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 question mark is gone! I'm pretty sure I know how the rest of this will work out. In other news: oh, look, no one understands anything that anyone else is doing or feeling, and everything's a mess! IF ONLY I WROTE THESE CHARACTERS LIKE PEOPLE CAPABLE OF HAVING EMOTIONALLY HONEST CONVERSATIONS

OH WELL

THEY'RE PEOPLE CAPABLE OF HAVING UST, AT LEAST

THAT'S NICE :D

Bruce doesn't make it easy.

It should be simpler somehow, Clark can't help thinking. He'd imagined that Bruce choosing to kiss him like that would be the impossible thing. But it's talking about it that's impossible. What Bruce had done afterward, being so strange and casual—Clark hadn't seen it for what it was, at the time. Clark hadn't known it would be so hard to come back from.

Bruce has been frustrating, taciturn, as Batman, and obnoxious and excessive as Bruce Wayne; he's turned the charm up, turned it down, flipped the switch between sleazy and stoic. But he's never put this much effort into sheer featurelessness.

He still needs a little help from Clark over the next few days, especially in the evenings when the pain has gotten bad. But even when they're eating dinner right across from each other, even when Clark's got an arm around his back to help him to bed, he manages to somehow not be there. He says all the right things, smiles ruefully when he asks Clark for a hand, doesn't snap or get impatient. He's the least difficult, most congenial version of himself, nothing real in it at all, and Clark has no idea how to get him to cut it out.

And it isn't—Clark can't figure out what he means by it. Even setting the kiss aside, no matter what Bruce had intended by it, he still isn't sure he understands. Remembering what he'd said himself, how he'd let Bruce comfort him, makes him feel sharp-edged and brittle, a little sick. And Bruce had said nearly as much. To Clark, even—if Clark had had to say what he'd said right to Dad's face, he'd be even more of a mess after than he already is.

And Clark is a mess. Bruce has to know that—has to know that it would be okay if he were a mess, too.

But he isn't. He's got a grip. He's in control. He's all right; he's making that about as aggressively clear as he possibly could.

So maybe—as ever—it's just Clark.

And Clark might have kept thinking that, except Bruce starts acting different outside the house, too.

Obviously it takes longer to notice—it's not until the end of the second week that the staples get taken out (not at Bruce's own hand with a pair of needlenose pliers, though it's a close thing at one point). And it's only afterwards that Bruce is comfortable enough to start making public appearances at places other than his office. (Much as they frustrated him, Clark figures, and much as he'd rather have acted like he was perfectly fine, he couldn't have risked anyone noticing or taken the chance that he'd tear them open in public. You don't get surgical staples for the flu.)

And once they're going out again, he's as dizzying as ever. Maybe even more so, Clark thinks ruefully. The worst thing about having fallen for Bruce so hard is that seeing Bruce's abrasive, stubborn, self-blaming side hasn't done a damn thing to make him less attractive.

At first he thinks that accounts for it. Bruce isn't actually different; it's just that being out with him now, after that conversation on the stairs, feels different to Clark. Bruce can Wayne as hard as he wants, but he can't wipe that memory away, and even when he's being outrageous a small quiet part of Clark is aching for him.

But other than that, everything seems normal at first. Or normal for a date with Bruce, at least. They go to a film premiere, at an enormous gleaming theatre right in the middle of downtown Metropolis—and Bruce Wayne is probably the most famous person there, but there's still an actual honest-to-God red carpet and everything. Bruce spends the movie murmuring sharp dry commentary into Clark's ear until Clark can't stop snickering, and then—

Then Bruce kisses him outside. He doesn't make eye contact beforehand, and it's not the brief warm brush Clark would've been expecting if he'd been expecting anything. He just reaches out—to straighten Clark's shirt, Clark's thinking, or pick off a bit of lint, and so Clark holds still for it. And then what Bruce actually does is thumb the button at the hollow of Clark's throat open, slide his hand inside Clark's collar; Clark sucks in a breath, startled, even as Bruce's hand is still moving, and Bruce catches his half-open mouth and—well. Bruce has never been in the habit of wasting opportunities.

