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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*____________________________________*

I've read this like twice just trying to figure out whether the sensation in my chest can even be translated into words. And I DON'T THINK IT CAN but I'll do my best anyway. :D

I didn't know I loved Clark with kids as much as I love Bruce with kids, but oh, man, I really do, and the bittersweetness of what he finds out just kills me. And I thought once I got to the next scene that I was done being killed of it, but then he ASKS BRUCE TO BE HIS BAD COP and I'm so. much. deader. Alfred! Alfred inviting Clark to watch Bruce from the cave, oh, god. And then COZY BAT-KISSING and KEYS and Bruce SO BRUCELY being all weird and stunted about Clark leaving, /o\ I JUST CAN'T.

AND THEN as if I weren't already thrilled enough with all of this, ♥MARTHA♥ YAY. Oh, anon, I will be so sorry to see the end of this fill, but so glad to get to reread the whole thing over and over and over again when it's done. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

This is too wonderful for words!!!!

<333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

CUTENESS OVERLOAD WITH THAT LAST BIT, OH MY.

Mine too, nonny, mine too. 8D

8D <3333333

(I sure hope so, because plot is Happening, and we may be a while before not!hatesex but maybe also actually!hatesex happens. I'm excited to find out which it's gonna be!

Awwwww, oh Clark. But seriously, their fight not-quite-sex is the hottest thing ever. Not to mention the actual sex once they get to that. :D The manhandling! Bruce getting Clark to fuck his mouth. Unffff.

SAME NONNY. The not-quite-fight, not-quite-sex was literally the BEST THING to write. I enjoy showing Bruce being a crafty and resourceful opponent, even against a powered Superman. I'm glad I got to work that into what amounts to shameless fight-fucking. <3

There is nothing you should regret. And hey, they can still remember they hate each other next chapter. ;D

Hehehehehehehe yanks on collar. Well, they will remember it, but it'll take a little while. But I'll take a second (or third) stab at the hatesex!

Nonny, I gotta say, you really rescued this fill for me. After I wrote this one, I was really down on myself (and still am if you've seen me talk about this fill anywhere else), because I felt like I totally blew it. I also had SO MANY errors that I had to edit this to hell and back before I posted it on the archive.

I've been finding reasons to write ridiculous AUs, and felt maybe, maybe this was one ridiculous and unnecessary AU too far?

thankfully a very gracious beta!nonny has helped and now there won't be so much angst from me because they've corralled much of my nonsense. beta!nonnies are wonderful. <3333

But basically: you convinced me to rescue Regroup from my big fic trashbin. So THANK YOU. <3

Not OP, but angrysex and hatesex are both hot, and wow does Bruce have issues.

Hopefully OP can find something to love later on, as I'll keep trying to reach for the hatesex. BUT I AM PLEASED THE ANGRYSEX WORKED OUT FOR YOU, because it's really hard for me to write a Bruce/Clark pairing where they straight-out hate each other. Bruce was just SO EAGER to trust, to pledge his life to being COMPLETELY DIFFERENT after he said three sentences to Superman. That's a man who loves quickly/completely/deeply, and then viciously suppresses it like a champ. It's out of that morass of feeling that I think a really angry/hate-y kind of dynamic might come around.

But like, plot. Nonsense plot's going to happen, and no one deserves that to happen to their fill, but *spreads hands helplessly*

Poor Alfred. I'm kind of hoping he nope'd out of there when things got intimate. Thanks for writing!

YES! I really have so many Alfred feels. I really enjoy--was it sparring!nonny or identity!porn!nonny, or perhaps another magical nonny who called alfred "long suffering". That's my single favorite description of him. It's like a Homeric epithet. (Which for Odysseus in the Odyssey is polutlos which means 'much-suffering' or 'long-suffering'. Alfred's the hero of his own story, am I right or what? 8D)

I think Alfred saw the way that fight was going, and very tactfully decided to let facial recognition review this next section for--MASTER WAYNE THAT'S NOT WHAT WAREHOUSES ARE FOR.

Maybe, just maybe, that warehouse won't be under bat surveillance.

For the sake of the security tapes.

That someone may have to wipe when they get back. Hmmm.

Thank you so much for commenting, nonny! <3

Author note: OP! I have discovered how I can maybe get hatesex to happen in 12ish(+) parts! Yay! Plot has to happen first, and um, its just trope-y ridiculousness. D:

Chapter Two: Scattering Ground

* (B) *

Bruce had the impression of being gathered up in strong arms--or maybe he only dreamed it. The air had the familiar tang of the Gotham seaside, and the arms were careful. Like the thing they carried was fragile. Wind whipped past his face as a chill began to set in his bones. He was tucked against something warm, but heat still leeched away from his skin faster than it could be replaced.

His thoughts scattered.

He remembered Sun Tzu.

Deep in an enemy's territory, linked together, men will fight without compulsion. They will follow discipline--they will follow devotion--and even to the death, they will not retreat. The Bat was the bulwark against the Superman; men stood fast against gods in capes, their faces contorted in furious passion. The Bat never surrendered.

But another memory crowded in, of Superman leaning across the cockpit of the Batwing, his smile small and private; and because against all odds, he didn't fear or hate you--he answered, call me Kal, his trust shining like sunlight. Bruce held onto that thought, until it too slipped from him in the dark.

* (B) *

The first thing Bruce saw when he opened his eyes was the winter sun slanting through a curtain of fog. Alarm thrummed through his body. Doomsday. Diana, clear the field. Where’s Kal. He readied the spear and-- He lurched forward, grabbing his knees, as his chest heaved. He felt a cool trickle across his cheek and he wiped viciously at his nose, expecting it to come away bloody. Bruce stared at his fingers. Water. He rubbed at his eyes, and frowned when he found them dry.

He had no memory of the flight here, but Kal must have--Bruce chanted a Nepalese mantra until his breathing steadied. Bruce focused on what he knew. Obviously Kal had flown him here, knew where he lived.

Not a disaster, Bruce reminded himself forcefully. He’d find a way to control that information later.

“Kal,” he called out. He voice sounded like it was scraped out of a barrel. He cleared his throat, but his voice cracked when he tried again. “Al--fred.”

Bruce braced himself against the mattress. He startled when he realized he was touching the metal bar of a hospital bed. He pushed himself onto his feet. His calves locked up, screaming bloody agony at him, and he toppled over. Bruce caught the railing before he landed on his face.

His entire body felt numb, and hazily, Bruce was aware that something wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t dressed like Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, waking up from an evening of overindulgence. Something tight clung to his skin. He barely registered the black material--the Lycra undersuit that he wore beneath his armor--before movement outside caught his attention.

He limped toward the glass wall, and leaned against it.

