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.
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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 conclusion! TOOTHROTTING AS IT IS. Get ready, Bruce, you're about to be punched in the face with a fistful of sunshine. (OP, if this is too twee for you: I UNDERSTAND and I'M SORRY, let me know and I will 100% write you another ending. /o\)

I said this on the previous part but should have saved it for here: thank you SO MUCH to everybody who's been reading this, and to the anons who've left such wonderful, lengthy, incredibly kind comments! ♥ you all, I don't even know what to say. Except, of course, THANK YOU.

And, perhaps, revise that starting summary line to: five ways Bruce said "I love you" without saying it—and the time Clark didn't say it right back at him.

(basically everything he does, despite his best efforts.)

They take Bruce Wayne because they can: because no matter how much he varies the times and the days of his visits, if you stake out the Wayne mausoleum carefully enough, you'll catch him eventually.

Bruce can't even bring himself to regret it. He'd rather be kidnapped now and then than stop visiting his parents. If that's the price, he can accept it.

The worst thing about it isn't that he feels stupid anyway. It isn't that they've clearly been planning this for months, and he somehow missed any chatter. It isn't that they hit him, that they ziptie him; it isn't even that they let him see their faces, which means they aren't planning to let him go after they get whatever they can squeeze out of Lucius Fox for him.

It's that there's nothing he can do about any of it, because he doesn't have his damn suit.

Batman's body armor just isn't the kind of thing Bruce can fit underneath his day-to-day business clothes, not even with extremely expensive custom tailoring. And he'd been thinking of that as a positive, mostly—that kind of thing leaves a paper trail, and if anyone had been looking, that would definitely qualify as a clue connecting him with Batman. Bruce Wayne is as unremarkable as it's possible for a billionaire to be all day long; and then he goes back to the Cave and suits up and becomes Batman. And most of the time, that distinct separation is for the best.

Just not today.

Even without any of his equipment, of course, he's good enough to handle three. Maybe four, if none of them manage to get a decent bead on him with their guns within the first three seconds. But there's nine of them at least, and without grappling lines, batarangs, the armor, it gets harder and harder to come up with a way to pull it off.

Not to mention he'd then be stuck explaining how exactly Bruce Wayne had taken out nine heavily-armed men without dying. Because—maybe for the pressure it'll put on Lucius—these geniuses have already contacted the press.

Which means that without even knowing it, they've trapped him as well as any supervillain could. He's going to have to keep being useless, harmless Bruce Wayne, unless something happens that changes the stakes.

"—and no ransom demand has yet been made," a pleasant newswoman is saying tinnily from the tall one's smartphone screen. "But three images confirmed to be of Bruce Wayne have been released—"

"All right, all right, that's enough," says the blond one, and the tall one obediently shuts off the sound. "We'll give Fox a half-hour to get back to us, like we said, and then—"

The end of the word gets lost in a low pounding sound; the blond one goes silent and glances out the front of the van, further toward the city.

Toward Gotham—toward the docks, toward Metropolis, and toward, Bruce thinks with sudden clarity, the echoes of a goddamn sonic boom.

For a split second, he's so angry he can barely see straight; but he takes a slow breath, lets it out, and then pastes on Bruce Wayne's smug smile. Better start laying the groundwork.

"As much as I'll hate for this little adventure of ours to get cut short, I think that might be my ride."

Superman doesn't waste time: it only takes about thirty more seconds before the sides of the van's roof suddenly dimple inward with a crunch. Blond Guy hits the gas, but it doesn't do any good once the van's wheels lift off the ground. Superman flies them up to a rooftop, balancing the van carefully off one corner of the building, and tells the kidnappers to let Bruce get out or he'll let go. Which is a blatantly empty threat, coming from Superman, but then again they're pretty high up. The kidnappers turn out not to be gambling men.

Bruce grins at Superman sunnily, throws a wink sideways at Blond Guy, and then knee-walks up the slight angle of the van's floor until he can climb out the back. The kidnappers can't see his face anymore, which means it's safe to let it fall into the grim lines Bruce wants to direct at Clark; and the wind up here will snatch the words away before they can hear him say, "You really shouldn't have done this."

"You know, most people are happier to see me," Clark tells him, unfazed. And then he hauls the van safely onto the roof with one hand and reaches around to snap the ziptie around Bruce's wrists with the other.

Naturally, a news helicopter catches the whole thing.

They might still have gotten through it without actually having to talk to the press, except that Clark has to deliver the van to Gordon—and also carefully unscrunch the metal around the doors so they can be opened again. It only makes sense for him to take Bruce with him, so Bruce can provide the police with a statement and agree to file charges; and by the time they get out of the station, there's a crowd of reporters waiting for them.

The photos are going to be a problem all by themselves. And for all that he's one of them, Clark's never understood how to talk to reporters—and Superman's image won't let him brush them off the way Bruce Wayne can, anyway.

Maybe if Bruce just goes. "Thanks for the lift," he tries, and starts pushing away down the station steps; but of course Clark catches his arm, because Clark has never known when to quit.

"Let me take you back to your building," Clark says, earnest.

"That's really not necessary—"

"—you say you're friends with Bruce Wayne, Superman?" rises clear of the hum of questions being thrown at them, and of course that's the one that manages to catch Clark's attention.

"We weren't personally acquainted before today, ma'am," Clark says, which is technically true, and would have been fine if he'd been able to resist adding, "Which is a shame, considering all Mr. Wayne has done for this fine city."

Christ. "You're going to make me blush," Bruce says, in as smarmily dickish a Bruce Wayne tone as he can manage.

But of course the reporter doesn't let it go. "No doubt you're aware of Mr. Wayne's unsavory history with—"

She stops when Clark frowns—and who could blame her? With the suit and the perfect Superman face, it's as sudden and thunderous as the wrath of God; except it's Clark, which makes it more like the gentle, chiding disappointment of God, because He knows you're better than that. "I'm sure you're not suggesting Mr. Wayne should be weighed and measured, ma'am, and that you expect me to find him wanting. Everyone deserves to be saved."

