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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The door to Clark's apartment slams shut and Clark slams Bruce against it in turn. It forces an exhale out of him, a groan, and then he grins a sharp, knowing grin. Clark is suddenly taken with the idea of fucking him into the drywall. From what he knows about Bruce Wayne, the hedonist, the adrenaline junkie, it's not much of an extrapolation to assume he likes it rough sometimes.

Bruce tests the grip Clark has on his wrist. "Stronger than you look," he says. Clark hears the caution and slackens off a bit, only to drag Bruce's hands above his head and pin them there instead.

"I work out," Clark says, trying to not sound like a douche but with only partial success--probably not even possible with a line like that, but Bruce laughs at him anyway, as though it's not obvious that he's an inveterate gymrat himself. Clark kisses him to shut him up. Bruce smirks his way through it.

"Well," he says, once he's done dragging Clark's lower lip through his teeth. "Going to give me the tour?"

"Sure. This is my hallway," Clark says, and leads Bruce through to the dark of the living room. He doesn't bother getting the lights; with the drapes open there's enough ambience from the moon and the street for Bruce to not trip over anything. "And here's my couch."

He pushes Bruce down onto said couch. Bruce sprawls his legs wide, smiles languorously up at him. His head tips back as he starts unfastening his shirt from the bottom upward. "Is that it?"

Maybe he was expecting a drink first. All Clark has is some milk that's on the turn and a bottle of Bud Light that's been in the fridge since he moved out of Lois' place. Clark can imagine the face he'll pull at that, so he'll just have to go thirsty.

"For now," Clark says, and slowly straddles Bruce's thighs. He digs his fingers into the knot of his necktie and pulls at it, more clumsily than he means. Bruce gets his shirt mostly undone, spread open around him, just the collar held in place by a yard of charcoal silk. Clark could tear it like it's made of cobwebs. He leashes himself, his hands shaking with it. "I want you here."

Bruce moves him aside and unfastens the tie himself with a series of efficient tugs, and Clark pulls his collar away, leans in to span his mouth over Bruce's newly-bared throat in a wide, messy kiss. He smells faintly of lanolin and citrusy perfume, liquid soap from the restroom. Like he'd already encountered his chance to leave earlier in the night.

Clark feels the wrench of desire in his chest, and something uglier twining through it. He scrapes with his teeth, bites the base of his throat.

The noise Bruce makes is guttural. He arches against Clark's mouth and manages to shed half his shirt while he does, one arm trapped in a sleeve. Clark grabs his shoulders as he tries to shake it out, more interested in the taste of his neck and mouth for now, tightens his grip to keep him still, to just let him--

Bruce's groan is bare with pain, even as he's surging into it.

"God, sorry," Clark says in rush of mortification. There's a bruise clouding Bruce's arm, already yellowing enough that he can't have caused it, but he's leaned over to get the lamp before he's processed that it must have happened last week, when--

"No, don't--" Bruce says urgently, just as Clark snaps it on. "--stop." He sinks into the upholstery with a disgruntled sigh.

"Whoa," Clark says, impressed enough that his surprise sounds genuine. He traces the circumference of the bruise with his fingertips. Bruce doesn't make a sound this time, just draws his mouth into an impassive line. "What happened?"

"Ever been hit with a jeroboam of wine?" Bruce says. "Don't let anyone tell you that women are the fairer sex."

"I thought a drink to the face was more traditional."

"It was a... proportionate response."

Without his shirt, Bruce is littered with scars; testament to his thrill-seeking, his recklessness. Judging from his behavior Clark might have found the only thing he's self-conscious about. He wonders if the beautiful people he takes to his bed are offended when he insists on doing it in the dark.

Clark's fingertips glide up his arm, passing over a snarl of scarring on his shoulder.

"Automobile accident, back in '97," Bruce says without further prompting. He pushes Clark's shirt off his shoulders; apparently Clark hasn't managed to ruin the mood too thoroughly. He throws it down onto the floor and leans over to kill the light again, then rests his hands at Clark's waist.

"Nasty," Clark says, and kisses it, chasing his tongue over the ripples of healed skin.

Bruce inhales and tightens his grip on Clark's hips, rocking up against him, just once, briefly. "You have no idea," he murmurs.

Clark's hand slides down his side, following a raised seam across his ribs.

"Fencing mishap."

"Fencing." Clark takes a moment to imagine Bruce poised in combat, clad in a tight-fitting suit and a mask, and finds it redundant. "And this one?" It looks all the world like a bullet wound.

"New Year's, couple years ago. I tripped and fell on the companion set. Specifically, the poker."

This one, a minor incident in the R&D labs at WayneTech. That one from rappelling in Brazil, another from skiing in France. Here, he fell out of a tree as a kid. It was a very tall tree. The stories get more prosaic, his delivery more bored and Clark understands that he isn't so much self-conscious as he doesn't want to spend his evenings explaining his body instead of getting laid.

So. Clark drags his thumb across Bruce's nipple instead of finding another scar, which Bruce seems to appreciate a whole lot more, his breath catching and deepening. "You get yourself into a lot of scrapes," Clark says, just about managing to make it more suggestive than accusatory.

One corner of Bruce's mouth turns up. "I'm hoping this will be my tightest yet."

And--of course, someone like Bruce Wayne would make that assumption. Clark doesn't bother checking his annoyance.

"Or not," Bruce says, smooth but not quite ameliorating. Clark grudgingly forgives him, just a little, when he leans in to bite delicately at his earlobe. His voice has lost all of the flat disinterest of earlier, his register dropped into a dark strohbass. "What's your pleasure, Kent?"

His voice rumbles through him, and Clark forgives him the rest of the way. He hadn't considered much further ahead, just that he was hard and so was Bruce and it was good to touch him. Fumbling, kissing, rubbing until the inevitable happened--it seems hopelessly naive in the face of Bruce's raw lust.

"Alright then," Bruce says, and idly kisses Clark's ear. "I'll go first. Consider it an exchange of ideas." A small pause as Bruce licks his lips. Then, conversational: "I'd like to suck your cock. Would you like that?"

Clark's dick jerks, hard. He tries to swallow, his mouth dry. Apparently he would like that, yes. Quite a lot.

"Sounds good," he says faintly.

"Good," Bruce says, a laugh and easy eye contact as he grips Clark's thighs, encouraging him off his lap and to his feet. His hands slide up to unfasten Clark's belt and button and zipper.

For all of his control, Clark can hear Bruce's pulse accelerate as he palms him through his underwear. Clark gasps and presses into it, and Bruce immediately moves both hands to Clark's hips and starts mouthing at him instead, wetting the fabric. That warrants more than a gasp. It makes Clark choke on his own breath and lean over, bracing himself on Bruce's shoulders. He's not sure how Bruce's mouth can feel even hotter than his dick, but god, it does.

Bruce noses at him and takes a deep, greedy inhale, then sits back. He casts around until he comes up with his necktie, and loops it once around Clark's wrist. "May I?" he says.

Clark's never been--not in play. Bruce waits, outwardly patient despite his escalating heartbeat, until Clark nods.

"Turn around," Bruce says, soft but intent. "Hands behind your back."

Clark does as he says. The silk tie slips around his wrists, sleek and cool and so slack that he could free himself easily without using his strength. In fact, he has to hold his wrists a little apart so it doesn't slide right off. Either Bruce Wayne isn't good with knots, or he is expecting Clark to exercise a lot of restraint.

Bruce sweeps his hands over Clark's shoulder blades, fingers spread, exploring the musculature of his back as he works his way down. His hands are rough, unexpectedly calloused for someone who wears so much fine wool, and Clark--he exercises that restraint, shivering. Bruce's thumbs catch on the band of Clark's underwear and skims them off his hips and to the floor. Clark feels his warm breath and then the prickle of his stubble as he kisses the small of his back, hands completing their journey over the curve of his ass.

"You do work out," Bruce murmurs.