A gentle breeze stirred the brome on the near bank, and the trees on the far shore groaned with the weight of the snow. The stone floor glinted in blue and purple tones, bathing the bed in a gentle but cold glow. Over the silent cries of kingfishers darting across the lake, he watched the mist rise in slow but powerful waves. The shadows deepened, sharply angled across the narrow deck.

It was evening. He’d slept all day then, maybe even through the next day.

He scrubbed his hand across his face, chasing that moisture he’d felt before, but his skin was bone-dry. Smooth, too--not even a hint of stubble covered his chin.

Bruce pieced together what he knew. Doomsday was dead, and his allies were alive. He’d fainted after the battle under--unusual circumstances. Alfred hadn’t had to cut through his undersuit, so he couldn’t have been too badly injured. His stubble hadn’t even come in, so he was within an acceptable window for loss of time. He probably wouldn’t patrol tonight, anyway. A downed alien hostile meant increased military activity in the city, maybe even National Guard checkpoints. Patrol had been hell after the World Engine Incident, and that hadn’t even touched Gotham.

And then, because he couldn’t stop it, his mind spooled through the fight with Kal on the roof of the warehouse. That impossible tension that had snapped between them. Bruce leaning down, down, down, his tongue curling against sweat-soaked skin; Kal arching up to meet him, his breath caught in a wordless moan. Eighteen months of planning gone sideways…in circumstances that Bruce was certain were impossible to replicate. Under normal circumstances, Kal wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Kal wouldn’t. Full stop.

The fog lifted, but a persistent grayness covered the lakeshore. His mind felt sluggish. Hazy. And the back of his throat stung, antiseptic and coppery.

They’d killed the beast, and saved the world. So why, Bruce wondered, did it feel like failure?

* (B) *

When he was sure his legs wouldn’t give out, Bruce trekked back to the narrow hospital bed. He reached over to his nightstand--painkillers, booze, anything from the night prior. Evenings like this needed a stiff drink, or a deadening of his nerves. He must have broken his wrist against that bloody Kryptonian--

(He pointedly did not think about how it had broken.)

--and the old pain of the ripped-out cartilage in his knee did him no favors when the weather turned. His hands ran across a metal surface that was shockingly unfamiliar.

Two realizations occurred simultaneously: aside from the agony in his calves, his body felt strangely light. His knees were a little stiff, but otherwise...fine. The second was that his room had been completely transformed while he slept off the Doomsday fight. The paintings had been stripped from the wall, the nightstands and lamps evacuated. The only things left were the hospital bed and the strange metal object under his hand.

Even now, with the adrenaline haze of his nightmares fading, Bruce felt the prickle on the back of his neck. Something was watching him.

Bruce whirled quickly, expecting to see the Kryptonian. His calves protested again and he gripped the strange metal surface hard enough to bend chrome.

This surface didn’t budge. It made a whirring noise, the clicking of tiny internal rotors. Then it shifted.

“Is further assistance required for unit designated Bruce Wayne?” a melodious voice inquired.

Bruce looked down at the metal surface. His hand slid off, as it hovered up to eye level, metal plates expanding to reveal a long, metal tentacle-arm that was, against all odds of sanity or logic, clutching a Hello Kitty polysomnogram.

Bruce stared at the floating alien tech, and he had the distinct impression it was (politely?) waiting for his response.

“This is…new,” he said at last.

* (B) *

Bruce and the Kryptonian drone squared off against each other, Bruce’s mind stuck on the sheer incongruity of the pinnacle of Kryptonian technology, thousands of years in advance of humanity, and the cheerful pink-and-white medical screen that was displaying a crude thumbs-up in its blocky LCD.

Bruce reached for an answer. When all else failed... “No further assistance is required,” he said, coolly.

The metal tentacle-arm inched towards Bruce’s forehead, lightly touched it, and then withdrew. He had the surreal feeling that it was doing the Kryptonian robot equivalent of feeling his temperature with the back of its hand. It formed a small USB hook-up, and plugged it into the polysomnogram to feed it new data.

“We have registered a change in your underlying brain patterns. Unit Bruce Wayne is now awake. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, a bit helplessly.

He blinked for good measure. The world didn’t reform itself. He was not, in fact, dreaming this.

(Hallucination was still on the table.)

“I will inform the--” --the final word was in a dialect that Bruce didn’t understand. A metal film flicked down over the blue apertures that looked like a very stylized face. A series of blue pulses traveled up its casing. It communicated silently with whomever was on the other end.

Bruce was not grateful for the break in conversation. His surmises darkened with every turn around the available facts. He was alone, unarmed, unaware in his home. He had been unconscious for long enough to require medical monitoring, and in an unusual enough state for Alfred to allow unfamiliar tech into the lakehouse. A Kryptonian drone attended him, and apparently reported his status to Kal, who was--not here? Where was Alfred? Why was he allowing this?

Was he wrong about how long had he been unconscious?

“Ehworehth khuhp w khuhtov Zyvehsh,¹” the drone announced.

“What’s that in playboy?” Bruce said with a sharp edge, all teeth and fake charm.

“I have transmitted my report to Zyvehsh,” the drone repeated. Bruce didn’t understand the word, but he got the tone of it well enough: owner, master. “Apologies, unit Bruce Wayne. Language module damaged in crash.”

“Is he here?” Bruce demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. He felt naked without his cape.

“He will await you within the hour,” it said smoothly.

Bruce attempted to untangle that sentence in his mind. Was Kal going to be here in about an hour--or was Kal expecting him to come--arrive, arrive in an hour? If Kal was going to leave his tech laying about Bruce’s bedroom like he owned the place, Bruce was going to have a short, forceful conversation about upgrading the translation matrix on the drone.

Unconsciously, he ran a hand over his neck, tracing the path his own tongue had taken down Kal’s throat, the thrill of him crying out in confusion. Need. The astringent taste of ash and briny sea air on that smooth skin. Smoother than human, warming under his hands until it burned as bright as a star against Bruce’s mouth… Bruce breathed deeply through his nose. Christ.

Like a wounded tiger, he retreated into the shade to protect himself from an unexpectedly difficult opponent. He found himself in the lengthening shadows in the room, and he stared down the drone.

“Is Kal already at or near the house?” he asked again, trying to wring clarity from the mangled language module.

“My proximity sensors are only programmed for the units of this household, unit Bruce Wayne. At this time interval, Zyvehsh is normally located on the continent, designation Antarctica.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

Antarctica. Another piece of information that Bruce hadn’t discovered about the Kryptonian. And suddenly, he was angry, madder than he’d ever been. (Or had his anger from their fight simply worked away under the surface of his thoughts, waiting to resurface and choke him when the time was right?) Kal had fucked off to Antarctica, apparently. Who was conducting clean-up in Metropolis and Gotham? Who gave the alien the right to hide when the world goddamn needed him?

He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared down the metal face. The set of its eyes made it look almost curious. Silence stretched out between them, as Bruce’s rage reached a breaking point. He channeled that anger into tactical assessment, methods of restraint that would work based on its points of articulation, and he waited.

The drone must have decided that the conversation was finished, and it turned and glided out of the bedroom.

Or it would have, if Bruce hadn’t used the strange lightness he felt in his body to leap across the distance, and wrangle the drone into his arms. It fought to dislodge him, yawing dangerously to the side. Bruce pressed it inexorably against the wood paneling of bathroom wall until the veneer cracked under the pressure.

“Listen, you floating tin can,” Bruce said, low and dangerous, and miraculously, it stopped struggling and listened.

(It had been programmed to care about what Bruce wanted. Bruce felt a small stab of emotion, which he ignored.)

Certain he would be obeyed, he allowed himself the small luxury of an idle threat, as he didn’t know if his tech could even cut into the metal alloys the Kryptonians used. “Shut up, and take me to Alfred before I decide my next pet project will be coring out your internal processors.”

The drone obeyed. It gently bobbed, and resumed its forward motion.

Bruce lurched along with it, and found himself catapulted unceremoniously into the living room and into a much more pressing set of problems than discovering the means to dismantle one recalcitrant hunk of sentient metal.

The first problem Bruce discovered was that a dampening field had been set up around his room.

As he passed through it, the pressure of suppressed sound hit him like a full-body slap. Man was not meant to live in soundless space, and he lost contact with his senses momentarily. The room warped around him in rippling blue waves. When he’d crossed the threshold, the physical disorientation subsided but Bruce’s unease remained. Just how much new tech had Alfred or Kal, or both, set up in the lakehouse while he played Sleeping Beauty?

As he regained his equilibrium on the other side of the field, he realized his second and third and fourth problems were, in all probability, one very complex problem that couldn’t be solved by punching.

He heard loud voices arguing with each other through the glass walls, one of which was as familiar as the day was long. Alfred and another man--Bruce’s stomach sank when he realized it wasn’t a WayneCorp employee--were on the veranda. Both of them looked, by turns, defeated and pissed off. Alfred turned, a wan, disbelieving tightness around his mouth. Interrupted mid-harangue. From the disgruntled look, he was probably about to drop his coup-de-grace on whatever poor, deserving soul had crossed him. That wasn’t Bruce’s problem (yet).

His problem was that he was standing undressed in front of a glass wall where a face that wasn’t Alfred was making a fish-gaping O of recognition. That face belonged to a reporter, who pushed his glasses back up his nose as though he’d just gotten the scoop of the century. Bruce had met him once, at Lex’s library charity, and he’d hounded Bruce relentlessly about the bat vigilante. The newshound had almost caught him in Lex’s server room, but by the time Bruce had slipped out, he’d vanished on the trail of another lead. If anyone was going to add Bruce Wayne and bored billionaire together to get Batman, it would be him.

Bruce could melt back into his bedroom, brush it off as sleeping in a compression suit. A preening middle-aged billionaire might do just that to keep their figure. It was the latest fitness craze; the lie wouldn’t even be that far-fetched.

Except that the Kryptonian drone chose that moment to slam into his back. Bruce stumbled fully into the light.

Alfred’s arm came up to physically block the reporter from entering the house. Not that it mattered; they could just as easily see in it as Bruce could see out of it. From behind the barrier of Alfred, the reporter looked his fill, and Bruce felt his jaw set peevishly.

Problem four presented itself only a moment later, when the reporter’s eyes flicked down to his chest, then back to his face, in a complex play of emotion.

Bruce followed his eyes down to his chest. He should be safe: the undersuit had no bat-insignia on it. Nothing that would mark it as the Dark Knight’s kit.

Except he wasn’t wearing his undersuit. Problem four.

He was wearing Kal’s suit.

Bruce swore creatively.

1 Translation: "I have spoken to my leader."

author-anon again, I wish I could edit. I needed to add HUGE PROPS TO MY BETA!NONNY FOR THIS SECTION. <3

Bruce might be looking for people to create the Justice League, might even be looking for Clark specifically. Anyway, they meet, it doesn't go as either of them thought because they flirt/fuck/are obviously into each other yet wary at the same time and then there's the mess of secret identities, super powers and saving the world.

*cries over how amazing this prompt is* <3333333

ayrt

<3333 I want it so bad!

Incentive:

http://palpattine.tumblr.com/post/147858561377
http://dailydccu.tumblr.com/post/131297232275

~~Narratively it's interesting but they're basically at their hottest there, and I am weak, so weak \\\\o////~~

ANON I LOVE THIS. Bruce and his immediate need to know precisely what the hell is going on. The fact he uses his stubble to gauge how long he was out is a great detail.

Bruce felt a small stab of emotion, which he ignored.
brucewayne.txt

I love his interactions with the drone, cute. :D I'm immediately sitting up straight and paying attention to all this kryptonian tech in his house.

Alfred, yesss. And are you going to spoil us with some identity porn along with the hatesex? I hope you are. Oh, nonnie. <3

He was wearing Kal’s suit.
*THRILLS*

:DDDDDDDDDDD I see you've been over to the friending post and now know what I meant, but I'll take the opportunity to say: YAY THANK YOU FOR THE REC THAT WAS AN AWESOME MARATHON ♥

/o\ :D Oh, OP, thank you so much - I am lucky to have YOU because without your prompts what would I fill??? WAY FEWER THINGS, I TELL YOU WHAT. And you're so kind, accommodating my obsessive scheduling by being around LIKE ALL THE TIME, I don't think you've missed a part yet and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. ♥

Clark is being such a sweetheart, the way he thinks about how he's not really doing this the "right" way

:D Haha, thank you! I'm glad Clark's attitude is working for you here, and also the way he thinks about Bruce - I'm so predictable, /o\, but I just really love it when the immensity of Clark's feelings kind of sneaks up on him. OH CLARK

Someone accidentally fell for a certain rich playboy, huh?

What? Who? Clark's not in love with anyone right now! Don't be silly. ;D

I absolutely ADORE this juxtaposition

\\\\\\o////// YAY THANK GOD. :D I really wanted to try to make as much sense as I could out of a Clark who worked with Batman okay on the day of his death but was wary of Batman after coming back to life. And it occurred to me that while he hadn't had time on the day of the fight to be fucked up about his helplessness there, running with the coffin trauma the way I did meant that suddenly in retrospect that aspect of the fight could haunt him a lot more. SO. I'm thrilled that makes sense to you! And so delighted by your excitement, and basically PLEASE LIKE THE NEXT PART OH GOD /o\ ♥ ♥ ♥

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Haha, no worries, anon, I will accept squee at any level with all the gratitude in the world. ♥

Weaving his trauma with Batman in to his trauma of being in the box punched me right in the gut (in a very amazing way)

/o\ :D Aww, thank you so much - this sounds weird to say when you've called it a punch, but I'm so glad! I loved the idea of fitting those situations together the moment it occurred to me, and I'm just delighted it worked for you.

Martha's casual "Batman brought it by" made my whole week

Oh, gosh, I'm repeating myself already, but I'm so glad! ;) Martha and Batman interacting, even if it was only for a minute, was one of my favorite things about the movie, and it's a guilty delight to be complimented for ... shamelessly indulging myself wrt that dynamic. :D So pleased you're enjoying this, anon, thank you!

I love that Clark feels like he wants to hold a grudge against Batman but that Superman *shouldn't*

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDD Haha, I'm glad to hear it, anon, because that's definitely going to keep being a thing! I find myself kind of fond of the idea that Clark really tries to hold himself to certain standards as Superman, and sometimes struggles with it. ♥

I CAN'T WAIT FOR SUPERMAN AND BATMAN TO MEET PROPERLY. AND THEN DIANAAAAAAAAAA

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD OH GOD I ONLY HOPE YOU FIND IT HAS BEEN WORTH THE WAIT

/o\ :D As always, I am just so so delighted and thrilled (and, lbr, relieved) that you're enjoying this so much. ♥ YOU'RE ALL JUST FAR TOO GOOD TO ME. *gross sobbing* Which is great, because remember back when I said I was thinking this would be fourteen parts?

... Yeah, I was full of shit. :D So please continue to enjoy me making things up, cribbing trivia off the DC Wiki, and indulging my own worst storytelling impulses, because there's probably going to be at least another 20k of this to get through. \o?

It's almost like the city wants to help Clark find his feet: after two blocks he realizes what direction he's headed in, and sure enough, the cop cars are joining up with a perimeter the police have established around the good old First Metropolitan Bank. Clark had stopped—oh, it had to have been at least three or four attempted robberies there, before he'd died. He practically had a routine.

He focuses his hearing past the crowd forming outside the barriers, the gasps and cries of, "It's Superman"—and he tries not to let himself get distracted. (They sound so glad to see him. They—they wanted him back.)

There have to be at least twenty thieves: well-organized gang, but then anybody who tries to take on the First Metropolitan typically has some kind of plan in mind. There's someone else inside, too, someone with a cape swishing after them, who hits hard but isn't killing—and, catching up to them, someone heavier, moving a little more sneakily, who looses grappling lines at things with soft thunks.

Batman. Batman and this Wonder Woman, and they probably don't need Superman's help today, but it's as good a time as any for them to learn he's alive.

The two of them work well together. Which isn't a surprise, if they've been fighting crime alongside each other the whole time Clark was dead, and it's nice to think Metropolis has been able to rely on them while Clark was gone. By the time he's caught up to them, half the thieves are down—automatic weapons fire is rattling harmlessly off Wonder Woman's gauntlets, until a shadow sweeps by overhead; a hiss of cable, and then the guns involved suddenly leap from their owners' hands. Clark takes the opportunity to walk up and smack both shooters into the wall beside them. Not through it or anything—just hard enough to knock the breath out of them, to make them slide to the floor and want to stay there.

And it's enough: they notice. Wonder Woman's wearing a hooded cloak, and Clark can't pick out her features—at least not without an effort that seems impolite if she's trying to keep her identity secret. But she turns to look at him and then away, and he catches the barest curve of a smiling mouth in the play of shadows over her face. And Batman—

Batman drops from the corner of the ceiling, entirely opposite where Clark had seen him last. For a split second, Clark's mindless—he feels himself start to move, so fast he must be blurring, every inch of him ready to grab that dark shape coming at him and slam it through the floor—

But he catches himself in time, reins it in. It's not necessary. Everything's fine. Nobody's trying to kill him right now.

(At least not yet.)

And Batman's not swinging at him, it turns out, but past him: a third shooter in black had been coming up behind Clark. Batman catches her in the midsection with those boots—

(cold hard pressure, suffocating, Clark's throat closing up helplessly underneath it, no air)

—and she's smashed backward into the wall with perfect precision, just enough to drop her. Clark takes a look, and her skull's not even cracked.

"Thanks," he makes himself say, even though she couldn't actually have hurt him.

Batman drops to the floor, the cable he swung on winding itself back up with a little zipping sound. He looks at Clark from under that cowl for a long moment, silent; and then he turns away, toward the sound of Wonder Woman making someone wish they'd just stayed in bed.

Well. He's just as talkative and friendly as Clark remembers. Nice to know some things haven't changed.

It only takes about three more minutes to neutralize the rest of the thieves, and the police and SWAT have already started moving in from the perimeter. Clark sets one more unconscious criminal down carefully next to the others, and then suddenly Wonder Woman's at his shoulder.

"Meet us on the roof," she murmurs, hand warm for just a moment on his shoulder, and then with a swish of that cloak, she's gone.

He waits a moment, listening, until his ears find the scrape of Batman's gloves against stone—he doesn't want Batman to surprise him again. This is supposed to be a new beginning; if Clark startles a second time and punches Batman off the side of the First Metropolitan, it's going to be a problem.

Even if it would also only be fair, considering Batman tried to kill him.

But Superman doesn't hold grudges. Superman is generous—Superman forgives.

(Superman doesn't have nightmares. Superman isn't afraid.)

He lets them get to the roof first: it seems appropriate. It's their turf now, in a way, and he's the new guy. He doesn't land until they're ready, waiting for him.

His feet touch down, and for a moment the two of them just look at him. And then Wonder Woman says, "Superman," pleased and—and almost familiar? Where else has Clark heard that voice, besides the day—?

She lifts one armored hand and pushes the hood back, down, to settle on her shoulders; and Clark's so surprised he can feel the impassive Superman face he's been using give way—it's just Clark Kent in a funny suit who ends up staring at Diana Prince on the roof of the First Metropolitan.

He manages to quit gaping after a second, and darts a sidelong glance at Batman—

"He knows," Diana says.

Which means it's okay for Clark to burst out with, "Diana. You—" and then, all at once, he remembers what she said. "Were in Metropolis on the day of the battle."

"Just so," Diana agrees, the slant of her mouth gently amused. And then the smile slides away: she looks at him seriously, soberly, eyes clear. "I apologize. The gala was—not the right place to talk about it."

"Of course," Clark says, "I understand." And he does—what is the right place, the right moment, to say you don't recognize me, but I watched you die once? If anything, he should be apologizing right back at her. But he'd only seen her that day for a few minutes, hair down, shield up, armored and dignified and focused. At the gala she'd looked so different—but she'd held herself the same way, Clark thinks. She has the same face. He should have known the moment he saw her smile.

And he'd met her at the gala at all because—

"Does Bruce know?" he says.

Batman doesn't move; but there's a—a shift around him or in him, just at the edge of Clark's perception—something about the way he was breathing, maybe, or some other sound that should have been inaudible, except Clark didn't close the hearing all the way back down earlier.

Diana's face changes, too, something wry in the flat press of her lips. "Yes," she says, "Bruce knows."

Which makes sense, of course: he'd been there with Mom, after all. Batman had come for her, and she'd clearly talked to Wonder Woman, too—probably right afterward, and Bruce must still have been around for that part. No wonder he'd introduced them, Clark thinks, and abruptly wants to laugh. He must've gotten a kick out of that, knowing he was watching Superman and Wonder Woman clink glasses. The jackass.

Clark clears his throat. "And you—work together," he says. He does his best not to let it come out dubious (new beginning, new beginning). But he can't stop himself from shooting Batman another quick sharp look, and he's pretty sure Batman clocks it.

"We do," Diana says. "There are more out there like us, Superman, and it's our hope that we can—forge an alliance. A group of heroes, stronger together than any one of us would be alone. A ... Justice League."

The name's so—so blunt, so baldfaced, it ought to sound stupid; and probably it would, coming from anybody else. But Diana, with her chin high, her gaze steady, the light of sunset pouring red-gold across her face and casting her all in bronze and fire, larger than life—she says it and it sounds real, like a promise. She says it and it sounds like truth.

"And we'd be glad to have you join us," she concludes. "If you wish."

Us. Clark finds his gaze cutting sideways again. It all sounds too kind for Batman, doesn't it? Vowing cooperation, working hand-in-hand to save the day—a coward, Bruce had said, swooping around in the dark. And what could a man like that want with other heroes?

(—with his foot on Clark's throat, mask for a face, digging in with that kryptonite edge like he wants Clark in pain, wants Clark to die hurting—)

(—and Clark can't stop him—Clark can't move, Clark can't get out—)

But Mom's alive because of him. That has to count for something.

"And you agreed to this," he says to Batman, testing. To the concept in general—to asking Superman to be a part of it.

Batman stares at him for a long moment, unbending. "Yes," he says at last, in that low flat growl.

Very enlightening.

"You don't have to join the League to get our help," Diana says after a moment, "if you should find that you need it. You'll have our cooperation no matter what you decide. There are circumstances that could lead to the League raising arms against Superman," she admits, and Clark feels himself tense up all over—"as I hope the League would raise arms against me, were I to be controlled by an entity that wished to use me to do harm, or to otherwise act against my own chosen purpose in this world."

"Fair enough," Clark tells her.

"There will be no unilateral action taken against you," Diana promises; and then she tilts her head and smiles at him. "We won't try to kill you without talking to you about it first."

Clark can't help it: he grins. "Better terms than anybody else is offering," he says, and then looks at Batman. "And you agreed to that, too?"

"Yes," Batman says—right away this time, much faster than Clark had been expecting, and then he looks out over the street: straight into the sinking sun, light spilling all over him, as far out of the shadows as Clark has ever seen him. "Yes."

Clark looks at him, and then at Diana, and doesn't ask for time to think about it. He doesn't let himself. He trusts Diana, and—and he can learn to trust Batman, surely. If the League's going to have any chance of succeeding, then he needs to try, and he's Superman. He can't do less than his best.

"All right," he says. "Okay. You're—we're—a League of three, now."

Diana beams at him, brilliant, and reaches out to take his hand, just like she had at the gala. And Batman—

Batman looks at him silently. If he's got an expression on his face, Clark can't tell at all with the cowl in the way, everything but the mouth and chin covered. But he nods. And then he crosses half the roof in a rush, steps so quiet Clark has to bring the hearing back up a little bit to catch them; crouches down to get a hand on the stone edge; and drops away, out of sight.

:D /o\ Aww, you're much too kind, anon! You're about to get this in stereo when I actually reply to your comments, but: I'm so glad the feedback was helpful to you! ♥

*clears throat* AND NOW. I was too slow to comment on the first batch of parts, you'd already gotten everything on the AO3 before I even finished reading and rereading and trying to decide what to say. And, lbr, hopefully you are already totally aware of how much I enjoyed this! But in case you lost track of that in the midst of me yelling about commas, I SO DID. I just love the systematic edge to Bruce's thought processes, the things he is and isn't noticing and when he's noticing them. And the identity porn here is a) hilarious, OH BRUCE, OH ALFRED, OH CLARK, and b) IDENTITY PORN, OH LOOK FAVORITE THING :D

In conclusion, this is great and I'm so excited to be even the tiniest bit of help to you while you work on it. ♥

Bruce being a master of disguise means he's really good with makeup application. One day, Clark walks in on him putting on makeup for a disguise. It can be full on alternate identity a la Matches Malone, or simple kohl/grease paint to go under the cowl. I'd love to see Clark's fascination with seeing Bruce doing something so meticulously. Sexy times are a bonus, but not necessary.

So please continue to enjoy me making things up, cribbing trivia off the DC Wiki, and indulging my own worst storytelling impulses, because there's probably going to be at least another 20k of this to get through.

Nonny, you've just told us it's going to be Christmas for 20k more words. Good lord, this is a happy day. 8D

I have to do a quick blow-by-blow, because I was just endlessly fist-pumping through this scene.

Batman drops from the corner of the ceiling, entirely opposite where Clark had seen him last. For a split second, Clark's mindless—he feels himself start to move, so fast he must be blurring, every inch of him ready to grab that dark shape coming at him and slam it through the floor—

Hot damn, YES, GET HIM SUPERMAN. Oh wait, shit, no. Don't Superman. DO. NOT. GET. HIM. D: D: D: D:

"And you agreed to this," he says to Batman, testing.

I love how Superman wants to get everyone's opinion, have everyone speak for themselves. IT'S SO SUPERMAN IT HURTS, I LOVE IT. And I love the kernel of incredulousness behind it, because BATMAN. That's what Clark's brain is telling him. "BECAUSE BATMAN."

"Yes," Batman says—right away this time, much faster than Clark had been expecting,

Oh Bruce. <3333333

(Superman, this is Batman's way of saying "you're so awesome, I like you very much, please be on my team. We can be super-friends!" But translated through the Bat. I can't wait for Clark's Bat-to-English translator gets some fine-tuning. 8D)

"Okay. You're—we're—a League of three, now."

TRINITY, HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL YES NONNY.

If he's got an expression on his face, Clark can't tell at all with the cowl in the way, everything but the mouth and chin covered.

Bruce is silently freaking out. YAY, he is thinking. SHIT IT JUST GOT 100000% HARDER TO KEEP MY SECRET IDENTITY, he is also thinking. I WILL HAVE TO STICK TO MONOSYLLABIC ANSWERS IN ORDER TO AVOID DETECTION, might have been his third thought.

(Bruce, you beautiful bastard. I love how you write him, love it nonny. He's so protectively curled up around himself in this scene, I can imagine him retreating into his cape--or in this case, the night itself. My heart, nonny, my heart. <333333)

THANK YOU. Wow. I am looking forward to 20k more of identity!porn funtimes. <33333333

This continues to be awesome and I love it! DIANA! :DDDDD

OH, BRUCE, BB, Y MUST U BE LIKE THAT AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA >:D

Clark is too good for this world, he really is <3333

Chapter Two, continued. Many more hearts and thanks to beta!nonny. Here be: h/ without a lot of c, domestic ridiculousness, robots, Bruce being in way over his head, identity porn.

William Shakespeare would be so proud to know that straight from Laertes mouth, I have used his most famous play to provide dialog for this trope-y nonsense. Edith Wharton would probably be less proud, but only just.

* (B) *

Whatever indignity had been done to the lakeshore by the addition of the second Wayne house--years before the manor burned down, when Bruce had the idea of living within the long, skeletal grasp of its still-looming towers (and giving its echoing halls over to Gotham Academy as a boarding school)--Bruce felt that karma was being repaid right now. Men who live in glass houses should not nurture fantasies of transparency.

Long habit allowed Bruce to break the stalemate. Bruce Wayne sauntered over to the double doors, and a disheveled playboy billionaire poked his head out. out of the double doors.

“Alfred!” he said brightly, as though waking up at an indecent hour was a normal part of Bruce Wayne’s life--“--Skip breakfast and bring up a bottle of--hello,” he said as the reporter nudged his way around Alfred’s arm. “Have we met?”

“Yes.” The reporter’s eyes dropped to the shield on his chest again, and met his gaze in transparent relief, no doubt because Bruce had saved him from Alfred’s biting commentary.

Bruce returned the favor. He raked his eyes over the reporter in open consideration. He had an everyman quality--familiar, but unmemorable. Boxframe glasses interrupted his face. Sartorially, nothing noteworthy for white collar work: a well-cut brown coat over rumpled plaid, a striped tie that somehow wasn’t a disaster, black penny loafers that most definitely were. He held his messenger bag in front of him like a shield. Bruce (barely) avoided quirking an eyebrow: most people didn’t find Bruce Wayne’s eager blandness intimidating.

“Don’t think I remember you,” Bruce drawled, turning back to Alfred.

“Master Wayne?” he inquired gently.

Alfred’s entire demeanor was pinched in heavy emotion, even if he didn’t show it on his face. For all of the secrets that were secured by Bruce’s public charade, Alfred never could stand Bruce Wayne’s calculated rudeness. But his voice had gone soft and clipped. Alfred had used that tone in the days after--but Bruce was certain that Jason wasn’t the reason for that softness now. He re-evaluated his condition. A near miss.

“Oh, I’ll also need the Aston Martin for the--” Bruce fumbled for an appropriate lie. He had carefully not planned anything beyond the fight with the Kryptonian.

Alfred and the reporter shared an inscrutable look, which put Bruce on edge.

“The Gotham Children’s Fund,” Alfred filled in after a length of time.

Bruce leaned heavily against the door. And not just for affectation; his right calf was still spasming like he hadn’t walked on it for days. His voice came out rougher than he’d have liked. “Is that one the Regency or the Empire?”

The reporter stepped forward, and Alfred didn’t stop him this time. “Metropolis Regency, 10pm tomorrow. That’s my beat.”

“Where are my manners,” Bruce said, and Alfred preemptively scowled. “Bruce Wayne, of Wayne Enterprises.”

Bruce didn’t extend his hand when the reporter raised his for a handshake. He stared the man down with a half-lidded casual disregard that usually ended with a drink in his face.

“This is my property, and you’re trespassing.”

The hand shyly withdrew itself behind the shield-slash-messenger bag.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” came the reply, with a small half-smile.

Bruce’s face squeezed into an echo of Alfred’s frown. “There a reason you’re here, son?”

Kent’s eyes flicked down to the crest on his chest.

“You really don’t remember me,” he repeated slowly, and half-turned back to Alfred for confirmation.

It was a trait of honest men that when they felt themselves backed against the wall, they lie and do so poorly because they haven’t acquired the vital life skill of diffusing awkwardness with as much truth as the situation can bear. Bruce had practiced. He could make the truth ring with falsehoood, could give the shine of absolute confession to his basest lies. So when Bruce sucked in his lip, gently bit it and said, “Really don’t.” It wasn’t even dishonest. What did Bruce Wayne know about Clark Kent, except for the heated exchange of opinion that they had once, over drinks, in Lex Luthor’s foyer? Bruce’s expression shone with admission.

“Ah,” Kent said, who did not know Bruce’s lying faces.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Alfred muttered, who did.

Clark fiddled with his glasses. “I thought you’d recognize--”

Alfred threw a hand out, and smashed it into Kent’s, bumping into his frames. Kent had been working up the nerve to pull his glasses off to polish them--a nervous tic, and a bad one at that, by the look of consternation on his face.

“Now that you’re awake, it’s unseemly not to invite our guest in. Our friend Mr. Kent, of the Daily Planet, who is in fact known to this household and without whose help, we would be in dire straits. Mr. Kent,” Alfred hadn’t removed his hand from where it pinned the glasses to the man’s poor, flustered face. “Why don’t we keep matters simple for now? Join us for some tea.”

It was not a question.

“Yes. I’d love--” Clark said hastily. “I mean, tea would be fantastic. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No, sir, you don’t.”

Alfred passed by Bruce, and gave him a stern but silent behave that was no less heard for it being unvoiced. A genuine smile touched Bruce’s face, and he let it.

Clark gave him one last speculative look as he passed Bruce in the doorway. Bruce finally allowed himself to look down to his own chest, where Kal’s crest caught the weak rays of evening sun, transforming the silver material into something luminous. The black fabric cascaded over his form and shimmered when he moved--except at the cuffs and the detailing over the ribs.

As he breathed, it rose and fell with his chest.

It...didn’t leave anything to the imagination.

“Some costume party, huh,” Bruce joked, as his hand absently stroked the material across his forearm. He hadn’t even known there was a black version of the suit. The color seemed wrong for Kal, somehow.

“Very realistic,” Clark agreed, half-amused, half-horrified. His brow folded up in thought. “Does Superman really look like that in person?”

“Heh, no.” Bruce smirked, unable to suppress the image of the suit cascading over the sharp cleft of Kal’s hip. “He looks even better.”

Bruce followed on his heels, trying to convince himself that the breathless pause after his quip was simply part of the act.

* (B) *

Alfred bustled around the kitchenette like a polite dictator. He directed the reporter to reach the good china on the high shelf, and looked seconds away from pressing Bruce into service. Chagrined, Bruce slipped away from the domestic scene. It was bizarre enough to watch Alfred playing house without indulging in that fantasy himself.

He endured the barrier again to fetch a dressing gown from the bedroom closet. The gown was from Bruce Wayne’s half of the wardrobe; naturally, it fell open at the pecs, showing off the shield in all of its Superman-approved glory. He touched the crest, skimming his fingers across it like Kal had done.

(long fingers caressing the bottom point, and sliding up, up, up into the two spaces between the S, and then--)

The suit remained inert.

He plucked at the fabric over his stomach. All at once, pain like an icepick lanced through his armpit.

Bruce doubled over, and gasped through the pain. The material slipped from his fingers, and stretched back over his skin with a melodious twang.

The pain subsided, but a stitch in his side remained.

“I get it,” Bruce muttered. “The suit stays on.”

On his way out, he found a touch-activated biometric reader on the wall. He slotted his hand over the interface, and the field deactivated with an audible thunk. How the hell had he missed that?

* (B) *

When he returned to the living room, Bruce almost tripped against the Kryptonian drone. It had hung back in the shadow of the room divider. He couldn’t be sure the reporter hadn’t seen it, but the shadow was awfully deep, and he seemed engrossed in one of Alfred’s picaresque tales.

No reason to tempt fate, he decided. Bruce motioned at the machine to hide itself in his room.

The tentacle-arm wiggled the polysomnogram at him again, and motioned in the direction of Alfred and the reporter.

Bruce slashed vigorously across his throat, hoping it meant cut it the fuck out in Kryptonian as well. Bingo. The drone peevishly resumed an inert form. In the context of his spartan living room, the rounded metal hexagon looked like a piece of modernist art, or a very non-functional end table.

The metal surface rippled in a cascade of smaller hexagonals, until the polysomnogram appeared on its surface. That was...less easily explainable, but still fine.

The pink and white screen flashed. It read: D:<

Great. He was being back-sassed by an end table.

Bruce blew out a frustrated breath, and pinched his brow. He was losing contact with his character. Bruce Wayne wasn’t being harassed by alien emoticons in his own goddamn home-- and really he was going to have words with whomever had taught the drone. That wasn’t a problem that even existed in his world. Bruce Wayne wouldn’t care if he was caught hungover in a costume, so he shouldn’t. Bruce loosened the belt, and let the gown fall open to his navel. By the time he’d fought his irritation back to an acceptable level and turned to his “guest”, Alfred had set a tea service in the living room.

* (B) *

The three men drank tea on the low, uncomfortable living room set. Alfred had chosen this furniture years ago to make the place seem too sleek for entertaining, too streamlined for practical use. Alfred and Kent sat a shoulder-length apart on the couch, while Bruce had chosen the chair directly opposite and watched them over the rim of his cup. Kent’s knees were practically to his chest, and he wobbled as he settled his saucer against his chest. The entire gathering took on an awkward meet-the-parents feel.

The question was: who was Clark Kent? He was agreeable, obliging, uncompromising, honest and--admittedly--handsome, in a down-to-earth, middle-America kind of way. He had secured his job at the Daily Planet under the tutelage of Lois Lane, and had covered half-a-dozen international stories since he made his front-page debut with a scathing expose on the Metropolis Reconstruction Fund, half of which had been funneled into LexCorp shell companies and then miraculously recovered (Bruce stayed tight-lipped about his role in that recovery). His history prior to Metropolis was obscure. Kent mentioned waiting tables, and made a joke about pulleys that only a sailor (or a bat vigilante) would find particularly amusing. A half hour of awkwardly talking around the issue--making the most banal observations about the Gotham Knights’ losing streak that could reasonably be expected from a man who had run a Fortune 500 company in his younger days--and Bruce couldn’t put a finger on what made this Daily Planet reporter more well known to the Wayne household than any of Gotham’s society hacks.

He wasn’t without his points of interest. For instance: Clark held his saucer and cup like he was afraid they would break at any moment, but conversed with breezy sincerity. That combination of deep anxiety and philosophic unconcern--in Bruce’s experience those traits signaled a man who had hidden something so long, he’d forgotten it was a secret. For a man like Clark Kent, that secret was likely something just as elemental and prosaic as the rolling wheat fields of Kansas.

Bruce Wayne’s public persona skated by on the indulgence of society that thought him a little dim, a little uncaring, when both intelligence and compassion were in fashion with the ultra-rich. As such, Bruce Wayne was not normally confrontational when he was playing to the crowd, but now that the reporter was inside of his home, he felt cornered. The more ill at ease he felt, the more inane his conversation became.

When Bruce had resorted to philosophizing on monk-strap shoes to bore Kent out of what was left of the Wayne estate, Alfred thumped his cup down on its saucer.

“No coffee, Alfred?” Bruce asked, sipping his tea lightly.

“Make it yourself--after we’ve concluded our business.” Alfred squared his shoulders, and tugged at his waistcoat with the grim resolution of a man about to face the firing squad.

Bruce felt his world drop away with Alfred’s next sentence.

“What’s Mr. Wayne’s current cover?”

If Bruce Wayne had been on a nasty bender, it would be natural for Alfred to arrange a cover. That wasn’t what brought Bruce up cold. It was the familiarity with which both of the men fell into a conspiratorial huddle, instinctively turned away from the bedroom, away from what would have been his empty chair. Bruce’s attention skated out to the trees, covered in snow.

The realization, when it hit, bowled Bruce over. He, Kal and Diana had fought Doomsday in autumn. It was winter now. Bruce hadn’t been out for a night, or even a week. Months. It had been months.

The cup didn’t even rattle as Bruce set it down on the floor, and sat back in his chair to watch the conspirators across the gulf of everything he didn’t know.

Kent pulled out a notebook, and flipped over pages of pigeon-scrawl. He stopped on a page that appeared to be nothing but dates, numbers, names, places. “I had a sighting in Monaco three days ago that a few Gotham papers snapped up.”

“Credible?”

Bruce swallowed at that question. There was a story buried in that word.

“A mediocre photoshop from a previous trip,” Kent admitted. “But received well enough that I think that’s where we can plan Mr. Wayne’s re-entry.”

Alfred pulled out his tablet, his clearly non-civilian one, and tapped a few screens. Bruce breathed in sharply. Kent either didn’t notice anything amiss, or a butler with military-grade tech had become an unremarkable occurrence.

(He did shoot Bruce a small, pensive look, but Bruce was doing his best to ignore it.)

“A Wayne Enterprises plane out of Marseille will land tomorrow evening. It’s not ideal but--” Alfred lapsed into thought. Kent didn’t press for more details, and Bruce wouldn’t until he had Alfred alone. Alfred cleared his throat, and continued. “Naturally, Mr. Wayne should be seen as soon as possible to allay persistent rumors about his illness.”

Kent bobbed his head in agreement, and it was settled. Alfred tapped his screen a few more times.

“Was the picture at the Hermitage Hotel?” Bruce asked, as steadily as his voice would allow. Alfred glanced up with a tight grimace. Bruce shrugged back. What other material was there of Bruce on the Riviera?

“A balcony shot outside of the Diamond Suite villa. Seated. You’re, um, shirtless. I photoshopped out the bandages. It’s still very tasteful,” Kent reassured.

Alfred paled. So Kent didn’t know that, at least.

Bruce had stayed at the Hermitage hotel only once before--another one of those incidents that Bruce kept tightly locked down in a twenty year career of dealing with his physical limitations and moving on with clockwork efficiency. He shifted in his seat as he imagined a twinge in his lower lumbar, where Bane had splintered his vertebrae.

“I’ll back-date the suite’s charges to Mr. Wayne’s personal account,” Alfred said a little wanly. “Was Mr. Wayne spotted at any of the local nightlife...?”

The tips of Clark’s ears pinked. “The rumor is that he retreated to Monte Carlo with a, a--”

“Paramour?” Alfred supplied. Clark’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded once, sharply.

Bruce resigned himself to Clark’s answer. His public tastes swung to the socially vapid, extremely dull heiresses that he so richly deserved: Aliya Van Patten, or maybe Tara Pierce of the West Coast Shipping Pierces. Bruce Wayne would have to been seen with whomever the reporter had picked--at least twice in full daytime shots in the local papers before he could close down that cover and move on to the next Wayne escapade.

“She got a name?” Bruce asked flatly.

(Clark and Alfred both startled, as though they’d forgotten he was there.)

“I used a couple of shell accounts to speculate,” Clark said. “Short, gorgeous, blonde. Tall, brunet, um,” Clark clenched his hands around the teacup, and Bruce thought he heard the faint sound of porcelain cracking. “Male,” he added, finally, eyes darting anywhere but Bruce’s face.

“How delightful, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said with a lighter sarcasm than Bruce would have expected. “I believe you just nominated yourself to be Bruce’s date tomorrow night.”

Oh nonny, thank you for your comment. You have made me glad, because this chapter kicks off the main plot, and there's a bit of it before we get back to the hatesex. I hope it will be entertaining. <3333

The fact he uses his stubble to gauge how long he was out is a great detail.

Ahh, good! I'm going to be making shaving porn!nonny very happy in the *waves hand vaguely* future.

I love his interactions with the drone, cute. :D

Poor little guys really get the short end of the stick in the DCEU. I have so many feelings about Kryptonian service robots, and some of them are going to happen in this fill. I'm ridiculous, and this fill is ridiculous, and I hope kinkmeme forgives me for it.

I'm immediately sitting up straight and paying attention to all this kryptonian tech in his house.

Exxxxxxxxxxxxxxcellent. *steeples fingers* ^____^

Alfred, yesss. And are you going to spoil us with some identity porn along with the hatesex? I hope you are. Oh, nonnie. <3

Oh nonny, you have made my heart glad because YES. YES THERE IS GOING TO BE IDENTITY PORN. Not the amazing, character-driven, introspective identity porn of our beautiful identity porn!nonny. No. Ridiculous identity porn. You will question my sanity (and maybe everyone in the story's) by the time it is done. Everyone's doing their best, but in this world, 'their best' is not quite good enough.

every writer!nonny has to have their niche, right? I stake my flag on the isle of ridiculousness.

*THRILLS*

8D Best. possible. reaction. I am so delighted that you are enjoying! I'm trying the shorter-updates-to-maybe-get-some-reader-feedback. So far, so awesome. <3333

Beta-nonny, feedback in stereo is especially appreciated! I've likely said this elsewhere, but your responses have been feeding my enthusiasm for this fill. I'm trying to break 10k on the fill (and I think as of Part Six, I have!), and now I'm going to try to finish the thing, which poses its own herculean challenges. Your own excitement for this tropey nonsense is EXTREMELY motivating. Just: thank you. <3

I just love the systematic edge to Bruce's thought processes, the things he is and isn't noticing and when he's noticing them.

Yay! I am SO GLAD. I love fic from Bruce's perspective. His perspective is usually so controlled, but this Bruce is pretty fucked up, obviously not firing on all cylinders. But above that all, he's still the Bat. He's attempting to make sense of the world, and boy howdy, is it a world.

And the identity porn here is a) hilarious, OH BRUCE, OH ALFRED, OH CLARK, and b) IDENTITY PORN, OH LOOK FAVORITE THING :D

:D :D :D :D :D I am glad this identity porn meets with your approval, because that means so much to me. I figured kinkmeme could use identity porn from a different direction (kinky! xD), but on a more basic level, I LOVE identity porn that boils down to Bruce just not getting it. He's an incisive, frighteningly intelligent bat, but even bats miss the point sometimes.

Moreso than any other Bruce Wayne, BvS!Bruce either doesn't know or doesn't care that Superman has a secret identity, because he's too busy planning to kill the god that he imagines Kal to be. I appreciated that when we watched BvS in our group watch, I noticed that almost all of Bruce's video footage of Kal was grainy, at a distance, and really didn't show off his face. That kind of faceless quality of Bruce's intel lent the entire Kal project an air of...grainy, dehumanized threat-assessment (and then I get feels about how the US gov was gathering intel on Nairomi, using drones, ignoring the advice from people on the ground, etc.)

Before my meta gets out of hand. Basically: it isn't until Bruce tries to kill Kal that he sees his humanity. And since Bruce really didn't get to see Kal at his weakest, most vulnerable in this fill, he hasn't had that revelation.

In conclusion, this is great and I'm so excited to be even the tiniest bit of help to you while you work on it. ♥

<3333333 (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

*TWIRLHUGS*

I'm going to be making shaving porn!nonny very happy in the *waves hand vaguely* future.

You are the sun and the moon and the stars <333 /ayrt

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 56 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)

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

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

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

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

FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Bearded JL Bruce/MoS drifter Clark

Re: Bearded JL Bruce/MoS drifter Clark

Re: Bearded JL Bruce/MoS drifter Clark

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (12/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (12/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (12/?)

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (13/?)

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Gen or Bruce/Clark, makeup

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (13/?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (13/?)

FILL: Regroup (5/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

FILL: Regroup (6/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

Re: FILL: Regroup (4/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex