessarily, and that was no choice at all.

“Okay.” He grinned, feeling a little reckless. “I can't promise I'm as good with bats as you are with children, though.”

The look Bruce gave him was thunderous to the point where Clark half expected Bruce to change his mind and simply go back to work, but instead he sat down on the only not overturned chair, his hands going once more for the first-aid items in his belt.

“You really, really aren't.”

And maybe Clark wasn't, but he still thought he might be wearing Bruce down.

Hahaha, I hope the timeskip doesn't come back to bite me, but otherwise it was going to be a blow-by-blow account of every moment of their lives and... things need to move on a BIT quicker than that! XD

Poor Bruce. Ambushed by unexpected kindness. It can break a man, you know.

ALL THE PRAISE KINK. ALL THE NECK PETTING. ALL THE BRUUUUUISES <3

He totally can't not accept the cake, not after he's so insistent about Clark taking his bed! That would make him a hypocrite ok O:)

Flirting, yeah. About that. *eyes next part suspiciously*

127 martial arts is totally canon. COMICS.

Specifically kryptonite needles. Through Clark's nipples, the skin of his cock ... Clark getting off on the pain, on how sure and strong and nimble Bruce's hands are, on the fact that Bruce personally made those needles just to play with Clark. Bruce getting off on the fact that Clark trusts him this much (and because it'd look really pretty, too).

Clark's cracked him :D He just has to be his unadulterated self. What a babe.

I'm so glad you're enjoying it, I am having a Good Time too :DDD <3

:D MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. (I really haven't written much UST before! So your complimentary capslock is extra gratifying. ♥)

Haha, oh, apparently I just can't help it. /o\ I WAS SO PROUD OF MYSELF. THIS WAS GOING TO BE THE ONE FIC WITHOUT ANY IDENTITY PORN. oh well

you don't have to do this Bruce, he loves you toooooo!!!

IMPOSSIBLE. Bruce is just going to have to keep making bad choices. ~~OH BRUCE~~

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

Look, Clark reacted in a COMPLETELY UNPREDICTABLE WAY to the prospect of Bruce genuinely wanting to bang him, okay, he was SUPPOSED to freak out. Bruce certainly can't freak out. Bruce has to be 100% okay with this turn of events, it was his idea and it doesn't mean anything to him anyway. ~~OH BRUCE~~

♥ :D

The lakehouse breeds a different kind of cabin fever to the farmhouse back home--it's all undirected energy now, instead of inertia and lassitude. Not boredom so much as the need to be doing something, a persistent innervation.

So Clark takes himself off for a run around the lake every day, first thing. Three kilometres, give or take, twelve minutes of crisp morning air and plenty of time for Bruce to get anything he might need from his bedroom. (This is their silently-agreed upon system now, after a couple of supremely awkward encounters.

And if Clark notices that Bruce sometimes transitions between living room and cave while Clark is sleeping, he doesn't feel the need to mention it.)

Today he is fleet, eating up the distance like it's nothing, like he's barely touching the ground, and when the lakehouse comes back into view on his return he can see the privacy glass is still frosted. He checks his watch--a good minute faster than this time last week. He is getting better, and quickly.

He paces onto the deck as he catches his breath. The glass remains opaque, so he swings his arms across his chest, over his head, stretches in a cooldown. It seems natural to extend that into practice--tai chi feels most appropriate, what with the breeze rippling across the lake and pushing into the trees, the distant scatter of birdsong. Part the wild horse's mane. White crane spreads its wings.

The glass clears abruptly--Clark can almost hear it, a sharp tick right on the edge of his perception, the staticky shift of an interrupted electrical current. He catches Bruce watching him in his periphery, a dark suit behind the mirror sheen of the windows, mingled with the reflections of the rustling trees.

Brush knee and step forward. Slow, calm, his heartbeat steadying. He hears the door to the lakehouse open and then close again, the creak of the deck. He turns, and can tell immediately that Bruce is already halfway in character: the semi-amused raise of his eyebrows is there, the edge of a smirk. Not a board meeting this morning, then.