It should be laugh-out-loud trite; but coming from Clark, somehow all it does is silence the questions, the clicking shutters. Only for a second, but that's long enough for Bruce to mutter, "Just get us out of here."

And of course Clark hears it, even if no one else does. "Excuse me, ma'am, but Mr. Wayne has a lot of work to do," and with one more polite smile, Clark catches Bruce around the waist and lifts off.

That's also technically true, but Clark doesn't take him to a Wayne Enterprises office building—he takes Bruce back to the manor grounds instead, though thankfully not to the mausoleum. That wouldn't have helped Bruce keep a level head.

Bruce bears the flight, the close pressure of Clark's arm, with grim resignation, and the second Clark sets him down, he moves away. "You really shouldn't have done that," he says, because apparently Clark didn't hear him the first time.

And it doesn't seem to get through this time, either. Clark just looks at him and says, "Why not?"

"Any association between Bruce Wayne and Superman is dangerous for both of us," Bruce says, and allows himself the over-precise enunciation of an irritated man, because he shouldn't have to spell this out. "Superman and Batman are both part of the League. If you start spending too much time around my civilian identity—"

"I save a lot of people, Bruce," Clark says. "Nobody's used it as a reason to accuse any of them of being Batman so far."

Another technically true thing. "You need to be more careful," Bruce says anyway, because that's also true.

It should make Clark angry, being scolded like that. But it doesn't. Instead he frowns again, crossing his arms, and looks at Bruce; and then he says slowly, "If you don't want to come to Thanksgiving, you don't have to."

It's such a ridiculous thing to say that Bruce almost laughs. Thanksgiving's going to be a mistake, Bruce is well aware of that, but on a solely personal scale. Bruce consciously considered what going into a family home, sitting at a table with Clark and Martha Kent, and eating a holiday dinner would cost him, and decided to agree anyway.

Today's been a mistake on a completely different level.

He shakes his head and then glances up—Clark is still watching him, eyes narrowed, and after a long quiet moment says, "No—no, that's the wrong thing, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is it about the reporter?" Clark barrels on. "I'm sorry I had to—I mean, it was the truth, in a way, at least about Superman and Bruce Wayne. If she'd known what she was actually asking, you know I would have said yes."

He says it like that helps, like he thinks that fixes the problem. Bruce can't stop himself from grimacing. "That's the last thing you should be saying in public, Clark."

And Clark looks—Clark looks utterly confused. "What? Why?"

"Why?" Bruce repeats. "Because people respect Superman—"

"Half the press still hates me—"

"—they admire Superman—"

"—and the other half just wants a picture—"

"—and they should," Bruce snaps. "They should. But they can't if he starts spending time around—"

"Around what?" Clark says, when Bruce breaks off. His tone is soft; but his gaze is sharp, inescapable. "Around you?"

Bruce looks away. Clark's talking like that isn't the point of Bruce Wayne—as if he isn't constructed entirely out of unadmirable things, as if he isn't specifically designed to prevent anyone worth respect from respecting him.

"But Batman is all right—is that it?"

"That isn't the same," Bruce says, because it isn't. He'd never have formed any kind of partnership that was just between Batman and Superman—nothing would have kept Superman's motives more questionable than that. The League works because it's not Batman's, because it becomes less about Batman with each new hero they find. That's what makes it viable.

"No," Clark murmurs, "I guess it isn't. He and Superman are both just part of the League. That doesn't make Superman look worse, it makes Superman look better: he's just trying to find a way to work with someone like Batman. But getting too close to Bruce Wayne—that could drag me down. Is that it?"

It's logic. He doesn't need Bruce to tell him he's right. Bruce keeps looking away and doesn't say anything.

"Bruce," Clark says, and then there's a swish of air, of motion—the superspeed, Bruce thinks, and by the time he thinks it Clark already has a hand on his face, fingertips light against his jaw, turning his head.

He's not using the strength at all. Bruce gives in anyway.

"Bruce," Clark repeats, more quietly. "I'm not worried about being dragged down," and his gaze, his tone, are nothing but sober when he adds, very seriously, "I can fly."

For a half-second, Bruce is bewildered; and then all he wants to do is roll his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Clark," he tries to snap, but Clark has already started to laugh, is smiling at him like the sun coming out. Clark isn't listening anymore—if he ever was listening at all.

"I don't care about that," Clark is saying. "I want to be your friend, and I want people to see me doing it." He shakes his head, still halfway to grinning. "I want you to let them understand why I would. I—I want—" and then he cuts himself off, swallowing, and his eyes go wide. The sharp breath he draws says he's just realized how close to Bruce he's standing; his gaze jumps back and forth across Bruce's face once, twice, and then briefly down to Bruce's mouth before leaping hurriedly back up.

It's obviously the first time he's thought about it, or at least the first time it's really come together for him. It should scare him—it still scares Bruce sometimes, when he lets it. But Clark's not Bruce. Clark's Superman, Bruce thinks distantly; he doesn't back down. Not even from things that could destroy him.

"I—I, um," he says instead, uncertain, and then he stops himself again and settles for moving his hand: not just brushing Bruce's jaw anymore, but his fingers sliding into Bruce's hair, his palm warm against Bruce's throat, his thumb just barely touching the corner of Bruce's mouth.

Bruce should step away. If he did, Clark wouldn't stop him—wouldn't dream of it. (He could. Of course he could. He could break Bruce's neck before Bruce even knew what was happening. The only thing that's stopping him—and stopping him where armies, tanks, even nuclear bombs wouldn't be able to—is that it will never occur to him. That even if it did, he'd never do it.)

