DCEU Prompt Post #1

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Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

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

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FILL: Regroup (1/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

[(Anonymous)]

Warnings for: canon-typical violence; blood; Bruce deifying Clark in that way he sometimes does; Bruce’s weirdly self-destructive behavior; Bruce just has a lot of issues, okay?; plot as foreplay

Nonny, I tried to hit the prompt, but I’m not sure if I succeeded.

William Shakespeare, you deserved better.


================================================================

AU where Lex Jr. hops right over the favs showdown to his next
phase of his plan——creating the kryptonian abomination. We’re
also going to assume that Clark & Lois are just really awesome
besties in this.

================================================================

Chapter 1: Desperate Ground

* * *

On the day Batman chose to kill the god with the face of a man, an angry squall line that stretched across half the eastern seaboard broke across Gotham city. The Bat-signal slashed through the rain, reflecting off of the massed underside of stormclouds. He had stabbed the kryptonite spear into the earth, arranged the field of battle to lead (as he would be inevitably pushed back) to his weapon of last resort.

When Superman had ripped the Batmobile with his bare hands, he brought the fight to Gotham City. But the god hadn't chosen his terrain wisely: Gotham was the Bat's territory; and he had given Bruce time to prepare.

(He ran through the checklist. Sonic emitters. Anti-tank artillery. Smoke grenades. Weaponized kryptonite gas. The kryptonite spear.)

Bruce loved the classics. Sun Tzu said: on terrain with no way out, you take the battle to your enemies.

Bruce flexed his fists in their armored gauntlets.

Let him come; he was more than prepared to bury the Bat tonight.

Rain sluiced through the narrow channels of the cowl as Bruce tipped his face to the sky. The seal between the armor and his skin was tight, but not waterproof. Water trickled through the cracks, cold as it ran down his spine. Eliminating a future tyrant would be the greatest victory the Batman ever claimed. If it took his heart's blood to do it: so be it. If it required this quiet slight against his dignity (how did the rain manage to slide there?; there was a secondary thick seal between the neck and the cowl.), then he would give it.

Bruce limbered up his joints to make sure they wouldn't lock up in the heavy suit.

He waited in the center of the intensifying storm.

* * *

By the time midnight chimed on his HUD, a certain heaviness pervaded the abandoned forecourt. Bruce admitted the alien would not come. The signal had lit up the sky for hours. Aside from a few curious GCPD flatfoots poking around the abandoned major crimes unit (who had been sent scurrying back into the night with an uncivil growl), nothing.

He tapped the side of his cowl to activate the HUD’s external connection. A quick scan of the Bat’s aggregated news feed presented no active disasters at a national level, nothing on a worldwide level that, based on Superman’s historical activity patterns, would require more than a few minutes of the alien’s time. What could possibly absorb the Superman for this long? Some unaccounted-for variable had skewed the plan. Had the Bat miscalculated the alien’s anger?

The spotlight flickered and whined as he disengaged the power.

Bruce activated his comms. A gentle click, then the hum of an open connection. No one spoke for a minute in the weighted silence.

"I trust you do not assume I condone your course of action, Master Wayne.”

Alfred’s acerbic tone flooded Bruce with relief. He wanted to say, I don’t deserve you. He wanted to apologize for his insane quest. He felt unaccountably glad that he’d been given another chance to try to shape a goodbye, that wasn’t as self-serving as his last had been.

“Never,” Bruce said, instead.

“I am merely relieved to know that I don't have to schedule your funeral. Catering an auditorium-sized crowd is brutal, even for the Wayne name."

Bruce let out a bark of disbelieving laughter. "It’s a temporary stay of execution only, Alfred."

"He didn't show."

"Not very punctual, our alien," Bruce agreed.

"In all of your planning, did you ever reach any insight as to how or where to find our alien?" The sarcasm seeped through Alfred's tone, and Bruce felt a mixture of relieved affection and bitter disappointment. Alfred’s sarcasm was as good as forgiveness, but—

Bruce’s disappointment in the Bat’s failure was undeniable. The Superman’s motivations and reactions had always been taken as a given.

Stupid, Bruce thought. He had been willfully blind. Beyond the Superman’s public appearances, his research into the alien had been utterly stymied.

(If he was a paranoid man (no one would accuse him differently), he’d believe that the information had been expertly buried. But who would have the subtlety to go toe-to-toe with the Batman—certainly not the primary-color hero-hopeful.)

He had stopped being a detective, until he had found Lex’s hidden information cache. Among the other metahumans, it had outlined the Superman’s powers in terms of limits and and equations, and conjectured his weakness…

(Bruce had smirked when he realized that Lex, too, was only working off public data.)

“He can’t help himself, Alfred,” Bruce’s voice cracked, ugly, as the depth of his failure was felt. “He has the power, and he acts on it. He cares, but only within limited boundaries. He responds without humor, without emotion. When his life is on the line, everything else becomes irrelevant. When his authority is questioned, he responds with hostile action. He should have—” His tone lost its sharpness, aimed for conciliatory, and fell into marginally-less-harsh-than-usual command. "Check the military frequencies. If there's an event that I don't know about, I need—"

A sharp discharge of lightning that had nothing to do with the storm cut across the sky. Unearthly harmonics washed the sky to a green pale.

"Sir, an explosion in Metropolis!"

Moments later, a streak faster than thought cut through the storm clouds, and blew them apart with unimaginable force.

Bruce shut down the warmth that curled over the sickness in his heart.

"Will you need the Batwing, sir?"

"Yes. Now, Alfred. Please."

* * *

The night had become the third reel of a sci-fi-horror film as an alien trashed Metropolis for the second time in as many years. The Bat barely thought as he catapulted himself out of the Batwing cockpit mid-air, and launched a grapple line to pull himself into a tight arc. He released the line at the apex of his swing, landing heavily at the alien’s back. He recognized Diana at the alien’s side, dressed for war.

Bruce’s entire body tensed to be this close to the alien. His fist clenched in the armored suit. The spear was in Gotham, but he could still…

A savage satisfaction crossed Diana’s face. “Now we are three,” Diana said with grim delight.

The alien turned to him, haggard and bleeding. His eyes warmed just a touch, relief and—gratitude?—mingling in the determined set of his face. Bruce startled, but schooled himself to impassivity. Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Superman dragged the back of his hand across his bleeding lip; Bruce’s eyes helplessly tracked the motion. Superman bled. Worlds burned to the ground in that moment. Bruce closed his eyes, opened them, and with his preconceived notions of the Superman in tatters, somehow a slightly different reality greeted him.

Superman—far from the remote savoir who hovered over the outstretched hands of terrified mankind—looked young. One of his hands worried the edge of his cape. He sucked at the place where the rest of his blood had pooled, tongue darting into the corner of his mouth. Bruce could not for the life of him find another place to look, as his pulse slammed into overdrive. The god with the face of a man—blinked.

“Does this answer your question?” The alien asked, calm as you please, too earnest to be—Bruce’s brain stuttered. Was Superman joking with him?

Bruce settled on asking the only safe question he could think to, and the alien and Bruce settled into a pattern of question-response. When Superman suggested taking the creature into space, Bruce rounded on him with contemptuous disbelief.

“Not while it’s still got fight in it. We need to control the field of battle, or we've already lost.”

The alien seemed to understand the source of Bruce’s frustration, transparent as the walls of his lake house. “I underestimated Zod. I won’t repeat that mistake. Taking him to space—I could save lives.”

The alien had miscalculated his ability to contain a foe of similar or greater strength. So Superman hadn’t been uncaring; he was just ill-prepared. The Bat knew which he considered the greater sin.

Diana’s shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. Bruce could only imagine what she thought. “Do you have an alternate strategy, Knight?”

Bruce shifted his gaze from Diana back to Superman. He couldn’t forgive the alien, he couldn’t give up his all-consuming anger: it was too familiar, too old, calcified over older despair (pearls scattering in a dark alley, a bloody crowbar dropped in a pool of water). Power corrupted all of the good men it touched in this world. But as Bruce watched the abomination roar, spew its death-born light into the sky, a new anger took hold. This was Bruce’s goddamn world. No monster would be tolerated here.

Bruce re-calibrated his mission parameters. The decision took only an instant to process. “Contain, subdue, kill,” Bruce snapped, as he reassessed the battlefield.

“I’d love an idea about how to do any of those things,” Superman said, a touch of sarcasm, and a touch—warm, like he genuinely meant it.

“I’ll let you know,” Bruce returned with a half-smirk. Their banter came so easily.

Under any other circumstances, Bruce would say that he was flirting.

Unreal, he thought.

The uneasy alliance scattered, and the fight began in earnest.

* * *

“We have a problem,” Bruce growled, as he watched the creature’s power levels climb in his HUD. Moments later, he was surrounded on both sides, as Diana and the alien formed a wall around him. A blast of energy lashed the air, and Bruce’s teeth clenched, angry and helpless and burning to kill something.

“I could contain it in the scout ship—”

Bruce suppressed the sarcasm that threatened to spill over his dispassionate assessment of how completely idiotic the alien could be.

"Distract the beast," Diana said. Bruce knew a command when he heard one. So, apparently, did Superman. The alien tipped his head once, and re-engaged the creature.

"Knight," she said moving into his line of sight, pulling his attention away from the earth-shaking clash of fist against flesh. "What are your resources? Do you have anything that can—" her eyes flicked back towards the battlefield. Kill his kind, was the unspoken part of the question.

Bruce’s Superman plan unspooled in his mind, hiccuping and racing ahead a little drunkenly. The Gotham docks were two square miles of deserted warehouses. Bruce had intimidated, cajoled, bribed the area clear for this night.

"Lead them both to Gotham," Bruce yelled, sprinting toward the Batwing.

Diana joined the fray with a glorious shout. A second later, Superman hovered next to the open canopy of the plane. Bruce punched in the startup sequence on the engine, and before Superman could ask the question so clearly on the tip of his tongue, Bruce cut in: "Is it Kryptonian?"

Superman turned from him, and narrowed his eyes at the beast as Diana parried its blows with her shield. "It's cellular structure appears to be more similar to mine, and more dissimilar to yours. It’s mostly Kryptonian."

Faint but definite surprise floored him. Had he just read the creature’s DNA at a distance, with his eyes? Bruce couldn’t help himself: “Lex’s files on the Superman were criminally uninformed.”

Superman jerked his head back to Bruce, and looked at him with the same penetrating gaze. The emotions that crossed the alien’s face in the slow march of epochs: wonderment, confusion, (fond?) disbelief.

This was it. His big advantage, gone in an instant if he offered—"I have a weapon that might work," Bruce said quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

"Bruce—" he murmured, the subsided. Bruce struggled to keep shock from registering on his face. The alien knew? What did that mean for his—no, not the time to throw himself off that emotional cliff.

"Gotham port," Bruce reiterated, the anger (or something like it) burning high in cheeks. "Bring it there, and I'll kill it."

“Okay,” Superman said.

As easy as that.

As thought Bruce hadn’t just admitted he had planned to kill him.

“Wait—” Bruce’s gauntleted hand shot out to grip Superman’s forearm. He squeezed until he felt the immovable bar of his arm through the armor. “Who are you?”

“Really, Bruce?” The name slid across the Superman’s tongue like silk, tasting it. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” Bruce ground out. Because if he was going to trade the Earth’s future to stop the destruction now, he would have the alien’s name for it.

“Call me Kal.” Superman lingered. He edged closer, leaning across the Batwing cockpit. He flashed the Bat a small, but genuine smile. In a quiet voice, he said: “Who knew that you’d be saving the world tonight, huh?”

“I had an inkling,” he said dryly.

Alfred’s disbelieving snort as he gunned the engines was his reward.

* * *