dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

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Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

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Still not sure whether this will end up being 23 parts or accidentally expand into 24. I mean, not that I've ever written more words than I expected, you understand. Unrelatedly, this part got so long I almost had to split it. *clears throat* Anyway! You have all been SO, SO PATIENT, and you have waited SO LONG for the identity porn reveal, and oh god I hope you like it D:D ♥

Overestimated. That's a good word. Neutral. Clark hadn't made an idiot out of himself, hadn't completely lost perspective, hadn't let himself get carried away thinking—thinking things he had no business thinking.

He'd just overestimated. Literally: he'd thought there was more than there was.

Being angry is easy; he does that for a couple days. It wasn't that Bruce had really given him the wrong impression, technically—he'd never said they were dating, or implied commitment in so many words. And even if they had both agreed they were starting to get serious, it would still have been fair for Bruce to stop Clark, to tell him if it wasn't working and say he just wasn't interested anymore.

But the way he did it is—Clark had at least thought they were friends, for crying out loud. If he'd ever imagined it, he would have thought Bruce would—what? Set aside a little time for it: be waiting for Clark instead of on the phone when he arrived, knowing what was coming; sit down with him and explain, saying things like—

(—assets. Assets.)

(—boring.)

—the spark is gone, or I just can't see this going anywhere. Maybe even with a companionable I still care about you—you know that, right? tossed in there for flavor.

Take more than five minutes out of his day over it.

As it is, it had been about a half-step up from a text message. Clark might have preferred a text, even; that way he wouldn't have had to look at Bruce's face while he said it, wouldn't have had to hear the words in his voice.

So: Clark is angry. And he rides the righteous wave of Well, fuck you too, Bruce! for a good satisfying while—until, of course, it curls in on itself and crashes, foams up over the shore of him, slides away.

Then he's mostly just tired; sad, and sorry, and wistfully heartsore. Bruce had been having particularly good sex, is all, that evening before the nightmare—but it's easy to forget that, easy to stare at the ceiling and flip back through the memories, the sensations, and ache with helpless quiet bitterness. God, it had been so good; and Bruce hadn't been bored yet, not that night—not with the way he'd looked at Clark.

He gets sick of himself for going back to it again and again, for remembering how thoroughly Bruce kissed or how warmly he'd smiled as if it meant anything. It hadn't, Bruce had made that perfectly clear—or it had, maybe, but didn't anymore. And really, it's a good thing that Bruce broke it off before Clark could—do anything, or—or say anything—

Considering how awful he feels, and that it's Bruce's fault, he really shouldn't miss Bruce as much as he does.

(Some people think kryptonite is the only thing in the world capable of hurting Superman.)

(Sometimes Clark wishes they were right.)

The righteous anger was kind of a boost to Clark's productivity. But now that it's burned itself out, he ends up staring at his monitor more often than not, absorbing the shapes of words he isn't actually reading; telling himself to forget about it, that Bruce undoubtedly has—that he's just going to need time to get over it, that he needs to stop thinking about what could have happened if he'd reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm and really had gone for that "last hurrah"—

All told, Ron has to lean over and tap him on the arm twice, raise his eyebrows, and point before Clark realizes his desk phone is ringing.

"Oh, uh—" Clark clears his throat and picks up. "Kent, Daily Planet."

"Clark," Diana says, warm.

"Diana," and god, it's such a relief to find himself smiling without having to work at it.

"If you aren't already busy, I was hoping perhaps you'd like to get lunch?"

As if maybe she knows, Diana doesn't pick one of the high-flying places Bruce likes—liked—to eat at. It's a neighborhood restaurant instead, the kind of place with TVs mounted in the corners of the room and a bar wrapping around part of one wall. But when Clark spots her and waves, she looks at him and smiles: no trace of pity or sympathy, just bright, pleased.

Bruce hasn't told her anything, then. Clark can't decide whether that's a kindness or something that should make him angry all over again.

It feels like more of a kindness, he has to admit—at least at first. Diana doesn't make fun of him for ordering about three plates' worth of food; she laughs and gets two entrees herself, plus mozzarella sticks. "My home doesn't have quite so many fried things," she tells Clark, putting two in her mouth at once; and then, around them, contentedly: "I love them."