And compared to the worst Bruce Wayne tabloid-level debauchery Clark had been trying not to think about when they'd started all this, it's nothing. But compared to what Bruce has been doing, to the casual distance he's been keeping—the hand he slides up the length of Clark's back is practically pornographic.

"Wh—Bruce," Clark says, breathless, when he finally can; but Bruce is already turning away, sliding a bill into the valet's hand with a grin and stepping off the curb toward the car.

"Don't dawdle, Clark, we have places to be," Bruce says, tossing a careless smile over his shoulder, and all the superpowers in the world can't make Clark anything but helpless to follow.

He drags Clark in after dinner, too—Clark mostly just tries to hang on—and then breaks away and says easily, "See you tomorrow."

"I—what?" Clark manages, still reeling.

Bruce smiles at him and leans in, and it's just like that very first night they'd kissed, the gaping mismatch between the low hot tone of Bruce's voice and the actual words he's saying. "I've officially recovered from the flu, Clark. The car will take you back to your apartment," and then, that easily, he's walking away.

The quiet disinvitation from the lake house only makes it all even more disorienting. Not that Bruce is really being unfair—he isn't hurt anymore, and it's his house; Clark can't just keep living in it indefinitely.

But Clark still ends up there half the time, the evenings Bruce deems it appropriate. And that he has to wait for Bruce to ask, that he never knows where he's going to end up for the night—and he doesn't even know what to hope for. Bruce's amiable, mirror-bright politeness whenever they're alone together makes Clark feel like an intruder, where two weeks of Bruce only putting up with him because of Alfred somehow hadn't. And it's turning into a grim kind of torture to have Bruce all over him outside and then giving him a friendly smile, moving away, the second they get inside. Compared to that, Clark's own dark, silent apartment is almost a relief.

(Which means Clark probably ought to like the nights he ends up there better than he does.)

He's got as much of Bruce as he's ever had—more, even, with how Bruce keeps kissing him, touching him, settling his hands farther and farther up Clark's thighs when they're next to each other in theaters or booths. But it feels like Bruce is slipping through his fingers somehow anyway, and that's—

That's why Clark lets him.

It turns into some kind of weird awful game of chicken. Which sounds ridiculous, but Clark doesn't know what else to compare it to. Bruce has been the one putting all the distance between them in private, but for some reason he seems to want Clark to be the one to do it in public. He pushes and he presses and his gaze is on Clark every time: watching, gauging, checking for a reaction. Waiting to be shoved away. He's trying to find a line Clark won't let him cross.

Which means it was only ever a matter of time before he learned there aren't any.

(Once Clark's pretty sure they almost fix it—it, this, whatever the hell has gone wrong. Bruce has paused for a second to push Clark up against the side of the car, and Clark kind of wants to apologize to the driver but it's going to have to wait until Bruce lets him have his tongue back.

And then, out of nowhere, without even a warning rumble of thunder, it abruptly starts to rain.

Heavy fat drops spatter across their faces, and even Bruce can't keep kissing someone through that—Clark sputters and pulls away, careful not to dent the car's frame when he shifts back, and then he lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squints up into the storm and can't help laughing. Mom had threatened to turn the hose on him and Lana once, after she'd caught them in the hayloft a few too many times; and the sky over Metropolis has certainly gotten an eyeful of him and Bruce lately—

He looks back down at Bruce, still grinning. But for once—for the first time in days—Bruce isn't smiling. He's just sort of staring at Clark; his mouth is red and his eyelashes are sticking together in clumps, and he looks wet and a little cold and—and maybe sort of lost.

"Bruce," Clark says quietly, but even that's too much: Bruce drags in a breath, swallows, and then the smile is back. Not as bad as usual, Clark thinks, but a little too sly in its angles, a little too sure of itself.

"I don't suppose this means you'll let me get you out of those wet clothes," he says, shifting a little closer. It makes something in Clark's chest feel like it's cracking, weird and sad and hollow, to know with so much certainty that he doesn't mean it. He can't, not when his face looked the way it did two seconds ago.

But saying so isn't in the script. And Bruce wouldn't thank him for ad-libbing.

"I'll consider it," Clark says instead, and lets Bruce open the door for him, and gets in.)

It's the symphony that does it.

Well, no, it's not the symphony—it's Bruce. It's every little thing he does, from helping Clark into the car with a lot more extended contact than is necessary all the way to guiding Clark toward their seats with a hand much, much lower on Clark's back than he's ever gone before.

But the symphony doesn't help. It's some kind of special event, a nice round anniversary of the founding of Metropolis and Gotham's shared orchestra; the space they're using for the performance is enormous, the seats lush and soft, and they announce right at the beginning that there will be no intermission.

Which means that when Bruce's hand finds Clark's knee, about five seconds after the lights go down, there won't be any escape.

By dint of an effort worthy of Superman, Clark manages to concentrate pretty well for the first movement or so. There's a heavy hot feeling settling into him just at the pressure of Bruce's palm, the relentless awareness that there's only Clark's suit pants between skin and skin—but it's not that bad. He can still keep his eyes open, he can still hear the music, and maybe he swallows a few too many times, but nobody's counting.

And then Bruce shifts a little in his seat, rearranges himself, and when his hand's settled back into place, it's maybe an inch higher. That's when Clark starts to lose his mind.

Something happens, some particularly interesting musical motif, and Bruce leans forward; his hand shifts, fingers brushing across the skin on the inside of Clark's leg, and Jesus, how can any motion that small feel that good? A buildup, a thunderous impressive crescendo, and when it's over Bruce sits back again, satisfied—the jackass, Clark thinks blurrily, because somehow his hand's slid even higher, and "satisfied" is the absolute last word Clark feels able to use. And then Bruce moves again; this time Clark can't stop the breath from rushing out of him audibly, and in the dim faraway corner of his eye, he sees Bruce's head turn.

Crap, Clark thinks—oh, crap, and then Bruce is leaning in, saying in that deep near-Batman murmur, "Ah—enjoying the performance, I see."

"Bruce," Clark whispers, helpless, not daring to do anything but stare straight ahead.

And he swears he can feel Bruce's lip touch the hinge of his jaw—just for a second, barely catching against Clark's skin—when he says, "Only another hour. You can last that long, can't you?" And then, even lower: "I bet you can."

Clark doesn't remember anything else about the music after that. Things happen in front of him, bows sway and drums pound and brasses blare, and the performance is probably excellent; but Clark doesn't see any of it. He shuts his eyes at least three times without meaning to, but even when they're open, he's sightless. There's nothing in the world except for Bruce, Bruce and his stupid hand.

And it's so—he doesn't even touch Clark, not in any way that's actually illegal in public. His palm's slid all the way up Clark's thigh by the time the symphony is over, but all he's doing is stroking his thumb gently back and forth across two square inches on the outside of Clark's leg.

There's nothing indecent about that except the way Clark's shuddering under it.

When the lights come back up, Clark stands as soon as he can get his wobbling legs to cooperate, and is dimly grateful for two things: that he wore a suit jacket that actually fits him instead of one of his old too-short ones, and that he skipped the tie this time. He doesn't need to breathe, but somehow he still can't get enough air.

He hangs on to Bruce's wrist—it's stupid to keep touching Bruce right now, but he honest-to-God might not be able to find his way out of this building otherwise. There's someone in the lobby that Bruce knows; Clark's pretty sure he manages to smile at the right time, to keep his mouth shut and look vaguely interested until they can move away, but he can't be sure.

He can't be sure of anything, except that his hand's around Bruce's wrist and it's not enough.

