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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Eeeeeeeeh, Bruce in Bat mode. SO here for that. :D And I love that Clark gets to help a little.

For all his air of disapproval, Alfred is one hell of an enabler.
I feel like this sums up Alfred perfectly in one sentence.

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.
Bruce bossing Clark around is great, not like Clark doesn't love it. Also thanks for the mental image of Clark as Bruce's intern, haha.

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.
I love this, such a great image. And of course it'd freak Clark out a little. And Bruce showing off while driving, haha. :D

And oh boy, Clark is so going to get himself in trouble, isn't he. *facepalm*

OP here, sorry for the late reply author!

But OMGGGGGG this was everything I could've hoped for and more! I do not mind the abuse of embassies at all, and the format totally works! I think it mirror's Bruce's confusion/tension between hating Supes and also being really really attracted to him, in his weird obsessive way! This fits so perfectly with the DCEU verse and my words cannot express how much I love this!

<333333

Whoa. Clark's possible immortality is something that I haven't seen explored much in the DCEU verse, so this kink took an unexpected turn for me! That said, this is so beautifully-written. Even though it's from Bruce's POV, Clark's utter love comes across so clearly, and not just in how he agrees to the branding. So gorgeous <3

Please!

Oh my god nonny, the Bruce-Martha friendship is everything I could have hoped for and more.

The sweetness of their interactions, and Martha's hard uncompromising nature coming up against Bruce's. Martha's very no-nonsense in her way. Which tickles me to no end, because I'm sure Bruce thinks he's the epitome of practically and no-nonsense behavior. Only to have Martha just kind of quietly shaking her head, fond, and disbelieving, at Bruce's incredible depth of self-deceiving faffery.

I think she can see the hurting person that Bruce is. He wants to help Clark--help Martha--and do it in a way where his help will be accepted. Where he doesn't have to deal with Feelings^TM while he's Helping^TM.

Just. Wow. Thank you for this. I always re-read your fills two or three times before I comment so I can soak in all of the good stuff you give us.

This is already some really high-quality identity porn. Having Martha in on this has given this fic such an interesting edge... I don't think I've read an identity porn piece quite like this before. Martha being in on it gives Bruce quite a bit more of an interesting set of overlapping social circles in which to be... all of him.

I am SO excited to see where this goes.

/chinhands

/offers kinkmeme cookies

NGL, Clark hovering just slightly off the ground might be sexier than any other thing they've done together at this point, just casually showing off his powers as Bruce is playing the Bat. It's like the start of every homoerotic moment in Superman/Batman comics ever, and it's probably definitely maybe a slight actual kink.

This fill has been amazing from the very get-go. I never thought it'd end up with Bruce and Clark being all casually domestic while working a case in the Batcave. The sparring has been AMAZING, the porn SUPER-HOT, but my god, its just so heart-smashingly intimate for them to solve crime together.

We all need more bat-family!!! seconded!!!!

I didn't know I wanted this.

:D /o\ I'm not doing it on purpose! I just ... have a lot of feelings? And I prefer not to suffer alone. ;) But thank you for coming back, even when you know your internal organs are at risk! ♥

Clark has a lot of work ahead of him.

Haha, oh, you are definitely not wrong - honestly that could probably be the summary of every Bruce/Clark fic I write, because ... yeah. :D

It's probably a little wrong just how much I enjoy putting Bruce in these emotional catch-22s: not telling Clark he's Batman is for Clark's own good! Except then it also limits how well he can warn Clark away from Batman. /o\ OH NO WHAT DO

~~SUFFER, I GUESS~~

~~SUFFER JUST A WHOLE BUNCH~~

And then just, I mean, thank you so so much for everything you've written here about Bruce and Martha - I love them both and I love their relationship ~~at least the way I headcanon it post-movie~~, and that all these different pieces of that interaction worked for you is SUCH A DELIGHT :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD And Bruce and his guilt and his issues, gaaaaaaaaaaah. I could roll around in that ALL DAY (and lbr, I basically do :D).

:D If there's one thing you totally can give Bruce credit for, it's effort, even when it's TOTALLY WRONGHEADED effort.

... I promise they'll both be okay in the end! Even if I do make them sad ... um, one or two more times ... <.< >.>

As always, thank you so much for all of this! So glad you're enjoying this fill, and I'm so very grateful for your thoughts. ♥

:DDDDDDDDDDDDD Oh, this makes my heart sing, anon - thank you! I LOVE BRUCE AND MARTHA SO MUCH, and the thought that I managed to really capture what's great about that relationship is a REALLY GREAT THOUGHT. \o/

because I'm sure Bruce thinks he's the epitome of practically and no-nonsense behavior. Only to have Martha just kind of quietly shaking her head, fond, and disbelieving, at Bruce's incredible depth of self-deceiving faffery

I'm sure I have no idea what you mean! BRUCE IS EXTREMELY CLEAR-HEADED, AND NOT AT ALL MAKING DECISIONS BASED ON HIS OWN BURIED GUILT AND REPRESSED EMOTION. :D Honestly one of the things I love best about Martha is that I think of her as having, yes, exactly that reaction, much like Clark - and, UNlike Clark, having the insight to understand what Bruce is doing relatively quickly. (To be fair to Clark, of course, she HAS known Bruce much longer, having not been dead for a while at any point.)

/o\ Oh, anon, there are times when I'm just so bowled over that anyone wants to read any of this ONCE, let alone several times! :DDDDDDDDDDD THANK YOU.

It really is kind of an unusual scenario - the movie just makes it SO HARD to explain how Bruce could possibly be at Clark Kent's funeral without Martha knowing who he is. And yes, as you say, it also maybe makes it a little more difficult for Bruce to keep track of who he's ... being at any given moment. OH, BRUCE

:D Aw, thank you, anon - I hope that in the end your excitement pays off! ♥

D: MISSED A DAY, OOPS. Sorry! /o\ (I'm trying to be stern with myself about this because I really do suck at finishing things, most of the time. I'M ON A STREAK WITH THIS MEME, OKAY, I DO NOT WANT TO BREAK IT. :D) And I'm especially sorry that I made you wait for THIS part, of all things, because basically nothing happens. How did I write 2k+ of nothing happening? ... Beats me. /o\

It proves to be the perfect moment for Bruce to make his escape. Martha helps Clark back inside, clucking gently about washing his hands, hadn't she raised him better than that—she glances over her shoulder at Bruce, quick, and nods once before she lets the screen door fall shut behind her. That's his cue. She's on his side about his identity as Batman, at least for now; Clark is distracted, and even if he does catch the sound of the Batplane leaving, Martha will cover for Bruce as best she can.

