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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This was beautifully written and I loved it, loved Jae, loved Bruce's "You tried, son", his unerring instinct to protect, Clark's grief, that hug <3333

Can't wait for more, nonnie! <3333

OP here! I'm sorry for my late reply; I was out of town for a couple of weeks. I'm so delighted that you chose to fill my prompt, and so beautifully! Thank you!

Your writing is gorgeous, and I love all the classical references. Diana's voice is so poetic, and it's perfect for her. She's so perceptive, and so compassionate. Another thing that stands out to me is how lonely she and Bruce both are, and how they respect each other, even if they don't quite trust each other yet. They're wary, but there's also the beginnings of a connection there.

I love your characterization for both of them, and the hints of Bruce's feelings. I think it might be that it's slightly easier for him to express emotion as Batman than it is for him to do so as Bruce Wayne, what with the way he reached out to touch Superman's hair and then pulled back.

This is a lovely and intriguing start, and I'll be eager to see where it goes. Thank you again!

Quite interesting !

Yes!

I'd bet a woman who's lived as long as Diana has would have a lot of skill with a lot of things. How about her fisting Bruce anally, and blowing his mind in the process.

Bonus for emphasis on the trust and intimacy involved.

Bonus for her going into him elbow deep.

Oh, anon, everything about this is SO GREAT, I can't even begin to tell you! It's like BvS in miniature, except this time Bruce manages to discover compassion for Clark WITHOUT trying to kill him first (GOOD JOB, BRUCE). Bruce's frowny reaction to being saved is so very him, I love it, and that he realizes there's common ground to be found with Clark basically at Clark's worst moment is so him, too - that that's when he sees something he can understand. OH, BRUCE. And Clark, oh god, who so needed a hug right then, and you've given him one! Thank you so much for this, anon, it's just lovely. Very excited for more parts!

YES,this is great

Clark is wonderful at doing Lois up the ass, just the way she likes it.

This is really beautifully written, and I love Bruce trying to save as many people as he can. And this here is my favourite part:

The alien, Kal-El is sobbing like a man who has lost everything.

His grief makes him seem so impossibly young.

A crack appears in that mask Bruce pulls over his emotions. “You tried, son,” quieter than anyone should have been able to hear. But the alien looks at him, shocked.

Tagging for public spectacle, dirty talk, humiliation, Bruce Wayne's incredibly unhealthy compartmentalizing. Title is taken from a very delightful Marc Lavoine song about

SHAME OF THE HOUSE OF WAYNE: BRUCE BEARS ALL TO THE HALF-CARAT CROWD
June 18

We can't actually get over the latest news from Gotham's celebrity scene.

Just when we thought it was safe to prowl the Diamond District, Bruce Wayne landed himself in the worst kind of trouble on Thursday.

The 45-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune swung through the party scene in the DD--known to our long-time readers as the Half-Carat Quarter, the highest of the high end sex clubs--for a night of drunken debauchery [Check out the scandalous pics on our instagram @gothamttlr]. Following a dramatic confrontation with his once-upon-a-time ward Dick Grayson, rumor had it that Bruce was reforming his playboy ways.

But Wayne’s intentions are as short-lived as the playboy's attention span. We're talking minuscule. We reported Brucie's reform LAST WEEK, and this week he tastelessly throws himself over every warm moving body in the Seven Diamonds Club.

That kind of behavior might cut it for the plebes, but the ultra-riche have another idea of decorum. Ideas like 'asking for permission', not Brucie's 'don't touch the goods unless you pay for it' attitude. Brucie flashes his checkbook like it's actually an erotic part of his body (and we at GT wouldn’t actually disagree), but if you're at the DD, who needs the money? Eyes on the scene report that Bruce Wayne tried to buy a young man in the club's grope box (that's for people who get off on sexual objectification in public), only to be violently repulsed by the man's partner. Fists flew, and Bruce has the shiner to prove that a man of his size can still go down like a wet fish.

Bruce's manservant escorted Bruce from the Seven Diamonds club, draped in a long Burberry coat. The camera does NOT lie. Several hopefuls snapped pics, Bruce clearly naked and ashamed under the black wool cloak of non-invisibility.

Between the groping, the fist-fight, and the propositioning, where did Bruce Wayne find the time to lose his clothing??

But let’s take a minute to appreciate these Bruce Wayne semi-naked pics. How is it that we've gone twenty years without a Wayne scandal this juicy? The Old Prince of Gotham is back, and he's making us cry.

This kind of behavior is best suited for the people that can appreciate, Brucie baby. Why don't you come play with the rest of Gotham?

Is this Brucie's most disgraceful stunt yet? Hit us up with your letters, plebes, and let us know!!

XOXO
Gotham Tattle
---

For the amount of time that Bruce Wayne’s face (and other body parts) graced the cover of the gossip rags in Gotham newsstands by his own calculated performance of a dissolute wastrel, Bruce couldn’t stand the trashy celeb-watching industry. Salvaging the detritus of another person’s life seemed so degrading. Early in his career, he’d made a decision not to keep close tabs on his tabloid image. Instead, he gleaned the filtered version of Bruce Wayne’s notoriety from the rumors that bubbled up into the reputable papers. The Gotham Gazette. The Daily Star. The Gotham Free Press. Real newspapers.

So, he really couldn’t be blamed for not knowing. It had been twenty years since he’d even set eyes on a Bruce Wayne tabloid cover, let alone read one. And it had been the purest coincidence that he’d bought the issue, rather than just read the article on its trashy pink website.

He’d bought this particular issue of Gotham Tattle because it had become necessary to end the tabloid embargo.

Bruce had set up a textcrawler to scan any and all publications for reference to his stakeout-gone-hideously wrong to see if anyone had suspected why Bruce Wayne did the catwalk-of-shame, and just what six-figure suit Bruce had been wearing before his sudden naked exit from the Seven Diamonds Club. Tattle garnered the most hits.