And if she knew, she wouldn't have said it. She'd have been calm and quiet and serious, and given him good advice—she wouldn't laugh, wouldn't point her fork at him warningly when he takes a mozzarella stick for himself. She'd ask him how he was, dig it all back up, instead of telling him about her work: that she'd been invited to evaluate a collection of antiques, three-quarters junk. "And then at the very back, a real pelike! Genuine, perfectly preserved, and I recognized it right away. I knew the woman who made it—of course I couldn't tell him that," she adds, "but it was so good to see some of her work again." She smiles at him, and then leans in and says a little lower, confessional, "I chose this job because I knew I could do it; but I hadn't realized how good it would be to see these other things like me, that have made it all this time."

Clark thinks about how it had felt to see the ship that had brought him here, when Dad had finally showed him—to blast through the last of that ice in Antarctica and realize just what he might be looking at. It's about distance for him, not time, but— "Yeah," he says aloud, and smiles back. "I know what you mean."

When their main dishes arrive, they're both quieter for a few minutes, just eating. The way they both can hear, it's no surprise that they catch the low murmur of the nearest TV saying something about Wayne Technologies, flashing a picture of the logo. Clark glances at it and so does Diana, and it's no surprise that the next thing she says is, "By the way, have you spoken to Bruce recently?"

She doesn't know. She doesn't, Clark reminds himself, but all of a sudden that feels like a punch instead of a comfort: that everything Clark had started to want had come apart, this huge thing about his life overturned—because it was huge to him, even if it hadn't been to Bruce—and it hasn't left a mark, didn't even shake the ground when it fell. Diana has no idea.

"Yeah, you could say that," Clark tells her, and it's a sudden sharp embarrassment to feel his eyes sting, his face going hot. "It—wasn't a good conversation."

Diana frowns for an instant, but of course her face goes soft, kind, as she reaches across the table and grabs his hand and says, "Clark—"

And then she freezes. Her grip abruptly tightens—it's a good thing she's got Superman's fingers in her hand instead of the table, Clark thinks, and then suddenly the words filter in for him, too:

"—taken over by unidentified gunmen, but we don't know whether—yes? I'm sorry, I—we're just now receiving this, ladies and gentlemen. Breaking news, we do in fact have confirmation that Bruce Wayne is inside the building—"

Clark feels rather than hears his own breath catch, because for a second there seems to be something wrong with his ears.

(Apparently Bruce wasn't kidding: "boring" really isn't his style.)

He fumbles his free hand down to his pocket, to the League radio, and presses the little button on the side. Batman shouldn't be fighting with a bullet wound, but who knows what he'll think if Clark and Diana go Leagueing off without telling him what they're doing—

"He won't answer," Diana says, flat, her gaze still fixed on the television.

Clark hesitates. Somehow he hadn't gotten the impression that a gunshot wound would keep Batman from having the radio on pretty much 24/7.

"Clark."

He looks up and meets Diana's eyes.

"He won't answer," she says, more gently, "and we need to go."

"Right," Clark says, and at the exact same time, as if they'd counted down, they stand.

They don't have much trouble getting inside the Wayne Technologies facility, once they arrive. Admittedly, Batman's armor usually holds up just fine; but after seeing him get shot like that—it's nice, Clark thinks, to be going in as a team made up solely of people bullets bounce off of. Especially when the problem is a lot of twitchy guys with semi-automatics.

The reports from police and SWAT put most of the action somewhere in the lower levels, but there's also hostages collected on a few of the upper floors. Diana, with a tilt of the chin, makes it clear she's going up. So Clark heads down.

Parts of the stairwell are kind of creepy, dark except for the flashing of some kind of alarm light. But Clark can x-ray down through the staircase and get the drop on anyone with a gun in their hands, easy as pie, and—

Aha: through the floor, he can see what they're here for. Those LexCorp robots—and Wayne Enterprises does have a history of consulting for the Gotham PD. LexCorp itself hadn't been capable of containing those things when they activated themselves. Stands to reason the PD would need a little help.