He thought he would sit and spread his legs so Bruce could get on his knees between them, but Bruce keeps him on his feet. He gets Clark to turn while he sits on the edge of the couch and closes his eyes, rests Clark's dick against his lips. He purses them tight, guiding Clark by the hips and encouraging him to push, to force his mouth open around him. It makes Clark think about--he's doing it on purpose, Clark realizes. Bruce wants him to think about how it would feel to be inside of him.

Clark groans and drives his hips and Bruce takes all of him with ease, like the god damn showoff he is.

Which doesn't by any stretch mean it's not working for him. If he had his hands free, Clark would have fistfuls of that silvering hair, would hold himself there in the tight grip of his throat, feeling him swallow. He clenches his fingers.

"My god. Bruce," he says, voice cracking. Bruce looks up at him, nose squashed to his stomach, eyes sharp and mouth stretched wide. There's sweat beading at his hairline, but he still manages to look eminently pleased with himself.

Clark can feel his breath coming in controlled bursts from his nose, warm over Clark's skin. Then he moves, drawing Clark out and swallowing him again in a tight rhythm, cupping and squeezing Clark's balls as he does. It's incredible, the wet heat and flex of Bruce's throat, his quiet surety, the way he seems--not into it, but so into Clark being into it. Clark feels his knees start to go, a dull roar building in his ears. If his hands weren't bound he'd be covering his mouth to stifle his moaning but he bites them back instead, embarrassed by the noises that do manage to escape him, how loud they are.

It's a lot, so much all at once, and--

Tonight is likely a one-time thing. Bruce Wayne is known to have the odd lengthy dalliance, but he doesn't have them with people like Clark. And Clark--he desperately wants things to last longer than this.

He makes an apologetic sound that was mean to be actual words and pulls himself from Bruce's mouth. The soft drag of his lips, the accidental scrape of his teeth almost puts paid to him and he pitches to his knees, dick heavy and wet between his thighs.

Bruce holds him steady, one hand on his shoulder. "Too much?" he asks. He's wry, but he's also touching himself, the heel of his hand pressed firm to his crotch.

Clark blows out a breath and laughs. His face feels like it's burning up. All of him does, and it doesn't seem fair that he's the only one naked. He shakes off the tie and scrambles forward to unfasten Bruce's belt with more aptitude than he'd give himself credit for at this point. "Hold on, hold on," Bruce says and then lifts up, helps Clark to pull his slacks and underwear off together.

As ever, Bruce's reputation precedes him, and Clark finds it's not all exaggeration. His cock is as substantial as the rest of him, reddened and glazed with precome. He watches Clark watching him and twitches, taut against his stomach.

Clark runs his fingers over the length of him, hot, soft skin jumping under his touch. Bruce hisses through his teeth as he thumbs under the head. When Clark leans up to kiss him, slow and shallow, it feels scorching between their bodies.

"So, had any ideas?" Bruce asks, still maddeningly smug.

"Yeah," Clark says. "One or two. I want--" he slides his fingers down, lower. "I--"

"You want to fuck me?"

"Yeah."

"Say it."

"I want to fuck you."

"And you think," Bruce says, gruff in a way that pulls the entirety of Clark's arousal into focus, "I'd let you do that?"

Yessssssss, part two! This is so fucking hot, anon. That beginning - Clark getting rough and assuming that Bruce likes it, and the "I work out" thing and Clark holding Bruce's wrists and kissing him to shut him up, fuuuuuuuuuuck, this is so perfect. I am also so here for Clark straddling Bruce and kissing his throat. *may or may not have a throat kink*

I love that this is so rough and raw simply because they want each other so much, unf.

Without his shirt, Bruce is littered with scars; testament to his thrill-seeking, his recklessness. Judging from his behavior Clark might have found the only thing he's self-conscious about. He wonders if the beautiful people he takes to his bed are offended when he insists on doing it in the dark.
Eeeeh, I love how into their little roleplay they both are. And scar petting with Bruce's bullshit excuses, yes please! I also love that they turn the light off again, somehow that just makes it hotter. Also voice porn! :D

And then Bruce sucking Clark off and being just so into it, fuck, all of this is super hot, anon!

Clark groans and drives his hips and Bruce takes all of him with ease, like the god damn showoff he is.
Like you mind, Clark. :D And Bruce looking pleased with himself, of fucking course, I just love how you write Bruce. So here for Bruce making Clark say that he wants to fuck him, yesssssssssss (like that's not exactly what you want, Bruce). This is smoking hot, I love it so much! Looking forward to the conclusion.

Man, I got myself all tangled up over the identity aspect of this since there's no building towards a reveal, so I'm glad it's hitting the spot at this part of the proceedings at least. XD

is SOUL-DESTROYING and I'm SLAIN by it I'M SORRY. HAVE SOME PORN. FEEL BETTER. <3

and now I wish there was a word for that situation in German, but I can't think of one right now Awww ;D

\o/ I'm glad you're finding the proceedings hot, anon! And I can't resist flinging a dash of angst in the mix for good measure. We're all here for emotionally fucked-up weirdos, right?

I was thinking Rothko but a Kandinsky is fine too. XD

The fact that he's playing the game at all promises rules that will lead to excellent outcomes.
HAHAhaha haha... hmmm. Well, maybe in the long term.

*blue line* *heart*

It's still a rhetorical question. Clark answers anyway, as much as 'please' repeated a half-dozen times is an answer. Bruce's returning grin is as as lethal as a knife in the dark. He takes a hold of Clark's wrist and brings his fingers to his mouth, wets them with the slick, soft turn of his tongue, and then guides him back down.

Clark feels the resistance of Bruce's body and the sudden give as he pushes in, up to the first knuckle. His pulse throbs against Clark's fingertip. His head falls back against the couch cushion and for the first time this evening his composure slips and stays slipped, the set of his jaw easing, like maybe he's done laughing at Clark for now.

"Do you have anything?" Bruce says hoarsely. Then, "No, wait. Not yet." He hikes an ankle onto Clark's shoulder, cants his hips up off the couch, bringing Clark in to the next knuckle. His stomach muscles clench. "Clark," he says, not a command or an admonition, just his name.

Clark almost folds him in two in his eagerness.

It forces the breath out of him on a harsh groan. Clark curls his finger and Bruce's body jerks and tremors at the slight variations in his touch. It's riveting to see this kind of cause and effect, a few rare pages from this closed book of a man

Bruce says his name again, still with that conspicuous neutrality, but a touch frantic, like it's all he can think to say and it's startled him. Clark flattens his palm over the thigh that's not sweating against his chest, the hard ridge of a scar riding against his palm, and he pushes his legs apart as he works inside him, and further again, because Bruce is flexible. Bruce can handle it.

And Bruce says, "I can take more."

He's not who he was earlier this evening by a significant margin--insolence blunted as a different edge is honed--and who is he, really, when he's like this? Clark sure as hell doesn't know, so he trusts him to know what he's asking for. Three fingers worked deep. Bruce makes a rough sound in his throat but he takes it, doesn't stop demanding even when Clark manages to slip his smallest finger in alongside, too. It can't be--that much so quickly is unforgiving, but Bruce is--

Clark takes a quick breath, connects a few dots and takes a gamble, angles Bruce's thigh and brings his hand down fast. The crack of it echoes off his apartment walls.

It pays off; Bruce clamps around his fingers and catches his breath, lets it out again in a rattle. Clark smooths his palm over his skin and then does it again. And again. And again, until his palm actually starts to tingle and Bruce's solid thigh is red and warmed, until he's clawing at the upholstery and shamelessly fucking himself on Clark's fingers and then, then Clark slaps his face for good measure.

It's alarmingly satisfying, but there'll be time to self-examine later. Bruce's eyes are round and glittering and he grunts like he's been punched.

He grabs Clark by the hair, pulls him down for a vicious kiss, if it can be called that with so much biting involved. "Now," Bruce grits out, and bears down on his lower lip. If Clark were anyone else he would be bleeding. "I need you to--now."