And Bruce needs to go, because he has a lot of work to do.

Once he's in the air again, he engages the autopilot and then finds his hand on his phone. He has no idea what's involved in reversing a certification of death in Metropolis—he doesn't even know whether city law differs from state or federal when it comes to this kind of thing. Maybe all it will take is a judge's ruling, if they have enough evidence. Not that Clark has a birth certificate, obviously. Bruce isn't sure whether the Kents ever even legally adopted him, but he must have some kind of official identification or he'd never have been able to enter the Smallville school system, let alone rent the apartment he'd been keeping in Metropolis before he died.

Probably best if they can avoid even bringing up the possibility of a DNA test.

He should do some preliminary research before he gets in touch with the Wayne Enterprises legal department about it. It's a good thing Bruce Wayne has already been seen in public more than once with Martha Kent, that Clark Kent's employment at a Wayne Entertainment company is a matter of record—doing them a favor won't be coming out of nowhere. Of course the official story will have to be that the coffin in Smallville was empty. They're lucky Clark was impaled; Martha had erred on the side of caution, not wanting anyone to notice anything amiss, and hadn't held any sort of viewing at the service before the funeral. Only a few people actually know there was a body in there, and that can be handled. Bruce won't let a detail that minor get in the way of sorting this out.

The cover had been, of course, that hapless reporter Clark Kent, out and about on a Metropolis evening, had tragically been caught in the crossfire during the fight. They can't pretend to have pulled him out of the rubble on Stryker's Island after all this time, but a head injury, amnesia, some disoriented wandering and a few months as a John Doe—no, it shouldn't be difficult to account for that side of things.

And as for Superman, it's actually for the best if Clark takes a little while to suit up again. The more time separating Clark Kent's return from the dead and Superman's mysterious resurrection, the better. And Bruce—Bruce should call Diana. She needs to know what's happened. Even if Clark decides not to reclaim Superman's mantle, some other alien enemy of his could scan the planet and find his lifesigns; that kind of thing will always be up to the League to handle, whether Clark's a part of it or not. Bruce should call Diana.

He presses his hands against the Batplane's control board until they've stopped shaking. Adrenaline—from being prepared for the worst, from the surprise of it all. Nothing unusual. Bruce just needs to let it work its way out of his system.

Diana must not be busy: she picks up right away, even though she doesn't know what there could be to pick up for. "Trouble?" she says.

"No," Bruce says, and then for a strange sharp moment his throat constricts. He knows what he wants to tell her—that Clark is alive and that Superman might be; that despite seeming wholly himself, it's still possible that someone has done this to Clark for a reason: implanted him with physical or mental triggers of some kind, altered him in ways the League needs to keep an eye out for.

But none of it will come out. He stares at the Batplane controls and breathes into the phone, and braces himself to shove past whatever the hell is wrong with him—

"Bruce?" Diana says, low, gentle.

And that's enough: the logjam is broken. "Clark's alive," Bruce says.

(Clark's alive.)

(Clark's alive.)

It would be perfectly understandable to ask whether he's sure, but Diana doesn't do it. She knows he wouldn't have called, wouldn't have said it like that, unless he were. "And he's all right," she says instead, after a moment.

"As far as I was able to determine," Bruce tells her. "Of course I'll keep you informed if I learn otherwise."

"Of course," Diana agrees. "Bruce—"

It's requiring more concentration than it should for him to keep his voice level. It doesn't matter why; it only matters that the degree of effort involved is unsustainable. This phone call needs to end right now.

"I'm sorry, Diana, I have to go."

Kindly, she takes him at his word. "Thank you for telling me," she says simply, and she's the one who hangs up first.

The path ahead of him is clear. Call Legal, make an appointment; obtain all the relevant documentation there is from Martha, from the Planet's HR department, from the necessary authorities; decide where and when Clark might have fallen into the water on the day of the fight, where a John Doe with a head wound needs to have washed up. He knows what needs to be done, and he'll do it. And in the end, it won't make any difference if he had to stare down at his hands, at the phone, and force himself to take long slow breaths for three and a half minutes first.

By the time he lands under the lake, he's arranged a meeting with Legal, and all publicly available official documents that so much as mention Clark Kent's name have begun downloading themselves onto the servers in the Cave. Fortunately, he doesn't need to wait for anyone on the HR staff to get back to him—he already has access to the internal files of Wayne Entertainment and its subsidiaries, and it's easy enough to start running a search remotely. The results might even be there by the time he gets to the computers—

"Master Wayne. What a pleasant surprise."

Bruce lets himself grimace before he wipes the expression away and turns around. He hadn't told Alfred much of anything when he'd left—there hadn't been much of anything to tell, at that point, since he still hadn't been sure that whatever was standing on Martha's porch was really Clark. But Alfred never likes it when Bruce goes charging off without a word of explanation, Master Wayne, and as your butler I've no grounds to object, but as your head of security I simply cannot abide—

"Sorry, Alfred," he says.

Alfred's eyebrows go up. "An unprompted apology," he observes slowly, as though to himself, and then addresses Bruce with a conscientious air: "Have you been struck on the head, sir, or merely drugged?"

Both, Bruce almost says. "Clark Kent is alive," he tells Alfred instead, and it should be irritating to have to explain it again—repeating himself like a parrot every ten minutes, Clark's alive! Clark's alive!

It's the kind of thing he never let himself so much as imagine, while Clark was gone. Clark had been dead; every implication of that fact, every choice Bruce had made because of it, had been predicated on the idea that the situation was fundamentally unalterable. It was something that needed to be accepted, a weight that couldn't be set down and couldn't be handed off. Considering all the ways in which the battle could have gone differently—that was tactical. That would help Bruce make quicker, clearer decisions in any similar situations in the future. Idiotic daydreams about Clark just—reappearing, recovering? Utterly without merit. Clark had been dead. What was important was figuring out how to bear it, how to integrate what Bruce had been taught by it into his actions following it. Pretending it hadn't happened or could be undone was pointless, and Bruce simply hadn't permitted himself to be so wasteful.

But now—

Now it's true. It's true and Bruce can say it all day long and it will stay true. Hell, there's a solid chance it will still be true tomorrow morning, if Clark doesn't drop dead again overnight—which is possible, but even Bruce can't convince himself it's especially likely. He hadn't gotten a look at the skin of Clark's chest, but even with a shirt on, it had been clear that there wasn't a hole in Clark anymore; if that's due to external intervention, then yes, perhaps it had been done quickly and could be undone as quickly. But if it was Clark's own healing factor, if it's the result of a long slow process of repair that's been at work since he died, then it's likely it would take trauma equivalent to the original injury to reverse it. And Zod is gone. Bruce retrieved the kryptonite, it's boxed up in lead two levels away. Lex Luthor is in prison. The confluence of factors that brought Clark down is about as unlikely to reoccur as anyone could ask for.

He glances at Alfred—who's looking back, face carefully blank, and hasn't said a word.

"He is," Bruce says, abruptly able to guess why. (He can't even resent it. A surprising number of Gotham villains favor hallucinogenic attacks of various kinds; it's hardly implausible.) "Call Martha yourself. I'm sure she'd put him on the line for you, at least if he's still awake."

"I'll take your word for it, Master Wayne, for the moment," Alfred says, and his expression doesn't change but Bruce sees the way the line of his shoulders eases. "But, if I may ask—how?"

Bruce can't restrain a snort. "How does Clark do anything? He recovered from a nuclear explosion in about five minutes. In retrospect," Bruce adds, "it was foolish to assume death would have a more permanent effect than anything else."

"When you put it that way," Alfred concedes. "And you're—all right, sir?"

As if Bruce is able to quantify it that neatly.

On the one hand—he can't pretend it's anything but a relief. Especially not to Alfred, not in a way Alfred would believe. (Alfred was there for the worst of it, in the immediate aftermath. Alfred—saw.) He had fixated on the resignation of it all, had buried himself in it about as far down as Clark's body had been: Clark was dead, and Bruce could have prevented it but had chosen not to, and there was nothing he could do about any of that afterward except find a way to live with it. The worst mistake he'd ever made, because he'd made it—with Jason, at the absolute least Bruce hadn't been the one to hand the Joker the crowbar. And now it's fixed. Miraculously undone, the terrible and unforgivable consequence erased. Not that the mistake qualifies as unmade; but Clark isn't paying the price for it in a box underground anymore. Bruce can't be anything but grateful for that.

But—

It isn't that he's sorry Clark's alive. Of course he isn't. It's just that it's—it's almost bewildering. Bruce has made something of a study of failure, penitence, regret. He's learned how to brace against their slow persistent pull; he's familiar with their mass, their particular gravity. He'd known what he was facing, after Clark's death. He'd seen the path laid out before him and he'd been prepared to walk it. There had even been a grim kind of comfort in understanding what was coming—in being aware that, plus or minus a few degrees of pitch or elevation, this was how he would feel for the rest of his life.

And now all that has changed.

Clark is alive.

"I'm fine," he says aloud, and smiles a little, claps Alfred on the shoulder as he passes. "I'll be in the Cave if you need me."

He'll figure out what they have to do and where to begin, how to start the ball rolling, and if there's anything he needs from Martha, he can go back for it tomorrow.

(Without the Batplane.)

I AM SO HERE FOR PEOPLE THRASING THEIR ALTERNATE SELVES YISSSSSSSS. And Clark defending Batman because Batman saved his mother, awwww.

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.
Yessssssssssss, give me Bruce's guilt, give me all of it! I also love how he doesn't run because Martha needs his help, aww (I mean, sure, Bruce, tell yourself that's the only reason you're staying). And aaaaaah, Bruce being all efficient and focused on what needs to be done and Martha trying to reassure him, all of this is so cute.

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.)
THIS IS PERFECTION, ANON! :D gkjdlgjdfgidudbg Bruce trying to keep that distance between them for Clark's own sake, aaaaaaaah.

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.
Awww, my heart. I absolutely don't ship Clark/Lois, but Clark being sad always gets me. This is super great and I'm very excited for how it continues, Clark getting to know Bruce and Batman separately or however that goes. You're the best. <3

/OP

DA

the movie just makes it SO HARD to explain how Bruce could possibly be at Clark Kent's funeral without Martha knowing who he is.

To be fair, the movie implies that Martha has actually no idea Bruce is there. Bruce stands apart, far away enough that nobody really sees him, and when Martha is told that someone paid for the funeral expenses (in the extended edition), she seems to have absolutely no idea who did it.

I mean, this is not a criticism and I love that you went with Martha knowing who Bruce is, but I don't think the movie itself implies that Martha knows. Bruce is just kinda sneaking around on the sidelines and goes pretty much unnoticed.

AYRT

Haha, you're probably right that it's not necessarily Martha - I guess that's just the way that makes the most sense to me when it comes to how he knew where to be and when, given that Clark Kent's funeral presumably wasn't a very big deal in-universe. I didn't think the movie ever showed us him explicitly connecting the dots when it comes to Clark Kent = Superman, not in the same way it had Clark use Bruce's given name to Batman's face. So to me it makes the most sense to think SOMEBODY told him between Clark's death and the funeral.

But then again he is the world's greatest detective! So maybe I'm not giving him enough credit. :D

Happy OP here again, I would not call this nothing, anon. ;D Again, I just adore efficient, pragmatic Bruce thinking through everything he needs to do and how to go about it.

Eeeeeh, Alfred! Always happy to see Alfred. <3 He's so perfect:
Alfred's eyebrows go up. "An unprompted apology," he observes slowly, as though to himself, and then addresses Bruce with a conscientious air: "Have you been struck on the head, sir, or merely drugged?"

He recovered from a nuclear explosion in about five minutes. In retrospect," Bruce adds, "it was foolish to assume death would have a more permanent effect than anything else."
Haha, so true. Why does anyone even believe Clark is going to stay dead?

I always love introverted Bruce stuff. <3 Although I have to say that you have been teasing us a lot about getting some more Bruce&Clark interaction (for obvious reasons, considering that Clark is probably sleeping or sunbathing or something). ;) I guess I'm just impatient for them to meet again. :D Until then I will just grin like an idiot about how much I love Alfred.

ayrt

I assumed that Bruce just put the dots together from Clark's mother to Clark, those should be enough clues for the world's greatest detective. ;) And once he knows, it should be easy enough for him to find out when Clark's funeral is even without someone explicitly telling him.

But again, not meant as a criticism of any kind, just thought I'd point it out in case anyone ever wants to write fic in which Martha doesn't know any more than Clark does that Bruce = Batman. :)

Clark can hear Batman's heart beat, he can see the minute details of the iris in Bruce Wayne's eyes. Batman is the world's greatest detective and Clark doesn't wear a freakin' mask. They both know who the other one really is.

But pretending not to is just so. damn. hot.

NSFW! Here be cock.

http://i.imgur.com/NZGfFst.png

Oh my GOD, this is beautiful and so fucking hot, anon! Your sneak peek was already great, but IT GOT BETTER. There is nothing I don't love about this: Clark's closed eyes, the way Bruce is looking at him, Bruce's HANDS (both that tender hand in Clark's hair and the fingers of his other hand pressing against Clark's stomach).

AND THEN THE NEEDLES. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. So fucking hot. The ones in Clark's cock and his nipples and the rest of his chest and that light green glow on Clark's skin, holy shit.

And I only noticed after staring at this for a few minutes that Bruce is fucking him because I was too distracted by everything else that's going on. Oh, and Bruce's scars! Seriously, the level of detail on this is incredible. Every time I look at it I find more things to love.

You're amazing, anon. Do you have this on tumblr? Because I'd reblog the hell out of it. And if you have more Bruce/Clark art you're hiding somewhere, please point me in that direction?

/super excited, grateful, and amazed OP who cannot believe her luck

ofc he'd have the Bat-symbol on his chest. The color contrast is amazing and if it didn't have cock showing, I'd totally hang it on my wall. (I share a house, so no nsfw things on walls.)

Damn. Of course Bruce would put the Bat-symbol there! I love their expressions, Clark looks absolutely lost in pleasure, and Bruce so tender and caring! <3

Oh, brilliant, anon - I mean, mindblowingly hot, obviously, but I love all the subtle details here too! As one of the other anons said, the placement of the Bat-symbol is PERFECT, and the expressions on their faces just slay me. And this feels like such a weirdly technical thing to compliment on such a gloriously porny piece of art, but I really love how the lighting came out on this, the places where the kryptonite glow does and doesn't land. In conclusion: *applauds*

Warnings for: canon-typical violence; blood; Bruce deifying Clark in that way he sometimes does; Bruce’s weirdly self-destructive behavior; Bruce just has a lot of issues, okay?; plot as foreplay

Nonny, I tried to hit the prompt, but I’m not sure if I succeeded.

William Shakespeare, you deserved better.

================================================================

AU where Lex Jr. hops right over the favs showdown to his next
phase of his plan——creating the kryptonian abomination. We’re
also going to assume that Clark & Lois are just really awesome
besties in this.

================================================================

Chapter 1: Desperate Ground

* * *

On the day Batman chose to kill the god with the face of a man, an angry squall line that stretched across half the eastern seaboard broke across Gotham city. The Bat-signal slashed through the rain, reflecting off of the massed underside of stormclouds. He had stabbed the kryptonite spear into the earth, arranged the field of battle to lead (as he would be inevitably pushed back) to his weapon of last resort.

When Superman had ripped the Batmobile with his bare hands, he brought the fight to Gotham City. But the god hadn't chosen his terrain wisely: Gotham was the Bat's territory; and he had given Bruce time to prepare.

(He ran through the checklist. Sonic emitters. Anti-tank artillery. Smoke grenades. Weaponized kryptonite gas. The kryptonite spear.)

Bruce loved the classics. Sun Tzu said: on terrain with no way out, you take the battle to your enemies.

Bruce flexed his fists in their armored gauntlets.

Let him come; he was more than prepared to bury the Bat tonight.

Rain sluiced through the narrow channels of the cowl as Bruce tipped his face to the sky. The seal between the armor and his skin was tight, but not waterproof. Water trickled through the cracks, cold as it ran down his spine. Eliminating a future tyrant would be the greatest victory the Batman ever claimed. If it took his heart's blood to do it: so be it. If it required this quiet slight against his dignity (how did the rain manage to slide there?; there was a secondary thick seal between the neck and the cowl.), then he would give it.

Bruce limbered up his joints to make sure they wouldn't lock up in the heavy suit.

He waited in the center of the intensifying storm.

* * *

By the time midnight chimed on his HUD, a certain heaviness pervaded the abandoned forecourt. Bruce admitted the alien would not come. The signal had lit up the sky for hours. Aside from a few curious GCPD flatfoots poking around the abandoned major crimes unit (who had been sent scurrying back into the night with an uncivil growl), nothing.

He tapped the side of his cowl to activate the HUD’s external connection. A quick scan of the Bat’s aggregated news feed presented no active disasters at a national level, nothing on a worldwide level that, based on Superman’s historical activity patterns, would require more than a few minutes of the alien’s time. What could possibly absorb the Superman for this long? Some unaccounted-for variable had skewed the plan. Had the Bat miscalculated the alien’s anger?

The spotlight flickered and whined as he disengaged the power.

Bruce activated his comms. A gentle click, then the hum of an open connection. No one spoke for a minute in the weighted silence.

"I trust you do not assume I condone your course of action, Master Wayne.”

Alfred’s acerbic tone flooded Bruce with relief. He wanted to say, I don’t deserve you. He wanted to apologize for his insane quest. He felt unaccountably glad that he’d been given another chance to try to shape a goodbye, that wasn’t as self-serving as his last had been.

“Never,” Bruce said, instead.

“I am merely relieved to know that I don't have to schedule your funeral. Catering an auditorium-sized crowd is brutal, even for the Wayne name."

Bruce let out a bark of disbelieving laughter. "It’s a temporary stay of execution only, Alfred."

"He didn't show."

"Not very punctual, our alien," Bruce agreed.

"In all of your planning, did you ever reach any insight as to how or where to find our alien?" The sarcasm seeped through Alfred's tone, and Bruce felt a mixture of relieved affection and bitter disappointment. Alfred’s sarcasm was as good as forgiveness, but—

Bruce’s disappointment in the Bat’s failure was undeniable. The Superman’s motivations and reactions had always been taken as a given.

Stupid, Bruce thought. He had been willfully blind. Beyond the Superman’s public appearances, his research into the alien had been utterly stymied.