They have to wait for the car to come around for them. Bruce walks him off to one side of the entryway and then kisses him the way he's starting to get used to: abrupt and hot, delving deep, unfairly easy to melt into. But the knee he angles between Clark's—that's new. Clark can't help but surge against the pressure, as mild as it is; and Bruce makes a rough sharp sound into his mouth and jerks backward.

"Clark—"

"Sorry," Clark says, and then grimaces at how breathless he sounds—his face feels like it must be red as a brick, and he's not sure whether he's vibrating with superspeed or just trembling. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I wasn't—"

Bruce is staring at him. A tiny frown furrows his brow, just for a second.

And then he tilts his head, gaze flicking down Clark's chest, lower, and then back up, and—and his eyes go heavy, oh, and he leans in much, much too close, and says softly, "Stay the night, Clark."

Clark feels his eyes go wide and can't help swallowing. "You—really?"

"Really," Bruce murmurs, and, God, slides a hand underneath Clark's jacket, eases it over the small of his back and then lower. "Why not?" and, oh, there's something dangerous about that sharp-edged smile, something Clark needs to be careful of. And there's so many reasons why not that Clark could make a list: Bruce kissed him and hasn't talked to him since, not in any way that means anything; Bruce confided in him and then shoved him away, and Clark still doesn't know why. Clark is in love with Bruce, and Bruce—Bruce maybe thinks Clark is pretty, maybe considers him a friend. (Maybe did—maybe doesn't anymore, after whatever went wrong in the stairwell, and surely this can only make that worse.) But—

But it's Bruce. It's Bruce, and even before Clark opens his mouth, he knows he's not going to say no.

UNFFFFFFF, I am DYING OVER HERE. Forget about Clark getting turned on out of his mind, I AM 100% LOSING IT, DEAR GOD.

I did not think that a measure of identity porn could still be found when they both know the other's ~super identity, and yet! And yet!

Ahahaha, omg Bruce is such an asshole for playing chicken with Clark this way, you don't have to do this Bruce, he loves you toooooo!!!

Clark can't help but surge against the pressure, as mild as it is; and Bruce makes a rough sharp sound into his mouth and jerks backward.

"Clark—"

"Sorry," Clark says, and then grimaces at how breathless he sounds—his face feels like it must be red as a brick, and he's not sure whether he's vibrating with superspeed or just trembling. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I wasn't—"

Bruce is staring at him. A tiny frown furrows his brow, just for a second.

UNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. BRUCE BEING SURPRISED. THEN WHAT? DOES HE THINK CLARK IS JUST HORNY AND NEEDS TO GET LAID AND THEN WILL GET BORED? OH, BRUCE.

<33333333333333333333333333

:D MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. (I really haven't written much UST before! So your complimentary capslock is extra gratifying. ♥)

Haha, oh, apparently I just can't help it. /o\ I WAS SO PROUD OF MYSELF. THIS WAS GOING TO BE THE ONE FIC WITHOUT ANY IDENTITY PORN. oh well

you don't have to do this Bruce, he loves you toooooo!!!

IMPOSSIBLE. Bruce is just going to have to keep making bad choices. ~~OH BRUCE~~

DOES HE THINK CLARK IS JUST HORNY AND NEEDS TO GET LAID AND THEN WILL GET BORED? OH, BRUCE.

Look, Clark reacted in a COMPLETELY UNPREDICTABLE WAY to the prospect of Bruce genuinely wanting to bang him, okay, he was SUPPOSED to freak out. Bruce certainly can't freak out. Bruce has to be 100% okay with this turn of events, it was his idea and it doesn't mean anything to him anyway. ~~OH BRUCE~~

♥ :D

Hahaha, like I could ever complain because of too much identity porn! (NEVER!)