"Okay," Clark says breathlessly. "Wait." He hauls ass through to the bedroom and scrambles through his nightstand drawer. He's back in a barely reasonable timeframe, but long enough for Bruce to have spread out on the couch, head on the armrest and strong legs splayed, arching as he sinks two fingers into himself.

His knees dip the couch cushions and he drops the lube, proceeds to endlessly fumble with the condom until Bruce grabs it and flings it. He just about manages to get slicked up before he's being pulled over and forward, and for all his hard edges, Bruce yields readily. Clark's spurred on by heels in the small of his back, Bruce's thighs braced tight around his waist, his hands clinging to his biceps.

His eyes are screwed shut, breath coming in harsh jags between his gritted teeth. He looks so agonized it's almost worrying. "God," he says, exploded on an exhale. He kicks at Clark with a heel. "Move."

Clark does, by incredibly slow degrees, and Bruce stops looking pained and starts looking absolutely furious. It's hard not to laugh, even harder not to grind him into the couch. Clark intends to keep it up as long as he can bear it, but it's Bruce who gives in first--for a given value of giving in. He mutters into Clark's neck, "I know you can do better than this."

Clark isn't one to disappoint. He does ever so slightly better. He picks up by a minor increment, rolls his hips a little more indulgently and weathers Bruce's glare.

"I'm not a delicate flower, Kent," he says, darkly amused.

"I noticed." Clark grins and fits his hand into the crook of Bruce's shoulder, against the tendons of his neck. "But maybe I am. Maybe I want it slow and romantic."

He doesn't know if he's confessing or needling, only that he wants to get under Bruce's skin the way Bruce has gotten under his.

A look of abject horror passes across Bruce's face, tucked away swiftly. "Spare me the bullshit," he says. "You want the bruises as much as I do."

That's not true--not strictly, anyway, not usually--but Clark can see Bruce's pulse hammering, the rapid vibration of it in his neck. He brushes his thumb over it, and then smothers it with his hand. Clark wonders if it reminds him of anything in particular. Bruce sighs. It's the most extravagant sound he's made all evening; it resonates against Clark's palm.

He rubs the underside of Bruce's jaw in an unbidden rush of affection. "It's not bullshit," he says softly, and then tightens his grip.

Bruce shifts, sudden and startling in a way that makes Clark pitch forward and redistribute his weight onto his hands, onto Bruce's neck. Bruce's breath falters, hips stuttering. Clark leans a fraction harder, his thrusts kept slow and controlled only through the sheer bloody-minded stubbornness he's often accused of.

Bruce's throat bobs in a failed swallow. He sips in a thread of breath and Clark can hear the rush of his blood, the hectic pound of his heart. His bones may as well be spun glass, his skin as fragile as a soap bubble, and he knows it. It's clear in the tension in his face, the bright, guarded apprehension in his eyes.

Clark pins him like this for the span of three long thrusts, then lets up his grip. While he's gulping air, kisses him, earnest and tender.

Then backhands him hard enough to split his lip.

Bruce swears hoarsely and comes with staggered, ragged breaths, tightening around Clark in protracted waves. His face is difficult to watch. It's too immediate, uncomfortably vulnerable like catching a glimpse of him behind that crumpled helmet, so Clark finds himself focused on the flex of his stomach instead, and the helpless jerk of his cock as he spills over it.

Clark gets his knees under him and grabs his hips, goes deep, fast--here are your bruises, he thinks, abstractly--and barely enjoys the climb towards orgasm because he's panicking about whether he should pull out, whether that's a step too far in this intimate one-upmanship.

Bruce, though, he keeps his thighs tight and ankles crossed, anchoring Clark in place until he's done.

He gets about five seconds of post-coital haze before Bruce comes down from his like a plummeting anvil. He pushes Clark up off him with the arch of his foot against his hipbone, a string of hard little pants escaping as he extracts Clark, who's dick will resolutely refuse to soften for another ten minutes. Clark was hoping for at least that much afterglow, but Bruce rolls himself up off the couch.

Clark watches in disbelief as he picks up his shirt and shakes it out. His stomach and the inside of his thighs are damp.

"I have a meeting first thing," he says. His affect is flatter than Kansas.

Bruce chose to do this here to keep Clark on the back foot, and as he steps into his pants, gingerly pulling them up, Clark suspects he's deeply regretting the decision. Much easier to kick someone out than to leave with in a hurry with dignity intact. A numbness is settling in the pit of Clark's stomach, like he's sick with inevitability.

"You can use my shower."

"That won't be necessary," Bruce replies, fingers twisting his shirt buttons through their holes. "I have one at home."

Clark hitches himself up off the couch and catches Bruce's wrist. He freezes, then tries to shake him off. Clark doesn't let him--he lost the thread of their pretense at some point, Clark's not sure when. He's pretty sure Bruce did, too.

"Don't," Bruce says.

"Bruce--"

"Do not."

Clark relents. He watches as Bruce continues to put himself back together, one piece of armor over another until his intransigent core is hidden and only the man from the gallery remains.

He thanks Clark with an awful, brittle kind of charm before he leaves.

*

Clark knows that the quiet after a fight is the part the Bat likes best. Clark lets him enjoy it for about five seconds before dropping out of the sky like a meteorite.

"Intergang," the Bat says without preamble, as though this isn't the first time he's flagged him down in three goddamn weeks. Avoidance was not a characteristic Clark would have attributed to him until now. "Your city is leaking."

The Bat's breath is consciously slowed, his heartbeat dampened by the suit's biofeedback. Clark can tell that he's been fine-tuning it. He says nothing, goes to one knee and rolls the nearest perp over onto his back. He recognizes him as one of Mannheim's men.

He looks up in time to catch the Bat's eye, just before he glances away.

"Okay," Clark says with a sigh. "I'll get on top of it."

Dawn is insinuating itself between Gotham's architecture, casting long, ripe shadows. Time to wrap up. He'll drop these guys at the nearest precinct, and... he looks over to the Bat and finds he's outright staring at him. The morning wind licks his cape in casual theatrics.

"What?" Clark says, impatient.

"Make sure that you do. I don't have time to deal with your sloppiness."

"Is that it?" It's all very pointed for what amounts to his standard-issue grumbling. Clark glares right back at him. "What's the problem?"

"It's nothing," he says, curt, still looking. Then the Bat--then Bruce rolls his shoulders, swallows. His throat clicks. "You remind me of someone. That's all."

"I have that kind of face," Clark says.

Bruce huffs, perhaps a laugh, perhaps the static of his breath on the modulator. Some of the tension seeps out of him, either way.

"Hell of a line, though," Clark says. "Maybe you should try telling him."

"Wouldn't want it to go to his head."

"Just cut him down to size again. It's hardly an inconvenience for you."

Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"And you never know," Clark says mildly. "He might even be into it. A little."

"...right," Bruce says. He aims his grapnel, pauses for a moment in something Clark is certain couldn't possibly be bewilderment, and swoops into the lingering dark.

*

Clark raises his glass and negotiates the tightly-packed floor, awash in a sea of black tie and diamante. A man steps into his path, jostles him hard enough that the champagne fizzes up the flute and over his hand, down his shirt cuff.

"Sorry," he says absently, shaking droplets from his fingertips. "Oh--Mr. Wayne. Good to see you again."

The man--Bruce Wayne--plucks out Clark's pocket square and offers it back to him so he can dry his hand. "Excuse you," he says, and then creases his brow, genteel confusion that quickly transitions into a flirtatious arch of his eyebrows. "Have we met?"

***

I have indulged your throat kink a little further anon. I hope you find it enjoyable :D

(like that's not exactly what you want, Bruce)
I bet he thinks he so clever.

*flings <3333s*

You are spoiling us with those amazingly fast updates! :D This continues to be so incredibly hot. And I'm always here for Bruce losing it a little. Or a lot. AND THEN THERE'S THIGH SPANKING AND A FUCKING FACE SLAP, OH MY GOD, DFJSBDFJHKSDBFJHSDFS FACE SLAPS ARE THE HOTTEST THING. I love how Clark figures out that Bruce is into pain and just rolls with it.

It's alarmingly satisfying, but there'll be time to self-examine later. Bruce's eyes are round and glittering and he grunts like he's been punched.
Fuuuuuuck, so good. I love how aggressive and demanding Bruce is and how he knows exactly what he wants, and then instead of just giving it to him, Clark goes and teases him. It's wonderful.

A look of abject horror passes across Bruce's face, tucked away swiftly. "Spare me the bullshit," he says. "You want the bruises as much as I do."
There's so much great stuff here, Bruce's genuine reaction and how he can then so easily hide behind their mutual kinkiness. And holy shit, the "unbidden rush of affection", what a beautiful line and so very Clark. <3 AND THEN THERE'S CHOKING??? DID YOU JUST SIT DOWN AND THINK "HOW AM I GOING TO REDUCE [SUPER ANONYMOUS ANON WITH THE THROAT KINK] TO INCOHERENT SQUEEING?" :D AND THEN MORE SLAPPING??? SPLITTING HIS LIP??? You are ruining me, I can't handle this much hotness.

AND THEN YOU GO AND BREAK MY HEART WITH BRUCE RUNNING OUT LIKE THAT AND TRYING TO MAKE HIMSELF INTO BRUCE WAYNE AGAIN, GOOD JOB. I am so grateful you didn't just stop there.

"It's nothing," he says, curt, still looking. Then the Bat--then Bruce rolls his shoulders, swallows. His throat clicks. "You remind me of someone. That's all."
You are so full of shit, Bruce. And I love Clark's reaction about how it's a hell of a line. :D And yesssssssss, Bruce just goes back to hooking up with Clark ~~because he really doesn't know how to do this when he's not hiding behind Bruce Wayne, does he~~. This is utterly amazing and perfect in every way. I would totally read a sequel to this if you ever wrote one (because Bruce's masks will keep cracking, right?), but it's already perfect as it is. Thanks so much for filling this prompt and filling it so wonderfully. <33333

It's probably for the best that you updated this so fast I read 2 & 3 in one go, because if I'd had to stop in the middle there and try to come up with words, you'd have gotten a big block of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. ANON. Everything about this is just so pitch-perfect, the grappling and the sex and the cracking masks and the weird tentative reaching-out (and Clark rolling with it so gently, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA), and, god, that ending COULD kill me but I choose to read it as Bruce reaching out again rather than deliberately taking them back to square one because I INSIST UPON IT. *dissolves in a puddle of feelings* This fill was spectacular start to finish, anon, thank you so much for sharing it with us!

I choose to read it as Bruce reaching out again rather than deliberately taking them back to square one because I INSIST UPON IT

Anon above you read it that way, too. Bruce doesk not really know how to person and feelings and interpersonal relationships, so this is his weird way of reaching out because IT WORKED LAST TIME and also Supes said he'd be kinda up for something like that again. (And it makes me want to read ten different hookups during which their masks crack more and more and it becomes harder and harder for Bruce to retreat behind it until Clark finally gets himself a bat who doesn't fly off. :D)

AYRT

YES THIS. *______________* Like, reading it the other way is actually EXQUISITELY HEARTBREAKING ;.; but that also might genuinely kill me inside. SO BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE READINGS IT IS, TY. ♥

See? I knew you'd be annoyed. :D ♥

Oh, well, you know Bruce! Always content to just leave well enough alone. ;) Bruce having to figure out Kryptonian, as a step on the way to figuring out Clark, is totally one of my soft spots. So I'm glad you liked that!

Haha, and I can also never resist Bruce Wayne being a douche. :D And, well, let's pretend saying this doesn't practically de-anon me all by itself: I LOVE BRUCE&MARTHA SO SO MUCH /o\ :D

Bruce's unwillingness to back out of situations he's not actually in control of is basically what makes this whole premise plausible, haha. :D

AND THE POTENTIAL FOR GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM CERTAINLY ISN'T A HURDLE. /o\ OH BRUCE. Also I have never successfully resisted an opportunity to say, "But what if Bruce were prepared for everything to be awful and then Clark was nice to him???" :DDDDDDDD

the whole "spouse-mate" thing makes me grin like an idiot (will that come up again?)

Mmmmmmaybe a little. :D Though I've resisted the urge to go full-on bonding here because, well, gotta save that for the involuntary soulbonding prompt, right? ;)

Thank you so, so much, anon - your enthusiasm is a gift and a delight, always always always. ♥

I wish there was less

Haha, and tragically this time I just can't oblige you! :D /o\ TOO BAD SO SAD, I KNOW

Thank you so much, anon, I'm glad you're enjoying this! ♥

:D \o/! Your first line alone is a balm, anon, and I would have fallen all over myself to thank you for that as its own comment - hotness is SO SUBJECTIVE, and I just never know whether I'm pulling it off in anyone's eyes but my own! ♥

AND THEN I could say the exact same thing about humor, so I'm thrilled to hear you found that lightening moment effective. \o/!!

welp, gonna have to fuck him. Better bury that in reams of tangential analysis

:DDDDDDDDDDD Haha, the perfect summary of Bruce's attitude. And yay, I'm so glad you liked the ship! ~~Because I love the ship and couldn't resist the excuse to jam this fill full of ship. /o\~~

Aaaaaaa, thank you so so much, seriously - I'm absolutely thrilled you're enjoying this so far, and I hope you enjoy the rest just as much! ♥

LEAST EXPLICIT HEAT FIC EVER. I APOLOGIZE, OP. I TRIED. /o\

Clark isn't alone.

He's supposed to be. He—he's pretty sure about that.

He's been here for days; for forever, it's felt like, touching himself every way he can think of and absolutely none of it enough. He gave up on the hope that he'd figure it out, that he'd trip over some secret perfect combination of sensations that would finally make this stop, hours and hours ago. He's just been stroking himself off since, again and again, helpless and relentless, because every time he comes his head clears a little—just for a minute, but he can—he can think again, about something other than how many fingers he can fit into himself.

He gave up because he knows what he needs. He knows what he needs, and it's not here.

He can't quite remember why anymore, but he knows that's important: Bruce isn't here. That's true, and is going to stay true—has to stay true.

("Please clarify: access—"

"Denied," Clark insists, thighs tensing, "denied—")

Bruce isn't here, and Clark is, and that's—

(—wrong, god, it's the worst thing Clark has ever felt; what is he even doing here? What is he doing anywhere Bruce isn't?

"Granted," Clark gasps, "oh—" but no, he—he shouldn't say that, he has to make sure Bruce never ever—)

—how it's staying.

Which is what makes it all right to wish. If Clark weren't here, safe—because the ship won't let him out, he made it promise—then it would be wrong to wish so hard, because he couldn't be sure he wouldn't do something about it, letting himself long for it like that. But Bruce isn't here, and so it's all right to want him to be, to think about all the things Clark would do if he were.

Except—suddenly, impossibly—Clark isn't alone.

He tries to focus, to understand what's changed: he's not better yet, there—there shouldn't be anyone until he's better. The need is the same, the desperation and ragged furious energy, and of course the heat is still there, persistent and inescapable, smothering.

And then he realizes it's Bruce. Who isn't here.

He tries to explain this—that no matter what it looks like, he knows Bruce isn't here, because that's why Clark is; that's why Clark is allowed to be here and to keep feeling like this, that's why Clark gets to keep wishing. But he doesn't think very much of that makes it out.

(Even if it had, Bruce never listens to him. Bruce is stubborn that way.)

And then—

Then Bruce is still here. He says Clark's name, and he sounds—strange, hoarse and uncertain. He's in the doorway, not touching Clark at all, and that's nothing like what Clark's been imagining; he's wearing clothes, even.

That's—it's—it's really him.

And there's something about that that's not right. But Bruce is here and Clark can't remember what—

He's crossed the room, and he's touching Bruce—actually touching him, for real, not just seeing it or telling himself he is, remembering something that's never happened. "Bruce," he says. It's for at least the thousandth time; but it feels like the first, knowing Bruce can hear him saying it, and that's so good it makes Clark shudder.

All of it is good, everything. Putting his hands on Bruce the way he wants to, the way he's always wanted to—there'd been a reason he hadn't, he thinks dimly, but Bruce is in front of him now and closing the space between them is the easiest thing in the world. It would be harder not to.

Bruce is odd at first. Braced, Clark thinks, but there's nothing he needs to be braced for here—all Clark wants to do is kiss him. Clark manages to find half a thought to spare for the room, the lights; he tosses a muddled request through his link to the ship, and everything obediently dims around them. Bruce is more comfortable in shadows.

He's also more comfortable when no one is looking at him or touching him, but Clark can't manage that part. "Sorry," he murmurs, "sorry, Bruce, oh," but he just can't help it: Bruce is right there, all of him, increasingly bare under Clark's hands and mouth, and there's so much Clark wants. So much he hasn't done, and now he can.

"It's okay," Bruce is saying, "it's okay, Clark—" and then he hisses, gasps and throws his head back and oh, his throat, god.

Whatever it was that had kept Clark from stripping Bruce naked and laying hands on him, it just isn't there anymore. Whatever it was that had kept him from tugging Bruce down, biting his mouth, sliding greedy tender fingers over every hollow and angle and scar, it's gone. Restraint, or caution, or fear: they've all burned away, and only the heat is left.

So Clark—does what he wants.

He does all of it.

He holds on to Bruce and doesn't let go, because he wants to. The ship makes them a surface that's better than the standard decking, somewhere smooth and soft that Clark can press Bruce against, because Bruce is human and so easily hurt—so careless with himself, he always has been, and Clark hates that.

So he goes slowly and is careful with Bruce, because he wants to. And Bruce is careful back, at first, every motion precise and neatly measured; but Clark pulls him closer, slides a knee between his thighs, licks every single scar he can find on Bruce's shoulders, and Bruce—

Bruce changes. Bruce's eyes get heavy, his face flushed like he feels it too—the heat, the deep endless yearning. All his sharp edges start to smooth, all that corded sculpted muscle easing into something close to pliancy; slow, so slow, Clark finally with all the time in the world to coax Bruce through the one thing he hasn't practiced to the point of reflex: surrender. And he touches Clark back, arches into Clark and moves with him and cries out, opens up for Clark as readily as he drives into Clark afterward—without shame or hesitation, until he's sticky and trembling and gasping, holding on as hard as Clark is.

And that, that's it: the thing Clark's wanted most of all, the whole time.

Clark wakes up, and the first thing he thinks is that he isn't hard.

He lets his eyes drop shut again in relief. It had been starting to feel like he'd never be able to say that about himself again. Jesus.

But he isn't hard anymore. He isn't hard, and he's—clean, pretty much. He has a vague notion that the ship had changed at some point, formed an increasing depression in the floor that had deepened and then filled with—not quite water, a little thicker, but something clear and steaming and liquid, whose warmth Bruce had relaxed into with a sigh without ever lifting his mouth away from Clark's skin, as Clark had wet his hands with it and then smoothed them over Bruce's shoulders—

Bruce.

Clark jerks up and out of the—bed? Sort of a bed: a low enclosed space, maybe the same one that had been sort of a bath before, except it's dry now. The lower surface is forgiving underneath him, not the way the deck usually feels, with gentle sloping sides; and the ship's made out of some kind of metal, Clark is almost sure, but somehow a bunch of its material has been fanned out, latticed together in a flexible warm web that's kind of like blankets. Clark peers at it more closely. What are those, dodecahedrons?

Bruce would know.

Clark swallows.

The ship's still a little bit in his head. Further away now than it was when he was, uh, indisposed—but he's the commander, and it must be able to feel him wondering. It chimes gently, and then says, "Your husband is still on board."

Clark carefully doesn't laugh, because if he does it'll come out hysterical. "My—my—"

"Automatic protocols of address are consistent with regulation," the ship says, sounding politely confused. "While cycles themselves have become increasingly rare, spending an entire cycle, both commencement and completion, with the same individual or group of individuals is still considered a binding legal arrangement in Kryptonian-administered regions of space, as of the most recent update to—"

"Commencement? Bruce wasn't there for—" and then Clark remembers Bruce's office and clears his throat, rubbing helplessly at the back of his neck. "There is no Kryptonian-administered space anymore," Clark tries.

"This ship is Kryptonian-administered space, Commander," and that's downright frosty.

"Fine, okay," Clark says, because he's really not up to arguing about the practicality of conforming to thousand-year-old alien statutory codes. "Just—do not call Bruce that where he can hear you. Okay?"

"Yes, Commander," the ship says primly.

Clark puts his face in his hands and tries to breathe evenly. Bruce is still on board. Bruce came here and—knew, had to have known; or else he'd figured it out after the first hour of Clark climbing him like a tree and licking him everywhere—

Jesus, stop it. Whether Bruce had worked it out from looking at his version of the database or not, he'd stuck it out, because of course he had. He hadn't shot Clark in the face with kryptonite and left in the middle because he wouldn't have, no matter what Clark had been doing to him—not if he thought Clark needed to do it.

And thinking that makes Clark's gut sink, with a sick cold weight that even Superman can't bear up under.

Bruce takes responsibility for everything within range. For the entire planet, when he'd thought it needed defending from Superman; and Clark's his teammate now, on a team that is at its heart Bruce's. Of course Bruce would take it on himself to—to do this, to come here and let Clark—

Clark sucks in another slow breath, wipes absently at his face, and decides to start with the essentials. "Ship, can I, um—do you have another one of those uniforms somewhere?"

The ship does have more of those uniforms, or can make them, and can even be talked into spitting out one in two pieces, one that doesn't have the crest of the House of El plastered across the chest. Somehow Clark is pretty sure that going out there as Superman is not going to make this easier.

Once he's dressed, he tries to decide on the least invasive way to find Bruce and then realizes with a guilty start that that low regular sound he's already listening to is Bruce's heart. He'd just thought about where Bruce was, and his hearing had—

(—in the middle of it all, there had been nothing but Bruce, everywhere: filling Clark's ears, his gasps, his low sharp cries, the rush of blood through him like distant waves; too much to look at even though Bruce was the only thing, every scar and furrow, each tiny helpless contraction of the muscles in his hands, his arms—the individual perfect curves of his eyelashes; the feel of him, shameless and alive in Clark's arms, hot and wanting and winding his fingers through Clark's hair, saying harder, come on, I can—Clark, ah—)

Clark blinks and shakes himself. He has to find Bruce, and—and Bruce knows what he's capable of.

But it feels like cheating anyway.

Clark bites his lip for a second; and then he carefully stops listening, and stands in the corridor trying to decide which way he might think Bruce had gone if he couldn't hear anything at all.

Bruce is a deck up, Clark discovers in the end, in one of the rooms with a ceiling so perfectly transparent it might as well be open to the sky, when in reality even the vacuum of space wouldn't crack it. He's looking up at it, but not through it: the ship is explaining something to him, some kind of ridiculously advanced Kryptonian physics, with hovering metallic diagrams that shift and rearrange and reform every time Bruce asks a question.

And he looks—absorbed. It had started to become one of Clark's favorite things about the League, getting to see Bruce just this way. In the Cave, working on some new schematic, frowning and intent; as though everything else has ceased to exist—nothing to hide or paper over, no one to outwit or outplan or paste on a smile for. Just Bruce.

But Clark can't keep standing here watching like a creep. And Bruce wouldn't look like that if he knew Clark could see him.

So Clark takes another step forward. The doorway chimes lightly around him as he passes through it, and Bruce turns around and—smiles.

Clark shuts his eyes.

After the first time they'd fought—and not Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne arguing about city politics, or Batman being terse and stubborn and not doing a single damn thing Superman ever asked him to, but just Clark and Bruce. Just Clark and Bruce, yelling at each other in the lake house over—over the database, actually, Clark is pretty sure; over Bruce keeping secrets and never asking first.

Anyway. After that time, Bruce had mostly stopped doing this to Clark. He'd still hammed it up in public, playing a part, and Clark had understood why—he'd even done it at Clark specifically sometimes, during press conferences or at fundraisers, but that had been—that had been because Clark knew what Bruce was doing. That had been because Clark was in on the joke.

But this isn't a joke, and Clark doesn't have a backstage pass this time.

"Clark," Bruce says, in an easy friendly tone that Clark doesn't let himself flinch away from.

He's lucky Bruce is talking to him at all. Jesus. How is Clark ever going to fix this?

"Feeling all right?" Bruce is saying.

"Sure," Clark says automatically, "fine," and he makes himself open his eyes again. "And you aren't—I didn't, uh—"

"All in one piece," Bruce says, with another perfect awful smile he can't possibly mean.

"You're sure," Clark says in a rush, because—because if he at least didn't hurt Bruce physically, didn't break or—or tear anything—

"Never better, Clark, I promise," and on the one hand he's still got that smile on his face, but on the other hand Bruce has never used those words lightly. "I should be getting back to the office, though," as if this is a meeting that ran long, Clark thinks wildly. "Anything you'd like me to pass along to the League?"

Clark stares at him, helpless. How does Bruce do this? "I'll—be another day or two, I think," he manages.

"All right," Bruce says. He thanks the ship, crosses the room toward—toward the door, that's all, the door Clark's standing in front of. His hand moves like he's going to reach out; like he's about to make himself touch Clark, like he hasn't martyred himself hard enough yet—

Clark steps away. He's not good at this like Bruce, he can't make it look natural, but he hopes it means something to Bruce anyway, that Clark would let him off the hook.

Bruce doesn't look like it means anything to him. There's not a single scuff on the whole gleaming surface of him, as far as Clark can see. But he does pause for a moment, hand still halfway outstretched, to say, "I'm glad it worked."

"Yeah," Clark says inanely, and looks away, and waits until he can't hear Bruce's footsteps anymore—not even when he tries.

(Who is he kidding? He can't fix this.

He should have realized the second he'd stepped into Bruce's office, the second he'd known something was seriously wrong. He should have made sure Bruce would never find him. At the end of the day, it wouldn't have mattered how responsible Bruce felt or how stupid he'd planned to be. Because Clark could have prevented all of this if he'd just sealed the ship up properly, but—

But a part of him had wanted Bruce to come in. A part of him had allowed that door to open and let Bruce inside.

And there's nothing Bruce won't do if he thinks it's necessary, necessary and his responsibility. He'd known, at some point: I'm glad it worked. He'd thought he had to. And the only reason any of it had even happened in the first place was because of Clark. Because Clark exists and is who he is, is—

not regulation

—what he is.

It shouldn't have happened at all, but it has; and even Superman can't fix that.)

Bruce said he was all right. But Clark isn't feeling particularly sure of anything right now, and that's something he can find a single solid answer to.

"Ship," he says, "do you—are there sensor records of the time since Bruce came on board?"

"Yes," the ship says, and something comes up out of the floor, forms together out of—

It's him. Him and Bruce, cast in gray-bronze, soundless moving statues, at the precise moment when Clark had first slid inside—

"Stop," Clark says hurriedly, "stop," and they vanish.

Because of course the ship not only had records, but could play them back as life-sized three-dimensional—jesus.

"Just check them, please," he manages, with a hand over his eyes. "If there was ever anything wrong with Bruce's vital signs, or any—blood. Anything like that."

"Yes, Commander," the ship says.

The only instances the ship flags for him, in the end, are things like Clark biting Bruce's lip a little too hard, or the ferocious bruise it seems he'd sucked into life just to one side of the hollow of Bruce's throat, rippling down over Bruce's collarbone. Nothing Bruce would have flinched from, or would be struggling with—not Bruce, who liked to swan around at fancy parties pretending he didn't have broken ribs. At people who had x-ray vision. Because he was an idiot.

And of course Bruce had come here, Clark thinks, staring down at his hands. Because Bruce is an idiot. An idiot who thinks Clark is his problem—his responsibility—who has no idea that this happened to him because Clark wanted it to. It would almost have been easier if Clark had hurt Bruce physically; then at least they'd have had a starting point they could agree on for—

For what? Clark lies back against the deck, feeling cold and tired and nauseated, and scrubs his hands through his hair. For an apology? As if that'll be enough to make up for it. As if that were even a fraction of what it would take—as if there were any way to make up for this.

But he has to do something. He has to.

ayrt

You are totally not de-anoning yourself, just like I am massively anon here. I CANNOT WAIT FOR THE SOULBONDING, TOO, MIND YOU. I would not have said no to some extra bonding here as well for MORE ANGST, but knowing that the soulbonding fic is keeping me from being too sad about it. ;)

Oooooh, this is so perfect and angsty! I love how confused and out of his mind poor Clark is.

Bruce is odd at first. Braced, Clark thinks, but there's nothing he needs to be braced for here—all Clark wants to do is kiss him. Clark manages to find half a thought to spare for the room, the lights; he tosses a muddled request through his link to the ship, and everything obediently dims around them. Bruce is more comfortable in shadows.
Awwwwwwwww, oh Clark, you sweetheart. How cute is he.

Bruce is human and so easily hurt—so careless with himself, he always has been, and Clark hates that.
This is such an amazing echo to Bruce thinking about how much it might hurt, how much Clark might injure him, and taking that in stride.

And I love the ship, by the way. Clark is clearly not doing things properly here. ;) AND THEN MORE CLARK ANGST BECAUSE HE WORRIES ABOUT BRUCE AND THINKS BRUCE ONLY DID IT TO HELP HIM, OH CLAAAAAAAAARK.

then realizes with a guilty start that that low regular sound he's already listening to is Bruce's heart. He'd just thought about where Bruce was, and his hearing had—
Eeeeeeeeh. <3 I always love Clark listening to Bruce's heartbeat.

And of course Bruce is working and letting the ship explain things to him, of course. <3 And I love that Clark loves seeing him like that. AND THEN OUCH BRUCE IN BRUCE WAYNE MODE? OH NO.

not Bruce, who liked to swan around at fancy parties pretending he didn't have broken ribs. At people who had x-ray vision. Because he was an idiot.
Haha, oh Bruce. <3 Worried Clark breaks my heart. All of this breaks my heart, anon! I cannot wait for the last part because I NEED THEM TO MAKE UP AND BE HAPPY BECAUSE RIGHT NOW MY HEART IS HURTING A LOT. Because this is amazing and you are amazing. <3

Since she's "daddy's little monster" ... Go as filthy and fucked up as you like with this ship.

<333 anon. I did write this with the happiest ending in mind, but if anyone is inclined to angst, then they're quite welcome to read the worst into it, too. XD

(Things probably go like this: Bruce stubbornly decides they're going to DO THIS until they GET IT RIGHT. They proceed to DO THIS A LOT and he FAILS TO DEAL EVERY TIME. They have a lot of opaque conversations while superheroing. Eventually Bruce manages to deal a little and succumbs to the horror of *gasp* aftercare. The End :D)

...I could almost FEEL this turning into another 10k+ of ridiculous emotional repression and hookup shenanigans and I PLOT-JAILED THAT SHIT MERCILESSLY.

