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dceu_kinkmeme2016-04-14 12:37 am
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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.
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- One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
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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: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-17 03:59 am (UTC)(link)Honestly, Clark's glad to have the phone taken away from him—glad for Mom's gentle hands on his arms, steering him back to the sofa. Somebody's got to be in charge of him right now, and he's not sure he's up to it.
Physically, he's definitely starting to feel better, although that's not saying much. But he's not any more clearheaded now than he was in the cemetery. He's worse, even: he'd been so out of it at first that there hadn't been any room to spare for thinking. He'd needed every ounce of concentration he could muster just to keep himself moving, to put one foot in front of the other. The house, Mom—he'd needed to get to them, and that had been the only thing he'd cared about.
He hadn't noticed the leaves. Six months—it had been autumn when he'd died.
It isn't autumn anymore.
"There, now," Mom says, and guides him down; he sits, automatic, and the sun hits him again, and he can't help turning his face into it. "You just stay there—I'll get the rest of this dirt off, honey, and then you should rest."
"Okay," he says, and he manages to drag a smile out from somewhere for her before he closes his eyes.
It is good to be clean—mostly—and comfortable. No denying that. The coffin had been cushioned, but the padding had rotted away a little, and it had been so small—
Not that there's any point in thinking about that. He'd gotten out, and he's fine.
It's just he can't stop himself, he keeps circling it like a drain: six months. Six months. The fight was the last thing that happened to him, and he remembers it like it was yesterday. It was yesterday, he can't help thinking, because there's nothing else he can place in between it and right now—but it was six months ago. It was six months ago; the leaves have changed, Lois is in South Korea, and everything he owns is in boxes in Mom's basement. Everything is different, except for Clark.
For Clark it was yesterday.
"All right," Mom is saying, giving the backs of his knuckles one more swipe with the washcloth, and Clark pries an eye open in time to see her smile at him. For a second he's about to ask her what's wrong, why the line of her mouth is so unsteady. But that would be stupid. He knows what's wrong—he was dead, and now he isn't. For her it's been a long time, long enough that she must have thought she was done crying over him.
"Thanks, Mom," he says, but it comes out weird and slurred. He can't get his eyes to open any further, can't even imagine standing up again—
"You just rest," Mom repeats, from what Clark finds has somehow become a really long way away. "I know you're not used to feeling tired, sweetheart, but it's all right. I'll be here when you wake up."
She pauses and then there's something else, a sound Clark can't make sense of anymore, a quick warm brush against his forehead, and then it's all gone.
It's dark.
It's dark and he can't see. He tries, automatic, to switch to x-ray—to switch to the laser-vision, even, which destroys stuff but also usually makes a lot of light; except it doesn't. Nothing happens. It stays dark.
It's dark and he can't see, and he also can't move. He's in something, some kind of—box, and it's close and moldering and the air is stale. He doesn't want to be inside it anymore. And deciding that is all it usually takes: he's Superman. He has superstrength, he can fly. On some level, helplessness is beyond him. He always has a choice.
Except he sets his hands against the side of the box and pushes, and it doesn't move. It's not that he isn't pushing hard—for one mindless, panicked moment, he shoves at it with everything he has, until the muscles in his arms and back are straining. He shoves at it until he hurts, and that's a kind of effort he never ever has to make, but nothing is happening, nothing—he can't get out—
Clark hurtles off the couch and just barely manages to stop before he hits the far wall; it is dark, but not so dark that he can't see, and there's no box—no coffin, because that's what it had been. The wall's right in front of him, and he presses his hands against it just enough to make the wood creak. He could break it if he wanted to. He could. He's fine.
He stares at the backs of his fingers and breathes. His heart's pounding—and not because it has to. Digging himself out of his grave is the only time he can remember exerting himself enough to force it to. But it's never mattered that he's physically Superman. He's still weak in all the other ways humans are; and he's always liked that about himself, always reminded himself of it at the times when he's felt the most alien.
But he does kind of wish right now that Kryptonians didn't feel fear.
It isn't even just about the nightmare. It would be easier if it were: a bad dream's easy enough to dispel. There wasn't any moonlight reflecting off any coffee tables, in the dream; there weren't any family portraits lined up inside the coffin. Clark could hardly move at all, let alone cross the room to sit back down on the sofa. None of it was real, and everything around him right now that is real serves as a reminder of that.
What he can't wake up from is the six months that are missing. And the reminders of that are just as present: Mom's changed, turned quieter, tired in a way that's almost frightening; and Lois is on the other side of the world; and Superman's dead. Clark got buried and mourned and cried over, and then—left behind. Everything had moved on around him, and he'd just lain down there, untouched.
Dad had always been afraid that he'd never find a—a place for himself, that he'd never find a way to fit in. But after fighting Zod the first time around, it had felt like he finally had. Everyone had known about Superman, and almost none of them had hated him; Lois had known and had loved him, Clark himself, which was more than Clark had ever really been convinced he could hope for. He'd had a job, an apartment, a life, just like anyone else. He'd built himself somewhere he belonged.
But now—
Now it's all gone. Now he's as unmoored as if he were still sneaking through strangers' backyards to steal their laundry, as if he were still some faceless truck-stop waiter whose name nobody knew unless they bothered reading it off the pin on his apron.
He hears his own breath catch as if it's somebody else's, and he doesn't even bother raising his hands to press them to his face. He sits there in the dimness and he's—he feels—
He feels fucked up. He thinks it with an almost vicious energy, words he hardly ever says: he feels fucked up. He feels helpless, mindless; he wants to run, to sprint outside and fly away, except he'll never be able to do it fast enough to get away from this feeling. He'll never be able to do it fast enough to leave himself behind.
He's managed to talk himself into something kind of like calm by morning. Surely it'll just plain take time to get over. He came back from the dead yesterday. There's still a little grave dirt under his nails. There isn't exactly anybody he can ask about this, but presumably a little disorientation's only to be expected. Mom's still herself in all the ways that count. Lois is only a phone call away—and once Clark's sure his speed and flight are both back to 100%, she'll be even closer than that, no matter how long she decides to stay in South Korea. It'll take time, and work, and probably it won't be easy, but he can get through this.
Time. Work.
And, apparently, Bruce Wayne.
Clark's not expecting it at all. He doesn't know how long he's sitting there on the couch, but it's long enough for the light to change, blue to gray to gold. Luckily he's not so far into his own head that he doesn't hear it when Mom gets up; and by the time she comes downstairs, he's in the kitchen with the skillet, apron on because he knows it will make her laugh, making eggs.
He smiles at her, and she says, "Clark," in a wobbly voice and then puts both hands over her mouth.
"Hey, hey," he says, because it's easy enough to guess what she's thinking. And he'd rather let the eggs burn a little than let her keep thinking it, so he steps away from the stove to put his arms around her. "It's okay. You didn't dream it, Mom, I'm here. I'm fine."
It sounds a little more true out loud than it did in his head. Good sign, he hopes.
"I'm fine," he says again, squeezing her shoulders, and she laughs through her fingers—her eyes are bright but she isn't crying, and that's a good sign, too—
And his powers are definitely coming back: even a human might have been able to hear Mom through the quiet of the house, but now she's up, the eggs are sizzling, all the circuitry in the stove is humming with heat, and he still catches a footstep past it.
"Somebody's here."
"Oh," Mom says, "oh, it's probably Bruce."
Bruce? Clark stares at her. Had she been calling the billionaire CEO of Wayne Enterprises by his first name yesterday, too? Clark can't remember.
Honestly, he'd almost started thinking he'd made that up: the memory of Mr. Wayne standing over him is so hazy, and a lot of yesterday feels weird and thin and disconnected. Mr. Wayne had been the one to tell Clark what had happened while he'd been gone, that was right—at the time it had felt almost like a voiceover, Mr. Wayne just a borrowed face for an unidentifiable narrator.