But Clark's started smiling at him again, slow and warm, almost more than Bruce can stand to look at; and Clark's right there, touching his face, so close and so bright and so unhesitatingly glad. Bruce should stop him, and could—just needs to say any one of a dozen things, casually unleash one of a hundred petty cruelties. Superman's invulnerable, but Clark really, really isn't. It would take a little time to make Clark genuinely hate him again, but it could be done. At the very least, he could get Clark to let go of him, to move away. He could get Clark to stop looking at him like that. (He could make it so Clark never looked at him like that again.) And yet—

And yet Clark—Clark wants Bruce. He as good as said so. And Bruce, God help him, wants to let him.

It's as if Clark can hear him, even though telepathy is maybe the one superpower in the world he doesn't have; Bruce realizes with a jolt that he's murmuring, "Let me—let me," as he moves nearer, as if he can somehow tell what Bruce is fighting with. As if he really does know Bruce that well.

And that thought is terrifying; but not terrifying enough to keep Bruce's hands hanging where they are instead of rising helplessly to Clark's shoulders. Not terrifying enough to keep Bruce from kissing him back.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH NEW PART! But also NOOOOOOOOOOOO, it's over. You make me (OP, who's been commenting on every part, I just forgot to mention it most of the time) want to lie to you and say that I totally hated this ending so you'll have to write another one. It would be a huge lie.

Bruce at the mausoleum! My heart. And I love how incredibly calm Bruce is about being kidnapped, lol, even while he thinks that there's nothing he can do and it doesn't even occur to him yet that anyone will come for him. And then this, oh man:
For a split second, he's so angry he can barely see straight; but he takes a slow breath, lets it out, and then pastes on Bruce Wayne's smug smile. Better start laying the groundwork.

"As much as I'll hate for this little adventure of ours to get cut short, I think that might be my ride."
I love Bruce's initial reaction being ANGER that he has to be saved, but he immediately remembers to play his part. And I love taht detail of Clark not actually being good at talking to reporters, aw.

Christ. "You're going to make me blush," Bruce says, in as smarmily dickish a Bruce Wayne tone as he can manage.
Public!Bruce is the worst, I love it. :D And wow, WOW, this is just perfect:
She stops when Clark frowns—and who could blame her? With the suit and the perfect Superman face, it's as sudden and thunderous as the wrath of God; except it's Clark, which makes it more like the gentle, chiding disappointment of God, because He knows you're better than that. "I'm sure you're not suggesting Mr. Wayne should be weighed and measured, ma'am, and that you expect me to find him wanting. Everyone deserves to be saved."
Both the descriptions of Clark's frown and what he actually says, wow, just, perfect Clark characterisation. ALSO CLARK CARRYING BRUCE WHILE FLYING. :DDD

Bruce is so perfectly paranoid and Clark is having none of it. Aaaaaah, and this, this, my HEART! Bruce consciously considered what going into a family home, sitting at a table with Clark and Martha Kent, and eating a holiday dinner would cost him, and decided to agree anyway.
Bruuuuuuuce! Of course it'd all but rip him to pieces and he still agreed to gooo.

Clark's talking like that isn't the point of Bruce Wayne—as if he isn't constructed entirely out of unadmirable things, as if he isn't specifically designed to prevent anyone worth respect from respecting him.
Yesssssssssss, identity porn stuff. I am so in love with the whole theme of Bruce Wayne's perfectly designed, crafted public persona.

He's not using the strength at all. Bruce gives in anyway.

"Bruce," Clark repeats, more quietly. "I'm not worried about being dragged down," and his gaze, his tone, are nothing but sober when he adds, very seriously, "I can fly."
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW TO ALL OF THIS. And Clark is so cute and silly and adorable.

But Clark's not Bruce. Clark's Superman, Bruce thinks distantly; he doesn't back down. Not even from things that could destroy him.
I'M QUOTING EVERYTHING, I'M SORRY. I'm terrible at pretending that I hate this. ;) This is so beautiful. ALSO THERE'S THROAT TOUCHING WHICH IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING EVER. And then the ending, Bruce thinking about how he could make Clark stop by being cruel, how he could make Clark hate him ... and he doesn't. Go, Bruce, you were not an idiot for once. :D AND THEN THE KISS, I AM DEAD.

Anon, I love you so much for writing this wonderful fic. Gave me feels from start to finish and was more than I ever could have hoped for for this prompt. I absolutely wouldn't object to a different version of the ending either, but this is perfect as it is. <333 Thank you so, so much. I hope you will write many more things for this fandom because I adore how you write these two, you're a gift.

+1 !!!

+++1 OMG YES PLEASE

I'm the anon from the last part who ended their reply with GAH, and I'm trying to think of something more to say for here but my mind is just a happy, squealing pile of mush.

Like every sentence I had to set away to remind myself to breathe because the anticipation and excitement were so high.

I actually think my heart stopped at I CAN FLY. I might truly be dead--dead but so damn happy and thankful for this fill. I can't even quote my favorite parts cuz it would end up being ALL OF IT.

I so hope you get tons of ideas and continue writing these two because your writing is so ADDICTING. I think you could write about these two sharpening pencils and it would still be so in character and witty and sweet but pining and just wonderful that I would read it repeatedly. Thank you so much for sharing!

('I CAN FLY'. I will probably be randomly saying that these next few days, grinning ear to ear and falling to the ground. I'm actually getting a little teary eyed just thinking about how much I LOVE THAT LINE. I LOVE IT SO MUCH. GAHHHHH)

Via whatever handwavium you favour!

Clark feels what it's like existing in a vulnerable body for an extended time, all the aches and twinges. Bruce has to learn how to control Superman's various skills without constantly destroying shit.

Porn is great, Bruce despairing that Clark can't keep a poker face is also great, any excuse for damsel!Clark is A++

Or, the Three-Button Rule. Featuring young, naive Clark, sugar daddy Bruce and absolutely no continuity with the film. :D

Clark Kent doesn’t own many suits.

There’s the one he keeps for the usual occasions: weddings, funerals and assignments to the endless procession of galas and fundraisers. The others are a mish-mash collection of pants and shirts and blazers, sport coats and off-the-rack suit jackets, whatever fits across his shoulders and isn’t too short in the arm. These have a habit of losing their buttons or getting torn. Or stained, or burned, or sliced to ribbons. Sometimes salvageable, caught on a telephone wire or abutment or fluttering in the breeze above the Metropolis skyline, but mostly not.

Honestly, it costs Clark a small fortune, but the integrity of his clothes or his wallet tends to be the last thing on his mind when he hears a panicked shout, gunfire, screaming.

He doesn’t think much of it, day to day. The Daily Planet bullpen is all slacks and rolled-up shirtsleeves, where nobody minds if your shirt is 65% polyester and you got a bit of your lunch down your five-dollar tie. But tonight Perry’s got him covering a high-society charity soirée, so out comes Clark’s Sunday best.

It cost him the best part of his first paycheck. Technically, it’s a ready-to-wear affair with a serendipitous cut that he took to a tailor for some adjustments. Hardly bespoke, but it fits better than any suit he’s ever owned. (Bar one.)

It’s classic black gabardine, flat across his shoulders and smooth down his chest, half-inch of linen at his wrists. It accentuates his broadness more than he’d like, but he can’t bring himself to slouch while he’s wearing it.

He combs his hair, slides on his glasses and grins at the mirror. “Look at you, Smallville,” he says, and then ruins the line of the jacket by putting his voice recorder in one pocket.

*

It's approaching midnight when Clark thinks about wrapping it up; most folks have had enough champagne that any further thoughts they have on the downtown regeneration projects are somewhat fuzzy at best and meandering into interminable anecdotes about people Clark has never even heard of at worst.

He’s outside loosening his tie when a vintage Aston Martin pulls up, and there's a commotion amongst the glitterati who have drifted outside throughout the evening. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of them says dryly. “Fashionably late as always.”

“He's here for last week's party,” another says, laughing.

The man unfolds himself from the back of the vehicle, smooths down his coat. And that, Clark thinks, is an expensive suit. That’s easy to tell, even to an inexperienced eye: black wool over a black shirt and a charcoal silk tie that sets off the touch of gray at the man's temples. It’s an exceptional fit; it moves with him like a second skin--doesn’t ride up or rumple or crease in the wrong places as he raises a hand to the photographers. Clark doesn’t even want to think about what it might have cost.

“Gentlemen,” the man says with a warm smile and eyes that are harder than flint, and heads to the foyer, passing Clark on the way.

He stops short, turns around and gives Clark a long, considering look, head to toe then back up again. It is thoroughly embarrassing in a way Clark can't put his finger on, only that he hasn't felt like such a country bumpkin since his first week in Metropolis.

This time the lopsided smile touches the man's eyes, though it's only a fraction friendlier for it. “Kind of a faux pas, son,” he says to Clark, then slides a finger inside Clark’s jacket, runs it down and unfastens the bottom button.

*

The man was apparently Bruce Wayne, to Clark’s surprise--and to Perry’s deep despair, when it arose that Clark had spoken to him and yet has nothing useful to show for it. And no, Kent, fashion tips don’t count.

*

Which is probably why he’s being assigned to each and every high-profile socialite gathering that Perry gets wind of. If Clark has to eat one more experimental variation on a smoked salmon canapé this week he will genuinely cry. These ones appear to be mousse extruded into salmony ribbons (on toast), and if anybody ever needed proof that there is no God, Clark would present that as exhibit A.

Exhibit B would be when he spots Bruce Wayne, impeccably groomed, cufflinks and collar pin glinting under the crisp gallery lights as he gestures in conversation with an attentive lady. Wayne catches Clark’s eye before he can look away, and the man raises his eyebrows as if to say: really?

That is when Clark remembers that he’s wearing the same suit as last time they met. He feels heat rise in his face, along with an indignation because dammit, not everyone can afford a rotating wardrobe of tailored Italian three-piece suits with fluid, unbroken lines, shot through with pinstripes that... accentuate an obviously great physique. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and--

Clark realizes that he’s staring and covers it by shoving the canapé into his mouth. He regrets it pretty much instantly; firstly because it’s like eating fishy soapsuds and secondly because Wayne is heading right at him.

He swallows, makes eye contact and in an act of defiance, fastens the bottom button of his jacket.

Wayne raises his eyebrows again, shakes his head very slightly. “Bruce Wayne,” he says and offers his hand. “I believe we’ve almost met.”

Clark takes his hand cautiously. His knuckles are dappled with faded bruising, which is interesting. Bruce Wayne strikes him as the kind of man who might cause a fight, but wouldn't necessarily stick around to see it through. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

Wayne gives him a single, firm shake and then slides the hand into his pants pocket, breaking the sleek lines of his suit with casual indifference. “You look a little out of your depth, Mr. Kent,” Wayne says. His gaze drops from Clark’s face to his tie and then to the buttons of his jacket. Clark hears the faintest stutter in his breath, a fractional uptick in his heart rate. “How about we blow this joint?”

“I thought you didn’t give interviews,” Clark says. He has absolutely no idea what to make of this--whether his minor sartorial rebellion has incensed Wayne somehow, or if he’s signalled something that he didn’t entirely intend.

Not entirely.

Wayne leans in, voice low and dark in Clark’s ear, edge of roughness like metal on a grindstone. “Who said anything about talking?”

*

Which is how Clark ends up in this ridiculous automobile with its mirrored windows and cream leather upholstery, while its owner, billionaire philanthropist and without a doubt one-hundred-percent indiscreet and indiscriminate playboy Bruce Wayne, splays over the back seat and tells him to take his goddamn jacket off.

“I like this jacket,” Clark tells him as he unfastens the top button and wonders if he’s making probably the worst career decision of his life. “It’s my best jacket.”

Wayne just takes Clark’s lapel and tugs him over. He doesn’t kiss him (Clark suspects they are not going to kiss, which is somehow disappointing but also a relief as he’s pretty sure he knows what his breath smells like) but grates the stubble of his cheek against Clark’s chin and then encourages him to climb across his lap. Clark has to duck his head and arch over to fit against the low ceiling of the car.

“It’s a nice jacket,” Wayne says up at him, which is obviously not what he thinks at all, but Clark appreciates the tact even if it’s low-effort, “but it’s too tight on you.”

“It’s hard to find anything that fits.”

“I can see that.” There’s a faint note of approval in Wayne’s voice that makes Clark shiver. Bruce’s hand slides up the tail of his jacket, tugs his shirt loose from the waistband of his pants. Clark has a split-second of panic even though he knows he’s not wearing the suit, but then Wayne’s hand is warm, flattened against the bared skin at small of Clark’s back. An abrupt arousal cascades through Clark’s body; he lets his hips tilt against Wayne’s.

Wayne makes something like an approving noise, and presses back in response. Clark can’t help but watch the shift of fabric, the way the pinstripes of Wayne’s suit distort around his erection.

“I could give you the name of my tailor,” Wayne says, rocking excruciatingly slow, just enough to gather some friction but nothing more. His cologne is strong in Clark’s nose, rich and spicy, activated by the heat from his skin. There’s also a low note of something like… engine grease riding under the decadent fragrance, something metallic and earthy. It’s weird, but Clark can’t quite get his brain to focus on it right now.

“That’s… really not what… hnn.” Clark’s hands fumble at Wayne’s jacket, slips the buttons and spreads it open, and his vest, surrounds Wayne in satin lining against the leather upholstery. He tries his luck with the tiny goddamn buttons on his dress shirt, but Wayne pushes him away, encourages Clark to wrap a hand around his tie instead. The fabric is smooth and cool around Clark’s fist; he keeps a hold, presses that hand against the headrest, keeps the tie in tension and Wayne pinned to the seat.

“You’d look good in blue, with a stripe.” Wayne grins, a white slash of teeth in the semi-dark, and Clark hears the gentle shush of zipper pulled open, Wayne’s warm hand touching him. “American cut, but double vents, maybe.”

Clark closes his eyes, hears a second zipper. “I have no idea what that means,” he says, then Wayne’s hand is around them both, pressing together and Clark doesn’t know what to do with his other hand so he just pushes it into Wayne’s hair, messes it up without meaning to, really.

“I know,” Wayne says tightly, and Clark bucks into his hand, rising in counterpoint to Wayne rocking under him in a steady rhythm, the slip of wool over their thighs and the close heat of their bodies. It doesn’t take long, not when Wayne keeps palming at Clark’s hip with his free hand, fingers running over the waistband of his pants, just barely skimming his stomach.

“Oh--” Clark gasps. Wayne holds him still, gives him no choice but to come over the crisp white of his dress shirt. “--God.”

Wayne closes his eyes, gives both of them a couple more firm jerks, and does the same.

“Jeez, I’m sorry, your shirt--” Clark says, pats at his pockets for a handkerchief, but Wayne waves him off.

“It’s fine, son,” Wayne says, fastening his vest and then the jacket over the whole mess while Clark watches, kind of enthralled and also kind of feeling sorry for whoever does his dry cleaning. Wayne combs his hair back into place with his fingers, and then straightens Clark’s tie for him. “Is there somewhere I can drop you off?”

“Uh, that’s okay,” Clark says, dazedly leaning to open the car door. “Thank you, but I think I. Need some air. I’ll get a cab.”

*

Perry is mad when he comes back empty-handed, as expected. Especially the week after, when the parcel arrives.

“If I‘ve told you once,” he says, slapping it onto Clark’s desk, ”I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t get your eBay junk sent here.”

“Sorry, boss,” Clark says as mildly as he can, then lifts his glasses so he can take a look at what’s inside.

It stops him short. Folds of fabric samples, mostly dusky blues and grays, both pinstriped and plain. There’s also business card, embossed with a tailor’s logo but with handwriting on the back:

Do me a favor and get yourself properly fitted. It’s on me.

FYI: the Gotham Charity Ball is next month.

BW

**

OP here and I'm so happy! I loved that whole intro about Clark's suits and fashionably late Bruce arriving in that gorgeous Aston Martin and Clark drooling at his suit. :D That detail of Bruce's tie setting off his grey temples, unffff. So hot.

a warm smile and eyes that are harder than flint
So. So. Hot.

“Kind of a faux pas, son,” he says to Clark, then slides a finger inside Clark’s jacket, runs it down and unfastens the bottom button.
And unffffffffff. You're killing me! "Son." The casual touching. Bruce being all Bruce at him. Also, you mentioned the collar pin, you are too generous to me. <3

edge of roughness like metal on a grindstone
Did I already say unf? All the voice kink. :D And I love how shamelessly Bruce is hitting on him. And stubble porn instead of kissing, yes! Also, I love that you just casually added car porn to the suit porn. :D And I love Clark noticing weird little things about Bruce (the bruised knuckles, the smell of engine grease) that he can't make sense of.

Bruce's idea of dirty talk being to talk about suits, haha. And the tie holding and Clark grabbing Bruce's hair, guuh.

“It’s fine, son,” Wayne says, fastening his vest and then the jacket over the whole mess while Clark watches, kind of enthralled and also kind of feeling sorry for whoever does his dry cleaning.
There is something ridiculously hot about that image. I never knew I needed that. I can also just see Alfred's face when Bruce comes home. AND THAT ENDING! Bruce wanting to see Clark again, but in a proper suit this time, fuck yessssss. You make me want a sequel. This is amazing, anon author! Thank you so much for filling this.

I love this. Bruce would probably be a little offended that Clark is such a damsel in Bruce's body after Bruce spent his whole life training himself to be anything but helpless. Hope this gets filled! :D

:D Oh, man, OP, I feel like I am ALL OUT OF WORDS for your generosity, but here you are, writing an ENORMOUS BRILLIANT COMMENT I would be ashamed to fail to reply to! DAMN YOU *shakes fist*

I'm so, so glad to hear it - not that I wanted to put you on the spot or anything, oops. But there's nothing like posting the conclusion to a multi-part thing people have been waiting to see get finished (!) to make me second-guess myself about whether what I've written is ACTUALLY a good ending. /o\ So thank you/sorry you didn't hate it. :D

I just COULD NOT RESIST damseling Bruce a little, once it occurred to me that it could be done just by having enough people paying attention (oh, look, identity issues creeping back in! SURPRISE). So I'm especially glad that part worked for you. And Clark! (My thought process while writing that exchange with the reporter: "Is this too OTT-earnest? ... NOT FOR THIS CLARK.") :D My only regret is that I couldn't make it a full-on princess carry, since Bruce is conscious and all. /o\ ALAS.

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW TO ALL OF THIS

\o/ YAY THANK GOD. That exchange of dialogue is one of the very first things I wrote down when I started planning this fill, and I went back and forth A LOT about whether it was REALLY a good idea or I was just so in love with it that I WANTED it to be a good idea when it wasn't. BUT YOU LIKED IT AND EVERYTHING IS RAINBOWS \o/

Go, Bruce, you were not an idiot for once

:D He let himself maybe be happy! GOOD JOB, BRUCE. WELL DONE.

Thank you so, so much for your encouragement on every single part of this, I'm so pleased and amazed and glad, and everybody on this kinkmeme has been so great! I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR. There are absolutely several more prompts I've got my eye on here, and I hope you enjoy every fill I manage to write for any of them as much as you enjoyed this one. ♥ ♥ ♥ no u!

:D /o\ I get you, anon, and I will tell you why: because if my actual response to this comment could be put in this box, it would just be a lot of happy seal noises + the incredibly stupid look on my face. BUT I'M STUCK USING WORDS INSTEAD :(

I just can't even tell you how delighted I am - that exchange (as I mentioned in a comment above) and that line in particular is one of the very first things I wrote down while outlining this fill, and I wrote basically the whole other ten thousand words with this scene in the back of my head, just waiting for its turn. That it hit you so hard and worked for you so well is just, I, WHAT ARE WORDS. It's GREAT and SO SO SATISFYING and basically I too am dead. /o\

Thank you so, so much for reading this, and for leaving such wonderful comments on it! This fandom has been so incredibly awesome to me and I want to write ALL THE THINGS, and I hope that when I do you'll like them all just as much, because you are great and should get to enjoy things. ♥ THANK YOU.

My HEART!!! What have you done to me?!? By which of course I mean ♥ ♥ ♥ hnghhhhh please do it some more?

The end of the word gets lost in a low pounding sound;
Clark doesn't even hesitate a millisecond, just hones in on Bruce's heartbeat (that he'd recognize and find anywhere, oh) and BOOM! :DDDDD (WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BRUCE!!! HOW DARE!!!)

the grim lines Bruce wants to direct at Clark; and the wind up here will snatch the words away before they can hear him say, "You really shouldn't have done this."

"You know, most people are happier to see me," Clark tells him, unfazed.

I love this! Bruce being his usual gloom and doom Bruce, Clark not letting that faze him, giving back some sass, oh yesssssssss.

She stops when Clark frowns—and who could blame her? With the suit and the perfect Superman face, it's as sudden and thunderous as the wrath of God; except it's Clark, which makes it more like the gentle, chiding disappointment of God, because He knows you're better than that

YES YES YES! Perfect Clark moment, made even more perfect by Bruce's interpretation oh dear Bruce, I LOVE HIS TORMENTED FEELINGS ABOUT HIM BEING SO ROTTEN AND CROOKED AND CLARK BEING SO GOOD AND PURE AND OH, HE'LL JUST DRAG HIM DOWN ~~LIKE HE DOES~~, HE SIMPLY MUSTN'T.

Like, that is so. I just. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Bruce being darker and willing to do what has to be done no matter the price ~~to his soul~~ and believing that makes him less, like with that comics line ~"deep down Clark's a good man, I'm not" not realizing that him thinking that about himself and being so determined to preserve Clark's goodness makes him a good guy (OR GOOD HAS JUST BECOME MEANINGLESS OKAY°

CLARK TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE FUCK BRUCE IS MAD, TESTING DIFFERENT HYPOTHESIS.

Bruce bears the flight, the close pressure of Clark's arm, with grim resignation, and the second Clark sets him down, he moves away.
EXCUSE ME, like. Bruce is so fucking intent on denying himself the good things in life that hurts me on a very personal level!!!

It's such a ridiculous thing to say that Bruce almost laughs. Thanksgiving's going to be a mistake, Bruce is well aware of that, but on a solely personal scale. Bruce consciously considered what going into a family home, sitting at a table with Clark and Martha Kent, and eating a holiday dinner would cost him, and decided to agree anyway.

OH, BRUCE.

"Is it about the reporter?" Clark barrels on. "I'm sorry I had to—I mean, it was the truth, in a way, at least about Superman and Bruce Wayne. If she'd known what she was actually asking, you know I would have said yes."
I didn't even get until the 2nd reading that this was about Clark denying being friends with Bruce and worrying that's upset Bruce and now I'm all DDDDDDD:

"Around what?" Clark says, when Bruce breaks off. His tone is soft; but his gaze is sharp, inescapable. "Around you?"
Utterly love this, Clark seeing through him, so gently but unfailingly getting through Bruce's barriers, oh.

He's not using the strength at all. Bruce gives in anyway.
*small mewling sound*

"I want you to let them understand why I would. I—I want—" and then he cuts himself off, swallowing, and his eyes go wide. The sharp breath he draws says he's just realized how close to Bruce he's standing; his gaze jumps back and forth across Bruce's face once, twice, and then briefly down to Bruce's mouth before leaping hurriedly back up.

It's obviously the first time he's thought about it, or at least the first time it's really come together for him. It should scare him—it still scares Bruce sometimes, when he lets it. But Clark's not Bruce. Clark's Superman, Bruce thinks distantly; he doesn't back down. Not even from things that could destroy him.

YES, YESSSS, Clark thinks it's a travesty that the world doesn't get to see Bruce the way *he* sees him, how good and amazing and dedicated that incredible man is. The rest of this passage is so beautiful it hurts, I know it defeats the purpose of quoting when you quote the whole damn fic but that is just soooooo beautiful <333

~~*nonnie bravely stops herself from quoting all the fic from there on down*~~ Ah, fuck it.

The way it happens, so tender and loving, and hot (hngghhhh yes, shoulders clutching, hair carding, thumb brushing mouth, yes YES), the way Bruce's inner voice is so tempted to not let it happen but then doesn't, but then doesn't.

But Clark's started smiling at him again, slow and warm, almost more than Bruce can stand to look at; and Clark's right there, touching his face, so close and so bright and so unhesitatingly glad.
*muffled sobbing*

He could get Clark to stop looking at him like that. (He could make it so Clark never looked at him like that again.) And yet—

And yet Clark—Clark wants Bruce. He as good as said so. And Bruce, God help him, wants to let him.

as if he can somehow tell what Bruce is fighting with. As if he really does know Bruce that well.

And that thought is terrifying; but not terrifying enough to keep Bruce's hands hanging where they are instead of rising helplessly to Clark's shoulders. Not terrifying enough to keep Bruce from kissing him back.

Nonnie, nonnie, nonnie, how I LOVE YOU. Clearly if this is toothrotting fluff I don't mind, and I know I'm not one to talk about being wordy but dear Lord, please drown me in words as much as you want, any time you want. Pretty please :D

Awww, I want this too now! Also, unffff riding Bruce, fuck yes.

Bruce wants Clark, but thinks Clark would never be interested, so he hooks up with Steve because good-hearted, righteous, superhumanly strong Captain America is as close as he thinks he'll ever get to Superman.

Steve wants Tony, but thinks Tony would never be interested, so he hooks up with Bruce because this obnoxious, flirtatious billionaire in his expensive suits is as close as he thinks he'll ever get to Tony.

Bonus if both Clark and Tony are absolutely besides themselves with jealousy. Because Steve deserves better than this douchebag Bruce Wayne, thinks Tony. Because Clark doesn't understand why Bruce would rather hook up with this stranger who happens to be Captain America than turn to him.

I'm mostly familiar with the MCU, but any version of Steve and Tony is fine by me. Would prefer if Bruce knows Steve = Cap, but Steve doesn't know that Bruce = Batman.

Jesus, that was so hot, the suitporn, the daddykink, the casual sex (of which there will be a lot more right?! :D Bruce will want to see Clark in his new suit, and then it just won't do to have it rumpled and dirty in the backseat of a car, so he'll have to take Clark to a hotel and strip him methodically. Y/y? pleaaaaaase)

Ahh, you've slayed me, nonnie.

So many great lines but this in particular had me make a dying animal sound irl:

This time the lopsided smile touches the man's eyes, though it's only a fraction friendlier for it. “Kind of a faux pas, son,” he says to Clark, then slides a finger inside Clark’s jacket, runs it down and unfastens the bottom button.
UNFFFF.

“but it’s too tight on you.”

“It’s hard to find anything that fits.”

“I can see that.” There’s a faint note of approval in Wayne’s voice that makes Clark shiver.
Ahhhh, love this exchange, Bruce has clearly been quietly loosing his mind over Clark and his too tight jacket ever since he first saw him :D

It doesn’t take long, not when Wayne keeps palming at Clark’s hip with his free hand, fingers running over the waistband of his pants, just barely skimming his stomach.
Bruce you are such a fucking tease! <333

I'd c&p everything I loved into this box except that would be the whole thing! This was so fantastic, anon, everything about the suits, Clark not understanding Bruce's suit-oriented dirty talk (LOL YES/HNG), all the marvelously hot physical details. And then THE ENDING, which was note-perfect. Thank you so much for sharing this, it's fantastic.

What have I done to you? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME. LOOK AT THIS COMMENT. HOW AM I EVER GOING TO REPLY TO THIS THE WAY IT DESERVES. *throws up hands*

I LOVE HIS TORMENTED FEELINGS ABOUT HIM BEING SO ROTTEN AND CROOKED AND CLARK BEING SO GOOD AND PURE AND OH, HE'LL JUST DRAG HIM DOWN

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD YES. YES, THAT IS A 1000% ACCURATE SUMMARY OF MY BRUCE FEELINGS.

CLARK TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE FUCK BRUCE IS MAD, TESTING DIFFERENT HYPOTHESIS

HE'S GETTING THERE, OKAY. HE'S GOING TO LEARN HOW TO FIGURE OUT WHAT THE HELL BRUCE'S PROBLEM IS AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT, NO MATTER HOW LONG IT TAKES.