He frowns at the stairs two, three, four levels below him. There absolutely are people with guns at the landings; or there were, except someone's already taken them out. None of them are dead, but they're sprawled out on the concrete, unmoving. There are five or six more on the bottom level, already in the basement lab, but—

Something moves, all the way down there, and one of the guys with guns yelps and starts shooting—that's all Clark needs. The stairs pass in a strobing blur of red light and gray shadows, and then Clark bursts through the last door at the end, and—

It's Bruce.

Clark almost yells for him, seeing him there, except it's—

He only even recognized Bruce because he came in at a split second where Bruce's face was turned partway toward him. Bruce has caught one man's gun and smashed him in the face with it, braced himself with two hands against the man's chest so he can kick out and catch another one around the shoulders with his knees. One impossibly strong twist of his waist, his hips, and the second man flips over, gun flying out of his hands, crying out. A third man's just taking aim; Bruce still has the first man's gun in his grip, and he yanks it loose and throws it at the third man, strikes him in the head with a dull thunk and sends him toppling to the floor.

Two more are already on the ground. He—he must have done that while Clark was on his way down the stairs—?

"Not going to take the shot?" Bruce says quietly, to—

To the last man. He hasn't seen Clark yet.

"You weren't supposed to be here, Wayne," the last man says, "but our instructions were pretty clear. Apparently Luthor's got something specific in mind for you."

Bruce turns, kicks out and catches the last man in the thigh, lands a blow to his shoulder; and then, over the man's head as he staggers back, that's when Bruce sees Clark.

Sees Superman, standing there and staring at him openmouthed, completely unhelpfully—Christ, Clark needs to get a grip—

The last man powers himself back up and drives his foot into Bruce's side with a crack, and Bruce—Bruce just folds over it, face twisting, terribly and unnervingly silent, and lands on the floor on his knees. The things he was doing before, he's—he's more than capable, but he doesn't get up; he doesn't seem able to. He wraps an arm around himself and tries to breathe in, and Clark can hear him fail, can practically feel it—and all in all, Bruce never sees the butt of the guy's gun coming.

It smashes into the side of Bruce's head with a sick flat sound. And Clark is halfway across the room, except somehow he finds he's already close enough to catch the guy's arm before he can swing the gun down a second time. "Oh, shit," the guy says, almost blankly, when he sees who's got hold of him; and then Clark tosses him into a wall.

Bruce is on the floor, but he still has a heartbeat. Clark kneels down and grabs at his suit jacket, eases him onto his back, and there's—there's blood on Clark's hands, where is it coming from? He shoves the suit jacket out of the way, yanks Bruce's shirt open with a clatter of buttons; funny he's only getting to do that now, huh—

For a second, he can't do anything but stare. Bruce is bleeding, but it's—it's through a bandage that's already there. A fresh red stain is welling up through layers of gauze somebody very carefully taped down, over—

Lodged in the rib.

The armor adds some bulk, Clark thinks distantly. Changes the way Batman's lines add up, alters his proportions here and there. But the hole, the place where Diana had pressed down her hand, that feeble green glint—Clark had seen it. Clark had seen that wound, had seen exactly where it lay on Batman's body.

And now he's looking at it again.

(—man's a coward. Wouldn't swoop around in the dark like that—)

(—asking me to believe Batman was making better calls than you—)

(You don't know what you're talking about.)

Clark becomes aware that there's some kind of clatter behind him, someone on the stairs. He drags his gaze away from Bruce—Batman—Bruce, just in time to see Diana step through the doorway and then go still.

"You knew," he says, because she had to: friends with Bruce, working with Batman; being the one to carry Batman away after the shooting, because Bruce wouldn't have let Clark do it; the way she'd looked at Bruce, that funny sharp glance, when he'd introduced her to Clark at that party—

And he'd known what he was doing; he'd known about Diana, known Clark was Superman, all along. Clark had thought it was funny.

Joke's on him, as it turns out.

"Yes," Diana says quietly. "And—Clark, I am sorry, but—"

Right. This isn't the time. Clark clears his throat and looks down, and discovers he's still clutching Bruce; and he can't decide what he wants to do more, throw Bruce across the room or hold on harder, hold on so tight Bruce can't slide loose with some glib story and a smile, so tight Bruce has to tell him the truth.

