dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

Well, Matches hadda go see some guys about a thing. The fact that he gets to both leer at Clark and also put a bit of distance between them after their pretty emotionally-charged day is just incidental, right? Right. ;)

100% done Alfred is the best Alfred. <3

Nobody ever expects Matches Malone >:D

I know there's an identity porn prompt involving him around here somewhere, it's definitely on my list once I get this runaway train back on track. He is delightfully terrible fun. <3

Ahaha THANK YOU. I swear this fic has the worst whiplash going on, I'm dreading the edit. But until then I'm just gonna merrily smash out whatever runs through my tiny iddy brain <3<3

Man, I really need to find some time to watch Gotham--little Bruce and badass Alfred sound like a delight.

You might be disappointed to know that these idiot boys have finally sorted themselves out without requiring further aid of a sleazy alter-ego. But maybe in another fic, I did enjoy Matches kind of a lot :D

And now, 18k words later, we are almost at the porn. PHEW

"I know the how and the where," Bruce says, "I just don't know the when." He turns a baseball bat in wide circles with a flex of his wrist. Clark watches the supple glide of muscle in his shoulder as he brings it up ready, the shift of tendons in his forearms as he adjusts his grip. "Most guys will come at you like this--" he swings the bat in slow-motion, an arc at chest-height, "--or this." A jab, stomach. "Occasionally, this." Back of the knees.

"So we're on a time limit now," Clark says, anticipating the next swing. He turns to catch the bat under his arm, attempts to twist it out of Bruce's grip by pushing his elbow up. Bruce clings to it stubbornly.

"You need to step inside the swing. Grab my arms, not the bat, or you'll end up with bruised ribs at best." Bruce pulls himself free, hands the bat to Clark. "And what's this 'we' business."

"I still want to help." Clark swings so Bruce can demonstrate again. He traps Clark's arms with his own, torques Clark's hold until he's forced to let go. He catches the bat, flips it into his grip.

"A few weeks of training and you think you can take on the world. No. I've got everything under control."

Of course he does. He is never anything but in control.

(Clark wonders how he could make him lose it.)

Bruce starts another slow swing, one-handed this time. Clark sets his jaw, ignores everything Bruce just showed him and wills himself to move. The air splits around him, relinquishes its drag and Clark has a moment to appreciate Bruce's eyes widening a fraction when he grabs his wrist. He should use Bruce's own momentum to somersault him over onto the mat. Instead he flicks the baseball bat away, trips Bruce backwards over his leg and catches him by the front of his t-shirt.

"Actually," Clark says, "grabbing the Bat works."

"Clark." Bruce's voice is flat with admonition. He braces one hand in the crook of Clark's arm.

Clark hears the rushing of his blood, a faint uptick in his heart rate before his powers begin to ebb again, then his muscles are suddenly straining under Bruce's weight, shaking with the effort of keeping him dipped. "Damn," Clark says, and Bruce's mouth quirks.

Bruce throws himself to the side, pushing off against Clark's body as well as the floor and--Clark finds he doesn't stagger back from the force of it, another swell of power anchoring him firm to the mat. The sensory feedback rushes in on him as Bruce twists away: threads pulling around his fist, the shearing of fabric; Bruce's sharp intake of breath as the material pulls taut and the seams press into his skin; the sound of the shirt ripping. Tiny droplets of moisture spatter Clark's skin; perspiration sent arcing from Bruce's body as he moves.

Bruce tumbles across the mat, a roll into a handspring into a one-handed cartwheel. "Okay," he says, as he straightens up. He strips off the remains of his t-shirt, fingers the tear thoughtfully. His skin is bright in the low light of the cave, his eyes dark. "Estimate your strength and speed right now."

Heightened, compared to the average human, but still a far cry from what he's used to. "About… thirty percent of normal, maybe?"

"Consistent?"

"Intermittent. I need to focus."

"Flight?"

"Haven't tried. Still feels risky."

"Hmm." Bruce is thinking something over, evident in a small frown, the way he's turned his eyes to the side. He's being assessed, Clark thinks. Bruce is determining if he can beat him.