I didn't even get until the 2nd reading that this was about Clark denying being friends with Bruce

I just can't believe you already read it twice! /o\

the way Bruce's inner voice is so tempted to not let it happen but then doesn't

:D Honestly one of my favorite things about writing Bruce is how him grudgingly deciding to allow a nice thing to happen to him genuinely qualifies as character development that needs to be built up to. BRUCE. YOU RIDICULOUS MAN.

please drown me in words as much as you want

~~ONE DAY YOU MAY REGRET THAT~~ As you wish. :D Thank you for every single part of this comment, nonny, and all your other comments, and for every wordy word. ♥ I feel like I lucked into this fandom and this kinkmeme (almost didn't bother going to BvS in theaters! WHAT A FOOL I NEARLY WAS) and I'm just so, so grateful.

Most of the time Bruce's mouth is the only part of his face that Clark gets to see. Over time, he develops a bit of an oral fixation. Bruce's smiles, smirks, Bruce drinking, Bruce with a tool between his teeth while he fixes the Batmobile, blood on Bruce's lips, Bruce licking his lips ...

Maybe five times Clark got distracted by Bruce's mouth? Or just one time, I don't mind either way. :D

Seconds x1000!

Ironically, I kind of ran out of stamina when it came to the rest of this. Sorry hope this is adequate. D:

Whatever sliver of sun had managed to escape the clouds at dawn has been snuffed out by the unrelenting monochrome of a nuclear winter. It doesn’t make much difference to Bruce. The weather is often his ally but never his friend; this is just a different shade of gray for Gotham to wear.

Clark switches the privacy glass to opaque, casting the room into moody shadows. Bruce tracks him as he moves to the bed, hazy in the gathered half-light like he’s a ghost--and in most ways he is exactly that, though unlike the rest of Bruce’s ghosts, he doesn’t seem to be here to punish him.

Bruce feels the thread of sleep tug at him, entwined around that thought. It tightens quickly into chains at his wrists and a fist in his chest, demons raining from the sky.

He jerks back into full wakefulness, blood pounding, Clark’s hand on his shoulder where he’s half-risen from the mattress.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Clark murmurs, and moves his hand over Bruce’s chest, over his jackhammering heart, and presses him down.

Bruce slides his breath out between his teeth in a long hiss. Clark’s frowning, but it’s not the face of a devastated, vengeful god. There’s only concern in those unearthly bright eyes, so intense that Bruce can barely stand it, but then Clark grins quickly, and presses a kiss to Bruce’s collarbone, his sternum, his hip, and--

“How are you real,” he mutters, as Clark’s tongue presses flat against his inner thigh, followed by another kiss. Bruce figured he was just about done as far as getting hard was concerned, but Clark seems set on encouraging him to bend the rules of human physiology, first drawing Bruce into the heat of his mouth and then bolstering him with a slow slide out.

“Well,” Clark says, licks his lips and rests his chin on Bruce’s hip, brow creased. Bruce hopes he’s not actually stopped to give his question serious thought. “That’s a little existential...”

Christ. “Clark,” Bruce starts, but Clark’s mouth is already on him again, and Bruce can see he's smiling as he nuzzles in, big hands on the inside of Bruce’s thighs, fingers pressing hard, almost too hard, just hard enough.

Bruce’s back arches, heels digging into the mattress as Clark sucks him, sharp pinpricks of sensation when he scrapes his teeth a little, deep throb of blood rushing to his cock and to his face. His body is screaming at him, muscles trembling with the combined stress of the night’s exertions, from prowling Gotham as Batman to the unabating tension of being Bruce Wayne; from pulling the shots with Clark under him, to being here, at the mercy of a man who could crush him as easily as he smiles.

His legs tense, thighs turned to rock. His fingers find themselves in Clark’s hair, but that means nothing when Clark pulls away at the brink to rest his head on Bruce’s hip again. “I mean, it’s not like I’m special in that regard. How are any of us real?”

Bruce groans, flings one arm over his face. “Clark.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“And I’ve never been sorrier in my life.”

Clark laughs, lazily runs his fingers along Bruce’s cock, feather-light, cups his balls and then runs his tongue along his length, root to tip, dragging the orgasm out of him and leaving him shaking in relief, brain fuzzing out in a rush of endorphins and exhaustion and resolving into a blissful, blissful nothing.

He’s vaguely conscious of Clark crawling up beside him, touching his temple, the tip of his nose, his lips… and then Bruce is gone.

***

“Are you serious,” Clark says, propped up on his elbow next to Bruce. “And you’re asking me how I’m real.” The man is splayed out on his back, arms flung against the headboard, mouth wide open as he sends out a snore loud enough to attract government attention. “Don’t tell me you’re drooling.”

*

YES SHOWER SEX. There can never be enough shower sex. :D Lovely wet glistening bodies and sleek hair mmm. Ty <3 <3

It is the only logical conclusion, I think we're all on the same page here. Thanks, nonnie. :D

\o/ There is something about exhausted, determined guys just driving on and on til their reserves are gone. Mix that with porn and it's a good time imo. :D

Yess, I'm go glad you like it cause I enjoyed writing it A LOT, unf suits. Haha and yeah I may have snuck a few other kinks in there, just stuff that comes with the territory, you know. ;D

I am on board for a sequel, but I have NO IDEA what Bruce's motivation for all this is so I will have to have a think on how to work it! Maybe interested in something Clark might have gotten out of another guest, so a failed attempt to steal his voice recorder? IDK!

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Page 9 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6)

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Re: Bruce/Clark - Roman AU

Re: Bruce/Clark, suit porn

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Bruce/Clark, body swap

FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never

Re: FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never

Re: Bruce/Clark, body swap

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Re: Bruce/Clark, Nightmare scene, Powerbottom Superman

[Crossover] DC/Marvel, Bruce/Steve, with background Bruce/Clark and Steve/Tony

Re: FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never

Re: FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never

Re: FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6

Bruce/Clark, oral fixation

Re: Bruce/Clark, oral fixation

Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (4/4)

Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (dumb coda)

Re: Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (3/?)

Re: Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (3/?)

Re: Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (3/?)

Re: FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never