He x-rays Bruce instead.

"Neck's fine," he tells Diana, and it comes out only a little unsteady. "Back's fine. That rib—the shot cracked it?"

"Yes."

"It's broken," Clark says, "and another one above it," and that had been from that last kick, Christ, it had landed in exactly the wrong spot; no wonder Bruce hadn't been able to get up right away. "Neither of them punctured the lung, though."

Diana lets out a sharp breath, and is silent for a moment; and then she takes another careful step. "I can take him—"

"No, no, it's—I'll do it," Clark tells her. "I'll do it."

"All right," she agrees, as easily as if she'd meant to suggest that all along. "I'll let Alfred know you're coming."

Because, of course, Alfred must have known too. Clark closes his eyes. Bruce brought him back from the dead—Bruce helped put him there. Bruce took a bullet for him—Bruce—

Bruce hurt him worse than the gunshot ever would have.

"Thank you," Clark says to Diana, automatic, distant; and he pulls the suit jacket closed again, Bruce's blood sticky between his fingers, and picks Bruce carefully up off the floor.

identity!porn nonny, my heart is still broken. But I did manage to not throw something across the room this time when I read the break-up. Wow. This part is such a gut-punch. I am ridiculously glad you chose not to end the part there, and give us some Bruce doing this thing at WayneTech, AND BRUCE ABOUT TO DO HIS THING WHILE INJURED, SHIT I AM HERE FOR THIS.

I hope you will accept kinkmeme cookies in place of a really detailed comment. *offers cookies in all affection*

/o\ :D I'm glad to hear it was a little easier the second time through! ;) And also glad the structure of this part worked for you - I was worried, as always, that it might get too long. /o\ But if it had I think I would've done a 20a and 20b, because that would just have been such an awful place to stop!

:DDDDDDDDDDD Oh, please, you have nothing to make up for - I'm just so delighted you're still enjoying this! ... *takes the cookies anyway* ;D

I really love that scene with Diana and Clark in the bar, what a delight! Diana and her relationship with fried foodstuffs makes me smile. Get them mozzarella sticks, girl.

"I chose this job because I knew I could do it; but I hadn't realized how good it would be to see these other things like me, that have made it all this time."
DIANAAAA. This is just lovely. <333

AND THEN

/high-pitched noise only animals can hear. Oooh Bruce you're in for it now.

Nonnie, you have me wrapped around your little finger with this; if Bruce being a total badass and taking out five men while wounded wasn't stroking my id enough, Clark finally having the truth smack him in the face while Bruce doesn't even have the decency to be conscious just makes it SO MUCH ~~BETTER~~ ~~WORSE~~ BETTER AAAH.

I thought I was ready for the fallout, I'M NOT READY FOR THE FALLOUT. I am so ready for the fallout.

Aaaaaaaaaaaah, I'm on a trip and on my phone and can't leave the comment this deserves,but you did not disappoint at all! Oh my god! Clark! I can't wait for the next part and Clark having more time to process this and bruce freaking out and aaaaah. This is so great. Clark being angry and hurt is perfect, and then he finally finds out. I will leave a proper comment ina few days, but until then know that this is perfect. <3 /OP

Harley gets busted out but the honeymoon period between her nad Mista J doesnt last amd during a breakup period Harly goes for a walk and ends up passing the building where the final showdown happened. She sneaks in, clever girl she is, and pokes about until she comes to the edge of the crater left by Diablo. There's still-smouldering ash at the epicentre, curious she prods at it and Diablo reforms, buck nude with a splitting headache.

Up to filler what happens from then on, fluff is perferred and if you can slip in Clever Doctor Harley (she was a doctor before getting her pan fried, some of that must come back eventually right?) Ill love you forever.

So cute! Hope it gets filled.

:D Thank you! I'm doubly glad to hear you say that because this is one of those times where my outline was all, "Diana and Clark at lunch or something, WHATEVS" - and then I sat down and started writing, and suddenly that part developed purpose as a meaningful moment of its own instead of just staying set dressing. ♥ SO YAY.

/o\ :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD MAN I AM SO LUCKY YOU GUYS' IDS SO PERFECTLY MATCH MY OWN. (I find it a little hilarious that I'm so HNG YES BRUCE'S INCREDIBLE COMPETENCE and also so HNG YES BRUCE'S ONGOING INTERPERSONAL FAILURE. /o\ Oh, Bruce.) Seriously, though, I'm so excited that you enjoyed this whole section - this (plus that fallout! :D) is the payoff this entire stupid epic has been working its way toward, and if any of you were disappointed by it IDEK WHAT I WOULD DO. PROBABLY SHRIVEL UP AND FALL OVER. ♥ AND I DESPERATELY HOPE YOU REMAIN NOT-DISAPPOINTED. :D

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Oh, gosh, no worries - no worries EVER, OP, and thank you for taking the time to check for a new part and comment even when you're so busy IRL! ♥ I'm so, so glad you found this satisfying, since it's basically the point of this entire ridiculous fill, and I wanted SO MUCH to make your identity porn dreams come true. :D \o/ THANK YOU.

Yeah, okay, this is totally going to be 24 parts. I concede. /o\ Leaving that -ish there as insurance, but I'm like 80% sure. 75%, 80. ;) What can I say that I haven't already, in 21 other notes? YOU GUYS ARE GREAT AND SHOULD FEEL GREAT, YOU HAVE HUNG ON THROUGH ALL THIS NONSENSE LIKE CHAMPIONS. ♥ (And I mean that, because, um. This part takes us past 50k words, for those of you keeping track at home.)

Time passes around Bruce almost without touching him. The moments of greatest awareness are also the moments where the throb in his head, his side, are the most acute; he tries to hang on to them anyway, but mostly only manages brief eye contact with Alfred—a squeeze of Diana's hand—the knowledge that he's moving, that sunlight is falling on his face, someone else bearing his weight—before it all slides away from him again and leaves him in the dark.

The damage wasn't that bad, surely. But he's not thinking clearly enough to realize that he shouldn't be having so much trouble, that he must have been medicated somehow, until after the medication wears off.

Which it does, eventually: he blinks himself awake on an indrawn breath in a room he doesn't recognize, propped up on an impressive array of pillows. The shades are drawn—presumably as a concession to the concussion he undoubtedly has—and the bed is comfortable, if also a little softer than Bruce prefers. Not Wayne property; but someone's arranged things with an eye to his care.

And perhaps he's not quite as clearheaded as he'd like to think. There's a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a dozen little planets suspended and bobbing gently around each other. The motion's slow enough not to prompt nausea or dizziness, irregular enough to hold his attention. And Bruce discovers he can't actually be sure how long he's been staring at it before a sound at the door finally jolts him out of it.

Not that it makes much difference, he thinks distantly, because he ends up staring just as stupidly at Martha Kent, as she steps inside with a tray and then pushes the door shut again behind her with one foot. What is she doing here? Or—what is Bruce doing in Smallville?

She doesn't seem surprised that he's awake; she just smiles at him and says, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Bruce says, smiling back. His head is still aching in slow persistent waves, and the ribs, the gunshot, make it difficult to breathe deeply. But it's still not a lie. He's had much, much worse.

Martha's mouth quirks, but she doesn't say anything, not until she's crossed the room and set the tray down on the bedside table. "There's nothing to worry about," she tells him. "You can take all the time you need. You're—on vacation on a private island somewhere, I think, or—" She waves a hand. "Alfred knows the details. And you couldn't get spotted in Metropolis, or have people coming in and out of the lake house all the time. So I told Clark he'd better just bring you here."

For a second it doesn't register, not really. And then Bruce feels it swing into him, slow and solid as a wrecking ball: he doesn't quite remember the blow that did all this to him, but he remembers what he was doing right beforehand, and if Clark was there, if Clark had been the one to find him—

He drags his gaze away from Martha and swallows once, twice.

(There's the nausea. Delayed reaction, no doubt; he shouldn't have spent so long looking at the mobile moving.)

There's still a chance, he tells himself. And then he looks back up and Martha touches his hand, and says, very gently, "He knows."