The entire issue turned out to be a Prince of Gotham special edition. 32 of its 40 pages were devoted to Bruce Wayne gossip, historical retrospectives, and a truly awkward photo spread of the most popular candids that had been taken of him in the past twenty years. Bruce felt his color come up. He wanted to fling the rag across the room, shove it into the trash compactor. He should sticky-note it, a sweep for security leaks or speculation and leave it to Alfred.

Instead, he thumbed to the Seven Diamonds Club spread.

Somewhere in the middle of the article--if you could even call this journalism--his breath had shortened.

On ‘naked and ashamed,’ he could feel his thighs grow tacky. He lifted his hips slightly, and let his legs spread open just a fraction wider.

He licked his lips, and flicked to the centerfold. The tri-fold tumbled out into his waiting hand. An incredibly crisp black-and-white image that could have been a fashion photographer’s idea of a wet dream. Bruce’s hair was tousled from the quick-change behind the concierge, the shadow falling across his body in one massive black chevron, only exposing him above his pecs and below his calves.

The shadows covered his scars, but they might just as easily not have. How could the playboy have explained the jagged-tooth scar that ran across his stomach in the perfect shape of a crocodile’s mouth? Bruce Wayne had come so close to absolute exposure on the red carpet.

He was harder than he’d been in twenty years.

The sights and sounds from the evening hit him like a steel belt to his solar plexus. The flash of the papos cameras, the tight fit of Alfred’s wool coat across his shoulders, the weird mixture of effervescence and dread bubbling through his veins. At the time, Bruce had dealt with the situation with a detached curiosity that allowed him to walk to the door of the limousine that Alfred held open, but now that he was in his own private space he could allow the double-consciousness take over, of how he wanted to feel on the red carpet. He felt--he felt--

The glossy gossip rag slipped out of his hand, unheeded. Bruce closed his eyes with a groan and tipped his head back.

A faint whisper of air brushed across his throat like a lover’s caress. A door closed on the mezzanine. Bruce slowly dragged his eyes open, and picked up the magazine from where it fell at his workbench. The tremor in his hands was barely perceptible.

The cover of Gotham Tattle glinted in the light of the computer banks in the workshop. The soft gloss caressed the promise of dark secrets inside.

Bruce was achingly hard.

He wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing about it.

But what harm could there be in saving the magazine, transferring it to his bedroom, where it could wait for one of those long, bitter nights when the thought of touching himself out of desire instead of rough necessity was a luxury he could afford.

---

---

The first Gotham Tattle that Bruce had swiped from a newsstand had been mission-critical. The second one, follow-up. It was a lot harder to justify, even to himself, the full sampler-set of Gotham’s lurid celeb beat rags that Alfred delivered with an incredibly deadpan non-smirk the next week.

He didn’t even try to explain when he directed Alfred to set up a year’s subscription to The Metropolis-Gotham Gossip.

Since the Seven Diamonds club mishap, Bruce hadn’t done anything as outrageous as the Wayne of Shame™, and he refused to cross that line even for--even for this. But if he behaved more like the Gotham Prince in his second unabashed youth, only Alfred chastised him for compensating. Being too much his younger self, when he could in fact just fade gently into the background like a gentleman bachelor his age.

For everyone else, it was business as usual.

---

Patrol had gone wrong from his very first bust. A ring of human traffickers had been tipped off and fled the scene before the Bat showed up. One of the Bat’s informants had been gunned down in the street by a rival gang. Two muggers had escaped police custody minutes after he had dropped them off. He had spent half of the night chasing them down, only to handcuff them to the same streetlamp again. Salvatore Maroni hadn’t been denied bail, and had returned to the East Side to strike up a deal with the Greeks to move illegal arms out through the Gotham ports.

The wheel of justice turned, and ground everyone underneath it alike.

The moment his boots hit the bunker’s metal grating, he knew tonight was going to be the night that he unlocked that night from his memory. The Bat seethed with the fury of thwarted justice. Bruce felt bitterness seep into his heart like a poison. He knew it was perverse to associate failure with desire, but the very thought of his complete failure of separate Bruce Wayne from the Bat burned within him like shame. The memory of standing on the red carpet as both Bruce Wayne and the Bat for all of the public to see brought him to such a frantic hardness, he didn’t know if he could make it to his bedroom to relieve himself.

He wrenched himself free of the batsuit, but he was just too heartsick and horny to remove the undersuit. He leaned back against the Batmobile, just for a moment, and ran his hand up the side of his bulge. Shame bit into him. The Batmobile wasn’t for this. The Batman did not give in to his body; he dominated it. He was in control--except, not, apparently, right now, as his hand moved frantically over his clothed erection. The touch of the slippery material against the side of his cock ripped a long buck up into his own hand. A long, deep groan escaped his lips.

God. He could jack himself off right here. He would enjoy it.

That was one humiliation too far for his--his--first time indulging this kind of thing, so Bruce pulled his hand back.

As he mounted the steps to the lake house, Bruce felt a strange burning in his veins. This was actually going to happen, he was going to--

“Bruce.” The name pronounced with deliberate slowness, drawing out the syllable like a question.

Bruce was shocked into stillness at the edge of the shadow. In the living space, a single lamp spilled light over the floor; Clark Kent lounged on the edge of the couch, his face touched with the edges of that warmth. Clark was in a strange half-way state, dressed in his overlarge Daily Planet button-up and tie, but his glasses were folded and carefully discarded on one of the couch cushions--a studied casualness that belied Clark’s nervousness.

He wanted something.

No. Clark knew something.

“Clark,” he returned, barely more than a whisper.

Clark sat forward, his elbows resting against his knees. “Alfred said I should talk to you. He didn’t say about what.”

“Hard night,” Bruce grunted, as his cock responded to the interruption by throbbing its need. He ignored it as best he could. The frustration was harder to control, but he pushed it down to acceptable levels. “Men who should be punished weren’t.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if--” Clark cut that thought off at the root.

“No,” Bruce said slowly. “I probably wouldn’t.”

Clark nodded once, to signal he understood the issue of whether the Bat required help to patrol Gotham was a closed one for tonight. It was an old argument. Clark--who wasn’t exactly his friend, wasn’t exactly his enemy, but sat on his couch on nights when Bruce pushed himself too hard, like he had a right to do it--respected his boundaries.

Tonight that respect earned an extra twisting dart in his stomach, so close to arousal that Bruce grew suspicious of himself.

“If that’s all, I’d like to--” Bruce mimed his head hitting the pillow, “before the sun comes up. Board Meeting at 10. I’m actually obligated to make an appearance at this one.”

He normally didn’t offer the man excuses; he just dismissed their conversation with a ‘Good night Clark.’ Clark was conscientious of the fragile nature of their friendship. He never pushed. Clark dipped his chin, and wetted his lips so fast it’s nearly imperceptible. Bruce assumed it was a prelude to speech, but the silence stretched out between them.

The sound of blood buzzed in the quiet of the room. The sound suppressors that Bruce had installed in the unit probably dampened his biorhythms, even at a distance, but he couldn’t be sure if they were completely effective--he never ginned up the courage to test them with Clark. The thought that Clark, who would never willingly violate his privacy, at this very moment could see Bruce in the depth of the shadow, hear his heart hammering in his chest, his pupils blown wide by lust. That he could rake his eyes across the Bat absolutely mastered by desire--the humiliation of that exposure before Clark’s calm, alien mastery of his own kryptonian body.

(Bruce had never so much as seen him with an accidental erection.)

The room took on a slightly glassy sheen as a double-awareness settled on Bruce. How exposed he was in the undersuit; the black Lycra clinging as tightly as any Superman suit, leaving nothing to the imagination.

He felt his muscles tense instinctively, as though he were gearing up for a fight. Bruce’s whole body lit up in an endorphin rush, as his senses tuned themselves to the man in front of him. He registered the rise and fall of Clark’s chest, the white column of his throat, the tensing of the muscles of his jaw.

There were a number of moves he could make now that could bring the situation to a resolution that would satisfy himself, all he had to do was step forward into the light--bare himself to the kryptonian’s complete scrutiny without any idea of how Clark would react to seeing Bruce so uncontrolled…

And suddenly, Bruce was harder than he’d been in his life, his cock straining at the meager confines of the undersuit. He felt absolutely sodden with lust. It was cowardice to linger in the shadows, but stepping into the light felt too much like willingness.

Clark sank back into the lake house’s couch with a faintly puzzled look on his face.

“The shadows don’t hide you from me, Bruce--” but it’s a feign. Clark had not actually stripped his privacy away. Bruce would know, because Clark blushed as easily as a schoolboy--

“You’re a terrible liar, Clark. Alfred told you about the tabloids.”

Guilty, Clark held up one of the rags. The title was unreadable at this distance, and the picture of him--eyes heavy-lidded, a curling smirk on his face, one arm draped over a blond and a brunet man--generic enough that he can’t even guess which rag it is.

“What’s the headline on that one again,” Bruce said lightly. “I can’t remember if it was publicist-approved or not.”

“Sex Games: The End of the House of Wayne,” Clark read, and his color rose. See? Schoolboy. “Actually, Alfred asked me to do something about this. His suggestion wasn’t exactly ethical. It involved massive property damage to a certain publishing house. I was tempted to say yes, Bruce.”

“You, boyscout?”

“This is disgusting.” Clark waved the paper to punctuate his sentence. “Bruce, they make you sound like a slut.”

Bruce had never thought of slut as a particularly degrading word. Blame his upbringing, but being broad-minded about promiscuity meant that shaming Bruce Wayne took a stronger constitution than most gossip rags had in them. But the combination of affronted horror and anger in Clark’s voice, like being a slut was something shameful to call another human being--it punched right through Bruce’s tissue-paper thin defenses.

If Bruce thought he was hard before, his knees shook with the force of the blood draining into the lower half of his body.

He bowed his head against the dart of lust; the desire to touch himself clawed at his chest, and bit back a moan of pleasure. Desire and resisting temptation had become so tangled up in Bruce’s mind, that touching--and resisting the desire inflamed him further. Bruce threaded his fingers through his hair in frustration. Mainly to keep them from shoving them down his pants.

That board meeting at 10 am was suddenly the furthest thing from Bruce’s mind.

He needed to hear that word again in Clark’s mouth more than he needed to touch himself.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he said, with a catch in his voice as he schooled his desire into an impassive tone. “Look hard enough at Bruce Wayne the playboy, nobody’s looking at all of the details that don’t fit.” Bruce tried to make his laugh sound natural, and not half-strangled with lust. “And that’s becoming difficult. I didn’t care enough, after Bane. I let it all slip. I almost exposed my--the Bat--a month ago.”

“I saw the pictures,” Clark said flatly.

--Bruce burned to ask impossible questions--

Clark held up a hand to forestall Bruce from interrupting him. As if Bruce in any way shape or form wanted to stop Clark from speaking. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I know what you’re doing, when you’re doing that.”

Bruce could read the absolute discomfort in Clark’s body language now, there was no way to mistake it. His body responded to Clark’s with a fresh wave of humiliation that rolled down his spine as sweet as any pleasure.

“What, in your estimation, am I doing?” Bruce was barely in control now. His voice was breathless to his own ears.

“I think you’re--well, it’s clear that you’re doing a good job of keeping the cover. The gossip rags imply you’re wanton. This one’s borderline pornographic about what you were doing in Boîte du Lak,” Clark paused, and continued in a smaller voice. “I can’t believe they would say that about you.”

The words threatened to tear a long-drawn groan from his throat.

“Kent,” Bruce said sharply, bringing Clark’s eyes to him. “Do you think I have something to feel ashamed--” and it was a testament to his great willpower that his voice did not crack on ashamed-- “about? You haven’t even asked if those rags are true.”

“Are they?” Clark asked, his voice faint but resolved. Bruce kept his mouth shut with the force of his will. He would not deny it until he’d made Clark say it. And Clark was too wrapped up in his sense of injustice that he for once didn’t require further goading to do what Bruce wanted him to do.

“This one said you were in a grope booth. That you were willingly naked in public, on display, open for anyone to touch.”--Clark’s voice scraped the rawest place inside of Bruce, like touching the nerves in the pit of his stomach, and he can’t help himself, his back arching--

“Like they owned you.”--an impossible tightness against the base of his spine--

“Like you were anyone’s who had two hands and a hot body--”--his thighs tensed--

“And you wouldn’t even know who they were. You wouldn’t have known whose hands were even on your body, they could have been m---anyone’s, Bruce, anyone’s.”

Bruce moaned then, a strangled thing, that lived and died in the rattle of his throat. His entire body spasmed, and he jerked against the air, then slumped forward like a marionette whose cords have been cut. He clenched the muscles in his stomach as he felt the horror break on him. He just orgasmed in front of his friend, his future teammate.

The haze of desire burned down to give Bruce clarity for the first time since he’d jumped out of the Batmobile. A wave of shame broke across him. He had used the trust of his friend, made him complicit in a sexual situation without his knowledge or consent. And to add to the humiliation, Bruce was still painfully hard.

Thank god for small mercies; at least there would be no evidence of what just happened when he finally emerged from the shadows; Bruce had achieved a dry orgasm.

Clark coughed into his fist, and Bruce couldn’t tell whether the dampeners worked, or whether Clark struggled to allow him some portion of modesty in his absolute humiliating .

Bruce said slowly, “What if every word they printed is the God’s Honest truth?”

“You are not a whore,” Clark’s eyes blazed, but his voice was so gentle, and so quiet. It felt like a caress against his cheek.

“That story’s not true,” Bruce agreed at last, drawing on his last reserves of calm. He needed to get himself off the good ole fashioned way, put this insatiable lust back into its box, and never, ever, let it out to play again. “Bruce Wayne plays around, but he can’t be that flagrant.”

“But--?”

“I would. If I were--” anyone but who Bruce was, anyone who could be that open with their desire to be desired. “If I could, I would.”

Bruce stepped out of the shadow, then, because he had never felt as exposed as he did now, and walked across the living room floor, to his bedroom.

He stopped when his back was to Clark, on the other side of him, where he didn’t have to see Clark’s condemnation. It was one thing to fantasize it, but he wasn’t prepared to watch the respect die in Clark’s eyes while his emotions were rushing this close to the surface.

“Good night Clark.”

When the reply came, it felt like whispered silk right next to his ear.

“Good night Bruce.”

---

Clark had left, but to Bruce’s surprise, he hadn’t actually taken the tension away with him. An hour later, and Bruce’s emotions were tuned up to an impossibly high key. Every toss or turn in the bed brought the screaming friction of the cotton against his skin. His body screamed its need for release.

Bruce lay naked on his bed, turned on his side to face out across the lake.

He watched as the pre-dawn glow spread its rosy fingers across the sky. Another unwanted emotion overcame him – a despondency mixed with the sour kind of humiliation that had nothing to do with pleasure.

What was he doing?

He had worn the armor of the Bat in front of his his best friend and he had been aroused in front of him, and because of him. He had the most intense orgasm of his life because Clark had disapproved of the reputation he had painstakingly created for himself--even if that story hadn’t been true, so many similiar to that one was. Had been. Especially before he’d accumulated distinctive scars from Gotham’s most infamous criminals.

He had crossed so many lines tonight. Was he going to cross one more?

Bruce had no control over himself tonight. The pleasurable burn of submission teased in his body, one that promised satisfaction beyond pleasure if allowed himself to give in to desire, rather than be broken by it. Give in to the shame of having desires at all.

Exposed in an entirely different way now, Bruce gently lowered himself onto his back, let his legs fall open on the sheets. He slid his hand down to stroke his hip, fingers dancing away from where he wanted them to be.

It was one thing to be the Bat and Bruce Wayne where anyone could discover; it was another order of magnitude to be exposed to Clark as the unfamiliar, lustful creature wearing Bruce’s face and the Bat’s black garb. Bruce felt the twinge of disgust and delight, wrapped so tightly around each other that he couldn’t tell one from the other, and the small thrill as he brushed the back of his hand across his straining erection.

He allowed himself to pretend.

Did you touch yourself to those pictures, Clark? Did you see my moment of absolute shame in the living room, and get hard, Clark? Did you feel how humiliating it is for me to give in to my desire? Do you know how hard I am for you now?

Pleasure mounted in his body, and he bucked into his touch as his other hand slid down to cup himself. He kept the motion of his hand punishingly slow.

He wasn’t touching himself in the brutally efficient way he treated himself most nights, when he couldn’t deny the need of his body but couldn’t justify enjoyment, either. No. This was just for him, tonight. He delighted in the feeling of rough skin of his hands against his sensitive organ. The drag of his nails over his abdomen.

It felt good, but he needed more.

Bruce moaned as he picked up the pace. Burned, because he wanted more than this, that he wanted--Bruce fought against himself. He set a punishing motion: down, up, flick of the wrist, down, up...

In the long run, wanting would only lead to difficulties when he knew he’d have to put his emotions away again, sublimate himself in the Bat. And yet--hadn’t that weird in-between creature he’d been ached with the intensity of the Bat? Would it be possible that the Bat could want--could want--

Bruce could feel the way his body tensed for another dry orgasm that he would not find release unless he surrendered this last fight.

Bruce surrendered, giving voice to the shame that smoldered in his core. He started low, barely a whisper, to nothing but his sheets. “If I was the kind of man who--could be that Bruce Wayne from the tabloids--”

He stopped, and threw his head back against the pillow, fighting with himself even in this. Even when the words are for him alone. “I would have been in the grope box at Seven Diamonds.”

Bruce brought a hand up to his mouth and licked a stripe up his palm. He returned it to his cock, and groaned.

“I would have taken off all of my clothes, slipped the blindfold on, and waited on that dais for anyone to touch me.

“And I wouldn’t even have known who they were. I wouldn’t have known whose hands were on my body, they could have been anyone’s, Clark. They could have been yours.”

He choked the confession out of himself. "I want them to be yours."

His cheeks burned in remembrance of of Clark’s face as he recriminated the tabloid’s story--and Bruce by proxy. When he pictured the color high on Clark’s cheeks, as… something… dripped in his voice, and maybe--Clark hadn’t been so clueless at the end? His words had felt like a benediction, his breath against the skin of his neck, tender and controlled.

Good night, Bruce.

It was too much, and not enough; Bruce jackknifed off the bed and came in long spurts that bent his spine.

When he came back to himself, Bruce was aware that he was wetting his lips with his tongue over and over again as he stared out into the lightening sky.

Bruce laid back against the bed, skin now agonizingly over-sensitive to the merest touch, and his body completely spent. A hazy lassitude carried him away into sleep, with the dim realization that tomorrow was going to be a nasty come-down, and one hell of an apology.

As he drifted off, a single image affixed itself in his mind: Clark, half-turned in the sky, wearing a suit & tie, his glasses off, lips parted to say something. An image that Bruce dimly believes to have bubbled out of the depths of Bruce’s id. The god dressed as a man, descending. The only luxury that the Bat of Gotham couldn’t afford, but that he burned to have, anyway.

Bruce's eyes aren't open, so he can't see that it's less a forbidden tableau, and more of a promise of what's to come as Clark straightens his tie, raises his hand, and rests it against the sliding glass wall of Bruce's bedroom without waking him.

OP here, and I'd just like to say I am in PAROXYSMS OF DELIGHT over this. You have gone above and beyond, anon. This is way more than I could have hoped for. <3<3

The lascivious tabloid opening is amazing, as is Bruce buying a subscription to one of the rags, oh my god! :D BRUCE. All the disgust at himself for almost blowing his secret identity wide open and how that's gotten confused into lust; how his separate personas have all converged at this one point and he hates it but has deeply eroticized it... it's just DELICIOUS.

And then there's Clark, object of his desire, trying with the reality check but only saying exactly the right things to push him over the edge. AND THEN Bruce's monologue as he jerks off, oh my godddd AND THEN AND THEN CLARK. ANON. This has made my day thank you so much! <33333

Old Prince of Gotham is back, and he's making us cry
Damn right, mostly because those photo spreads don't really exist. ;D

I'm branching out: title's from a book this time! :D Also, it's my hope that by starting out with long parts from the beginning, I can prevent this thing from getting as rear-loaded as certain other fills. *crosses fingers* Because oh, look, thousands of extra words of setup. Who would have believed it. :D

"No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true."
—The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne

It isn't difficult to go on in the wake of Superman's death.

Sometimes Bruce feels like it should be. Considering his hand in it, that he'd let himself be so readily manipulated into doing Lex Luthor's dirty work, it should have taken him apart. It should have burned him down to the ground.

But instead—instead it remakes him. Bruce Wayne steps up to help with the reconstruction, Metropolis scarred all over again by the opening round of Superman's fight with Zod and Stryker's Island a burned-out husk; and Batman stands at Clark Kent's grave and rediscovers what it means to have purpose. He hadn't been willing to listen at the time, but Alfred had been right: he had felt helpless, helpless and hopeless—and when nothing he did mattered, when nothing he tried ever seemed to make a difference, the knowledge of Superman's single weakness had been like a gift. Killing Superman had been the one thing left, the one thing that maybe only Bruce could even do—

And then everything had changed. It hadn't been at Batman's hand, but Superman had died anyway, and Bruce had watched it happen and had understood. Superman had died and Bruce hadn't, and the second chance Clark had given him couldn't be wasted, couldn't. Clark had given them all a second chance. Bruce had had him pinned to the ground, had had a boot on his chest and a kryptonite edge pressed to his throat, and Clark had still asked him for help—had still, after everything he'd seen of Batman, believed that there was someone under that cowl who would save his mother.

(Bruce occasionally wonders how exactly Clark had thought that would go. He might have known about Martha Wayne, he'd been a reporter—he might have known the name would give Bruce pause. He might have known Bruce would want to save someone's mother from men with guns. But he hadn't—he hadn't said Stop or Wait, hadn't said Let me. Just Find him. Just Save Martha. Like he only wanted Bruce to agree, like Bruce's word was worth anything to him; like he thought Bruce would maybe nod, shove the spear the rest of the way through his neck, and then go zipping off to rescue Martha Kent.

Sometimes Bruce is grateful for it, this idea that Clark had in a certain sense trusted him, even at that moment. But sometimes he can't help seeing it another way. Sometimes it looks to him like it was more that Clark had counted on there being a line: like he'd assumed Bruce cared plenty about human life, and it was just that Clark didn't qualify.

Sometimes he wishes he could tell himself Clark had been wrong.)

And now Clark's gone.

But what he built before he went remains. Bruce and Diana are unquestionably stronger together than they would have been apart—Diana has raw power, the wisdom to wield it, but she doesn't know their twinned cities the way Bruce does. The last time she'd stepped in to try to sort out a human mess, it had been in the middle of a war; and that had been the kind with rules, fronts, uniforms, not the shadowy systematic rot of organized crime. There are ways for Bruce to help her. And being able to call on someone who can lift him with one hand isn't exactly a drawback for Batman.

Metropolis and Gotham are stronger, too, drawn together by the disaster zone between them. Deciding what to do about Stryker's, where to begin, is a joint effort; so is mourning Superman. He wasn't just Metropolis's hero, not really, and Bruce can't claim to be surprised that his highly-publicized death wipes the worst remains of Luthor's smear campaign away. Nobody likes speaking ill of the dead.

Which actually makes things much easier. Visiting Superman's memorial regularly is exactly the kind of overchoreographed play of performative thoughtfulness that people expect from Bruce Wayne. (Keeping it up for more than a few months is going to be an issue, potentially. But all Bruce needs to do is make a couple public missteps, start an ugly rumor, and then he can probably pass it off as a publicist's ongoing effort to rehabilitate his image.) He can make his usual trip to see his parents and then swing out to Metropolis, can stand over the engraved granite and look down at it for a few minutes before he adds his own handful of flowers to the pile.

And it is a pile. Almost six months now and the flowers are still coming, bright and boundless, spilling over the benches, the grass, the walkways. Bruce didn't know Clark well, not really, but he thinks Clark would have liked it. No statue, no gold leaf, nothing imposing or severe. Just half an acre of flowers, left again and again by people who want to remember him.

Bruce Wayne wouldn't kneel down. But Bruce can at least close his eyes, bow his head. He's found a sort of peace in this—nothing he deserves, but it's there anyway. Clark is gone. Bruce can't fix that, can't get him back, can't even ask for his forgiveness. But he can do better. He can reach out and he can try harder and he can do better.

That's probably all Clark ever wanted from him anyway.

He can't stand at Superman's memorial all afternoon. He gives himself another minute, breathes in the smell of ten thousand cut flowers; and then he steps away and heads back to the car. He'd already intended to go by one of the Metropolis offices today—that will take, mm, perhaps a couple of hours at the pace Bruce Wayne ought to work—

His phone buzzes. He almost starts to reach for the wrong pocket: but Bruce Wayne's personal phone has a loud annoying ringtone carefully chosen from the week's top forty. It's Bruce's own that's on silent.

He's expecting to see that it's Diana, but he still looks before he answers—thankfully, because it's not Diana.

It's Martha Kent.

He feels himself frown just a little. He gave her this number, of course, but no matter how many times he assures her that she could never be bothering him, she's almost always careful to stick to nights, weekends. Some part of him had silently expected her to—to do something with the fact that she knows Bruce Wayne so personally. But she never asks him for anything.

So it's a surprise when he accepts the call, lifts the phone to his ear, and hears her say, "Bruce—Bruce, I'm sorry, I wasn't sure—can you or, or Diana, could you—"

"Martha," Bruce says quickly, "Martha, slow down," because she sounds—awful, breathless, her voice scratched up somehow like maybe she's been crying. And sometimes she does when she's on the phone with him, but not like this.

"Sorry," she says again, "I'm sorry," and then she drags in a short hitching breath. "I—I don't know what to do, I don't know what—"

"Just tell me what's happened," and Bruce finds himself sliding toward one of his Batman voices—the calm, level one he deploys for victims, children, the people who need his help.

And he learned how to use that tone for a reason: it does make a difference. Martha inhales again, lets it out a little more steadily, and then she says the last thing Bruce was ever, ever expecting to hear: "Clark is standing on my porch."

Bruce stops moving.

It's not the smart reaction, but for one long whited-out moment he can't force himself past it. And some small corner of his brain is still ticking away, coolly assessing—it's all right. Bruce Wayne can get bad news sometimes in public, something surprising or stressful. It's for the best, even, if he's going to have to jet off to Kansas in ten minutes.

And he is. No matter what's happening—whether Martha Kent's been drugged, is ill, or is having some kind of breakdown, some grief-fueled hallucinatory event; whether whatever is out there on her porch looking like Clark Kent is a hologram, another Luthor-driven constructed Kryptonian body, something that's picked Clark Kent's corpse up like a glove and put it on, or—

or—

Whatever it is, Bruce reminds himself, she shouldn't drive it off and she shouldn't make it panic. She needs to go along with it, to seem like she isn't suspicious; and putting all the worst possibilities in her head will only make that harder for her. Bruce can't help her until he gets there. And if it is something evil, if it feels found out, it might just tear right through the wall and break her in half.

"All right," he says aloud, and Martha sucks in another shuddering breath on the other end of the line. "All right, is he—what is he doing?"

"Nothing," Martha whispers, "nothing, he's just—he's—god, Bruce, he's covered in dirt. He looks confused, it's like he's half-asleep—"

And then, faint, somewhere beyond her, Bruce hears someone say, "Mom?"

Drugging, illness, and hallucination can be eliminated, he tells himself, and ignores the stuttered leap of his heart: this is the beginning of about forty-five different horror movies in three or four languages. Just because it sounds bewildered, helpless—just because it sounds like Clark—

"Mother Mary," Martha murmurs.

She must move, she must be walking toward the door; the second soft, "Mom?" is louder.

"Clark—Clark, honey, it's okay," she says, mouth tilted away from the phone, and then, to Bruce, "Oh, god, tell me I can let him in. Tell me this isn't—"

So she's already thought of some of the worst things. If it intended to hurt you right away, it would just have broken down the door and done it, Bruce doesn't say. "It's all right, let him in," he tells her instead. "He's—I'm sure he's disoriented. Try to find a place inside the house with a lot of sunlight."

That's what she would do if it were really Clark. Not that she needs him to tell her that; except maybe she does, right now, because something that looks like her dead son is standing outside her screen door asking for help. "All right," she says, "all right. And you'll come?"

Bruce is ten steps away from the car. The Batplane's long since been repaired, and he has standing permission from Martha to set it down in the back field if he uses it to visit; plus driving time, and it won't be kind to underestimate—

"Forty-five minutes," he says, and doesn't wait for the driver, opens the car door himself. "I'll be there."

Ohhhhhhhhhh my god, anon. MY GOD. I'm both grateful and annoyed that you posted this all at once, because I did NOT have the willpower to stop after each part and comment on it separately, but there is SO MUCH HERE and WHAT ARE WORDS *flails*

I think what I love most about this is the sense you really build of Bruce cracking more and more - that he's got this ridiculous iron control that he's exercising all the time, except really it's more like he's clinging to it, and once it starts to give there's so little he can do about it. I MEAN HNG. *fans self* And then as if that weren't enough, all the glorious physical details and Clark being patient and pushy at the same time, and THAT ENDING, ugh, god, I'm dead. Thank you so much for this, it's just marvelous.

Eeeeeee, nonnie, you're back! And as usual I'm eating up with a spoon what you're writing :D

Ohhhh, Martha breaks my heart, that her first instinct is to call Bruce, to think of the worst D: And oh, Bruce, that he gave Martha his number, is surprised that she's not trying to get anything from him, that he goes to visit Superman's grave even knowing that he'll have to smear his reputation some to cover for his continuous presence.

I live for identity porn and I can't wait to find out what convoluted reasoning Bruce will use to hide his identity from Clark but at the same time I want to yell at him "NO, BRUCE, DON'T. GO CUDDLE WITH CLARK AND THEN TAKE HIM TO THE BATCAVE. WHY MUST YOU MAKE THINGS SO DIFFICULT FOR YOURSELF AND EVERYONE INVOLVED?!?" Okay, I know why and it's part of the reason why I love him so, but my point still stands! Be stupid, Bruce! But not too stupid! Suffer! But be happy also! *A*

HOLY SHIT THIS IS GREAT. I am so excited this prompt got filled and in such an amazing way. I want to see the sexy pictures of Bruce's night of drunken debauchery! ;D That entire gossip rag article is absolutely amazing, you should be proud of yourself.

Fists flew, and Bruce has the shiner to prove that a man of his size can still go down like a wet fish.
I love this. Of course Bruce Wayne goes down like a wet fish. And the whole general set-up for this is so good. I love how embarrassed Bruce is at first, how ashamed. How his near fuck-up turns him on. How he actually indulges himself in pursuing this whole thing.

The Wayne of Shame, I am crying. :DDDD And then this here, holy shit, it's so beautifully written and perfect and Bruce's whole identity issues:
The Bat seethed with the fury of thwarted justice. Bruce felt bitterness seep into his heart like a poison. He knew it was perverse to associate failure with desire, but the very thought of his complete failure of separate Bruce Wayne from the Bat burned within him like shame. The memory of standing on the red carpet as both Bruce Wayne and the Bat for all of the public to see brought him to such a frantic hardness, he didn’t know if he could make it to his bedroom to relieve himself.

AND THEN CLARK SHOWS UP AND THAT DESCRIPTION OF HIM IS SO AWESOME. And awww this here: Clark--who wasn’t exactly his friend, wasn’t exactly his enemy, but sat on his couch on nights when Bruce pushed himself too hard, like he had a right to do it--respected his boundaries. <333333333333

I also love that Alfred actually talked to Clark, and how outraged Clark is by all of this. And Bruce's humiliation kink is just so fucking hot.

He needed to hear that word again in Clark’s mouth more than he needed to touch himself.
Unffffffffffffff. And Clark basically talking dirty to him, just kill me, this is too hot. :DDDDD

He stopped when his back was to Clark, on the other side of him, where he didn’t have to see Clark’s condemnation. It was one thing to fantasize it, but he wasn’t prepared to watch the respect die in Clark’s eyes while his emotions were rushing this close to the surface.
And then you crush my heart like that! Because of course it's one thing to imagine Clark's disgust for the sake of porn, and another to imagine Clark actually losing respect for him. Oh no. Oh, Bruce. My heart is seriously breaking at how bad Bruce feels for wanting things, for not being in control.

He wasn’t touching himself in the brutally efficient way he treated himself most nights, when he couldn’t deny the need of his body but couldn’t justify enjoyment, either.
Stop making me cry! D': (Don't stop.) And aaaaaaaah, that ending! You are so making me want a sequel to this, anon, you have no idea. But this is utterly perfect as it is, it's super hot and super heartbreaking and just so, so good.

YOU ARE BACK, FAVOURITE NONNY OF MINE. :D BACK TO BRING US IDENTITY PORN AND HAPPINESS. I have been so excited about this ever since you mentioned you were writing it. Love the epigraph/title, by the way.

Your Bruce characterisation is so flawless. I'm in love. Everything about how Clark's death rebuilt him rather than destroyed him.

like he thought Bruce would maybe nod, shove the spear the rest of the way through his neck, and then go zipping off to rescue Martha Kent.
I had never thought about this before, but this is so accurate. And the bit afterwards about how Bruce might care about human life, but Clark didn't qualify, Clark didn't count.

Bruce didn't know Clark well, not really, but he thinks Clark would have liked it. No statue, no gold leaf, nothing imposing or severe. Just half an acre of flowers, left again and again by people who want to remember him.
Awwwwwwwwwwwww. And I just love that Martha calls Bruce, I love it. And how Bruce automatically comes up with various explanations of what might have happened, since Clark clearly can't truly be back. And god, poor confused Clark! Someone help him and hug him and take care of him!

(Also, I just realised Martha knows Batman is Bruce! But Clark doesn't! So she can't tell him! Eeeeeeeh.)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I can't wait for the next part, this already starts out so promising and wonderful! You are the best anon. <333333333

/OP

I've always said that Lex in this movie is a cross between one of *those* fanboys who always need to know which of their faves is the best in a fight, and one of *those* fangirls who comes up with this ridiculously complex plot to get their faves into hot and steamy rough sex.

I'm a big perv and would like a fic with Bruce in a bdsm situation or relationship where he's broken the rules of the relationship and his dom punishes him with a thorough, painful spanking over his or her lap. I'd like for it to be genuine punishment, not something for Bruce's pleasure. I wouldn't mind him getting emotional satisfaction from the structure and certainty of it, though, and maybe it's a way to restore trust in the relationship.

Bonus: he argues or protests, and that earns him a harsher or more humiliating punishment (like, idk, his anus being figged with peeled ginger root, having his temperature taken rectally with an old fashioned glass thermometer while his dom scolds him, his dom giving him a soapy enema, etc.)

Bonus: breaking down some of Bruce's emotional barriers.

Bonus: tender, loving aftercare.

My preferred dom would be Clark or Diana (they can use their strength to hold him in place!) but am flexible.

YES NONNY SIGN ME THE HELL UP FOR THIS. <3

I don't think I've ever quite seen a take as heart-breaking on the mechanics of Clark coming back to life. And now that you've shown it to us, I can't unsee it. Clark shows back up on his mother's doorstep...in a world where abominations can ravage downtown Metropolis, and men can run faster than the speed of sound: that's a world where horrors can slip in.

Do you want to see the exact moment my heart broke, and I wanted to shove all of my (shit we don't have kudos here--kinkmeme cookies??) at you?

Just because it sounds bewildered, helpless—just because it sounds like Clark—

*points at that* That. Right there.

This is part of what has always made me love the DC universe; it's so flexible, it stretches to fit any & all genres. Adventure? Romance? Comedy? Check, check, and check. I love authors that play around with how the DC slides between those genres, without ever fully becoming them. "This is the beginning of about forty-five different horror movies..." Because it totally is. It's only, well, Bruce and Clark and the Justice League that makes it not so.

FOR THE RECORD IT SHOULD BE STATED I'm the hugest, hugest fan of fics that feature Bruce & Martha's friendship and camaraderie. It's identity porn where Martha's in on the secret, and I LOVE IT.

PS: SHOUTOUT TO YOUR HAWTHORNE QUOTE, NONNY. Take all of the kinkmeme cookies and hearts. <3

Bruce, wearing one of his nice three piece suits, riding Clark who's in his Superman suit.

After Clark's death, Bruce kept his suit. And put it up in a glass case in the Batcave, just like Jason's. Both to remind himself of his failure and to remind himself of what Superman's sacrfice meant, of how it gave him hope again.

I'd love to see Clark's reaction when he eventually sees it after coming back to life. Bruce/Clark preferred, but a gen or UST version of this would be great, too. Bonus if Alfred is there, too, and his Opinions on Bruce's emotional masochism.

:D /o\ *waves* Aww, yay, anon, glad you're liking it so far! ♥

Haha, oh, don't give me too much credit - we all know I love Martha&Bruce a lot, I absolutely leapt at the chance to start this off with them. As always, I am being very self-indulgent, and as always you all are kindly not calling me on it. :D

I know why and it's part of the reason why I love him so, but my point still stands! Be stupid, Bruce! But not too stupid! Suffer! But be happy also!

I couldn't have said it better myself. :D Outlining this was one big exercise in OH MY GOD, BRUCE, THAT IS A BAD IDEA. BRUCE YOU ARE ONLY MAKING YOURSELF UNHAPPY. BRUCE NO. ~~BRUCE YESSSSSSS~~ I only hope you continue to enjoy it, anon!

OH LOOK IT'S FAVORITE OP! :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD I am so thrilled to be writing you more things, OP, I can't even begin to tell you. ♥ And I'm glad you liked the quote and title! It's one of those things where once I saw it, it was clear to me that I just couldn't not use it. :D

/o\ Oh, gosh - I mean, yay, I'm so glad, because we should end up spending like half of this in Bruce's head! SO IF YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT I'D BE IN TROUBLE. ;)

Seriously, though, as always I'm so very, very grateful for all of this: that Bruce's POV here is working for you so far, that his thoughts about Clark are ringing true, that the Bruce&Martha - I know, SHOCKING - is satisfying. \o/ YAY THANK YOU.

how Bruce automatically comes up with various explanations of what might have happened, since Clark clearly can't truly be back

:D I do so love the sound of Bruce rationalizing the hell out of his own denial!

/o\ AS ALWAYS, OP, YOU ARE FAR TOO GOOD TO ME. Your excitement and enthusiasm are a constant delight, and I just hope you find that this fill rewards them commensurately. ♥ ♥ ♥

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Page 45 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: FILL - Welcome to my world (1/??) - Clark/Bruce: AU Clark Saves Bruce & the girl (FIXED)

Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

Re: FILL - Welcome to my world (1/??) - Clark/Bruce: AU Clark Saves Bruce & the girl (FIXED)

Re: Batman/Clark Kent, intimidation

Diana/Bruce - fisting

Re: FILL - Welcome to my world (1/??) - Clark/Bruce: AU Clark Saves Bruce & the girl (FIXED)

Re: Diana/Bruce - fisting

Clark/Lois - anal sex

Re: FILL - Welcome to my world (1/??) - Clark/Bruce: AU Clark Saves Bruce & the girl (FIXED)

FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (1/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (2/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (3/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

Re: FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (3/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)

Re: FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (3/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)

Re: FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (3/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)

Re: Bruce/Clark, matchmaking AU

Bruce - punishment spanking

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)

Bruce/Clark, Bruce Wayne riding Superman

Bruce/Clark or Bruce & Clark, Bruce keeps the Superman suit

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (1/?)