(If he was a paranoid man (no one would accuse him differently), he’d believe that the information had been expertly buried. But who would have the subtlety to go toe-to-toe with the Batman—certainly not the primary-color hero-hopeful.)

He had stopped being a detective, until he had found Lex’s hidden information cache. Among the other metahumans, it had outlined the Superman’s powers in terms of limits and and equations, and conjectured his weakness…

(Bruce had smirked when he realized that Lex, too, was only working off public data.)

“He can’t help himself, Alfred,” Bruce’s voice cracked, ugly, as the depth of his failure was felt. “He has the power, and he acts on it. He cares, but only within limited boundaries. He responds without humor, without emotion. When his life is on the line, everything else becomes irrelevant. When his authority is questioned, he responds with hostile action. He should have—” His tone lost its sharpness, aimed for conciliatory, and fell into marginally-less-harsh-than-usual command. "Check the military frequencies. If there's an event that I don't know about, I need—"

A sharp discharge of lightning that had nothing to do with the storm cut across the sky. Unearthly harmonics washed the sky to a green pale.

"Sir, an explosion in Metropolis!"

Moments later, a streak faster than thought cut through the storm clouds, and blew them apart with unimaginable force.

Bruce shut down the warmth that curled over the sickness in his heart.

"Will you need the Batwing, sir?"

"Yes. Now, Alfred. Please."

* * *

The night had become the third reel of a sci-fi-horror film as an alien trashed Metropolis for the second time in as many years. The Bat barely thought as he catapulted himself out of the Batwing cockpit mid-air, and launched a grapple line to pull himself into a tight arc. He released the line at the apex of his swing, landing heavily at the alien’s back. He recognized Diana at the alien’s side, dressed for war.

Bruce’s entire body tensed to be this close to the alien. His fist clenched in the armored suit. The spear was in Gotham, but he could still…

A savage satisfaction crossed Diana’s face. “Now we are three,” Diana said with grim delight.

The alien turned to him, haggard and bleeding. His eyes warmed just a touch, relief and—gratitude?—mingling in the determined set of his face. Bruce startled, but schooled himself to impassivity. Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Superman dragged the back of his hand across his bleeding lip; Bruce’s eyes helplessly tracked the motion. Superman bled. Worlds burned to the ground in that moment. Bruce closed his eyes, opened them, and with his preconceived notions of the Superman in tatters, somehow a slightly different reality greeted him.

Superman—far from the remote savoir who hovered over the outstretched hands of terrified mankind—looked young. One of his hands worried the edge of his cape. He sucked at the place where the rest of his blood had pooled, tongue darting into the corner of his mouth. Bruce could not for the life of him find another place to look, as his pulse slammed into overdrive. The god with the face of a man—blinked.

“Does this answer your question?” The alien asked, calm as you please, too earnest to be—Bruce’s brain stuttered. Was Superman joking with him?

Bruce settled on asking the only safe question he could think to, and the alien and Bruce settled into a pattern of question-response. When Superman suggested taking the creature into space, Bruce rounded on him with contemptuous disbelief.

“Not while it’s still got fight in it. We need to control the field of battle, or we've already lost.”

The alien seemed to understand the source of Bruce’s frustration, transparent as the walls of his lake house. “I underestimated Zod. I won’t repeat that mistake. Taking him to space—I could save lives.”

The alien had miscalculated his ability to contain a foe of similar or greater strength. So Superman hadn’t been uncaring; he was just ill-prepared. The Bat knew which he considered the greater sin.

Diana’s shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. Bruce could only imagine what she thought. “Do you have an alternate strategy, Knight?”

Bruce shifted his gaze from Diana back to Superman. He couldn’t forgive the alien, he couldn’t give up his all-consuming anger: it was too familiar, too old, calcified over older despair (pearls scattering in a dark alley, a bloody crowbar dropped in a pool of water). Power corrupted all of the good men it touched in this world. But as Bruce watched the abomination roar, spew its death-born light into the sky, a new anger took hold. This was Bruce’s goddamn world. No monster would be tolerated here.

Bruce re-calibrated his mission parameters. The decision took only an instant to process. “Contain, subdue, kill,” Bruce snapped, as he reassessed the battlefield.

“I’d love an idea about how to do any of those things,” Superman said, a touch of sarcasm, and a touch—warm, like he genuinely meant it.

“I’ll let you know,” Bruce returned with a half-smirk. Their banter came so easily.

Under any other circumstances, Bruce would say that he was flirting.

Unreal, he thought.

The uneasy alliance scattered, and the fight began in earnest.

* * *

“We have a problem,” Bruce growled, as he watched the creature’s power levels climb in his HUD. Moments later, he was surrounded on both sides, as Diana and the alien formed a wall around him. A blast of energy lashed the air, and Bruce’s teeth clenched, angry and helpless and burning to kill something.

“I could contain it in the scout ship—”

Bruce suppressed the sarcasm that threatened to spill over his dispassionate assessment of how completely idiotic the alien could be.

"Distract the beast," Diana said. Bruce knew a command when he heard one. So, apparently, did Superman. The alien tipped his head once, and re-engaged the creature.

"Knight," she said moving into his line of sight, pulling his attention away from the earth-shaking clash of fist against flesh. "What are your resources? Do you have anything that can—" her eyes flicked back towards the battlefield. Kill his kind, was the unspoken part of the question.

Bruce’s Superman plan unspooled in his mind, hiccuping and racing ahead a little drunkenly. The Gotham docks were two square miles of deserted warehouses. Bruce had intimidated, cajoled, bribed the area clear for this night.

"Lead them both to Gotham," Bruce yelled, sprinting toward the Batwing.

Diana joined the fray with a glorious shout. A second later, Superman hovered next to the open canopy of the plane. Bruce punched in the startup sequence on the engine, and before Superman could ask the question so clearly on the tip of his tongue, Bruce cut in: "Is it Kryptonian?"

Superman turned from him, and narrowed his eyes at the beast as Diana parried its blows with her shield. "It's cellular structure appears to be more similar to mine, and more dissimilar to yours. It’s mostly Kryptonian."

Faint but definite surprise floored him. Had he just read the creature’s DNA at a distance, with his eyes? Bruce couldn’t help himself: “Lex’s files on the Superman were criminally uninformed.”

Superman jerked his head back to Bruce, and looked at him with the same penetrating gaze. The emotions that crossed the alien’s face in the slow march of epochs: wonderment, confusion, (fond?) disbelief.

This was it. His big advantage, gone in an instant if he offered—"I have a weapon that might work," Bruce said quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

"Bruce—" he murmured, the subsided. Bruce struggled to keep shock from registering on his face. The alien knew? What did that mean for his—no, not the time to throw himself off that emotional cliff.

"Gotham port," Bruce reiterated, the anger (or something like it) burning high in cheeks. "Bring it there, and I'll kill it."

“Okay,” Superman said.

As easy as that.

As thought Bruce hadn’t just admitted he had planned to kill him.

“Wait—” Bruce’s gauntleted hand shot out to grip Superman’s forearm. He squeezed until he felt the immovable bar of his arm through the armor. “Who are you?”

“Really, Bruce?” The name slid across the Superman’s tongue like silk, tasting it. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” Bruce ground out. Because if he was going to trade the Earth’s future to stop the destruction now, he would have the alien’s name for it.

“Call me Kal.” Superman lingered. He edged closer, leaning across the Batwing cockpit. He flashed the Bat a small, but genuine smile. In a quiet voice, he said: “Who knew that you’d be saving the world tonight, huh?”

“I had an inkling,” he said dryly.

Alfred’s disbelieving snort as he gunned the engines was his reward.

* * *

"Let him come," Bruce whispered into the dark cloister of the decrepit building. His voice rebounded off the defaced walls of the abandoned Major Crimes building. He spared a thought for the engine of the GCPD. For the first ten years as the Batman, he’d taken a stand here against mob corruption, the Joker, countless freaks in costumes and the men who sought to master Gotham.

He hefted the spear into his hands, and waited for his unlikely allies to bring him a monster beyond anything he had faced in the cowl.

Alfred's voice cut into the comms channel. "You shall live, Master Wayne, and tell him in his grave, 'thus thou dies'? Will you kill him after you dispatch your current problem?"

Bruce stared at his hands numbly.

“That’s not the plan anymore.”

The building seethed and shuttered as a god and its monster smashed into the pavement outside.

“Moment of truth, Alfred.”

“You were never meant to slay gods, Master Wayne.”

The Bat grinned; he very much disagreed.

* * *

The joints in Bruce’s shoulder screamed its pain as he held the kryptonite spear steady, and drove it further into the beast. Diana held it at bay with her lasso, its arms tangled up in the impossible golden rope. He felt the moment when Diana’s hold went slack, and Bruce knew that his moment had come. This was the death he hadn’t prepared for, but was ready to accept instead. Bruce’s mind spun through all of his unfinished plans, undone by his arrogance.

He heard the whizz-hiss of the grenade launcher.

And a second before the kryptonite gas could impact, he felt himself caught up in impossibly strong arms, air biting his cheeks as the momentum rocketed them through the ceiling of the MCU. From their dizzy height, Bruce could see the shadows of the building obliterated by a spectacular discharge of light that tore through concrete, steel.

And Superman held him at arm's length, his grip tight on Bruce’s wrists, as if they were wrestling in the air. Or expecting Bruce to land a blow on his face at any moment.

“You meant to kill me tonight,” he ground out, as they flew away from the explosion, but not as fast as Bruce had seen him move. The tone wasn’t accusing; it was utterly exhausted.

An idea curled through Bruce’s mind. He hadn’t seen the fight between the monster and the Superman, but he suspected it had taken everything for him to deliver the creature to the Gotham docks.

Bruce tested the theory. He yanked his arm, hard, from the alien’s grip.

Superman's grip gave out. It was no stronger than a very strong human. He seemed unable to hold Bruce or himself in the sky, and they plunged toward the ground. Their impact cratered the pavement. The suit cushioned most of the impact, and Kal grunted wetly as he took the rest of the Bat’s weight.

What a night, Bruce thought, thrilled. And it wasn't even over yet.

His mission parameters slotted back into the groove they expected the night to take, like a river returning to its course. His blood was up from anger or its nearest equivalent. Violence rolled off of him like a miasma.

He shoved off first, gripped Kal’s hair and pulled his head back. The column of Kal’s throat worked. The rain had stopped, and Bruce felt an odd disappointment that he wouldn’t be able to trace a droplet of water as it raced down and through the grooves of his skin.

“I did,” and he smashed a fist into that perfect face.

Kal’s head whipped around, and more blood spilled down his lips. It didn’t even take kryptonite to break his skin, now.

“You’re a mess from the fight,” Bruce hummed, his body running on pure instinct.

“Bruce,” Kal gasped. “We don’t have to do this.”

The path in front of them was all broken concrete, churned up from their fall, or from the fight that Kal and Diana had fought to draw the beast to Gotham. Bruce advanced, as Kal uncharacteristically, stumbled back across it.

“I had one goal tonight, Kal,” Bruce seethed. “I die, or you do. You had your out. You could have let me—” he doesn’t, can’t say die, not yet.

Kal stopped, drew himself up to full height, and lunged unsteadily at Bruce.

“No!” Kal said as his hands closed over the cowl desperately. “I couldn’t have! Do you understand nothing, Batman?”

“I understand power, Superman—” if he was going to do it, Bruce would throw his title back in the alien’s face. “I understand that you’re not a man. I understand that if there’s even the slightest chance that you decide it’s easier to impose your will, than be guided by our consent—”

“No one else dies,” Kal said. “No one!”

In one smooth motion, he tore the cowl off of the suit. That show of strength cost him, as Kal stumbled back with the helmet in his hands.

The biting cold as his sweat-slick skin was exposed to the night air shocked Bruce out of his anger for just one moment. It was enough for Kal to regain his feet, for his face to become grim. He hovered a foot off the ground. He looked every inch the Son of Krypton. Past exhaustion, past reason, the blood sang in Bruce’s veins. He would do anything to chase that feeling.

Anything.

Bruce crouched and leapt, his fist clanging against Kal’s skin. Superman’s head snapped back as he grabbed Bruce, and rolled them into a clumsy throw. It took only a twist of his body, and Bruce landed on top. Kal groaned then, long and low.

“If you wanted it, I’d be dead already,” Kal said, his voice full of some unnamed emotion. “Bruce!” he gasped.

The comm cracked in his ear. Alfred was all business. He had heard some of the worst moments of Bruce’s left broadcast across the two-way device, and never once broken their mission-critical code of non-interference. Apparently the world’s hero begging (for his life?) was one line too far. “Master Wayne”—Alfred’s cold fury cut through Bruce’s emotional haze—“did you not just tell me that this wasn’t your plan?”

“I know that!” Bruce snapped, at Alfred, or Kal, he wasn’t sure. But he ripped the comm out of his ear, and flung it away from him.

“You’re not a man,” he seethed at Kal, as he brought a hand up to that throat. That beautiful throat. “You’re—you’re—”

He pressed his face into the hollow of Kal’s neck, and inhaled. Sweat, and fire, and blood. He smelled glorious.

“In all of your days to come, I want to you remember—my hand—at your throat”—his voice cracked. There was no time to hear the alarm bells slamming into Bruce’s conscious mind, he’d already gone too far--and then he had nothing left to give, no anger left to sustain him, and he broke under that unbearable lightness.

He bent to the divot in his throat, and dipped his tongue against the skin. It felt faintly warm, and it tasted—it tasted—just as he imagined it would.

Bruce moaned like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Kal made the most confused, half-strangled noise in reply.

Licking the path that a trail of blood had taken, from collarbone to the apex of his jaw, Bruce decided that he wasn’t like a man who had nothing left to lose; in this moment, he simply did not care if he lost what little remained to him.

Kal cried out Bruce again, and bucked so hard he threw them up into the air.

He had every expectation that Kal would let him drop, but he found himself caught up in his arms again, held tight against his chest. He’s deadly silent, and Bruce was too. Superman’s strength was returning—or he burned up what was left of it—the grip constricting second by second. Squeezed to death. Somehow fitting: a ridiculous death for a man with the hubris to kill a god... And by god, but this silence was killing him.

“Say something!” Bruce seethed.

“Can you just—shut-up?” and Kal crashed their mouths together. Bruce opened to him, almost by rote. His brain hadn’t quite caught up with the latest development. Kal… wanted this? Him?

Yeah, okay. He was (maybe) ready for this too.

It was the hardest discipline of warfare, one he had mastered years ago. Bruce rolled his shoulders under the now-familiar suit: inhaled, exhaled. One by one he dismissed all thought of the outside world (Diana, the monster, Alfred) for this new battlefield.

The Bat's preternatural calm descended.

All regrets in their own time.

He pulled back from the frantic kiss, and his smile was all of the Bat’s.

“Oh,” Kal breathed out, reverently, his eyes widening in revelation.

“Oh,” the Bat repeated, and shoulder-checked Kal out of the air. As they fell (and he was more right than not, Kal was operating under a vastly depleted reserve of strength), the Bat shot out a grapple line to catch the nearest roof, caught Kal around the waist, and swung them both into a rough, frantic tumble across the deserted warehouse.

He laid a hand over the crest on Superman’s chest, and Kal—his pupils dilated, his mouth slack—was shattered by lust.

Yes, finally they fought on equal ground. The Bat had brought the battle to the enemy. He leaned town and took the kryptonian’s mouth, as his body sang with triumph.

* * *

RIP that Dark Knight Returns quote.

* * *

“Coward,” Kal taunted, when they parted for air.

The Bat only grinned in response.

“You’re wearing a mask. Take it off,” the alien commanded, as his hand ghosted over the side of Bruce’s uncovered face. His other hand was shoved between their bodies, scrabbling for the catches on the Bat’s armor.

The Bat shook his head. No. No. Oh no. The mask he was wearing was deeper than metal or skin.

He saw the moment when Kal noticed his fist swinging towards his face. He had pulled the punch, delivered it at half-speed. Kal ducked out of its path, reconsidered, and then resumed his original position. The fist smashed into skin denser than any human’s; the Bat’s knuckles throbbed indignantly.

“Let me see that,” Kal murmured, bringing it up to his face. “Is bruising your knuckles foreplay to you?

The Bat struggled, and Kal let him whip the hand out of his grasp. They squared off in front of each other, their chests the barest inch apart. He was breathing heavily, and Kal—Kal looked nothing like a god.

Kal rested a hand against his chest, softly. “How does—” he took a deep breath, panting the difficulty of the question. Difficult! For Him! Kal made everything seem effortless, even desire. “—the armor come off?”

“I wanted to kill you tonight Kal,” the Bat said, as though it was an answer. It had been years since the Bat had spoken without the voice changer. The odd rasp of the Bat’s voice tasted like gravel in his throat. His eyes devoured Kal, and saw the shiver the voice sent through his spine. Good. It eased the squirming discomfort deep in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t the only one out of control here. “I still might.”

“What—?” Kal was cut off suddenly as the Bat slammed his shoulder into the center of his chest. He put as much weight into it as he could, and they rocketed across the rooftop, and smashed through the skylight. Superman’s cape fluttered up around them. It cocooned them as they smashed through to the warehouse floor. Glass and wood slipped harmlessly to the floor.

Bruce looked up into Kal’s face, as Kal unwrapped his arms from around his neck. Kal had cushioned his neck. Because Kal didn’t want him dead. Idiot.

“Feel better?” He asked, humor dancing in his eyes.

“Fight back,” the Bat snarled, dizzy with lust.

“You like it that I don’t,” Kal whispered hotly in his ear, and god, yes, Bruce was so hard he could barely see straight. His hand groped out to find the edge of Kal’s face, and he slammed his head into the nearest crate.

Or at least, that was the plan. He couldn’t even budge the kryptonian. It felt like he was pressing against the gravity of a planet.

Bruce’s pulse hammered in his veins, and he knew, it was going to happen here, now, there was no stopping it. His fingers found to the catches inside of his gauntlets, and disengaged them. They fell to the floor with a portentous thunk. His hands were on top of Kal’s in a second, snaking them over the surface of his armor, pressing the kryptonian’s fingers into all of the invisible places where the suit came apart. The armor peeled away in sections, leaving Bruce in his black, skin-tight undersuit.

Kal licked his lips, and gave him a tight look promising dark, vicious things if he so much as tried to throw a punch now.

Hot fingers raked over his erection, and Bruce flared his nostrils. Through the heat-proof fabric, designed to reduce friction and compress his muscles, he had felt Kal’s desire.

“Touch me,” Bruce groaned. “Let me feel your fingers,”

Kal frowned. He said slowly, as though he was worried Bruce was missing a key information. “I am touching you. Right now.”