Clark grins, wide and reckless. "Gloves off," he says to Bruce. "If I win, you take me along on the bank bust."

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "And if you lose?"

Clark shrugs at him, lets his eyes drop briefly over Bruce's bare chest. He can pick out every filament of scar tissue, from the old, gnarled wound in his shoulder to the pale seam of a knife-slice at his hip. He meets his eyes again. "Your choice of forfeit."

"If," Bruce says. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "And only if you win, and you prove to my satisfaction that you won't get yourself injured or worse, I might consider it."

"That's good enough for me."

"Might."

Clark flashes him a bright smile, drops into a fighting stance, raises his chin in invitation.

Bruce whips around him like wind through grass, throws a couple of jabs and then knocks Clark off-balance when he steps past and grabs at the hem of his t-shirt. Clark has a moment to wonder what on earth he is doing, then he tugs it sharply, makes Clark half-turn with it and brace for a strike on the follow-up. It doesn't come--Bruce just bounces on his toes, feints to get Clark to back off, and then repeats the cycle again: jab, dart, yank.

After the fifth time, Clark pulls the damn thing off over his head, throws it into a corner.

Bruce's mouth twitches and his hands drop fractionally, the slightest flicker of distraction.

Clark seizes the opening, pushes to connect a right cross--and as he swings he can feel he's got it wrong: too swift, too much force behind it. It's enough to break bones. His heart jolts; he tries to pull back in the barest of a second he has left but it doesn't feel like it's going be enough.

His fist connects, and Clark feels the impact up his arm, the dull slap of flesh and the grind of bone and teeth under his knuckles. Bruce's head jerks to the side and his body twists; he goes to his knees on the mat.

"Jesus, Bruce," Clark gasps, kneels down. "God, I'm sorry, I--are you okay?"

Bruce grunts, pulls a face as he pushes at his teeth with his tongue. "Nothing broken," he says. There's blood on his lips. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Clark goes to touch his face. Bruce pushes his hand away. "Let me see," Clark says, insistent. His stomach keeps turning, mind stubbornly repeating the moment of impact whether he likes it or not. Bruce relents grudgingly, lets Clark cup his face in his palm.

His jaw is clenched tight and the inside of his cheek has a nasty gash, but he's telling the truth--no breaks or fractures or loose teeth. A low throb sets up in the front of Clark's skull as he blinks his x-ray vision away.

"You still punch like a grade schooler," Bruce says.

Clark is done checking him over, but he can't quite manage to take his hand away. Bruce's skin is warm. His stubble prickles Clark's palm. "You saw it coming."

"Before you did." Bruce gently takes his wrist, thumb against Clark's quick pulse, shifts him off. "Not soon enough to avoid it, but enough to roll with it."

He pats Clark's shoulder, picks himself up and gestures for Clark to do the same.

"What?" he says to Clark's doubtful expression. "You didn't think you'd won, did you?"

*

Clark wipes his damp hair from his forehead and considers throwing the match. Anticipating Bruce's next move as well as maintaining his heightened strength and speed is quickly taking its toll, and Bruce is clearly toying with him now--if he hasn't been all along--barely winded to Clark's heavy-limbed exhaustion.

He's let Clark throw and pin him over and over, only to twist free with ease every time, his sweat-slicked skin gliding against Clark's, all heat and friction and borderline indecency. Each time Clark has to bite the inside of his cheek and think about his least favorite farmyard chores.

One more attempt. If Clark can't keep him down this time, he'll throw in the towel--and then go have a very long, very cold shower. He waits for Bruce to come at him again, soaks one jab, manages to deflect another, considers whether he has the reserves to try this. If he is fast enough he might be able to--

Bruce's next salvo comes in unexpectedly low; he braces his shoulder against Clark's chest and swipes his feet out from under him, drops with him to the mat so he can't roll. Clark grunts, grabs at him, fingers slipping and leaving fading pale marks on his skin.

Bruce straddles his hips and leans over him to hold his wrists down. Clark arches under him, feet on the ground, pushing up against his solid weight, not trying to dislodge him because Clark is beat, wrung out, done. He just wants to feel Bruce against him, needs to scratch this insane itch.

And Bruce, he's--Clark can feel him alright, firm and hot through his sweats, way more than Clark bargained for. Bruce just stares ahead, drags in an open-mouthed breath while Clark presses against him, leaves him absolutely no way of hiding it.

Not that Clark is in a much better state now, pulse throbbing erratic and heavy while his heart tries to decide whether it wants to stop dead or hit double-time. He exhales shakily. "Are you getting off on this?" he says, not accusatory much as breathless with disbelief.

(And why is he so surprised? Bruce on his bed; a half-remembered touch to his face; Malone's hungry stare.

His hands are trembling. He can't even tell whether it's from exhaustion or anticipation or both.)

"Clark," Bruce says. Any reproval he might be attempting is lost in the roughness of his voice. "I'm not made of stone." He lets Clark pull a hand free, lets Clark take his chin and make him look at him. There's a bruise rising on his jaw, a tightness around his eyes and in the line of his mouth.

"I don't know," Clarks says, drawing him down closer, brushing noses. He grins wickedly, knows his face is red. "You feel kinda rock solid to me."

"Jesus Christ," Bruce says on a rush of breath, and whatever tension was holding him in check has snapped. He pushes a hand into Clark's hair, drags his head back with it, leaving bright pinpricks of sensation across his scalp that makes his mouth water. He breathes across Clark's throat. "Okay, you win. You win, Clark."

*

UNFFF

I would like to see a fill for this that really focuses on the aftermath of this.

Yes, but some people are indeed turned on by somewhat non-sexual tropes. Still a kink for them...
But, I get the mod and you: shorter prompts.not lie a commissioned fic.

Ayrt

I did say I understand that some kinks are non-sexual, and I'm totally ok with that. It's just that sometimes prompts don't even contain tropes, which is my pet peeve.

(Sorry for spamming the meme, I'm gonna bow out of this convo now)

Clark sneaks to the Batcave and sees the newly rebuilt Batmobile and decides to give Bruce a special surprise. He asks Alfred to distract Bruce with something upstairs in the main lake house. When Bruce comes down to the Batcave he is stunned to see Clark, stark naked and spread over the hood of the Batmobile waiting for him.

It's the best surprise Bruce's has gotten in a while.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH THIS IS SO PERFECT. :D

Sparring pooooooorn, shirtlessness and sweaty skin on skin and Clark accidentally hitting Bruce harder than he meant to and being so, so sorry while Bruce just shrugs it off.

And then them wrestling to the floor and not even being in denial about what's going on, it's beautiful.

"Clark," Bruce says. Any reproval he might be attempting is lost in the roughness of his voice. "I'm not made of stone."
Oh, Bruuuuuuuuuuce. Bruce. <3 Such a beautiful admission from him. And Clark's terrible pun, haha. I can't wait for the next part, give me all the porn please? :D

By nature, Kryptonians are very sexual creatures; sex for them is a major means of life, to create, to proclaim love, to pass the time; to a much more liberal view than any average Earthling would view it. Cut to the last living Kryptonian, raised as human on a planet not quite his own; he finds his body going through odd changes ever since he met Batman. Clark never met such a dominant for in his life before that fateful night, unknown to him, his body and very soul has accepted Bruce Wayne as their chosen mate. Clark, desperate to keep his feelings to himself, further solidifies his relationship to Lois by proposing. Cut to Bruce, who has found himself oddly drawn to Clark ever since he took the time to get to know him; with the pending engagement has decided it's time to take who he knows is his before it's too late, come hell or high water.

Bruce always buys the gossip rags so he can read about how unsavory they think he is. Part of him is repulsed but another part of him gets off on it.

One day at Bruce's place, Clark picks one up out of curiosity and is all, "Bruce, this is disgusting. They make you sound like a slut." Cue Bruce provoking Clark into an argument in the hope that he calls him more demeaning things.

Whether they're in a relationship or not is up to you, as is whether they fuck or Bruce just jerks himself to it later.