"Who are you schmoozing with today?" Clark asks.

"Not your business." Bruce cups his palm under Clark's elbow, encouraging him to lift it slightly. Clark resists, makes him press a touch harder. He's found that he's inclined to a little mischief when Bruce is being snippy with him. Not that it ever helps. "Clark," Bruce says, stern, and circles his wrist instead.

Clark grins insolently at him and deliberately lets his other shoulder drop. Of course, Bruce immediately tries to adjust his posture, one hand on his biceps--he can't seem to help himself, Clark's noticed. He tries to keep a straight face. It takes Bruce a second, then he gives a long-suffering shake of his head, lets his hands fall away.

"You're ridiculous," he says, over the gravel crunch of a cab approaching. He adjusts his jacket, straightens his cuffs, and then Bruce Wayne is in full effect. "We can dance later," he says, and pats Clark on the cheek. "But first I have to go spill a couple martinis down myself."

"Drink some, too," Clark calls as he swaggers away. "Give me a fighting chance!"

*

Clark kills an hour or so on the phone to his ma. She gives him the rundown on the latest news out of Smallville, which constitutes almost entirely of gossip, ("It's in the paper!" "Still gossip, mom,") asks him if he's remembering to floss, tells him she misses him. That leaves a hollow in his chest, and she hears it.

"Maybe you should come for a visit some weekend soon," she says. "I'll make cheesecake."

Clark smiles into his phone. "Thanks, mom. I'll run it by Bruce. See if he'll give me time off for good behavior."

"And how is Bruce?"

A bit less reserved since the chocolate cake incident, a little more receptive to Clark's goofing, but still distant, on the whole. Or detachedly friendly, like this morning, simmering under a pretense. To say he blows hot and cold is an understatement.

"He's Bruce," Clark says.

She laughs on the other end of the line. "He's welcome, too. Lord knows that man needs to learn how to take a break."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Clark says.

*

He takes a quick shower, uses one of the two identical bottles of body wash (thank, Alfred, Clark thinks, just great, just wonderful). In the bedroom he's toweling off his hair, when something catches his attention--the sheets on the bed, pulled taut and crisply folded while he was out.

Except there's a faint impression in the middle, just something in the way the sheets are slightly creased, like--

Clark drops the towel and leans over, a knee on the mattress. Bruce's cologne rises up to meet him. It's strong. He must have applied it just before lying here. Clark needs to swallow suddenly, finds it difficult. His breath is doing something weird in his chest, and the hair along his arms is prickling. Bruce was lying here while he was out running. Why?

Not your business, he hears Bruce say, and maybe it's not a contact he's meeting. Not a business partner. Maybe it's a date. And he had to blow off some steam beforehand.

Clark steps back from the bed, and god, why is he--

His face is hot; he feels like he needs to work off some nervous energy himself. The mats down in the cave are appealing right now--something to throw himself onto with as much force as necessary. He slides back the veneer panel that conceals the entrance and the security panel blinks to life, the glowing green display demanding credentials.

On the nightstand, Clark's phone buzzes.

[1:17] Bruce:
Stop snooping.

Clark hesitates a moment.

[1:18] Clark:
I'm not

[1:19] Clark:
Can I use the gym?

[1:19] Clark:
I'm kind of bored

There's no immediate response. Clark wanders into the kitchen and draws a glass of water, drains it in a long swallow. His phone vibrates in his pocket. The message is an excessively long hashcode.

[1:24] Bruce:
There's decryption software on my laptop.

Clark pads into the living room, flips the laptop open and wakes it up. A blinking cursor stares back at him.

[1:25] Clark:
Your laptop needs a password

If he had his super-hearing, Clark is certain he would be able to hear Bruce sighing. Possibly his eyes rolling, too.

[1:27] Bruce:
Clark, I'm in a meeting.

[1:27] Clark:
No you're not :^)

[1:28] Bruce:
Don't emoticon at me.

Another long pause. Clark paces in a circuit around the living room.

[1:32] Bruce:
1047-27-5-39

[1:33] Bruce:
Delete this message immediately.

[1:33] Bruce:
In fact, delete this whole conversation.

[1:33] Bruce:
And don't.

[1:33] Bruce:
Touch.

[1:33] Bruce:
Anything.

[1:34] Clark:
Thanks, Bruce!! :^D

[1:39] Bruce:
Clark. Please.

*

Clark's not sure how long he's down there. Long enough to work up a sweat on the punchbag; long enough to feel the ache in his arms and shoulders when he hits the mat, and for the tension in his gut to subside. He's got to feeling pretty zen, in fact--right up until Bruce gets home.

He comes down to the cave still in his suit, shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his shoes and lunges straight into Clark, knocks him on his ass like it's nothing.

"Uff," Clark says, hauling up into a ready stance. "Hi."

Bruce just throws him a feral grin and rolls up his shirtsleeves.

"Really? You're going to spar in a thousand dollar suit?"

"It's been that kind of day."

Clark sidesteps, circling carefully as Bruce does the same. "Your date didn't go well, then?"

"Date?" Bruce says, and Clark takes advantage of his surprise, darts in to land a point on him. Bruce grunts, casually deflects his next blow, brow drawn in a heavy frown. "I had wingtips in from Star City. R&D. No, I could have done without the interruptions."

"Did I make Bruce Wayne look unprofessional?" Clark asks, leaning back and dodging Bruce's fist by bare millimeters. Not a date, then. So why--?

Bruce grabs at Clark's t-shirt; the seams pull, threads giving way with a sharp crackle just on the edge of Clark's hearing. He can smell Bruce's breath, thick with alcohol. He's not drunk--his speed and coordination can attest to that--but he's not exactly sober, either. He seems to be on the edge of some anger or other.

"No," Bruce says, "you just--"

And just when Clark's ready to sweep at the back of his knees, collapse him down and push his wrists against the mat--Bruce drops his guard, stands up straight and sighs, rolls his shoulders. "Let's just--" he says, and pushes his hand through his hair. "Let's just have coffee tonight, okay."

*

/o\ What a compliment, anon - I was trying very hard to ratchet things up in this part and I'm so delighted to think it paid off!

Bruce, what are you doing?

EXTREMELY SENSIBLE THINGS. YUP. :D

I'm sure it's going to be amazing

Hahahahaoh god I really hope you're right. /o\ Thank you for your confidence, nonny, it warms a fill-writer's heart. ♥

Identity pooooorn

/o\ BUT THERE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE ANY IN THIS FILLLLLLLLL *shakes fist* You know I just can't help myself! :D

You do so many amazing things with all their different kisses in this fic, it's the most impressive thing

Oh, anon, this is the best compliment, you don't even know - I've never written anything with this much kissing in it, and writing/rewriting/frantically editing to make sure I don't repeat myself too much has been something of a theme. Thank you!

God, is Bruce trying to get Clark to call things off? He is, isn't he?

It would only be logical - after all, Bruce Wayne lucked out, landing a nice boy like Clark Kent! Clark's the one who'd have reason. (Especially now that Bruce is hurling reasons at him with both hands. Oh, Bruce.)

THIS IS BRUTAL, ANON, BRUTAL

/o\ :D THANK YOU. AGAIN. MORE TIMES. Oh, OP, you are too good to me!

is this the part where we're going to get fucking while they're still complete and utter idiots about their feelings?

... Yep. :D I say this basically every time, but thank you so so much, OP, you are so tirelessly enthused about every single part of this fill even though I keep hurling THOUSANDS OF WORDS A DAY at you and I can't tell you how glad it makes me. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD <-- my face looks like THIS. ALL THE TIME. You deserve a fanclub of your own for all your excellent prompts and for all the comments you leave, and I am so, so thrilled to share a fandom with you. ♥ ♥ ♥

HDU! Bruce being good with children is the chink in my armor *wobbly lip* I LOVE LOVE LOVE seeing the marshmallow heart beneath Bruce's angst and doom exterior and you have just provided beautifully eeeeeeeee :D

I think he still sometimes misses the mark

:D Haha, it's true - but he's trying! Oh, Clark.

You're killing me, Smalls!

:DDDDDDDDDD

it seems to me that sheer volume of repressed feelings and emotions and that sexual resolution might make for a volatile combination

Yeah, it's ... definitely going to get complicated. I hope you find that it does the buildup justice, anon - I'm so grateful for your comments and so glad you're still enjoying this. ♥

Ohhhhhh, nonniiiiiiie :DDDD This keeps getting better and better.

It takes Bruce a second, then he gives a long-suffering shake of his head, lets his hands fall away.

"You're ridiculous," he says

Clark being an adorably ridiculous dork and teasing Bruce, oh my, AND HOW CONVENIENT THAT IT GETS BRUCE TO PUT HIS HANDS ON HIM, HMM?

Don't emoticon at me.
Ahahahaha <3

"No," Bruce says, "you just--"
JUST WHAT?!?! :DDD Does it have anything to do with how much Clark's been on your mind, the way you wanked off in your bed thinking of him?! (Maybe seeing him through the window y/y?)

And oh, unf, Clark noticing Bruce's cologne and stopping himself from imagining Bruce pleasuring himself because that way lies madness from hotness overdose :D

Also yay for more Martha and Martha asking about Bruce and telling Clark to bring him around <3

The coffee proposal is so uncharacteristic, I can't wait to see how it goes!

Clark's having feelings?! I'M HAVING FEELINGS. /o\ Oh my god, I just want to inscribe every single word of this on the backs of my eyelids so I can reread it all night while I'm sleeping. ANON. BRUCE AND CHILDREN AND CLARK SEEING IT AND HAVING FEELINGS. *FLAILS HELPLESSLY* I

JUST

CAN'T

YAY A NEW PART. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

I love all the description in the opening, anon, it's just lovely, and then the dialogue, lol, and Clark's parting line is so great. And then Martha! \o/ And oh, Clark's delicious spasm of jealousy. *wallows* Every single line of the texting is GOLD, and then just as I am happily chuckling to myself, you throw not-a-date and Clark's tearing shirt and Bruce's odd ill temper and coffee at me??? ~~WHERE IS THE NEXT PART I NEED IT~~

Yes, that's right, it's finally time for banging! \o/ (And then being idiots about it, and don't say I didn't warn you.) As seems to be my standard, this is like 10% actual porn and 90% everybody feeling things about the porn that they aren't saying, and it is SOOOOOOOOOO SELF-INDULGENT, I actually am a little sorry. /o\ There's also what I would consider mild consent issues—I know this meme is CNTW, but here's a heads-up for that in case anyone needs it.

Bruce is on him before the car door's even closed properly. Clark spares half a thought for the driver—her name's Lillian, he's pretty sure, which he only just got out of her last week, and he's going to have so much trouble looking her in the eye next time (if there is a next time; if he ever sees her again, if Bruce ever lets Clark anywhere near him after this)—

And then it's all driven flat out of his head by Bruce. For a second it's like Bruce can't decide what to do first. Which is ridiculous, Batman doesn't do anything without a plan; but Bruce starts shoving at Clark's suit jacket with one hand, pushing it half off his shoulders without even undoing the button first, and catches Clark's face with the other, tilts him up and into a deep breathless kiss. It's harder to keep up than Clark expects it to be—he finds his own hands wandering back again and again to Bruce's face, his throat, the line of his shoulders, instead of staying on task. By the time they've pulled up outside the lake house, Clark's jacket is shoved under a seat somewhere and his shirt's unbuttoned, untucked; he has to hold it closed himself when they get out. He's only managed to wrinkle Bruce's suit, to ruck up his collar.

Well, and apparently suck a startlingly dark bruise into existence just under Bruce's jaw, though he can't quite remember when it happened. But that doesn't really count.

Lillian restrains herself to a tiny smirk while she holds the door open for them, which widens into a grin when Clark ducks his head and says, "Uh, sorry—sorry about that—" Thankfully, the house itself is dark, silent; Alfred must have already retired for the night.

Beyond that, Clark doesn't have eyes for it—not for any of it, not for the house, not for the path they stumble through it, and barely even for Bruce's bed beyond the first quick impression: wide frame, dark bedcovers—how Bruce will look against them—

"Hang on," Bruce says, catching Clark's waist before Clark can pass him. "Here, let's get this off—"

"You first," Clark tells him, and Bruce looks at him with sudden hot intensity before glancing down at himself and chuckling.

"Fair's fair," he concedes. Clark only has to shrug his shirt off—Bruce has to undo his cufflinks, unbutton his suit jacket, ease it off those Batman shoulders. (Clark has the fleeting thought that he'd honestly be almost as happy to watch Bruce get dressed as get undressed. Sweet Jesus.)

"Bruce," Clark murmurs, reaching for him; but Bruce catches Clark's hand with his own instead of letting Clark touch him, moves Clark's arm out to the side.

"Oh, look at you," he says, low, appreciative—and the way his gaze flicks over Clark is appreciative, too, even with nothing but moonlight to see by. (He does maybe linger, Clark thinks, on—on where there was a hole, once. But there's only unmarked skin there now, a whorl of dark hair, and after a moment Bruce moves on.)

And if it feels a little distant, well, he tugs Clark in right after. The way he drags his tongue along Clark's lip isn't enough to distract from the sensation of him—God—yanking purposefully at Clark's belt, the heel of his hand brushing the head of Clark's cock through cloth once, twice—

Clark makes a helpless noise and clutches at him, and Bruce laughs into Clark's mouth and holds him there, keeps kissing him, while he does the same for himself and skims his own slacks down onehanded. What little he's got on underneath is black and form-fitted in a way that makes Clark's mouth go dry; but he hardly gets a chance to look, to even see.

"Bruce," he says again, breaking away, leaning back a little so Bruce can't immediately pull him back in—Bruce is hard, hard and naked and right in front of him, and even having the light off couldn't stop him from looking, if Bruce would just give him a second—

He'd settle for touching, even; but he only manages one brush of his hand against slick hot skin before—"Hold on, hold on," Bruce says, fingers briefly tight around Clark's wrist. "Now who's being unfair?" Which, yeah, okay, Clark's underwear hasn't gone anywhere.

"Right, sorry," he says, laughing. He actually gasps a little when he pulls the waistband away from his skin—which is embarrassing, but he's been hard a lot longer than Bruce has, and the fabric's gone damp, is sticking to him. It's a relief to get it off.

"There we go," Bruce says approvingly, and kisses him again, deep for the briefest moment before lightening back into a tease. And then he grins and pushes on Clark's shoulder to turn him around, to guide him down onto the bed on his front.

Which isn't a bad way to do this as far as Clark knows—there isn't a bad way to do this, not that Clark's aware of, as long as everybody's on the same page. But Clark's on a page where he'd rather take a minute to touch Bruce, where he wants to look at him all over. "Bruce—"

"Don't go anywhere," Bruce adds, moving away. It's only for a moment—he's just reaching over to get what's probably a ludicrously expensive tube out of the bedside drawer.

"Wait a second—just let me," Clark says, starting to turn over, but he doesn't get far before Bruce stops him.

"No need," Bruce says, and it's—it's weird somehow, Clark thinks, something off in a way Clark can't quite pinpoint. "You're perfect like this."

"Bruce," Clark tries, shifting his hips again.

"Don't get greedy, Clark," Bruce says, still all strange—his tone is warm, almost amused. But that doesn't fit at all with the unyielding tension of the hand he's pressed against Clark's back, with way his heartbeat's thundering in Clark's ears. "I think you'll like this just fine—and we can try it any way you want later."

He says it low and easy, a little wicked, and it's—it's awful. Clark feels a sudden chill, something bitter and raw and unpleasant clawing up through him. It's wrong, it's all wrong, it's—it's Bruce Wayne, last name included, but Clark can't figure out how to say he wants just-Bruce instead, and his throat closes up, aching with the lack of words. And Bruce—Bruce knows who Clark is, he knows who's pinned underneath him. Which means that hard hand on Clark's back isn't a demand; it can't be. He has no hope of actually holding Clark down, if Clark chooses not to go along.

So what Bruce is really doing is asking. And if he's asking, if this is the way he wants it to be—surely Clark can bear it.

It'll probably be all right anyway. Bruce is good at this kind of thing—and so is Bruce Wayne, no doubt. And if Clark hates it, then that's for the best. He won't have to talk himself out of doing it again. Besides, it's—

It's the closest Clark's going to get to what he actually wants.

So he swallows and closes his eyes and stays how Bruce has put him: face-down, turned away. Bruce isn't all that careful, getting Clark ready, but then again there's no reason he should be. He can't actually hurt Clark, after all. And it's not right to call it impersonal—how can it be when they're naked together, when so much of their bare skin is touching? Clark's just overstating things. He's tense, a little nervous, starting to exaggerate everything in his own head because of it. It's fine.

(It's just that it feels almost—mechanical, maybe, how Bruce systematically works his way in, the perfect stutterless drive of his hips. Like Bruce isn't enjoying it either. Which is ridiculous, obviously. If Bruce weren't still hard they wouldn't have gotten this far anyway, and Bruce is the one who decided—)

Bruce slows a little, right then. Clark takes the opportunity to push himself up further on his elbows; to suck in a breath, hoping it will ease the low sick feeling in his gut, and Bruce—Bruce maybe hears it? His hand softens a little against Clark's back, at least, and then he moves it suddenly up Clark's spine, the quick sweeping heat of it enough to give Clark a rush of goosebumps. He can't help gasping a little at the sensation, and Bruce slows down even more, smooths his fingers over the arc of Clark's shoulderblade and—

—and stops moving. Stops entirely: he goes perfectly still over Clark, even his breath held, nothing but that drumming heartbeat.

"Bruce—?"

"Clark," Bruce says, sharp, cracking.

Clark goes still himself for a moment, uncertain, and then he shifts a little and Bruce is—Bruce is gone just like that, pulling out completely. Clark hesitates for a second in indecision, but he—he has to turn over; how can he figure out what's gone wrong otherwise? And something's definitely changed, because Bruce is helping him now instead of stopping him, clutching at his hip, his arm, looking down at him with an expression Clark doesn't understand.

"I—I'm sorry," Bruce says.

Bruce's voice is so changed, the words so clipped and clumsy, and it's so far from what Clark was expecting to hear that he almost can't understand it. He stares at Bruce uncomprehendingly for a second too long, and Bruce shakes his head in one quick jerk and starts moving away, off the bed—

"No, wait," Clark says quickly, "wait, Bruce—"

"—sorry, I'm—I—I'm so—"

"No, no, it's—it's okay," because it is. Because no matter what part of all this Bruce is trying to apologize for, neither one of them is injured and they're both still here, and anything else can be fixed. Clark reaches out, blurring even to his own eyes, and Bruce can't evade that—Clark catches him by one wrist, the other forearm, and hangs on, and Bruce stops trying to move away. "It's okay, you don't have to—it's okay."

"Clark," Bruce says again, and it comes out weird but not the same kind of weird as before—breathless this time, scraped out.

"It's okay," Clark tells him, more quietly, and this time Bruce listens to him.

He must: that's the only reason he'd yield like he does under Clark's hands. He's looking at Clark, eyes wide and dark and searching—they're face-to-face, now, and that's all Clark wanted anyway.

"It's okay, Bruce, come on," Clark murmurs, barely hearing himself, carefully easing Bruce closer; and Bruce sways in toward Clark like he's falling and kisses him.

In the end, Bruce didn't lie. They do try it the way Clark wants. Bruce hooks his arm around Clark's neck and Clark reaches up and settles his hands against Bruce's back, and they trade long, slow, aching kisses like they're never going to stop, like they have all the time in the world. They kiss for so long Clark's lips start to feel a little tingly, and Bruce's must be sore as anything—his whole mouth's gone red in a way that fills Clark with something hungry, greedy, when he manages to pull away from Bruce long enough to see.

And they've—they've been rolling their hips together, cocks sliding against each other in a slow simmering drag, heat without urgency; but when Clark hauls Bruce back down this time, he does it a little harder. He tugs Bruce in close, slides his tongue eagerly into Bruce's mouth as deep as he can get it—and Bruce jerks against him, makes a soft low sound, and that's what finally makes Clark rock upward in return with purpose.

It's so good it feels like they should be throwing sparks by it, like the room should be lighting up around them. Clark doesn't need to breathe but finds himself breaking away to gasp anyway, clutching at Bruce's shoulders harder than he should, driving helplessly up, closer, closer—

And then suddenly Bruce is shuddering, uncontrolled—clinging with sudden intensity, panting openmouthed against the side of Clark's throat, a dark desperate noise muffled into Clark's skin, and that's all Clark can stand. He comes in a rush of heat and red light, holding on, curving into Bruce in a helpless cresting wave.

Even once the aftershocks have faded, Bruce only relaxes against him. His face is turned into Clark's shoulder, he's breathing hard, but he doesn't move away. And Clark—

Clark slides a hand into his hair, wraps the other around his wrist, and doesn't let go.

It isn't enough. In the morning, Bruce is gone.

It isn't enough. In the morning, Bruce is gone.

AHHHHHHH *CLUTCHES MELODRAMATICALLY AT HEART*

Where to start, fuck. Porn with feels is my favorite thing, so this was <333333333333

The bad!sex was so painfully IC it made my heart ache, I loved Clark submitting to it even though he doesn't really want to because that way is best, right?

And then Bruce who just can't BEAR to do this to Clark, ohhhhhh *cries a bit*

SUCH PRECIOUS IDIOTS, I LOVE THEM SO. AND I LOVE YOU A LOT, TOO <3333333

I love it when the UST gets resolved but it actually solves NOTHING and the unresolved emotional tension is just as high as ever and hnghhhhh *falls down messily on the floor*

Hahaha, like I could ever complain because of too much identity porn! (NEVER!)

Bruce is just going to have to keep making bad choices.
Story. Of. His. Life. Oh, Bruce indeed. Poor Clark having to deal with all this fucked-upness :D

Bruce has to be 100% okay with this turn of events, it was his idea and it doesn't mean anything to him anyway.
Ahahaha, I am legit cackling (and crying a bit, because I just read the next part), Bruce is SUCH a mess, good thing Clark is Clark and will tell good care of him in such loving, tender and adoring way that Bruce will get to be 0.5% less of a mess :DDDD GAH, I LOVE HIM SO.

:D Well, I'm grateful for your generosity, anon! ♥

Poor Clark having to deal with all this fucked-upness :D

So true. /o\ Bruce is lucky Clark is so dreadfully in love with him, and also possibly is equipped with superpatience. :D

I am legit cackling (and crying a bit, because I just read the next part), Bruce is SUCH a mess

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD OH GOD, see, this is what I meant by self-indulgent, I am SUCH A SUCKER for people who are messes and help each other be slightly less of a mess, and I'm dumping that ALL OVER THIS PROMPT. /o\ HELP

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Page 28 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

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

Re: Bruce/Clark - h/c, bathing kink

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

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

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

Re: Bruce/Clark - h/c, bathing kink

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

[Fill, 3/6] Bruce/Clark, competence kink

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

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

Bruce/Clark, needle play

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

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

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (7/?)

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 (16/19ish)

Re: [Fill, 3/6] Bruce/Clark, competence kink

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

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (7/?)

Re: [Fill, 3/6] Bruce/Clark, competence kink

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (7/?)

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (17/19)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (17/19)

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 (16/19ish)