Bruce is just going to have to keep making bad choices.
Story. Of. His. Life. Oh, Bruce indeed. Poor Clark having to deal with all this fucked-upness :D

Bruce has to be 100% okay with this turn of events, it was his idea and it doesn't mean anything to him anyway.
Ahahaha, I am legit cackling (and crying a bit, because I just read the next part), Bruce is SUCH a mess, good thing Clark is Clark and will tell good care of him in such loving, tender and adoring way that Bruce will get to be 0.5% less of a mess :DDDD GAH, I LOVE HIM SO.

:D Well, I'm grateful for your generosity, anon! ♥

Poor Clark having to deal with all this fucked-upness :D

So true. /o\ Bruce is lucky Clark is so dreadfully in love with him, and also possibly is equipped with superpatience. :D

I am legit cackling (and crying a bit, because I just read the next part), Bruce is SUCH a mess

:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD OH GOD, see, this is what I meant by self-indulgent, I am SUCH A SUCKER for people who are messes and help each other be slightly less of a mess, and I'm dumping that ALL OVER THIS PROMPT. /o\ HELP

You say generosity when it is all self-serving selfishness, I swear :D

Haha, I was just thinking that it's good that Clark is so patient but not too patient, because left to his own devices Bruce would turn everything into a mess even when it really doesn't have to be.

I am SUCH A SUCKER for people who are messes and help each other be slightly less of a mess

You sing the song of my people, nonnie :D that they are (functional) messes in the first place just slays me, but then that they get together and somehow make it work so that their issues slot together to make one big, beautiful mess is a bit more than my heart can take, obviously. *goes into WHAT ARE FEELS. I CERTAINLY DON'T HAVE THEM Bruce mode as a defensive maneuver*

You say generosity when it is all self-serving selfishness, I swear :D

MAN, THAT IS HOW I FEEL ABOUT THIS WHOLE FILL. The OP and everybody keep saying such nice things and thanking me for writing this, and I'm over here all IT'S BASICALLY INVOLUNTARY??? I'M JUST VOMITING A LOT OF FEELINGS AT HIGH VOLUME??? Sometimes I'm surprised you aren't asking me to stop /o\

:DDDDDDDDDDDD UGH I JUST LOVE THAT SO MUCH. Messed-up people being messed up together but in a really sweet way is 200% my jam, which could be why this fill took kind of a hard left in that direction. /o\ (Not that anyone in this fill is messed up or sweet in any way! CERTAINLY NOT BRUCE. *nods*)

How can you cram so much tension into this??? Poor Clark. Bruce, what are you doing?

/o\ What a compliment, anon - I was trying very hard to ratchet things up in this part and I'm so delighted to think it paid off!

Bruce, what are you doing?

EXTREMELY SENSIBLE THINGS. YUP. :D

Congrats on figuring out how the rest of this will work out, anon! :D I'm sure it's going to be amazing. This part definitely is.

Bruce has been frustrating, taciturn, as Batman, and obnoxious and excessive as Bruce Wayne; he's turned the charm up, turned it down, flipped the switch between sleazy and stoic. But he's never put this much effort into sheer featurelessness.
Identity pooooorn. I am always here for the two extremes of Batman and Bruce Wayne and the real, private Bruce somewhere in between. God, that bit about Bruce somehow just not being there is so great. And Bruce being a good patient after everything before is just ... wrong. Poor Clark!

You do so many amazing things with all their different kisses in this fic, it's the most impressive thing. And a filthy dirty Bruce kiss should not make me so saaaaad, because Clark! Think of Clark's feelings, Bruce! Just breaks my heart how completely Bruce is withdrawing because omfg, no, he showed feelings! And then even slipped and kissed Clark, so of course now he has to make up for it by not making those public kisses too gentle and tender and meaningful. D: I mean, this, ouch, why do you hurt me so? Bruce's amiable, mirror-bright politeness whenever they're alone together makes Clark feel like an intruder, where two weeks of Bruce only putting up with him because of Alfred somehow hadn't. And it's turning into a grim kind of torture to have Bruce all over him outside and then giving him a friendly smile, moving away, the second they get inside. Compared to that, Clark's own dark, silent apartment is almost a relief.

watching, gauging, checking for a reaction. Waiting to be shoved away. He's trying to find a line Clark won't let him cross.
God, is Bruce trying to get Clark to call things off? He is, isn't he? Because feeling Clark up in the dark of theatres, when nobody can't even see, he doesn't even have much of an excuse for that other than trying to drive Clark away.

It makes something in Clark's chest feel like it's cracking, weird and sad and hollow, to know with so much certainty that he doesn't mean it. He can't, not when his face looked the way it did two seconds ago.
THIS IS BRUTAL, ANON, BRUTAL. (And perfect, you are so great.) As is that symphony scene, I feel so sorry for poor teased Clark. And Clark apologising for reacting to EXACTLY WHAT BRUCE WAS DOING TO HIM, THE BASTARD. I'm repeating myself, but poor Clark!

"Why not?" and, oh, there's something dangerous about that sharp-edged smile, something Clark needs to be careful of.
Ooooh, is this the part where we're going to get fucking while they're still complete and utter idiots about their feelings? I'm wibbling again. This part was emotionally devastating and so great. Can I by founder of your fanclub or something? :D

/OP

I'm sure it's going to be amazing

Hahahahaoh god I really hope you're right. /o\ Thank you for your confidence, nonny, it warms a fill-writer's heart. ♥

Identity pooooorn

/o\ BUT THERE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE ANY IN THIS FILLLLLLLLL *shakes fist* You know I just can't help myself! :D

You do so many amazing things with all their different kisses in this fic, it's the most impressive thing

Oh, anon, this is the best compliment, you don't even know - I've never written anything with this much kissing in it, and writing/rewriting/frantically editing to make sure I don't repeat myself too much has been something of a theme. Thank you!

God, is Bruce trying to get Clark to call things off? He is, isn't he?

It would only be logical - after all, Bruce Wayne lucked out, landing a nice boy like Clark Kent! Clark's the one who'd have reason. (Especially now that Bruce is hurling reasons at him with both hands. Oh, Bruce.)

THIS IS BRUTAL, ANON, BRUTAL

/o\ :D THANK YOU. AGAIN. MORE TIMES. Oh, OP, you are too good to me!

is this the part where we're going to get fucking while they're still complete and utter idiots about their feelings?

... Yep. :D I say this basically every time, but thank you so so much, OP, you are so tirelessly enthused about every single part of this fill even though I keep hurling THOUSANDS OF WORDS A DAY at you and I can't tell you how glad it makes me. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD <-- my face looks like THIS. ALL THE TIME. You deserve a fanclub of your own for all your excellent prompts and for all the comments you leave, and I am so, so thrilled to share a fandom with you. ♥ ♥ ♥

And Clark is a mess. Bruce has to know that—has to know that it would be okay if he were a mess, too.

Oh, Clark. For all that he can read Bruce better, I think he still sometimes misses the mark.

...and all the superpowers in the world can't make Clark anything but helpless to follow.

and:

But it feels like Bruce is slipping through his fingers somehow anyway, and that's—

Then this:

Which means it was only ever a matter of time before he learned there aren't any.

Ugh! You're killing me, Smalls!

I'm all for resolving the sexual tension, but it seems to me that sheer volume of repressed feelings and emotions and that sexual resolution might make for a volatile combination--especially with these lovely idiots. But who can say?

As always, thanks for killing me softly with your beautiful words, you sadist.

:-D

I think he still sometimes misses the mark

:D Haha, it's true - but he's trying! Oh, Clark.

You're killing me, Smalls!

:DDDDDDDDDD

it seems to me that sheer volume of repressed feelings and emotions and that sexual resolution might make for a volatile combination

Yeah, it's ... definitely going to get complicated. I hope you find that it does the buildup justice, anon - I'm so grateful for your comments and so glad you're still enjoying this. ♥

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)

Re: FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (16/19ish)