But it must have been real. The footsteps keep coming, across the yard and up the stairs, and when Mom opens the door, it actually is Mr. Wayne who smiles at her and comes inside.
"Good morning, Martha," he says easily, and Mom smiles back at him like this is totally normal and waves him in.
"Come in, come in—have you eaten?"
"On the way," Mr. Wayne confirms, "never fear. I apologize; I do hate to talk business this early in the morning, but it isn't the kind of thing that will wait."
"What isn't?" Clark says, and then hopes belatedly it didn't come out too rude. It's just that he can't think of any business Bruce Wayne would have with Mom, let alone business urgent enough that he made it to Kansas in time for breakfast.
"Why," Mr. Wayne says, breezy, "bringing you back to life, of course."
He lays it out for Mom over the eggs, once Clark's finished serving them up. He doesn't dwell too heavily on the details; his attitude is conversational and matter-of-fact, and all told he's acting like he helps people get themselves undeclared dead every day.
It's—it's great. Clark's a little surprised by how glad he is, but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes he shouldn't be. Mr. Wayne's casual tone might have bugged him any other day. But right now it's the perfect antidote to everything that had snuck up on Clark in the middle of the night: as if he expects nothing less than to be able to slot Clark right back into place—as if Clark has a place, as if he ought to be able to get it back; as if Mr. Wayne's never thought otherwise. Clark had figured Mom called him yesterday because he was kind of a friend. He'd helped her with Clark's body before and he knew about Superman, and she probably hadn't been sure who else to call. But maybe she'd known he would do this. Maybe she'd known that Mr. Wayne's response to Clark rising from the grave would be to spend the night working out a strategy for how to make him real again.
"—and the bottom line is, a court order should do it, if we can get the paper trail set up," Mr. Wayne is saying as Clark scrapes together his last forkful of eggs.
"Oh, that's wonderful, Bruce," Mom says, "thank you," and she leans in and actually kisses his cheek before standing to take Clark's plate. "All Clark's papers and things are in the basement," she adds over her shoulder, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll go see if I can find them, just give me ten minutes."
And then she's gone.
Clark doesn't know what to say except, "Thank you," again, because Mr. Wayne should hear it from him, too—with everything he's doing, words aren't really enough, but Clark's not sure what else—
"Please," Mr. Wayne says, with a dismissive flick of the fingers. "Don't talk yourself into giving me too much credit, Mr. Kent. The point of being a billionaire is getting to pay other people to do this kind of work for you."
He leans back in the chair after he says it, and smiles at Clark like—Clark's not sure what to call that look, but it strikes precisely the wrong note, so easy and unconcerned it's almost unfeeling. Clark only just manages not to frown at Mr. Wayne for it, because that would still be rude. He did get all this arranged, even if he delegated everything that required actual effort to his employees.
"Well, thank you anyway," Clark makes himself say.
Mr. Wayne's eyes narrow, and then he looks at Clark, raises an eyebrow, and—
It's easily the slowest, most gratuitous onceover Clark's ever gotten. There's something almost pointed about it, even unkind, like he wants it to make Clark uncomfortable, and it shoves Clark off-balance with a vengeance: surely Mr. Wayne doesn't mean it like that—it's—it's inappropriate, isn't it, staring that way at somebody who was dead yesterday? He can't possibly—
"Doesn't seem like you've had any trouble getting back on your feet. You're looking—much better today." Mr. Wayne pauses for a single sharp, mocking beat, and then adds, "Nice apron."
Clark hopes faintly that his face doesn't look as red as it feels. For an instant, he's wavering somewhere close to anger. It was a long unpleasant night for him, and Mr. Wayne was around for the end of that phone call with Lois yesterday—he knows exactly how completely Clark's life has fallen apart, whether Clark's looking better today or not.
But it's a sunny morning, and the eggs were pretty good, and Clark made Mom smile; and Mr. Wayne also knows that it's Superman who's sitting across from him, wearing a blue-and-white gingham apron tied on with a lopsided bow. Clark can't really blame him for seeing the humor in it.
Plus, the other reason Mr. Wayne is aware of how completely Clark's life has fallen apart is because he's taking it on himself to help put it back together.
So Clark doesn't snap. "It's my mother's," he says instead, evenly, and goes ahead and flashes Mr. Wayne a hint of a smile. "But I'll be sure to pass your compliments along, Mr. Wayne."
Something about Mr. Wayne's face changes. Clark couldn't have picked it out until he saw the lack of it: some kind of tension, a bitterness or weariness, or maybe both. Whatever it is, it recedes, and Mr. Wayne's grin could almost be called bright. If also kind of smug. "Bruce," he says, and then, with a wink, "If I'm going to keep hitting on you at inappropriate moments, you should call me Bruce."
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-17 10:59 am (UTC)(link)Somebody's got to be in charge of him right now, and he's not sure he's up to it.
Proof that I am in fact a child: despite the angst, my first thought was that once Clark gets through the crap that Bruce has set, Bruce would in fact volunteer for that privilege.
For Clark it was yesterday.
Oh, Clark. Seriously. If the tags are not already on AO3: Oh, Bruce and Oh, Clark, pretty much sums up your fills. ;-)
… he can't get out …
Everything from it’s dark and onward. It’s beautiful. Heart wrenching. I hurt for Clark.
He's still weak in all the other ways humans are; and he's always liked that about himself, always reminded himself of it at the times when he's felt the most alien.
I just…this is… This is just beautiful. Words—my words…failing…. Guh….
"Clark," in a wobbly voice and then puts both hands over her mouth.
Oh, Martha. Clearly, you’re going for the trifecta here. Just this moment, when you know Martha had thought that it was all a horrible, wonderful dream after six months of mourning and having buried her baby boy. And he’s in the kitchen making her eggs. My heart…please stop hurting me so!
Mr. Wayne's casual tone might have bugged him any other day.
Bruce and his Batman plan. That thing about normal reactions to Bruce’s behavior; apparently, Clark also defies normalcy. But that’s to be expected; Clark never was normal.
Mr. Wayne's eyes narrow, and then he looks at Clark, raises an eyebrow, and—
I actually read this as: Batman Plan A to enforce Clark’s dislike, failed. Contingency: hit on the recently resurrected, begin.
Plus, the other reason Mr. Wayne is aware of how completely Clark's life has fallen apart is because he's taking it on himself to help put it back together.
So, I’m guessing that Bruce maybe sort of missed that if Clark is making excuses for Batman, then he might also do it for Bruce… Or if he didn’t miss it, then maybe he wasn’t expecting Clark to do it so readily.
"If I'm going to keep hitting on you at inappropriate moments, you should call me Bruce."
Oh, Bruce. And the trifecta! You get an award! I do hope he also starts hitting on Clark at appropriate moments, too.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-18 10:38 pm (UTC)(link)Haha, oh, you're not wrong! :D
Yes, if those aren't canonical tags they certainly should be - and one of these days I'm going to have to write a real angstfest just so I can make the actual summary "Oh, Bruce. Oh, Clark." ;)
/o\ :D Thank you so much, anon! I'm doubly glad the nightmare sequence was evocative - as I mentioned somewhere on another fill, I'm pretty claustrophobic IRL, so it was hard for me to gauge how effective that part was with any objectivity!
Oh, you know I'll never be able to resist the chance to indulge in Martha feelings. :D I do love that Clark angst, but I didn't want to lose sight of how much this has affected everybody else, too! So I'm glad that came through well for you.
I actually read this as: Batman Plan A to enforce Clark’s dislike, failed. Contingency: hit on the recently resurrected, begin
Then your Bruce-to-Normal translator appears to be working. ;)
Bruce maybe sort of missed that if Clark is making excuses for Batman, then he might also do it for Bruce… Or if he didn’t miss it, then maybe he wasn’t expecting Clark to do it so readily
Pretty much! Basically I love Bruce thinking he has Clark pinned and then repeatedly discovering he's underestimated Clark's generosity, so ... that could become a theme here. :D
I do hope he also starts hitting on Clark at appropriate moments, too
:D Yeah, he's ... probably going to end up hitting on Clark basically all the time, lbr. Thank you again, anon, for every wonderful thing you've said in all your comments - I can't tell you how grateful I am!
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-17 04:49 pm (UTC)(link)And deciding that is all it usually takes: he's Superman. He has superstrength, he can fly. On some level, helplessness is beyond him. He always has a choice.
This is so good because OF COURSE he's not used to feeling helpless. At least not physically helpless. I really love how much you focus on how the world has moved on while Clark was dead, except nothing has changed for Clark and his pain is still fresh.
Clark is such a sweetheart, oh my goooooood, my heart. <3 And Bruuuuuuuuuuce, Bruce Bruce Wayne-ing around and Clark just being all around WTF???? at him. And, oh, I think my favourite thing is that Clark actually appreciates Bruce's nonchalant "if I want something, I make it happen" attitude here, at least at first.
"Please," Mr. Wayne says, with a dismissive flick of the fingers. "Don't talk yourself into giving me too much credit, Mr. Kent. The point of being a billionaire is getting to pay other people to do this kind of work for you."
I love how you write Bruce. He's so ... Bruce. :D
It's easily the slowest, most gratuitous onceover Clark's ever gotten. There's something almost pointed about it, even unkind, like he wants it to make Clark uncomfortable, and it shoves Clark off-balance with a vengeance: surely Mr. Wayne doesn't mean it like that—it's—it's inappropriate, isn't it, staring that way at somebody who was dead yesterday? He can't possibly—
Oh, Bruce. Bruuuuuuuuuuuuce. Quick, quick, gotta make sure Clark doesn't like you! Batlogic activated! And then that last paragraph, that flash of FEELS, and then Bruce being all Bruce Wayne again. Aaaaaaaaah, I love where this is going. You're the best, and my confidence in you is never misplaced. ;D /OP
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-18 10:50 pm (UTC)(link)This is so good because OF COURSE he's not used to feeling helpless
Oh, thank you - I love an unfazed Clark, of course, but it really does make sense to me that someone so used to being so physically powerful would be extra freaked out about being trapped like that. Luckily for me!
... And then, of course, despite my efforts, Clark turns everything back into sunshine. ;) I love bouncing Bruce and Clark off each other (NOT LIKE THAT)
(YET)so much, especially when Clark has no real way of knowing what the hell Bruce's deal is. :D OH BRUCE. OH CLARK.Quick, quick, gotta make sure Clark doesn't like you! Batlogic activated!
Truer words! ;D So thrilled you're still so happy with this, favorite OP, and I swear we really are going to get to the hooking up! By which I mean we're probably not MORE than six thousand words away. HONEST. ♥!
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-17 09:37 pm (UTC)(link)Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhah, BRUCE IS GOING TO BE SO AWFUL, ISN'T HE? :D AND THEN CLARK WILL BE SO EFFORTLESSLY AND GUILELESSLY CHARMING ANYWAY :DDDDDD IT'S GOING TO BE GREAAAAAAAT! <33333
(Though I'm already a bit D; over how betrayed Clark will feel when he learns the truth, oh, Bruce, YOU STUPID MAN! :D:)
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-18 10:53 pm (UTC)(link)(If it's any consolation, Bruce is going to be pretty D: over it too, though of course that only means he needs to get used to the idea that Clark is going to hate him ...)
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-17 11:43 pm (UTC)(link)Bruce, you stupid man. He's going to judge you by your actions, and you kept him from being dissected and are getting him his life back. Start killing puppies now, or you're doomed to friendship with Superman.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-18 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)Well, to be fair to you, I'm afraid to jinx myself by posting anything incomplete on the fills post. So I made this pretty easy to miss! But I'm glad you managed to find it anyway, anon, and glad you're enjoying it so far!
Start killing puppies now, or you're doomed to friendship with Superman
:D Too true, anon, too true.
Oh, Bruce.