Ahhhhhh I never knew I wanted this so bad <3_<3

"Nobody ever expects Matches Malone"

This reminds me of a scene from Batman Incorporated where Matches says to a woman, "I'm like true love and nuclear war. There's no way you can prepare for Matches." Lmao, what a character.

I think the prompt you're talking about is mine, unless someone else also has a Matches prompt that I haven't seen (the more the merrier the matches-er?). Ooh anon, sooo looking forward to what else you've got up your sleeve. I adore how you write the fashion-challenged sleazeball reeking of Brut and vexing the hell out of poor Clark and annoying Alfred, who's just so done with him. Yes please!

Believe me, anon, I have treasured EVERY SINGLE WORD of that 18k and have been thrilled with all of them. AND THIS PART IS NO EXCEPTION. :D Love love love Bruce's lecturing, Clark being stubborn and sometimes ignoring him and making terrible terrible puns, and I'm just entranced by the almost slow-motion effect of the writing during Clark's intermittent powered moments, it's wonderful. And Clark accidentally hitting too hard, MY HEART, and of course Bruce brushes it off. AND THEN. ANON. THE LAST HALF-DOZEN PARAGRAPHS. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Bruce being forced to admit that Clark is affecting him is basically almost as hot to me as Bruce dragging Clark's head back by the hair, AND YOU GAVE ME BOTH. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

+10000

He'd seen her in grainy security footage, of course, and with much greater clarity from the cameras mounted in the Batwing, wielding a sword with her dark hair streaming, but Alfred's first personal introduction had been in the rather hurried circumstances of Wonder Woman flying into the entrance of the cave carrying Batman, on the heels of a particularly nasty encounter at a S.T.A.R Labs facility.

They touched down with a gentle bounce, a scrape of heavy boots on the cave floor.

That was when he saw the thing piercing Bruce's arm.

It had obviously started as a much larger device. The charred remnants of the silver casing left behind, two inches square, were attached to the inner bend of Bruce's left elbow, an unavoidable weak point in the armor. Wonder Woman was cradling the delicate, fluid-filled sac that hung from the back like an oversized green dewdrop.

"You know, being prepared for every eventuality doesn't mean more information wouldn't make preparing easier," Alfred said, and turned on his heel to collect more supplies and wash his hands. Bruce's brief alert to meet him in the cave with gear for computer wiring at the ready hadn't really expressed the scope of the situation, and the muffled static of his earpiece—wind noise from the flight, in retrospect—hadn't revealed any more. "Well, are you going to explain?"

Details were vague enough to be useless and specific enough to be worrisome. The robot functioned as a parasite: latch on, feed, transmit along the way. What precisely it fed on and what the nanites it injected were intended for were unknown. The objective was to keep as many of them intact and in the small reservoir as possible for future analysis and to prevent airborne exposure, if such a thing were possible.

Bruce sounded very calm and controlled. He and Wonder Woman moved in tandem to get him sat up on a workbench with his arm turned up in his lap, breathing so slowly he could've been sleeping; a great deal of pain then.

She'd left Bruce holding the nanite reservoir and was already pulling up a worklight and magnifier into place when Alfred returned and began to prod delicately at Bruce's uninvited guest.

From the looks of things the hypodermic assembly would have to be disconnected from the reservoir properly to avoid another release of the sickly green nanite solution, and then unwired from Bruce as well, not just excised. "Do I want to know what happened to the rest of this charming contraption?"

"Superman burned out the energy source," Wonder Woman said before Bruce could answer.

"After I told him not to," Bruce growled. "He destroyed the processor technology entirely."

"He halted the nanite injection," she said sharply.

"Be careful," Bruce said as Alfred began to snip away the tattered cloth. "I want what's left of it to study."

Drying blood flaked off of the torn sleeve as Alfred pulled at the fabric. "I have bigger concerns than whether the circuitry will survive."

"And it'll need containment. Something chemically and mechanically inert. Glass, probably."

Like Alfred hadn't even spoken, honestly. "I am trying to remove the head of a cybernetic tick from your flesh. You will take what you get."

"Cyborg and Superman are looking for intact robots now," Wonder Woman said.

"There you are," Alfred said, "you'll have plenty of insect friends to dissect later."