This was always going to happen. It was inevitable, and what is inevitable can't rightly be greeted with shock, dismay, discomfort. There was all the time in the world to prepare, after all. "He won't be angry with you," Bruce says, because surely that will be the first thing on Martha's mind. "Not for long. You only kept it from him because I asked you to—he'll know who to blame."

"He shouldn't be blaming anyone," Martha says quietly, squeezing Bruce's hand, and her gaze has gone dark and sad. "Bruce—"

"I should have explained a long time ago. I realize that. He's upset with me and he should be." Bruce had absolutely had the opportunity, before they'd ever slept together; it was just that it hadn't seemed necessary, then. He hadn't been sure Clark would ever even encounter Batman again, and it might easily never have mattered. And then it had become necessary just as rapidly as it had become impossible, and Bruce had turned his attention to the task of bracing himself to bear the consequences.

(He'd almost looked forward to it, in a way. Absolution was far too much to ask from Clark, who'd given Bruce so many unearned gifts already, and yet—he'll understand, Martha had said, and just because she should have been wrong, that hadn't meant she was. If Clark had offered forgiveness—

If Clark had offered forgiveness, Bruce would have been too selfish to refuse it.

If nothing else, it should now no longer be possible for that mistake to be made; and the elimination of a potential source of error is always a relief.)

"Bruce," Martha repeats, and squeezes his hand again. "Please, please tell me that you know you don't need to burn this down and salt the earth. You can still fix this—"

Bruce doesn't laugh by an effort of will alone; he closes his eyes instead. "You don't know what I said to him," he tells her, very low. "You don't know what I did."

There's silence for a moment. And then Martha says, "He didn't want to bring the tray up himself. But he told me you were awake; he was listening for it." She waits a beat, letting him turn that over, and then pats his wrist, adds, "Go on, eat something—please," and stands.

The tray's contents are all very simple, easy to swallow: soft toast, soup, tea with honey. Bruce can't claim that any of it appeals to him at the moment, but he makes an effort.

(It would be harder not to. Martha never asks him for anything.)

He picks over it all a bit at a time, his careful spoonfuls of soup gradually settling to room temperature; and the light leaking around the edges of the window shades turns warm with sundown and then cool with dusk. His head stops feeling so heavy, so unsteady, on his neck—and the throb of it eases a little, or perhaps he grows more used to it.

Either way, he's able to concentrate well enough to hear when there's a step on the stair.

He sets down his spoon, the teacup, settling everything back on the tray just as it was when Martha brought it up; and he carefully fights the urge to climb out the window. He could do it, even like this—and he wants to, with the kind of animal intensity that makes coyotes gnaw their own limbs off, the sensation of being trapped so much harder to bear than mere pain. But it wouldn't do any good.

(Nothing will.)

Clark opens the door, steps through and closes it behind him, with unnecessary care—he only looks up at Bruce when he can't avoid it anymore. He doesn't smile; his face is perfectly calm, his expression precisely measured.

"Feeling better?" he says, after a moment.

"Yes," Bruce says. "Please thank your mother for allowing me to stay in her house."

Clark stares at him for a beat; his eyes narrow, his jaw working, and then he looks at the wall and shakes his head. When he does open his mouth to reply, his tongue ends up pressed against his upper teeth, like he's trying not to spit out the first angry thing that pops into his head—in the end, what does come out is, "Are you serious? That's the thing you want to say?"

There are a lot of things Bruce wants to say. It's just that most of them would be, at this point, purposeless. "It seemed like the most important one."

"The most—Christ, Bruce, what is wrong with you? You got shot for me, but you'd rather insult our whole relationship to my face than tell me who the hell you even are—"

Bruce tries to resist the urge to rub at his head, even though its pounding has picked up a notch again. Why is Clark dragging all that up? Surely he has to understand that Bruce's response can't change—

Maybe he just needs to hear it again, needs to be sure.

"We weren't in a relationship," Bruce says.

"We were sleeping together and we saw each other like five times a week," Clark says firmly. "There isn't anything else I'm going to call it. You might not have been serious about it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there. When I—" and his throat, his cheekbones, color up beautifully, but he soldiers on through it. "I didn't know, but you did. After I kissed you—why did you even do it? You had to know it was only going to make this worse."

The script. Just stick to the script. "It was convenient."

And it shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow Clark manages to look struck—like even after everything Bruce has done to him, he still expected better. "What?"

"It was convenient. You wanted to, it was worth a go, you had assets. We've been over this, Clark—"

Clark is staring at Bruce like he can't believe what he's hearing, the edge of a dark thunderous anger beginning to furrow his brow.

And then, so suddenly Bruce can't compensate for the shift, like he doesn't believe what he's hearing. "Bullshit," he says softly.

"Excuse me?" Stall, stall—

"You heard me," Clark says, still quiet. "Stop it."

"I don't know what you—"

"Stop it. Stop it, for Christ's sake, just stop lying to me," and now Clark is practically shouting; but then he catches himself, chest heaving, breath shuddering through him, and shakes his head again, and when he says, "Please," it's gone back to being soft. When Bruce doesn't answer right away, something close to cruelty flashes across his face—he adds, sharp, "If you don't think you can do it, I'm sure Diana would lend me the lasso."

(All choice removed, all responsibility in other hands; no decisions and no calculations. Nothing but the questions and the answers, perfect freedom hidden within the inescapable compulsion to say exactly what he feels—everything he feels, all the words trapped at the heart of him spilling out and out and out like blood—)

It would ruin everything. But he owes Clark that much, if Clark's truly moved to ask for it.

"I'm sure she would," Bruce hears himself say.

And encouragement, of all things, is what makes Clark falter. Physically, for a moment, as he wavers backward with an uncertain look on his face. And then emotionally, as all signs of anger drain out of him; he crosses the room, never looking away from Bruce, and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I don't want it," he says. "And I don't need it, if you'll just—just tell me. Because bullshit, it was convenient. It wasn't convenient, it was stupid—I almost got your shirt off half a dozen times, and if I had I would have seen the scars, and then what would you have told me? That bruise: you got that as Batman, didn't you?" And his eyes go narrow again as he adds, "If you didn't want me to find out, letting me fuck you three times a week was about the stupidest thing you could possibly have done—"

"It doesn't matter," Bruce says.

(Clark did ask him not to lie.)

"What?"

"It doesn't matter," Bruce explains. "You gave me your trust—both of me—and I betrayed it. I can't undo that, and I can't make up for it, and there is no conceivable reason why you should forgive me."

Somehow he's stopped Clark short again. (Why can't he ever manage that when he's actually trying to?)

Clark is looking at him like he's a badly-shaped puzzle piece, like Clark is trying to understand what sort of shape his edges could possibly make that might fit into the rest of the picture. And then he reaches out and puts one hand on Bruce's knee, over the blanket, and says, "How about because I want to? Forgiveness isn't something you earn, Bruce—if you'd earned it then there wouldn't be anything left to forgive, there wouldn't be any need for it. We'd just be even.

"This thing with us, it matters to me. I don't want to let it fall apart and walk away. I don't want to never talk to you again, to never be around you again. I want to—" He stops and huffs out half a laugh. "Well, I want to be mad at you for a while, but I got some of that out of the way while we were waiting for the swelling in your brain to go down. I just want to understand—" and then he stops again, chin coming up, something like comprehension dawning across his face. "But you didn't think I would."

He pauses, like he thinks Bruce might reply. But there's nothing to say.

"Is that it?" Clark presses. "You just said you didn't think I could forgive you; you never have, have you? Once you'd started to lie to me," and he's saying it slower and slower, damning, every word a nail pinning Bruce in place, "that was it. There was no way out. I was always going to leave you for it—whether you let it go on or you stopped it, whether you told me or I found out on my own." Clark pauses again, and then, deliberate and belated, echoes: "It didn't matter. It—jesus, Bruce—"

Bruce looks away; his head is killing him, sustained eye contact with Clark evidently just as inadvisable as bright light. It still doesn't matter. Whatever Clark thinks he understands, getting the hell out of his life was the best decision Bruce could have made, and Bruce has the strength of will to bear it out, he does—

Clark's reaching out for him, inescapable—except all at once he stops, head turning, and says, "Someone's here."

*lays down quietly on the floor*

*feelings bleed out everywhere*

THIS ENDING, these last ...two? three? parts... it's just been one giant emotional hole in my heart, and feelings bleeding out from it. Everything you write is such a gut-punch, identityporn!nonny, and I can't thank you enough for it.

Now just let me lie here and feel all of the feelings now that Clark finally gets it. I am dead, friend, and shan't recover.

Napoleon Solo (man from u.n.c.l.e) tries to take something from a Wayne gala. It does not end well.

Haha this thing is super fun! Thanks for sharing!!

I really like this too!! Especially the idea of Clark being Lex's trophy boyfriend (or: maybe just his personal rentboy?) and so even though he wants to be with Bruce, he has to be at Lex's beck and call. And all the angst and awfulness that ensues. ;DD (I'm imagining an older/more Smallville-type Lex, but DCEU Lex would totally work too albeit in a different way.)

+ 1 I LOVE THIS

I haven't been commenting on all the parts because I'm bad like that but oh, this brings me so much joy, Bruce unnecessarily angering FEELINGLIKE HE DOESNT DESEEVE CLARK, OH GOD. CLARK, TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD, SO ASTUTE IN READING BEHINS BRUCE'S BULLSHIT.

OHHHHHHHHHH, PERFECTION! <3

And once this is finished I can start outlining accidental soulbonding next. ;D

OMGGGGGG, I dont think I was the one that prompted but i was definitely the one who brought it up on ffa and discussed it with another nonnie and praise be the gods, couldn't be happier that you're considering working on this *grins so wide she hurts her cheeks*

Diana loves taking it up the ass, and Lois finds that she loves giving it to her.

The reason why Joker and the Batman are barely in Suicide Squad is because they're busy with each other.

Batman knows the Joker is up to something and tries to stop him. Joker really wants his favorite punching bag back, but he just can't turn down a fight with Batsy.

Seconded!

I wish I could just give you a big hug nonnie!! Following this story has been a highlight of my week and you just keep delivering quality writing that makes me read slowly and savour it and keep hoping I don't read the end soon

thank you so much!!

thirded oh god we need a crossover so bad

After his return from the dead, Superman happens to stop by Gotham one night where Batman is facing off against Joker and Harley. He basically lands smack in the middle of the all out brawl. There is a moment of stunned silence before Harley being her awesome self holds out her hand and introduces herself. Superman in turn actually kisses Harley's hand and then turns his attention to Joker. They size each other up, Joker noticing that the alien is actually pretty handsome, while Superman can't help but think that even with all that makeup, Joker's pretty striking too.

Batman is struck speechless, but soon it is back to business as usual as Batman and Superman trounce Mista J and Harley. But right as they're being hauled off, Joker manages to slip Superman a piece of paper with an address on it.

When Joker and Harley break out a few days later, they arrive to their secret hideout to find the Man of Steel himself waiting to welcome them home. It's one hell of a party after that.

Oh Clark, ever resilient in the face of Bruce's bullshit. While I'm all for people 'oh, Bruce'-ing at him, I am also a fan of a judicious 'just stop it,' and the attendant emotional tensions. Lovely <3

I am just falling about all over the place over this, and I can't believe it's nearly over already?? What are you doing to me, anon.

They actually do escape the squad together before any real shit goes down. They hit the road, fuck shit up, fuck each other. Just two dudes having a kick-ass time being free.

Hotel sex/sex in a stolen car/mutual snark are all welcome additions.

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Page 64 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (20/23ish?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (20/23ish?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)

[Suicide Squad Spoilers] Harley / or & Diablo - gods are very hard to kill

Re: Bruce/Clark, pet names

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)

FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)

GEN Crossover shenanigans

Re: Cracky Kinky Prompt Generator

Re: Bruce/Clark, AU, Clark feeling unworthy of Batman/Bruce, possible prostitution

Re: Bruce/Clark, temperature play

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (19/23ish?)

Diana/Lois - anal w/ a strap-on

Batman/Joker- Super Psycho Love Minor Spoilers for Suicide Squad

Re: GEN Crossover shenanigans

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)

Re: GEN Crossover shenanigans

Superman/Joker/Harley: Superman charmed by the Clown and they are Crazy for him

Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)

[Minor Suicide Squad Spoilers] Boomerang/Slipknot, on the run