(One scenario definitely involved a double-booked room on a yacht. XD)

DID YOU JUST SIT DOWN AND THINK "HOW AM I GOING TO REDUCE [SUPER ANONYMOUS ANON WITH THE THROAT KINK] TO INCOHERENT SQUEEING
WELL. MAYBE? :D

Bruce's genuine reaction
It is basically: "Are you trying to make love to me? HOW DARE YOU."

<333 I'm 100% delighted that you enjoyed it anon, and I... YEP. More is tempting. IT'S ON MY (EVER-GROWING) LIST XD

This is less a story and more a snippet that I hope to expand upon. It mostly achieves the prompt. Also if we could pretend I actually got this up in time for the fill fest, that would be great.

-------

The hallway outside the Gotham City Police Commissioner’s office is long and echoing and empty of any potential distractions, save for a coffee pot on a folding table and a poster on the wall directly opposite the office door. The coffee is thick and tarry and does not appeal, and the poster features only a few lines of text under a picture of a woman with bruises on her face. All in all, it seems mostly as though the Commissioner’s intent is to bore his visitors into leaving before he has to deal with them.

Illya reads the text on the poster and memorizes the hotline phone numbers. He counts the packets of creamer and sugar in their little plastic bowls on the coffee table. He does not touch anything, does not take any coffee for himself- DNA trace on coffee cups, you can take the boy out of the SVR, Solo had once said, except you really, really can’t- but simply waits. He has nowhere else he would rather be.

There is a noise at the far end of the hallway and Illya pauses in his fifth recounting of creamer tubs. He watches as a man approaches- wide-brimmed hat with his head down, trim white mustache, shiny-toed shoes. He stops outside the office and takes his hat off, shaking the rain off its brim.

“Agent Nabokov?” he asks, slightly disbelieving, and Illya can feel his entire face twitch before he forces himself to stillness. Apparently Waverly is mad at them for interrupting his weekend.

“Yes,” he says, and pulls the badge out of his pocket again. This one predates his recruitment into UNCLE, and is the closest to authentic of all the badges he carries. Commissioner Gordon spares it barely a glance as he removes a keyring from his coat pocket and unlocks his office door.

“So you’re Interpol,” he says as he leads Illya in. The hat and the coat go on the coat rack just inside the office door, and Gordon turns, sweeping a quick glance over Illya. “I would have thought I’d have known if Interpol was working on something in my town,” he says mildly.

“With respect, I am not here to explain myself to you,” Illya says.

“Of course not,” Gordon agrees. “You’re here for our prisoner. He’s a… consultant? Is that correct?”

“He is useful,” Illya allows, and it even manages to be mostly true.

“He tried to steal something from a benefit,” Gordon says, and looks Illya over again. “A charity auction, to be precise, although I’m sure you knew that.”

He had left the tie and jacket in the car, had unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled the sleeves up his forearms- but he is still wearing most of a thousand-dollar suit, and of course Gordon’s trained eye would pick up on that. “Yes, I was there.”

“You’re Russian, right?” Gordon asks, and when Illya dips his chin in a single nod, he nods as well. “You probably don’t know what the Widows and Orphans Fund is, then.”

Illya thinks briefly of the police officers at the party, all awkwardly wearing dress uniforms, chugging champagne from the tiny glasses like they were beer steins. Gordon himself is in a suit, although not nearly as expensive as the one Solo and Gaby had forced Illya into. He doesn’t know for sure, no, but he can guess.

“For officers fallen in the line of duty, yes?” he asks, and Gordon sends him a sharp look. “If you are saying he ought to be in jail, I agree.”

“I’m saying I don’t want him walking free just because he’s useful,” Gordon snaps.

Illya doesn’t know what to say to that, and thankfully doesn’t have to try. There is a noise in the hallway, footsteps, the tiniest clink of a chain, and Illya turns to find an officer standing in the doorway, looking apologetic. Next to him is Napoleon Solo, face bloodied and bruised, hands cuffed behind his back, suit rumpled and bloodstained, but alive and relatively well. He relaxes a little at seeing Illya, but wisely says nothing.

“Sir,” the officer begins, holding out a clipboard with a stack of forms on it to Gordon.

Illya steps aside, steps back, takes Solo by the elbow and pushes him back out into the hallway to give the two policemen privacy. Solo angles his head enough to look up at him without seeming to actually be looking.

“Peril,” he greets, quietly. Not subdued- Illya would not expect that, not even after all this. Illya says nothing, does not even grace him with a look.

“Seems everything is in order,” Gordon says as he steps out of his office, reluctant and unhappy, the words dragging out of him. “You’ll need to sign this, and we need a phone number and the hotel you’re staying at, if you don’t mind.”

Illya signs the paper with his insult of an alias and writes down one of the hotline numbers from the battered woman poster, changing the last two digits so it isn’t immediately apparent he’s lying. He also writes the name of a hotel he had seen while driving through the city, then lets the pen go unhappily, thinking of all the interesting things that will come up in their system if they try to run his prints.

“Was it worth it?” Gordon asks Solo while Illya is busy writing.

“For the opportunity to meet the Bat? Absolutely,” Solo says, bright and chipper as ever.

“Be quiet,” Illya orders. Gordon already thinks Solo was trying to steal from dead police officers, and will be even unhappier with them when he inevitably sends someone to the hotel to talk to them, or tries to call the number Illya gave him. Openly antagonizing him won’t do them any favors.

Gordon takes the paper with a polite murmur of thanks, and looks Illya in the eye as he promises, “I’ll have someone drop by the hotel later to see how everything’s going.”

Illya holds Gordon’s gaze and gives a somber nod. He was expecting nothing less. “Until then,” he says, and takes Solo by the elbow again and steers him away, leaving Gordon and the other officer behind.

It is still raining outside- it is always raining in Gotham, Illya thinks, the sky always choked with clouds turned the colors of bruises with smog and light pollution- and Solo ducks his head and grimaces as Illya grimly hauls him out of the police headquarters. He has been behaving so far, and Illya is counting the seconds before-

“So. Nabokov?”

- before that happens. Illya stifles a sigh. “This is your fault,” he says, without heat. Scolding Solo for these stunts of his is like scolding water for being wet. It is his nature.

“Waverly’s mad at us, I take it,” Solo continues, happy enough now that he no longer has to put on an act for the police.

Illya stops them at their rented car and unlocks the doors, opens the passenger’s door and digs into the glove box for a moment. He comes up with a paperclip, which he unfolds and drops into Solo’s waiting hands. “You met the Bat?” he asks as Solo fumbles the wire into place against the handcuff lock. “You said he was not real. Urban legend.”

“I stand very much corrected,” Solo says, and grunts as he twists his wrist oddly. One loop of the handcuffs spring open and he immediately draws his hands around in front, rubbing at his wrists. “He is extremely real. Is there any way we can stop by a hospital? I think he broke my nose.”

“You’re fine,” Illya says, mostly by reflex. His nose does look bad. Perhaps if he had seen Solo a couple of hours ago, when the wound was still fresh and the swelling had not had time to set in, he could say for sure if it was broken or not.

“Is Gaby still at the benefit?” Solo asks as Illya circles around to the driver’s side and climbs into the car. He gets in as well, although he leaves his door open and one leg outside of the car while he picks the other loop of the handcuff. Illya takes advantage of the pause to lean into the backseat and retrieve his suit jacket, then produces a spare earpiece from an inner pocket and offers it to Solo. The cowboy tosses the handcuffs into the backseat and takes the earpiece, tucking it into his ear. “Is Gaby still at the benefit?” he repeats, this time for all three of them to hear.

Illya taps his own earpiece to activate it- no sense in distracting Gaby with making her listen to Illya fight through bureaucracy- just in time to hear Gaby give a fake, tinkling laugh. She says something in German, and the person she is talking to must not be anywhere approaching fluent, because those words would shock a drunken sailor.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Solo says wryly. “Is there any way you could get your hands on a guest list?”

There is a pause while Gaby excuses herself from whomever she is talking to. Illya uses the moment to start the car and lets it roll forward a little, forcing Solo to pull his leg into the car and shut the door.

“Guest list, sure,” Gaby says, keeping her voice low and her words clipped short, trying not to attract attention. “Why?”

“Has our Mister Dupree graced us with his presence yet?” Solo presses, ignoring Gaby’s irritated huff. She answers, of course, because experience has long shown there is little point in fighting with Solo when he’s in one of these moods.

“Not yet, and I don’t think he’s coming at all, with how late it is.”

“You notice who else never showed up? And after he sponsored and organized the whole benefit, too,” Solo continues. “Very rude.”

“If you’re meaning Bruce Wayne, you’d better bite your tongue, because he’s here,” Gaby says. “He showed up about ten minutes after Illya left. Fashionably late and all that. He’s been making the rounds- he even flirted with me for a few minutes.”

“Oh.” Solo looks briefly disappointed. After a moment, he slants Illya a sharp grin. “Well, that just means there’s no one home to bother us when we go break into his house.”

“No,” Illya says, although he knows it’s already a lost battle.

“Why?” Gaby adds. “Solo, what is going on?”

Solo fetches Illya’s discarded suit jacket from the backseat and takes that stupid little silk square out of the pocket. He dabs it against his nose, checking for fresh bleeding.

“I wasn’t stealing the painting,” he says. “I was just trying to get a closer look at it.”

“You were in restricted area,” Illya points out. He blames himself for this- being surrounded by such art, for Solo, must have been like a child in a sweets shop. Illya should have known to keep closer watch on him.

“Professional curiosity,” Solo says airily, and Gaby gives an unlady-like snort. “I am offended that you both think so little of my skill-” Solo begins.

The street out of the police headquarters empties into a major intersection. Illya turns left against a newly-red light, weaving ably through the first few cars already crossing the intersection. He leaves a trail of honking horns and squealing brakes in his wake- American drivers are so timid, so scared of even the tiniest of bumps and scratches. It shuts Solo up, at least, as he squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself against the doorframe.

“Oh, is Illya driving?” Gaby asks, sounding almost sympathetic.

“God save us all from Russian motorists,” Solo agrees.

“Talk, Cowboy,” Illya orders, and actually stops for the next light, even though it is only yellow. “Keep it short.”

“I noticed that several of the high-end paintings at the benefit were forgeries,” Solo says, leaving aside the self-aggrandizing. “Including the Matisse I was looking at. Three guesses who donated every single one of them.”

“Bruce Wayne,” Illya says, because he can see where this is going.

“Now, it could be something completely innocent,” Solo says. “It could be a genuine mistake. He donated a lot of things at the auction, and only a few pieces were forgeries, so maybe he just never noticed. It could also be that he bought them, realized they were forgeries, and is using the benefit to get them off his hands without public embarrassment. Who is going to accuse a philanthropist of donating forgeries to a charity auction? Or…” And he trails off, clearly waiting for some prompting from his audience.

The light for the left turn lane changes to green, although Illya’s light stays red. He floors it anyway, ripping through the intersection with a roar of the engine. Solo slams back into his seat and swears, but once they’re through the intersection, he starts talking again, words coming out rushed and choppy.

“We were at the benefit in the first place because our mystery arms dealer Dupree was supposed to be there, correct?” he asks, and continues before Illya can break any more traffic laws. “And after three months of hunting him, we still haven’t so much as laid eyes on him, and only have a very basic description of him. What if that’s because he doesn’t actually exist?”

“You think Dupree is an alias?” Gaby asks. “For Bruce Wayne? Solo, I’ve met the man. He’s a total idiot.”

“He has run giant corporation for twenty years,” Illya points out, because far more than Solo or Gaby, he understands what it is to hide behind stereotypes.

“True,” Gaby concedes. “Still, it’s a stretch to go from forged paintings to arms dealing.”

“Works of art are currency on the black market,” Solo says. “Easier and more convenient than laundering money. Donate a forgery to a charity auction and no one asks what happened to the Matisse that used to be hanging on your wall. Also, the Bat was there. That alone says something’s not right.” And he dabs at his nose again with the silk square, prim and tidy.

There is silence between the three of them, Gaby and Illya stewing over Solo’s words, Solo smug and satisfied. Finally Illya sighs.

“Is Wayne still at the party?” he asks.

“Yeah, and it looks like he’s here to stay,” Gaby says. “He has a woman on each arm and he’s two-handing the champagne.”

“Where is Wayne’s house?” Illya asks Solo.

“South of the city,” Solo says. “I’ve scouted the place a couple times. Wayne Manor burned down a while ago, so Wayne lives in a lakehouse on the property. It’s minimal security. Plus the only staff he’s got is an old butler who takes off on nights like this.”

“Exactly how many times have you scouted it?” Gaby asks. “And you never told me why you want the guest list.”

"I want to see if there’s someone named Kent on it. The Bat called me Kent, asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. Then he realized I wasn’t Kent and broke my nose.”

“Is not broken,” Illya says, more confident in his diagnosis now- Solo is not nearly in enough pain for a broken nose. “You want to find this Kent?”

“I want to know who he is, yes,” Solo says. “It’s not important, I’m just curious.”

Illya does not for a second believe that, but he knows Solo will not tell him, no matter how he asks. “If Wayne leaves the party, tell us,” he says to Gaby, gentling his voice just enough that it isn’t an order.

“Let me know if you find anything interesting,” Gaby says with a resigned sigh- she has long since learned that there is no helping it when the boys are set on a course she thinks is stupid. Then she says hello to someone in her socialite voice, and turns her earpiece off with a click.

“Lakehouse,” Solo says, almost to himself. “Shouldn’t take long, it’s got maybe five rooms. Then hospital, and call Waverly and see what he knows about Bruce Wayne.”

“Wayne is rich,” Illya points out. “Why sell weapons?”

“Boredom, maybe,” Solo shrugs. “The idle rich want only for something to fill their empty hours. He’s got to be doing something with his time, something a bit more thrilling than drinking and sleeping with everything that moves.”

Illya only grunts. Solo speaks from experience- he has actually been the idle rich, after establishing himself as a master thief. His own search for thrills is what ultimately got him caught.

“Oh,” Solo adds, “and let’s try to avoid the Bat from now on. He makes you seem downright cuddly.”

“Should be easy enough,” Illya agrees.

Then he ends the conversation by blowing through another red light, Solo swearing loudly beside him, and they roll on into the Gotham night.

I am squealing with such delight and at such decibels that you would find alarming. This is wonderful! I, too, hope that you expand on this! I didn’t actually know that I wanted this until you posted your snippet!

Gaby having sympathy for Solo because Illya is driving!

“Should be easy enough.”

So is it tempting fate or is it just sealing one’s fate?

I do hope to see more! Thanks for sharing!

Oh, anon, this is wonderful! :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD What a glorious crossing of streams - how much do I love the MUNCLE team speculating about Bruce Wayne, and about the Bat, and that absolutely perfect sidenote about the Bat having confused Napoleon for Clark??? SO VERY, VERY MUCH. I'll be delighted with anything more you choose to write in this universe, but tbh I am already thrilled with this alone and will continue to be even if there is never any more. Delightful work - thank you so much for posting this snippet for us! ♥

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Page 73 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [2/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [2/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from this Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [1/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from this Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [1/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from this Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [1/3]

Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [2/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (2b/4)

Re: FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (2b/4)

Re: FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (2b/4)

FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (3a/4)

FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (3b/4)

Re: FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (2b/4)

Re: FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (3b/4)

Joker/Harley, daddy kink

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Re: Fill: A Few Pages from This Closed Book: Bruce/Clark, Identity kink [3/3]

Fill: Trouble Never Comes Alone, GEN Crossover shenanigans

Re: Fill: Trouble Never Comes Alone, GEN Crossover shenanigans

Re: Fill: Trouble Never Comes Alone, GEN Crossover shenanigans