"Ticks are arachnids."

"Oh, the truly relevant factor here." Motion flickered in Alfred's peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Wonder Woman ducking her head, the corners of her mouth tucked in as though she was trying not to smile.

"I think Alfred can take it from here," Bruce said.

"Alfred would rather not, if you don't mind."

"I'm sure she's got better things—"

"I'm not asking her to tea," Alfred said, then addressed her directly. "As his are rather indisposed I would appreciate an extra pair of hands."

"Of course."

"Thank you." He nodded towards an autoclave bag. "If you could hand me that envelope, please."
___

There was no use trying to call Dick at night, so Alfred put it off until the following afternoon when Bruce was downstairs. He had long since allowed the polite fiction that Dick had vanished into the ether and not across the river when he left the manor, but only just, and so he made sure to call at least once a month and always when Bruce had been in a particularly public scrape.

The conversation was brief by necessity; Dick did not live a restive life. He gave Alfred a rapid fire rundown of how he'd fared over the background rustle of clothing, in his apartment for long enough to do laundry (one aspect of his presence Alfred did not miss). In return Alfred offered a more accurate picture of the explosion at the lab—it had been plastered across the news cycle as chemical storage gone awry and contained by the metahuman heroes—and of their bloodsucking robot quarry, should any appear in Bludhaven. He left Dick with the promises of a longer call later and to send along more of his favorite snacks, and the reassurance of Bruce's continued good health.

Alfred had his own minor doubts on the front, as Bruce had dragged himself out of bed with flu symptoms and a fever that seemed to be an inflammatory response to the nanites themselves and not a sign of real infection, biological or otherwise. They persisted over the days that followed, as Bruce insisted on maintaining his normal patrolling despite the lingering symptoms, and paid for it in his off hours with more sleep and less training.

As a result, Alfred hadn't given Wonder Woman much more thought until she had appeared a few days later—at the front door this time—in a burgundy pantsuit and professional chignon in the name of Diana Prince, just as Bruce was scowling his way to the doors. He'd been quite slow coming up the stairs from the cave if he'd seen her entering the drive. Not as recovered as he'd been claiming, although he had markedly improved.

"You didn't need to come here," Bruce said.

Diana dimpled aggressively. "Who said I'm here to see you?"

It might not have made such an impression on someone who didn't know the terror of Gotham City's criminal element was also occasionally a petulant child. Alfred had weathered Bruce Wayne's moods and selective manners since he was an actual child, and so enjoyed it more than he probably ought.

She turned around to look at Alfred, and nearly sparkled, full of genial warmth. "I enjoyed talking with you so much while he was bleeding on me I thought I might drop in for tea," she said. "If you don't mind, of course."

"Not at all. Any ally of his is an ally of mine."

"Especially when you're allied against me," Bruce said, not without some amusement.

"If you can explain how my serving tea to a beautiful woman is an attack on you I would be glad to hear it." Alfred turned on his heel to offer her his arm. "Ms. Prince, I would be delighted."

He escorted her past Bruce gestured her towards the table nearest to the end of the galley kitchen, and set about cleaning and readying a tray while the kettle began to steam away. Whatever her real purpose in coming, he wasn't going to not offer her tea.

Most of the family antiques were destroyed in the fire and the salvage packed away in storage, so the tea service Alfred was accustomed to using was plain white modern ceramic. It was a set for four, one of which saw use, and a creamer and sugar bowl that had only ever been filled with dust.

"I hope I'm not actually intruding," Diana said when he sat down with tea tray. "I know he will always say so, but I think he doesn't always tell the truth even to himself."

"Well, you would be hard-pressed to overstep with me. It's quite a nice change to know he has someone watching his back he'll actually listen to from time to time."

"Thank you." She accepted a cup and saucer and took a careful sip. It was a sturdy English Breakfast blend, basic enough when one didn't know their guest's preferences. He felt safe in saying Diana Prince was not the type to busy herself in order to calm her nerves and so assumed the large spoon of sugar and touch of milk she added were out of a genuine taste for it.

"I wanted to thank you for your help after the attack as well," she said as she swirled her spoon through her tea. "If it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have been hurt. The robot had targeted me when Batman intercepted it. I'm grateful that you were able to salvage my mistake."

"Don't be so quick to take more reponsibility than you're due," Alfred said. "I notice you say intercepted and not that you threw him into its path."

"He should not have."

"I'm sure he said the same thing about you bringing him here instead of him managing on his own."

She looked down with a rueful twist to her mouth. "He used fewer words."

The subject gracefully moved on to the robot itself and how Bruce had recovered. Ironically, she seemed much more discomfited by the nanites than he had been--as she said, she would much rather fight something she could see and reason with than programming. And still she was unhappy he'd taken a blow intended for her.

It was a common trait in them, these heroes. All of them were so eager to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders they struggled to see that sharing it was the only way it wouldn't crush one of them.

After she had finished her tea and gone, a tall, lean shadow appeared in the corner of the room.

"Have a good time?"

"She's quite charming."

"I'm beginning to think it's actually her most dangerous ability."

Alfred looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "Then be glad she's on your side." He passed into the kitchen with the tea tray and began clear it to wash up. "You know, I didn't call her an ally to needle you," he said two soapy teacups in. "You need more help than an old man in a mausoleum."

"Alfred."

"All right," Alfred amended. "Not just to needle you."

"Alfred." Bruce moved to fill the doorway to the kitchen, but notably made no attempt to argue. He sometimes forgot that despite his height his ability to loom had lost any effect some twenty-five years previously, when he grew six inches in a year and spent a summer tripping over his own feet.

Alfred, unperturbed, went on washing.

*claps hands delightly* Oh, anon, I am SO EXCITED for this fill, you have no idea! And this first part is just wonderful - I absolutely love Alfred's POV here, his calm evaluations of Bruce's Brucenesses and the quiet considerate logic he functions by. The side bit there about him keeping in touch with Dick when Bruce won't is perfect (and headcanon accepted wrt Dick's apparent TOTAL ABSENCE from movieverse so far). And then ALFRED AND DIANA HAVING TEA, anon, what an utter delight. :D Alfred's observations about the trinity, him and Diana ganging up on Bruce, his little exchange with Bruce at the end - look, there is just nothing here that isn't great. Thank you so much for this!

/not the OP or anything, just SO HERE FOR THIS :D

Hey there is a fill for this prompt.

It's called Stanch the Bleed by Gothraven89 on fanfiction.net

check it out!

I'm not the author but here's a link to the fill for your prompt as the other anon said

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12014020/1/Stanch-the-Bleed

SA

Forgot to adjust the header for anyone passing by

OP here, I am so excited this is getting filled! And I adore this already. I love Alfred's dry snark at Bruce and how it makes Diana love - I bet she's not used to anyone talking to Batman like that.

And then Diana dropping by to see Alfred because she enjoyed talking to him! Eeeeeeeeeeeh. <3 I also loved that little detail about Alfred staying in touch with Dick (I'm one of those people who's desperate for some estranged father-son stuff in the DCEU).

This is absolutely wonderful and I'm looking forward to however it'll continue. :D Thanks for writing this.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I can't help the puns, it's just in my Clark's nature. Gotta have something for Bruce's super-dryness to contrast with, right? :D

I am glad you like sweaty shirtlessness and are prepared for all the porn, nonnie, because *waves vaguely at next part*

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark (gang rape, hurt comfort)

Re: Overly long prompts

Re: Overly long prompts

clark/Bruce: Clark Surprises Bruce Using the Batmobile

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Puberty his Clark late, really late

Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

Re: Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (11/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark, jason Todd Healing powers

FILL: Alfred/Diana, friendship + getting together (1/?)

Re: FILL: Alfred/Diana, friendship + getting together (1/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark: Self-Harming Clark, Horrified, Guilty Bruce

Re: Bruce/Clark: Self-Harming Clark, Horrified, Guilty Bruce

Re: Bruce/Clark: Self-Harming Clark, Horrified, Guilty Bruce [Link to Fill]

Re: FILL: Alfred/Diana, friendship + getting together (1/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)