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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:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD IF THIS IS ANOTHER NINETEEN-PARTER, YOU MAY REGRET SAYING THAT

Oh my gosh, anon, where do I start? It just made so much sense to me for Bruce to think the worst rather than let himself hope for anything, and in a continuity where the situation leading up to this is that a Kryptonian's body was taken and manipulated after death by a villain ... it suddenly seemed like it would be stranger if Bruce's mind didn't go there.

:D Oh, kinkmeme cookies are definitely legal tender at this establishment! And more seriously, thank you so much for this - horror is really not my strong suit, and that that element of this situation came through so strongly for you is just so great to hear. You're absolutely right about the DC universe, and I also kind of feel like in and of themselves, Gotham and Metropolis and even Bruce and Clark personally are a meeting and matching of genres.

I'm the hugest, hugest fan of fics that feature Bruce & Martha's friendship and camaraderie

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD WELL GOOD, because I am ALL OVER THAT, MY FRIEND. Bruce&Martha was one of my favorite things about the movie, and I'll take basically any excuse I can get to spend time on it. Which one-way identity porn 200% is, when Martha knows.

/o\ :D IT WAS THE PERFECT QUOTE. I COULDN'T RESIST. ♥ Thank you so very much for all of this, anon - I'm so glad you liked this first part!

At least I'm getting a little better at streamlining these things: THE IDENTITY PORN BEGINS. :D Also the angst, because—well. Bruce, amirite? I promise we'll get to the hooking up at some point. And just fyi, the travel time is so totally handwaved, but apparently it's canonical somewhere that at least one version of the Batplane can do like Mach 5? SO WHATEVER. I'M NOT COMPLETELY FULL OF SHIT. \o? Obviously Bruce has made SOME kind of ongoing arrangement with the FAA.

He manages to shave a good five minutes off that estimate—no mean feat, considering how hard he'd already been planning to push the Batplane to get to Kansas that fast.

From outside, the house looks normal. Bruce hadn't quite had a hand to his phone for the entire flight, but not for lack of trying. He hadn't been able to shake the thought of Martha calling again, panicked, when the thing finally did turn on her—of sitting in the Batplane's nigh-impenetrable shell, engines screaming but still too slow, and listening to her die—

But from outside, the house looks normal. There are no holes in the walls, the roof. The windows are intact.

There's dirt on the front porch.

Bruce doesn't let himself try to decide whether it matches his memory of the color, the texture, of the dirt that had been shoveled over Clark's coffin. He steps over it and raps once, sharp, on the frame of the screen door, and he doesn't wait for Martha to answer before he opens it. (For all he knows, she can't.)

But she's there when he walks inside—right there, she's put Clark on the sofa where the afternoon sun has just begun to slant in, and she's kneeling down beside him. She turned her head at the knock and she's staring at Bruce, a hand pressed over her mouth, her face caught somewhere between reckless joy and complete bewilderment. "Bruce," she whispers, between her fingers, because—

Because it's Clark.

He is covered in dirt: it's smeared dark along his hands, his arms, where the suit he was buried in has torn. He looks awful, pale, sallow in the way kryptonite can make him—except Martha's wiped his face carefully clean and the sun's soaking into him almost visibly. (For all Bruce knows, it's not an optical illusion or a trick of the light. Clark might literally be glowing a little bit where the sunlight's touching him.)

And he's alive. Even as Bruce looks, Clark tilts his face a little further into the light; his throat bobs as he swallows, and then he pulls in a breath so full it makes the seams of that moldering suit tear a little bit at the sides, the shoulders. And Clark doesn't need to breathe, Bruce is pretty sure. But right now he wants to, he's reveling in the ability. After this long, the air left in his coffin couldn't have amounted to much—

Clark blinks his eyes open, turns his head—he must have heard the knock, too, but maybe he hadn't realized what it meant, if he's as disoriented as Martha said he was. And then he looks at Bruce, and Bruce realizes the moment their eyes meet that it was a huge mistake to come here.

"Mr—Mr. Wayne?" Clark says. "I don't, um—what are you doing here?"

Good question, Bruce thinks.

"Sorry, that was rude," Clark adds blearily, "sorry," and Martha reaches out to touch his arm.

"Shh," she says, "it's all right, I—I'm sure Mr. Wayne won't hold it against you." She looks up at Bruce, and her gaze is uncertain: she'd forgotten too. She'd forgotten Clark didn't know.

Which is understandable. She's known the truth almost as long as Clark's been dead. Together, he and Diana had brought her Clark's body, before the government could swoop in for it the way they had Zod's. But Lex had kidnapped her: she hadn't had a way to get herself back to Kansas, let alone a corpse. She hadn't even had anywhere to stay, and Diana Prince had nothing in Metropolis except a hotel room she'd already checked out of. The only answer had been the lake house.

So Martha had met Batman and Bruce Wayne both on the same day, and learned they were each other just hours after. She'd known it every time she'd seen him; every time they'd talked since, she'd remembered to ask after Alfred, after Diana, to say she'd seen Batman on the news and was he sure he was all right. And in the rush of finding Clark alive—it would have been more surprising if she had remembered.

It's Bruce's failure that grates. He should have realized.

They can't even be sure how much Clark remembers about the day he died. And the last thing he needs right now is to know that the man who tried to kill him is standing over him in his mother's house.

Bruce can't ask Martha to lie to her son. But he meets her eyes and holds them, hoping she realizes why this is necessary, as he says easily, "I'm not exactly Lex Luthor's favorite person myself, Mr. Kent—your mother wasn't the only person he took hostage during that little meltdown of his." And to explain why she would call him, he just has to tell the truth: "There were some logistical issues I helped her sort out, after everything." He smiles down at Clark a little too brightly. "Zod's body got sold to LexCorp and cut up. Yours didn't. I'm the reason why."

He's expecting Clark to flinch a bit, to find the way Bruce has said this unpleasant—to, on a gut level, dislike Bruce Wayne just a little more than he thinks he should, from this moment forward. But maybe he's overestimated how well Clark is processing: Clark blinks at him twice, swallows, and then says faintly, "Then I guess I owe you one." He swallows again, and then his gaze swivels back to Martha. "And—Lois? Is she all right? Where is she?"

"Oh, honey," Martha says gently, and takes one of Clark's dirt-streaked hands. "It was so hard for her, after you were gone. She came to see you all the time, but she couldn't bear it forever. She needed a break. She's in South Korea for another three months—but we can call her, and—"

"South Korea?" Clark says, bewildered. "When did she—I, I," and then he swallows again and whispers, "How long was I dead?"

Christ.

Martha's throat is working now; she says, very low, "A while, sweetheart—a while," and presses her forehead to the back of Clark's hand. She needs a moment. Bruce knows her well enough now to guess that the last thing she wants to do is sob all over Clark while he's still helpless, disoriented.

So: "Beg pardon," he says, interrupting—verbally and physically, stepping forward to break the visual line between them. "But I imagine you'd like to get clean, Mr. Kent. And get out of that suit, considering how long you've been wearing it."

"I've," Martha says, and then presses the back of one wrist to her mouth, sucks in a long breath through her nose and lets it out, before she can finish: "I've got some of your things still boxed up in the basement. And we'll need some more water, towels," she adds. She squeezes Clark's hand and then grabs for the washcloth she must have used on his face, and steps out toward the kitchen.

Clark watches her go, looking shaken; but when he turns that helpless blue stare on Bruce, all he says is, "You tell me, Mr. Wayne, if she can't. How long have I been wearing this suit?"

Bruce does tell him. Bruce tells him everything. It's the least he can do for Martha, answering all Clark's smaller questions, filling in everything Martha's been struggling to move past alone without making her dig it all up again. Except it's dug itself up, Bruce supposes, and then doesn't let himself imagine how long it had taken Clark to do, weak as he is. (And that's another thing that should be dealt with, when Bruce gets a chance to place a call to Alfred. Nobody else visiting that graveyard should see whatever hole Clark left on his way out.)

The answers are easy enough to give. Five months, nearly six. Lois really is fine. What Clark did worked; he stopped the destruction, Zod didn't get up again after and keep going. Metropolis is still a little the worse for wear, but not the way Clark remembers. Stryker's Island no longer looks like it got firebombed. Lex Luthor is in prison, though LexCorp's managed to stagger on without him. The Daily Planet is fine, everyone who works there is fine. "In fact," Bruce adds, "they did a very impressive feature on Superman a week or two afterward." He makes a face, inconsiderate, because Bruce Wayne would. "Little hagiographic for my taste—but then that's the second time you've saved Metropolis from being the epicenter of global destruction, so I suppose I can't blame them."

Clark blinks twice and clears his throat. "And Superman, um—"

"Died very, very publicly," Bruce fills in. "There were already a couple news helicopters close enough to Stryker's to catch it. Lovely ceremony over an empty coffin in Arlington. I'm sure there's plenty of footage, if you'd like to—"

"No," Clark says unsteadily, "no, that's—I—no."

Bruce shrugs, because it makes no difference to Bruce Wayne. "I'm sure his adoring public would be thrilled to see him again," he says, "but there's no rush."

"No—?"

Of course it hasn't occurred to Clark, Bruce thinks. Always so goddamn eager to shoulder every weight. "No one knows you're back," he says aloud, and shrugs again. "At least not until you put on the uniform and somebody sees you. You might as well take your time, Mr. Kent. Doesn't look like you're up to it at the moment anyway," he adds, with a significant glance along Clark's body, the way he's draped limply over the sofa.

"Not really," Clark admits, voice rough, letting his head tip sideways a little further into the sunshine.

He's closed his eyes again; his face has relaxed in it, peaceful, still glowing faintly gold like—like maybe Bruce was right to call it hagiography: like he really is a saint. He's right there, alive, whole, and that's the last thing Bruce ever deserved to get to see in this lifetime.

It's almost spellbinding, and Bruce doesn't realize how far it's drawn him in until Clark drags in a breath, closes his hands into fists against the tops of his thighs, and says, "And what about—what about Batman?"

My darling! It’s so lovely to be reading you again!

I feel it necessary to point out that fills that take on an extensive length beyond your outline is not a terrible thing! As a greedy reader that can confidently speak for other greedy readers, long fills are lovely. What a greedy reader, such as myself, dislikes about long fills is the waiting for the next part. Patience may be a virtue, but it is damn inconvenient when the beautiful words of writers like you are a fix for addicts like myself and we have to wait—because what you write seems so effortlessly eloquent and we have very little idea of the trials and tribulations that you, as a writer, have suffered to deliver those words to us. And if I recall correctly there was a unanimous outcry for thousands and thousands of more words for a fill. ;-)

Now, this. This is beautiful.

It’s heartbreaking how Bruce has to manage his grief and mourning to fit with his image, but it is so very Batman.

And Bruce analyzing Clark’s motives for begging him to save his mother. How a part of him hopes that Clark trusted him, but the other part of him things that Clark was being pragmatic in knowing that he didn’t qualify in Bruce’s paradigm of ‘those who need protection.’ Batman, you’d think, would be proud that Clark could plan like that. Bruce. Bruce will suffer because he does it so beautifully, doesn’t he?

Clark! Coming back. Seeking comfort from his mother. Martha! Her uncertainty of Clark and how Bruce is the first she calls. Despite all the horror stories that it could end in, how Martha just wants to comfort her son!

I can’t wait to see how Clark will react to whoever shows up in forty-five minutes, be it Batman or Bruce, and how that will go down.

You’re doing it again! You sadist! I’m dying here because you insist on killing me! Guh! I can’t wait to find out more!

Ooooh, new part! This is the perfect thing to read before bedtime. <3 Bruce worrying about Martha is cute, he's such a fretter.

Because it's Clark.
Awww, I love that after all his rationalising, he recognises him immediately once he sees him. I just love the way Bruce is watching him. And ooooh, when I started reading, I hadn't realised that Bruce was going as Bruce. I somehow assumed he'd gone as Batman (you know, to fight whatever doppelgänger it was, or to be Batman if Clark was actually there). No wonder Clark is even more confused now, lol.

to say she'd seen Batman on the news and was he sure he was all right
That is the cutest thing. :D And I love how easily Bruce slips into his Bruce Wayne persona again, how easily he comes up with a quick lie as to why he's there. Though I figure this means that Bruce is already somewhat in Clark's good graces in this verse from the start, right? Instead of just being an obnoxious ass. (Awww, while Clark can continue to dislike Batman?)

Except it's dug itself up, Bruce supposes, and then doesn't let himself imagine how long it had taken Clark to do, weak as he is. (And that's another thing that should be dealt with, when Bruce gets a chance to place a call to Alfred. Nobody else visiting that graveyard should see whatever hole Clark left on his way out.)
Eeeeeeeeeh, this is so perfect, combining Bruce's empathy and his incredible pragmatism, immediately thinking of what needs to be done. Also, oooh, are we getting traumatised Clark who spent ages buried alive? Yisss.

like maybe Bruce was right to call it hagiography: like he really is a saint. He's right there, alive, whole, and that's the last thing Bruce ever deserved to get to see in this lifetime.
My HEART. Starting out strong, anon. :D I love this idea of Clark being alive as something Bruce doesn't deserve. And then Clark asks after Batman while closing his hands into fists, eeeeeeeeeeh, I cannot wait for Bruce's reaction. You continue to be the best. <3

/OP (who will go to bed now and have some very nice dreams ;D)

Bruce and Lois keep running into each other post-bvs, (maybe they both check up on Martha at the same time or run into each other at events or at clark's grave/memorial) and somehow become friends.

PLEASE SOMEONE DO THIS!

Wow, yes, this, would LOVE to see this filled.

Awwwww, I like Bruce's reason for lying to Clark a whole lot! Oh, Bruce <333

And yay for more Martha & Bruce, Bruce giving her an out, answering Clark's questions in her place, awww.

YES, GOOD QUESTION, THAT, WHAT ABOUT BATMAN, BRUCE? :DDDDD

Oh, Bruce is so going to twist himself in knots with this <333

'Identity Porn Begins' indeed. 8D

*presses face against monitor like a kid in a candyshop*

NONNY, YOU HAVE STREAMLINED LIKE A BOSS. But can I be the first to say that I actually love your 18+ part fics. I read and enjoy everything this fandom has to offer--but I've noticed that in comparison to other large pairing fandoms, superbat suffers from the lack of longfic. And you, nonny, help relieve the fandom of that sad affliction.

With that said, let me snuggle up to part two. There is so much to love here.

He's closed his eyes again; his face has relaxed in it, peaceful, still glowing faintly gold like—like maybe Bruce was right to call it hagiography: like he really is a saint. He's right there, alive, whole, and that's the last thing Bruce ever deserved to get to see in this lifetime.

Oh nonny, we totally, absolutely, 100% agree on this. Bruce has this beautiful character (flaw? absolutely hilarious/heart-breaking bat-tendency?) trait in the DCEU to see things in terms of 'deserves' rather than 'is'.

This is one of the things I love about Bruce's perspective; we get to have that religious-tinged imagery of Clark. All of the glowing halos, the aureole of the saint,* the way that Bruce seems to see Clark composed into these beautiful (or heartbreaking) scenes like a goddamn painting.

For a man who spends all of time in the dark with the ugliest part of humanity, Bruce sure does know how to spot beauty.

It's almost spellbinding, and Bruce doesn't realize how far it's drawn him in until Clark drags in a breath, closes his hands into fists against the tops of his thighs, and says, "And what about—what about Batman?"

*leans forward in chair avidly*

NONNY, YOU REALLY KNOW HOW TO END A SECTION. That's got the gears of my brain turning.

*you would not believe how many times I had to check that spelling to make absolutely sure i was talking about the technical term for glowing radiance about a saint, and not a nipple.

**I think you may have just given me a 'Clark enjoying the sunshine' kink. o:

DA would so be here for Clark sunbathing outside the lake house while Bruce watches him from the shadows. :D

I really love Alfred and I've enjoyed writing him a lot more than anticipated! I think I'd like to write some Alfred-centric fic at some point. :D

<3

PEOPLE COMING FASTER THAN THEY EXPECTED
One of my favourite things?? It's hot, idek :D

Bruce is good at dodging when he doesn't actually know the answer to the question. Whoops time to bullshit :P

And haha yes, Alfred with the reverse shovel talk there. If there's ever a time for it...

I love how obnoxiously irresistible Wayne can be, like he's being terrible but you still want him to stick around. It's like, 50% raw charisma and 50% knowing who he really is. So much fun, so much identity porn <3

Motion to make Bruce's Bruceness a verb. He's Brucing. He's gonna Bruce it.

Aww, thank you anon, here's to a few more feels before this nonsense is done. Incoming! <333

"So. Gotham National put in a security maint request with WayneTech today," Bruce says, one heavy thigh leisurely wedged between Clark's. His hair is a mess, licked up at the side. "They reported some anomalies on their system logs. Nothing as serious as a breach, but definitely some activity beyond the usual."

Clark can forgive Bruce's unusual idea of pillowtalk, just for the way he turns keen when he talks shop--gets that sharp, analytical look to his face. "Like someone's testing it?" he asks.

"Mm. Probing in order to calibrate their own device. I got a technician on it immediately, patched in a new layer of security protocols. Next time they try, they'll find themselves back at square one." He pauses. "I should be running the data. I want to be out there tonight."

"So what's stopping you?" Clark says.

"Beats me." Bruce swings out of bed and onto his feet. He glances back at Clark, one corner of his mouth drawn up. Clark can't help but smile back, and maybe surreptitiously appreciate his back muscles when he rolls his shoulders and pulls on some pants.

*

"There you are," Bruce mutters, "amateurs." He rattles off some keyboard commands and a stream of data overflows into a new window; he scrolls through it quickly and then pushes back off the desk, chair wheeling. "Nothing I didn't already know. The patch I deployed will hold up fine if this is the level they're operating at."

"So what now, stake the bank out until they show up to give it their best shot?" Clark leans back against the desk, crosses his ankles. He can sense the ambient temperature of the cave is on the cool side, but it's not bothering him despite the lack of a shirt. He feels luminous. Bruce seems similarly unaffected, and Clark wonders if he's accustomed to stalking around down here half-nude.

"I already have surveillance up, but--" Bruce frowns, taps at his mouth with one finger, then turns back to his keyboard. "I have an idea." More machine-gun typing, Bruce's face set in a narrow scowl of concentration as he composes a page full of raw code apparently out of thin air.

"What's this?" Clark leans in and tries to make some sense of it, but it's all gibberish to him. He can't even pick out anything that might be an array or a variable string. He doesn't doubt that the entire language is custom, though at this point he wouldn't put it past Bruce to be able to hammer out machine code on a whim.

"Sh." Bruce's typing slows, but he addresses Clark without pausing or even sparing him a glance. "Find me a sequencer."

Right. Bat mode engaged, evidently. Clark pokes around the workbenches--some of Bruce's toys are laid out with all their complex guts unraveled, along with a half-empty coffee cup forgotten in a nest of wiring and a spare pair of glasses. For all his air of disapproval, Alfred is one hell of an enabler.

Near that, he spies a number of the smooth black cases similar to the one Matches handed over to Alfred a few nights ago, stacked next to a stripboard prototype and few boxes of electronic components. He grabs one of them.

"Hook it up," Bruce tells him. "Turn it on."

Clark has an exciting premonition of all the fights they are going to have in the future, and how many of them are going to start with Bruce bossing him around like this. In this instance he's not sure if he wants to take Bruce down a peg or if he wants to be ordered right back into bed again, but that's beside the point.

(If Clark hadn't seen Bruce genuinely undone by his hand, he might be a little worried about that whole control-and-manipulate thing he'd been considering.)

As it is, Clark decides that he's stubborn enough that he won't let it pass without comment, and adopts a deferential tone, all office intern. "Right away, Mr. Wayne." It earns him an entertainingly scathing look, and he didn't even lay it on that thick. He volleys with a placid smile. Passive aggressive, sure. Effective? Debatably.

"Sorry," Bruce says, sounding anything but. "Please, and thank you." He gives his keyboard a final strike on the return key, then laces his fingers and turns his palms outward in a long stretch that pulls at the sinewy muscle of his forearms.

It's absolutely calculated. Clark gravitates to him anyway. "Jerk," he says, quiet and fond.

"I've been called worse things by more polite people." Bruce's screen begins a stop-start flurry of output, compiling the program. He tilts his head a fraction and his eyes glint in the sterile glow as he reaches to extract a USB cable from somewhere behind the monitors. He hands it to Clark. "Hook it up," he says. The please is still silent, but more present--he doesn't pass up the opportunity to let their fingers brush.

And, of course, Clark's aware that Bruce doesn't need his help to plug in a cable. Terseness aside, he appreciates Bruce's effort to loop him in. He slots the connector home and a blue LED blinks on, recessed into one of the bevelled edges. When he flips the device open it lights up with a slick GUI, dominated by the WayneTech logo. "Okay," he says.

Bruce's profile is limned by its bright display. On his screen, he drags the executable, glances at Clark. "Tell me what it's doing."

"Not much." Clark twirls his finger, a mime approximating the idle animation in the corner of the screen. "Thinking, I guess."

Bruce grunts. He looks over his code, amends it while he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like semicolons, every damn time, then sets it compiling again.

"Okay," he says, clicks and drags. "Now?"

The sequencer's screen dies.

"Oh. Uh-oh," Clark says, and swipes his fingers over it in an attempt to wake it up. No luck, so he runs his fingers around its edges in search of a button that might do something. Unplugs and re-plugs the cable. Shakes it a little. Even after this full extent of his technological troubleshooting, it remains resolutely dead. "Bruce, I think it might be--"

"Bricked?"

"Yup." Clark turns the device over to Bruce; tens of thousands of dollars worth of useless plastic and glass. It makes him feel a little sick. "Sorry."

Bruce observes it blankly for a moment, then breaks into a grin, sharp enough to cut. "Excellent."

*

As far as Clark understands it, the plan is this: Batman will break into Gotham National Bank's main server room, update the firmware on their security, and anyone attempting to interact with the system at any branch using a WayneTech-branded device will find it rendered inoperative. His computer will log when it happens, intercept the nearest municipal CCTV feed, and leave him free to round up the perpetrators at his leisure. Added bonus: no further risk of a heist going off with WayneTech's electronic signature left all over it. His reputation has suffered more than the requisite, lately.

Unsurprisingly, Clark doesn't factor into these proceedings at all.

"No," Bruce says.

"You need me to watch your back," Clark says. "I know you've done your fair share of B&E but come on, it's a bank--"

"I don't need you to do that."

"What if they decide to rob the place while you're inside? If I'm there to give you a heads up--"

"I can handle it." Bruce flattens his hand to the palm reader; the Batsuit is revealed, looming in the downlit alcove, cowl a hollow void. Clark stares at it, momentarily derailed. He's acutely conscious of the second empty costume at his back.

He gives himself a quick shake. "I know, but--"

"Clark," Bruce says. "No."

"Okay," Clark says, sighing. "Alright. At least--just let me take a walk around the block while you do your thing. It feels like forever since I was in a city." If he sounds wistful, he doesn't mean to. Gotham would never be his first choice, but he does miss it--being among other people, part of a teeming whole. To listen to the buildings around him and hear a hundred heartbeats echoing back.

Bruce turns to him, incredulous. "You're going to take a stroll around Gotham. Alone. In the early hours. I thought you wanted to help, not give me more work."

"I won't get into trouble," Clark tells him. "It's a good neighborhood, right?"

Bruce actually pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Besides," Clark says, sensing weakness. He plays his trump card while he still has the chance. "We had a deal."

Bruce takes a long breath through his nose, lets it out. "Get out of here," he says. "Get dressed."

*

Clark's back in the cave in fifteen. Bruce is in uniform from the neck down, and Clark vividly remembers his first night here, the surreality of seeing Bruce like this, how it had made him want--

He reaches out and strokes his thumb across Bruce's neck, and over the dense weave of the Bat's skin. The cave lights throw his face into stark shadow, but Clark senses his eyes drift closed. His heart thrums, chest rising steadily in even breaths.

Then Bruce curls his fingers around Clark's hand; cool, dry leather and a steel grip. He turns it palm up, drops a tiny device into it. "Communicator," he says, voice like a landslide. "Only use it if you need to."

Clark slots it into his ear, watches dry-mouthed as Bruce pulls on the cowl.

*

The Batman drives like the devil is on his tail--exhilaratingly reckless but with such fine precision that Clark can almost enjoy it. Almost. He keeps a very careful grip on the upholstery either side of his knees as Bruce downshifts and floors the accelerator, engine roaring, and they're catapulted down the roads into Gotham proper.

They burn over the island's bridges, deep into the heart of Diamond. If Clark hadn't already suspected that Bruce might be showing off, the completely unnecessary handbrake turn into a side alley would have clued him in fast.

"Well," Clark says once his bones have rattled to a stop, a little breathless. "Thanks for the ride."

Bruce smirks. The door locks pop open. He grabs Clark's arm when he's halfway out of the vehicle. "Watch yourself," he says in his modulated growl. "Metropolis on a bad day has nothing on Gotham when she's good."

"I hear you," Clark says, straightening up. The night is warm, stored summer heat radiating from the city's sooty brickwork. He can smell ozone and burning rubber, fast food somewhere. There's the low, steady drum of a nightclub beat, percussive jazz from someplace else. He can hear the fizz of a neon sign as it flickers through its rainbow colors. Bruce smells sharp, like adrenaline.

Bruce hops out, advances on him where he stands. "I mean it," he says. "If you find trouble, call it in." He pauses. "Don't be a hero."

"That," Clark says, and pushes subtly against the bounds of gravity until he is a few inches from the gravel-strewn sidewalk, a few inches taller than Bruce. "Will be difficult."

*

I don’t expect this to be the last time that you’ll see this, but I figured I’d get this out of the way:

Oh, Bruce…

She'd known it every time she'd seen him; every time they'd talked since, she'd remembered to ask after Alfred, after Diana, to say she'd seen Batman on the news and was he sure he was all right.

Martha! I'm in love with your Martha. She's so genuine and sweet. No wonder Bruce has no idea what to do with her, and Clark in turn.

… hoping she realizes why this is necessary…

Debatable, Bruce. But if not for his poor life decisions concerning human emotions and people, this would be a rather short fill. ;-P

"Sorry, that was rude," Clark adds blearily, "sorry…"

Even if it gets away from Clark at first, he still remembers his manners. Such a sweet boy!

... to, on a gut level, dislike Bruce Wayne just a little more than he thinks he should, from this moment forward.

I love how Bruce is Wayneing Clark, but Clark is a little too out of it for any of it to register as the affront that Bruce no doubt intended. Bruce certainly has dedication to the role!

It may take Clark awhile to process, but I’m sure he will soon realize that the full Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be his mother’s first call nor would he keep in touch with Martha. One can hope anyway; besides, Clark just came back from the dead, I suppose I should cut him some slack for be slow on the uptake.

Thanks again for sharing!

Haha, well, that would've saved me the fancy footwork I have to do in the next couple parts wrt the Batplane, for sure. /o\ But I'm glad you don't mind!

As always, I can indulge in the cutest Bruce&Martha asides that pop into my head, secure in the knowledge that you'll probably enjoy them just as much as I do. :D And yeah, the party interaction is the only thing Clark has to hold against Bruce Wayne right now, which isn't much compared to his lingering issues with Batman.

Aw, thank you! Bruce's POV is so much fun for me, trying to figure out how he's likeliest to redirect himself away from everything that gives him feelings. /o\

are we getting traumatised Clark who spent ages buried alive?

Well, not on a level requiring immersion sex therapy or anything because MAN THAT IS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT, it needs to get its own fill instead of me shoehorning it in everywhere. :D But yeah, I figured I'd switch it up a little for this fill!

I love this idea of Clark being alive as something Bruce doesn't deserve

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD That's at least half the reason I started this where I did - I love love love prodding at Bruce's mindset when it comes to Clark's death, OH BRUCE. /o\ Thank you so very much, OP, as always!

NO U

:D I'm glad, anon! What can I say, Bruce's guilt is like catnip to me.

Always more Martha&Bruce. Always. :D I sometimes feel like I maybe indulge myself with that a bit too much, haha - so I'm thrilled it works for you!

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

OH, BRUCE

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDD WELL IT IS THE PROMPT, AFTER ALL

YOU HAVE STREAMLINED LIKE A BOSS. But can I be the first to say that I actually love your 18+ part fics

Aw, thank you so much, anon - except I might be accepting this compliment under false pretenses! /o\ After the fake dating fic exploded, I figured I should be more liberal in trying to guess how the pacing on this fill would work out, so I broke the outline into fourteen parts. Except the part I'm currently working on? Is now so long I'll be splitting it into two, possibly even three. So even trying to overestimate, I've ALREADY been wrong about how long this will be. \o?

to see things in terms of 'deserves' rather than 'is'

Oh, anon, look at you, spearing the precise heart of my deepest flailing feelings about Bruce Wayne like a fish. :D

More seriously, thank you for all of this - the end of the movie just lines up so well with a Bruce who is fundamentally moved by and even slightly in awe of Clark in a way that makes him find/see/use near-religious imagery to think about Clark. And it makes extra sense here (... at least I hope it does! :D) because of how he's been spending Clark's death, the way he's set Clark up as emblematic of everything he wants to do better.

YOU REALLY KNOW HOW TO END A SECTION

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Haha, thank you. It just seemed like the natural (and, okay, slightly evil) place to break off ...

I think you may have just given me a 'Clark enjoying the sunshine' kink

:D NO REGRETS

Thank you, anon - I'm so glad you feel that way about me spamming you all again. ;D

Haha, well, as I mentioned in another reply, despite my best efforts this fill is ALSO starting to exceed the estimate of parts I made when I outlined. /o\ So never fear, there are many many more words to come. (And of course I'll try to keep posting them promptly, though since these parts are ending up longer, I may need to take an extra day here and there for writing.)

there was a unanimous outcry for thousands and thousands of more words for a fill

/o\ Just know you might all be wishing on a monkey's paw, here. I CAN BASICALLY GUARANTEE YOU THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF WORDS. THAT PART WILL HAPPEN PRETTY DEFINITELY. ~~DON'T ENCOURAGE ME, YOU FOOLS~~

The identity porn prompt is essentially the perfect excuse for me to roll around in all of Bruce's issues with managing his identities and how they come off to people (which, spoiler, I LOVE THAT :D). And possibly a big part of why that's so enjoyable to wallow in - why he suffers so beautifully, as you mention - is the extra dimensions it gives everything. He isn't just suffering; he's also constantly trying to figure out how much suffering to allow himself, to weigh whether he can permit it to be acknowledged. /o\ OH BRUCE

:D You know I can't resist an excuse to spend time with Martha! Thank you for coming back to let me kill you again, anon, and for this entire lovely comment. ♥

:DDDDDDDDDDD "Oh, Bruce" indeed, anon!

Oh, thank you so much - I like Martha a lot and I really love having her interact with Bruce; she's like Clark in some ways, but in other ways a little better at understanding Bruce. ♥

if not for his poor life decisions concerning human emotions and people, this would be a rather short fill

:D So very, very true.

I love how Bruce is Wayneing Clark, but Clark is a little too out of it for any of it to register

Haha, thank you - I admit I chuckled to myself over that section a little, just because Bruce is Batmanning this SO HARD (STRATEGY. TACTICS. PLANNING.) and it's so unnecessary with Clark halfway to passing out on his mom's couch. DIAL IT DOWN, BRUCE.

Clark just came back from the dead, I suppose I should cut him some slack for be slow on the uptake

:D It's true, he's not at his best right this second. (Of course, he also hasn't gotten the full persona yet. Once he's got a little more exposure, more curiosity about those kinds of tells will start to kick in.)

By all means - thanks so much for reading! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. :D

I'd feel worse about torturing Bruce like this if it were less fun. :D OH BRUCE. JUST KEEP PRETENDING YOU'RE NOT HAVING ALL THOSE FEELINGS, I THINK THAT'S WORKING GREAT. And, uh, as a side note this borrows some themes from a certain thread or two that got spent yelling about identity porn—by which I mean if you don't like the trope of people with secret identities trashing their own alternate selves in front of people who don't realize that's what's happening, you may want to bail out now. /o\

"That whackjob?" Bruce says steadily, without hesitation. "He's still around, I think. Kind of a surprise, him living through something that killed you, but then again the man's a coward. Wouldn't swoop around in the dark like that if he weren't. Very model of a modern vigilante, isn't he?"

Clark's face—Clark's face does something entirely understandable, Bruce thinks. He does remember Batman trying to kill him, then. That's good: even if he had sustained some kind of brain damage during the fight or by being dead, his Kryptonian physiology seems to have dealt with it thoroughly. Fuzzy or failed memory is one of the most basic signs of head trauma that there is; not that Kryptonians necessarily suffer the same symptoms as humans, of course, but in the absence of any other framework for making an evaluation, it will have to do.

"Luthor was manipulating us," Clark says—or rather tells himself, Bruce thinks, trying to sound convincing, trying to remind himself to believe it.

"Luthor was manipulating you, yes," Bruce says. "That's why he took your mother. There's no reason to think—"

But Clark's already shaking his head. Already pulling himself together—already prepared to be generous beyond all reason. "No, he—he saved Mom. He must have." He blinks and then squints up at Bruce. "And you must have seen him, if you were there."

Damn. Bruce can't rewrite that; Martha won't lie about it. If Clark asks her whether Batman got her out, she'll say yes.

"I was, but not for that part," he says aloud. "All I know is the men watching me were called away, and the next time the door opened, it was your mother. That woman's awfully good with knots."

Clark doesn't get distracted. "Then he did," he says unsteadily. "I asked him to and he did, and I can't pretend that doesn't count for anything." His hands are still in fists; but he bites his lip and then adds, "And I don't know whether Luthor did anything to him. Set him up somehow or baited him, or—or who knows what."

And oh, Bruce wants to tell Clark exactly how wrong he is: that Lex Luthor hadn't had to do a damn thing to him except tell him exactly what he'd wanted to hear, that he'd swallowed it all from hook to sinker without a second thought. That Batman is the absolute last person Clark should be willing to make excuses for.

But he can't.

Martha saves him from having to scrape together a reply—she comes back in before he can even open his mouth. She has a stack of clean clothes pinned under one elbow, two towels under the other, and a bowl of water in one hand; and in the other hand is a phone. "It should be just about morning where Lois is," she says softly, and then smiles a little. "And that woman's always been an early riser."

Clark stares at her, and then at the phone, and he's looking at it like it's a chunk of kryptonite.

"Her number's already in here," Martha adds. "I'll just explain what's happened, honey, and then you can talk to her." She sets the bowl of water down; and then she tosses Bruce a glance, a little nod toward the porch. She's not wrong: he should go. Clark's forgotten about him entirely, still looking at the phone, and there might not be a better moment for Bruce to bow out.

So Bruce nods back, and goes.

With no one looking, he can indulge in a moment's indecision. He should take off before Clark can get a hold of himself, before he absorbs enough sun and breathes enough air for all his strengths and powers to come back completely—if nothing else, there's still a chance that if Bruce goes right now, Clark genuinely won't hear the Batplane. But—

But Martha's the one who called him here. Martha wanted his help. He shouldn't leave without at least talking to her, making sure she's all right. And she can't handle everything from here by herself. If nothing else, getting a legal declaration of death reversed could prove difficult—but a few consultants from Wayne Enterprises will almost certainly make that easier. He should at least bring it up, so she'll be prepared for it when matters get a little more urgent. (Thankfully, he does own the Daily Planet; if nothing else, he can ensure that Clark Kent won't have any trouble getting his job back, even after being dead for half a year.)

He pauses on the front walk, looks out across the flat Kansas fields and makes a deal with himself: a minute, that's how long he'll wait, just in case Martha wanted him to, and then—

"Bruce."

He turns around.

Martha did want him to; he can see that the moment he looks at her. "Bruce," she says again, and in a rush she comes down the front steps and grabs for his hands.

There's a pause then—she doesn't speak, looking down instead, but her grip is so tight Bruce almost can't tell her hands are shaking. "Martha," he says carefully, and she blows out a long breath and then shakes her head.

"My god," she says, "my god. I thought I might be—I don't know. But you saw him too—"

"He's real," Bruce says.

"My god," she says again, and then laughs, sharp and a little wild. "Oh, listen to me—tell me to get a grip already."

"You've got a pretty good one," Bruce tells her, making a face like a small wince; and she looks at him blankly for a moment and then all at once eases up on his hands.

She doesn't let go, though.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," she says, and laughs again. "I'm so sorry."

"I've had worse," Bruce says.

"No, I—not just for that," and then Martha hesitates and lowers her voice. "I am sorry, Bruce, really. I wasn't thinking when I called you—"

"I don't mind, Martha, I've told you: I want you to call me—"

"—about your identity, I mean," she clarifies over him, and that makes Bruce go quiet. "I wasn't thinking about how it would look to Clark. And I know you want all that to stay a secret. I didn't mean to make that harder for you." She pauses for a second, and then she must see something in his face, because she adds, "Don't worry, Lois picked up. I promise you, he's not listening to anything but what's on the other end of that phone."

And she's right, no doubt. "It's fine," Bruce says. "He seemed to believe the cover story I gave him. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but if you can—at least not deny it, if he asks—"

"Of course," Martha says instantly. "But if he does decide to be Superman again, to work with you and Diana, you'll tell him."

She isn't asking—because to her, Bruce thinks, it doesn't seem like much of a question. Bruce and Diana know each other's identities, and they both know Clark's, too. It would be strange, lopsided, to forcibly keep him out of the loop.

But that's only because she isn't thinking it through.

"He's going to need my help," Bruce explains gently.

"Of course—"

"No, not as Superman. As Clark. He was declared dead," Bruce reminds her. "That needs to be reversed."

"Bruce," Martha says.

"I have to straighten things out at the Planet. There must be a way to open up a position for him. And his tenancy—"

"Bruce," Martha says.

"There's no reason he needs to know until everything is sorted out," Bruce says. It's common sense.

"Bruce," Martha repeats.

She's looking at him oddly—softly. He's not sure why. He hasn't said anything that warrants it.

"You didn't kill him," she says, very low.

"I know that," Bruce says.

He does. He's reviewed it a thousand times in his head, a thousand more times with the collected footage from the helicopters; he even has Diana's recollections, safely voice-recorded, after he'd explained to her that it would be useful for tactical analysis. The kryptonite shell Bruce had fired at that last instant had been necessary: it had weakened Zod at a critical moment. Compared to the amount of kryptonite on the end of the spear, it's unlikely that what had reached Clark had been the critical factor—that Clark would have been less impalable to the exact degree necessary without it. Clark had chosen to take up the spear, had known what it would do to him. In point of fact, he'd had a pretty exact idea what it would do, given that Bruce had shoved it into his face not half an hour beforehand. It's possible that the experience even helped him brace himself for it, and made it easier for him to withstand its effects long enough to reach Zod. Bruce hadn't killed Clark at all.

He'd just tried to. He'd just walked right into Luthor's trap; he'd just allowed himself to be manipulated in ways that had made it impossible for Superman to collaborate with him until it was too late. If they'd been aware of the true threat, there's no doubt in Bruce's mind that he and Diana and Clark together could have defeated Zod without losing anyone. And he could have ensured they'd get the chance to try. But he'd wasted his time masterminding ways to destroy Clark instead.

Bruce hadn't killed Clark, no. He just might as well have.

"He just doesn't know you," Martha says kindly. "Once he does, once you explain, he'll understand."

"You of all people should know it isn't that easy," Bruce says.

It's something of a low blow; but Martha doesn't flinch. "I didn't say it would be easy," she says, calm, "and I didn't say it wouldn't take time." She's still got hold of his hands: she squeezes. "You're right, I hated you—but it didn't last. I don't see how it could have, after everything you did. And it won't with Clark, either. You told the truth that day: you are a friend of my son's. You've already proven that to me. And my son will be a friend of yours, too, Bruce, if you let him."

She's a kind woman, Martha Kent. Generous; it seems to run in the family. Which means Bruce needs to be careful. My son will be a friend of yours, if you let him. And she isn't wrong, after all: Bruce has ample proof that, given the opportunity, Clark will wholeheartedly make the worst choice available to him regardless of the cost to himself.

(Which surely means that Bruce—as a friend—should make every effort to stop him.)

"For all the good it will do him," Bruce says aloud, wry, because jokes are typically the least uncomfortable way to tell the truth.

But Martha doesn't let it slide that easily. She smiles at him and squeezes his hands again. "It's done me plenty," she says without hesitation, and she's about to add something else when the sound of the screen door creaking open stops her.

She and Bruce both turn.

It's Clark. He's stepped out onto the porch, barefooted, and the suit is gone, traded for a shirt and sweats, but there's still dark streaks of dirt along his arms, ground into the skin along the backs of his knuckles. He's holding the phone, but not to his ear—it's silent now, dark, and he's staring down at it.

"She cried," he says unsteadily. "But she—she's not coming back. This assignment is important to her, and she needs some time."

He recites this like he's memorized it, like it's something he was sitting in there repeating to himself for five minutes before he came out here and told them—and maybe he was.

"Oh, sweetheart," Martha says, and finally lets go of Bruce so she can step away and take the phone from Clark's hands. "You have to understand, it's been months—"

"Yeah," Clark says. He's looking down at his empty fingers, now that the phone is gone: his palms are still dirty, too. "Yeah. I guess it has."

First thought after reading this: break my heart, why don’t you.

I had hoped you would stop abusing it so. But I should really know better. So, that’s on me. Because I am one of your many ~~fools~~ supplicants that will gladly offer you encouragement ~~and apparently my internal organs for your general abuse.~~

Already pulling himself together—already prepared to be generous beyond all reason.

Well, Clark is solar powered, so it makes sense that he is an eternal ray of sunshine. Bruce needs that. Too bad Bruce thinks he doesn’t deserve that. Because obviously that’s the only thing that matters in this thing called reality; Bruce clearly doesn’t live in this magical place. <.<

Clark has a lot of work ahead of him.

And oh, Bruce wants to tell Clark exactly how wrong he is…

It’s almost kind how Bruce wants to protect Clark from getting invested in trying to justify and excuse Batman. And then: But he can't. Because it’s a Batman plan designed to follow-through with the groundwork of lies he’s already laid and also to maximize Bruce’s suffering because that’s what he deserves.

Suffer, my pretty. Suffer.

Martha did want him to…

Is it Freudian if I read it as ‘Martha did want him?’ Because Bruce… Of course, you’re wanted.

"Martha," he says carefully…

I know Bruce has said her name in her panic-induced call, but this… It pulls at my battered heart strings because Bruce saying her name, since in the movie it was such a triggering and essential motif. Just…yeah…

Insert entire interaction between Bruce and Martha.

I just…can’t…I don’t even… Guh… So…yeah. Of course Martha’s forgiveness can’t factor into Bruce’s…Bruceness (aka wallowing in self-flagellation?). See 'suffering.' Synonymous with 'beautiful'? Wait, what?

(Which surely means that Bruce—as a friend—should make every effort to stop him.)

Does this count as personal growth? Sort of? I mean, it completely misses the mark, but still… Can Bruce get a gold star for effort?

Now, right up there with “oh, Bruce,” I have “oh, Clark.” My heart. I…can’t…gibberish and crying… I just…

Oh, Clark.

We're on the same wavelength here anon. I just thought about something similar in which Bruce doesn't really want to become friends with Lois (because guilt), but Lois doesn't give up and they do. In other words, seconded!

:D How is it that I'm just as thrilled about getting to see Bruce and Clark collaborate as I was about them banging?!? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME. I love everything about this, from Clark deciding he loves how Bruce's face gets when he's starting to Batmode to every bit of dialogue, Bruce's focus and Clark gently trolling him, from their bargaining over Clark helping out to that pitch-perfect description of Bruce's driving. And that last exchange of dialogue! Anon, HOW ARE YOU SO GREAT. I'm so excited at the way the plottiness is coming together, and I can't wait to read the next part!

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Page 46 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

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

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

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 (2/?)

Bruce+Lois, post-bvs bonding

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

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

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (15/18?)

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (16/18ish)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (2/?)

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 (2/?)

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (3/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (3/?)

Re: Bruce+Lois, post-bvs bonding

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (16/18ish)