“No, goddamnit,” Bruce tried to tug Superman’s hands to the uncovered skin of face. “Let me,” he did not whine.

Kal relented. Bruce slid the palm of the man’s hand over his bare skin, and he could feel it now—the deep, burning core of heat that had only been tepid in his last touch. Bruce felt his skin scald under the touch. It could never, ever be mistaken for a human temperature. He nuzzled into it like a warmth-starved cat.

“How do you take off the suit?” The Bat rasped, because finally, everything inside of Bruce was on-board with this plan. He would fuck the kryptonian in the warehouse. He couldn’t stop himself at this point. Kal would have to stop him, if he didn’t want this.

Slowly, Kal’s hands trailed up to his shield, and he depressed it with his fingers. The suit tiled across his skin, peeling up in small pentagons, revealing inch after inch of unblemished flesh.

Bruce’s head bounced, as he fell to his knees. Lust choked out the last of his reason. He kneeled on ground that he would not cede. The kryptonian would be his, or the Bat would die.

He watched as the suit uncovered disappeared from his hips, his chest, the shockingly deep v below his abdominals. He had wondered how much of the physique was stylized armor, how much of it was Kal’s body; now, Bruce had his answer.

Kal held up the now-small crest that sat on his shield, complete naked. He tossed it into the tangle of the Bat’s armor and his cape.

Bruce groaned as if Kal had physically touched him. He felt his erection strain against his undersuit, the strange frictionless slip of the material over his cock.

“You have the oddest kinks, Batman,” Kal teased, his body language turned oddly shy, as though he had expected Bruce’s hands to be all over him right away. Bruce balled his hands into fists on his thighs, pinching deep into his own flesh. As haze-soaked as he was with desire, Bruce waited. It there was any mastery to be had over his body, it was for Bruce to wait for some goddamn permission to touch.

“It was always going to end up this way,” The Bat said. “When god meets man, one of them has to be on their knees.”

He smirked then, all Bruce Wayne.

Kal’s spine drew tight like a bowstring. “Your mouth, on me,” Kal ground out. “Now.”

Bruce’s hands slid up the man’s thighs, the smooth expanse of skin achingly pliant under his hands. He dug his fingers into the skin, and surprised himself by finding that Kal’s flesh let him.

“Don’t mistake this for surrender,” he warned, then braced himself against the ground, and swept Kal’s feet with a rough-and-dirty hook-kick. They crashed to the ground together, and Bruce got his mouth around Kal’s length and swallowed it down.

Kal arched up, his jaw working itself soundlessly open, shocked by the pleasure of it, then thrust up sharply into the waiting heat of Bruce’s mouth. The force of Kal’s thrust stunned him, but he kept his jaw around his cock, rode out the thrust, then pulled back with a long, trailing stroke of his tongue.

“Bruce,” Kal cried out brokenly.

Bruce grabbed at one of Kal’s hands, and shoved it into his hair, showing him how to grip Bruce’s head. Obligingly, Kal curled his fingers, but he only carded his fingers, feather-light, through the sweat-slicked strands. Christ. This gentleness was a gut-punch.

He reared back, and used both of his hands to shove Kal where he wanted him to go. He wanted that crate. He had ideas about that crate. Kal landed heavily on it, and it splintered under the force of their combined weight. Kal threw his head back and laughed, delightedly. He pushed them off it without even touching ground.

Oh god, but that was hot. He bobbed on Kal’s cock, and swallowed him down as deeply as he could.

He slapped at Kal’s thigh, who tensed, and fuck, it felt like he was slapping a girder. That wrist would need a splint tomorrow.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kal bit out.

Bruce gave him another good smack, and he reveled in the feel of Kal’s flesh giving way under his hand. Kal bucked forward, driving his cock deep into Bruce’s throat, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Kal tried to slide out, but Bruce just smacked him to drive back in.

Finally, Kal got it, and set up a steady rhythm of shallow, but powerful thrusts that scraped his throat raw.

He felt tension build in Kal’s body, felt his cock swell impossibly larger, and then spasm. Bruce pulled back, letting the few threads of come spill down his chin. Bruce slid back to sit on his heels. He had a question about that, he was sure, something searching and profound about kryptonian sexual biology, but all he could think was that he surely was broken, as he burned to do that again. With Kal. Now. Yes. Why was it so hard to think?

He didn’t even need an affectation for the Bat’s voice. He rolled his shoulders, and with a controlled swallow, he angled his face away from Kal. He kept his voice steady. Kal didn’t need to know this was the only thing he’d done tonight that had terrified him. Turning his back, willing, to his enemy. To his—his— “Unzip me,” he said, weakly.

Kal’s hands slid up over his shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he whispered against Bruce’s hair.

“That’s because I need you to get me out of this goddamn suit—”

“No, Bruce, you’re—” a hitching of his breath, and in that span of time, Bruce wondered what Kal had seen. “—You’re going into shock. You’re temperature’s dropping.”

He hadn’t remembered being injured. He hadn’t sustained any injuries, had he? The fight with the monster seemed so dim, now. Something trickled down his face. He swiped roughly at it with the heel of his hand. It came away bloody, and dripping.

“Bruce! Bruce!” He felt hands framing his face, gentle hands, infinitely careful hands.

“Alfred,” he said as clearly as he could, and then he surrendered to darkness.

There endeth chapter one. Author-anon would like to express her deep regretful for everything, like you wouldn't believe. Maybe we'll get some more actual hate-sex in the next chapter? I feel like I'm falling down on the 'hate' part.

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Page 47 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

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

Re: Fill: An Open Eye, Bruce/Clark, masturbation, fantasizing about Clark

Re: FILL: Forget-Me-Not - Bruce/Clark, branding

Re: Clark or Bruce/Clark, PTSD

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

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

Re: Clark/Bruce or Gen, batfamily feels

Re: Diana/Steve, Alpha!Diana and Omega!Steve

Re: 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/?)

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (4/?)

Re: 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: 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 (4/?)

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

Clark/Bruce- identity kink

FILL: ART -- Bruce/Clark, needle play

Re: FILL: ART -- Bruce/Clark, needle play

Re: FILL: ART -- Bruce/Clark, needle play

Re: FILL: ART -- Bruce/Clark, needle play

Re: FILL: ART -- Bruce/Clark, needle play

FILL: Regroup (1/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

FILL: Regroup (2/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

FILL: Regroup (3/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex