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dceu_kinkmeme2016-04-14 12:37 am
dceu_kinkmod) wrote in 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.
- 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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Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-07-31 10:38 pm (UTC)(link)Clark makes a pitstop back in the alleyway and finds the ball, sinking into in a heap of trash that's banked against a wall like snow. It looks like it's seen better days, leather the color of old ivory and layers of grime settled into the stitching. He tosses it idly from hand to hand, focuses his hearing until he picks out the particular timbre of a baseball bat dragging against the sidewalk.
He lands a street over and walks the rest, for the sake of Bruce's blood pressure.
He has a fast word with Rick and company, gathered around a shuttered storefront. Rick drops the bat to catch the ball two-handed, presses it against his chest for a moment before letting his hands unfurl, like a child who's caught a butterfly. He looks back up at Clark and if his expression isn't quite unreadable, it's close.
The kid's got a few bruises of his own.
Apparently it's not return fire from Nate or anything like that. While Rick glowers, one of his friends drawls in a sing-song Gothamite accent like it's half a joke, half too uncomfortable to be serious about: it was his dad, it was his dad.
*
Nate's still awake when Clark taps gently on his window to ask him about his buddy.
*
Clark touches down at the lake house a little after three in the morning. He has a moment of indecision once he realizes he has no way back into the cave via whatever elaborate means that constitute the lake airlock. Nor, in fact, the more straightforward process of the front door.
He can hardly wrench it off its hinges or walk through the plate glass, so here he stands, Superman, the Last Son of Krypton, protector of Earth, stymied by a five-lever sashlock. He almost activates his comm but in an instant he all too easily imagines Bruce's dry response: just push the doorbell, Clark.
So he does--and to his relief there's Alfred, wrapped in an unseasonable overcoat and preparing to leave. He opens the door, gestures Clark inside with a nod of his head.
"Master Clark," he says warmly. "I trust you've had an edifying night stomping around in Gotham's gutters."
"It's a fascinating city," Clark says with careful diplomacy, then catches on to Alfred's pointed comment and sees about taking his shoes off. "Bruce is still out doing his thing."
"She has an allure all of her own," Alfred says, with a twist to his mouth. "And speaking of which, I hazard that Master Bruce won't be home for some hours. There are various surveillance feeds up in the cave, should you feel like tracking his progress." He pauses. "And a bottle of single malt, for when you simply can't endure it any more."
Clark knows he must look a little wide-eyed at that, because Alfred gives him the broadest smile Clark's ever seen from him, and pats him on the shoulder.
"Goodnight, my boy," he says, and heads towards his vehicle. He stops, half-turns. "Oh, and Master Clark?" he calls, voice crisp in the summer night air. "It's good to see you're feeling yourself again."
*
Alfred is right: this is bleak viewing. Clark had only really come down to the cave to leave a note on Bruce's keyboard in case he fell asleep before he returned, but he caught sight of a fluttering cape in one of the half-dozen rotating video feeds and it grabbed his attention like a sprung steel trap.
(That's alarming in a different way, how easily he's snared. And Bruce thinks Clark is the one who's trouble.)
He quickly figures out that bringing a window into focus stops it cycling between cameras, and he tracks Bruce that way. He follows him around the half-shadows at a strange, silent slant, watches him interrupt a bag-snatcher and break up a street brawl--a dark figure that blurs through the frame and in its wake leaves its targets scrambling in terror.
Those scenes are familiar, that kind of grainy footage still used to be ten-a-penny a decade ago, repro'd to death under headlines asking, GOTHAM BAT: MAN OR MYTH?
But now he's vanished from the feeds, and that's gotten Clark on edge because he knows the most dangerous crimes don't happen where cameras can see them. That's when he's going after the parasites that cling to Gotham's midnight underbelly, the real bloodsuckers: the trafficking rings, the drug lords, the killers for hire.
Bruce has spent half his life doing this, Clark tells himself. He is more than capable of taking care of himself.
(He could find Bruce at a moment's notice, could be at his side between the ticks of a second hand, and he knows he wouldn't be thanked for it at all. Bruce wanting him is different from Bruce needing him.)
Finally he catches a glimpse again--a quick turn around a corner, just a shadow on top of more shadows, but the violent angles of him are unmistakable. Clark slowly uncurls himself from the soft leather of the chair.
*
He settles on the couch, tilts his head back to rest his eyes for just a moment, lets the day's events wind through him. He finds himself in the midst of whirling lights and a warm rain, the freedom of clouds. Do birds dream of flight, or of the earth turning beneath their feet?
It could be hours or only minutes later that he awakens to a figure leaning over him, edges bleeding out in the pre-dawn light. He has a distinct flash of deja-vu.
"I thought we'd gotten over this," Bruce says, voice gravelly with the hour. "You're welcome to my bed."
Clark looks up at him and lets a smile break through his sleepiness. He extends a hand in lieu of an answer. Bruce takes it--but instead of pulling him up onto his feet, he settles his knees either side of Clark's lap and slowly collapses against his chest. He's heavy, still in armor; he smells like rain and blood and ozone. Clark pushes the cowl back and kisses the taste of the city from his lips.
Bruce strips off his gauntlets to lace their fingers, presses Clark's hand to the couch by his head. Outside, the sun breaches the horizon and lures the short summer night into the limbo of dawn. Bruce seems unreal in this liminal space, with the thick texture of his suit under Clark's fingertips and the first pale touch of sunlight in his hair. His cape hushes around them.
Bruce breathes deep, rests his forehead against Clark's. "Too tired to sleep," he says, with the kind of unguarded frankness that exhaustion brings. "My bones ache." He doesn't complain about any other pain, but he groans as he gives his body over to gravity and tips himself sideways off Clark, sprawls out onto the rest of the couch.
"Make yourself comfortable," Clark says, since Bruce is already doing just that, settling his head on Clark's lap almost like it's the most natural thing in the world--almost, but for the conscious way he arranges himself, as though it's something he's seen, but not done often.
Something digs into Clark's thigh: part of the cowl. Ears, probably. He could shift around, but he thinks Bruce might take the opportunity disappear himself. The kevlar won't bruise as much as that.
"It is my couch," Bruce tells him, eyes closed. His shoulders curve against the outside of Clark's leg. "Despite the claim you've apparently staked. What's with the kid, Clark?"
"Nothing. Just needed a helping hand."
"And the address?"
"Mm? Oh." The scrap of paper on his keyboard. "Different kid, different problem. Got a dad who's quick with his fists."
Bruce's eyes flick open only for them to sharpen and narrow. "So you thought you'd pass that one over to me." There is a careful lack of inflection to his tone.
"It's your city." Clark lets his hand rest in the center of Bruce's chest, over the spread of his insignia. "And in this case, I think your approach would be more effective than a few polite words from a guy who may or may not be Superman."
"Thought you didn't approve of my methods."
"I'm not asking you to hurt anyone. Just… gently encourage him to rethink his choices."
"Well," Bruce says, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. "I think I could stretch to that. One of us has to be the bad cop."
"Thank you, Bruce," Clark says, quiet. He's not sure if he's just asked a favor, but either way he's pretty sure Bruce won't want anything in return. For his part, Bruce settles back into silence, eyes closed again, and starts to relax by painfully tiny increments.
Later, Bruce is almost asleep--deep, sluggish breaths, slowed pulse and Clark's all but there with him, early morning warmth on his face and the distant hum of the world coming alive lulling him under, when Bruce starts them both back into wakefulness. "How did you get in? Alfred?" he murmurs, lifting his head.
"Mhm."
"I'll get you a key." Said casually, matter-of-fact. A purely logistical decision, of course, now that Clark's flying freely again, except for the way that every muscle in his body has gone tense.
And now Clark is as wide awake as he's ever been, and definitely as surprised. "I can't stay here forever," he says, the first thing to cross his mind, blurted out like he's forgotten that sometimes he has to be as mindful with his words as he is with his strength.
It's lacking all nuance of what he feels, mostly because he's not sure how to sort through what's suddenly going on in his heart--but too late for that. Bruce is already pulling away, sitting up to look at him, face schooled into perfect stillness.
"I need my life back," Clark says gently, tries to explain. "I miss being… I miss being Clark Kent, you know, that guy with a job and an apartment and who isn't dead."
"I wasn't asking you to move in with me, Clark," Bruce says. And the blankness might have broken into a smirk that is vintage Wayne, perennial bachelor, can't-tie-me-down, but the way he speaks is brittle to the point of developing cracks. "I was just hoping you'd stay until you're trained up to my satisfaction, that's all."
If there's anything Clark knows about Bruce, it's that he's exacting. It would take years for Clark to be good enough. He might never be good enough. The implication is like being in freefall; a force against his chest. He thinks, a little deliriously, that he's lucky he doesn't need to breathe all that much.
"But it's fine," Bruce is saying, standing up. There's stiffness in him when he moves over to the windows, injury or age or wounded pride. "I understand. I'll have Alfred to look into your paperwork, see if we can patch together a cover story that's not too contrived." He turns to face out over the lake as if he's watching the morning fog lift, then says with such precisely measured needling that Clark almost laughs: "It'll be nice to have the place to myself again."
"Hey." Clark glides across the stone floor, settles next to him, barefoot. He addresses Bruce's reflection in the glass. "Don't be like that."
Bruce sighs and turns to look at him, head tilted and eyebrows up, clearly supposed to convey that this is, in fact, what he is like, and to not expect any better. He manages to sustain it for an entire three seconds before the expression falters. "Clark--"
"Mom's invited me home to dinner," Clark interrupts. "She wants you to come." Then adds, emphatically, "I want you to come."
Bruce hesitates, caught in some indecision as though it's something that requires more than a simple binary response, then he says, "I'm not the kind of guy you take home to your mother, Clark. The fact we've already met notwithstanding."
"That's a pity. She'll be really disappointed." He doesn't quite give him the puppy-dog look, but it's a near thing. Maybe it's shameless of him, but Bruce is not a man who's easily manipulated; it's not like it'll actually work. So he leans in, as though to share a secret. "She thinks you're a nice man."
"Clark," Bruce says again, and Clark suspects that he has misjudged the level of his persuasiveness. "Okay, that is low, Kent. Even from you." His shoulders sag. "Especially from you."
*
Ma hugs him like he's just returned from the dead, and he laughs and pretends that she's crushing his ribs. Then he surprises her into loud whoops that startle the chickens when he spins her around and lifts them both off the ground, makes her gardening hat fly off and her hair fan out.
"Clark!" Her face shines with delight, and when Clark sets her back on the ground, she catches his face in both hands and makes him bend over so she can kiss his forehead. "Oh my goodness--did you fly here?" she asks in gleefully conspiratorial tones.
Bruce clears his throat, and ma turns the full force of her smile on him instead, even if she keeps Clark's face squished between her hands. "He's keeping a low profile for now, Mrs. Kent."
"He wouldn't let me carry him," Clark stage-whispers, and his ma makes a serious, stern face--oh no, no, of course not. Bruce tries to maintain a little dignity in the face of their mischief by pretending to check his cellphone, but Clark doesn't miss the brief upturn at the corners of his mouth.
He has no doubt Bruce's revenge will be as swift as it is merciless.
*
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 01:51 am (UTC)(link)Bruce tries to maintain a little dignity in the face of their mischief
Try as you might Bruce, CLARK AND MARTHA KNOW WHAT'S UP. Bruce's smirk. I am dead, friend.
I enjoy how well Clark knows this Bruce, how he doesn't let Bruce pull away from him, now that everyone's on a page that is very, very close to the same one, and he's just not having it with Bruce's pulling away, or being cagey and strange. The way you handle Bruce & Clark's dynamic just gives me the biggest grin.
AND CLARK WAS ABSOLUTELY RIGHT. SAYING THAT YOU NEED TO STAY UNTIL YOU'RE GOOD ENOUGH IS BASICALLY A PROPOSAL OF COHABITATION, WHAT THE HECK BRUCE.
*flails at you inarticulately*
*gestures excitedly at this fill*
*IS SO HAPPY WE GET ONE MORE PART*
<333333333
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-03 03:57 pm (UTC)(link)SAYING THAT YOU NEED TO STAY UNTIL YOU'RE GOOD ENOUGH IS BASICALLY A PROPOSAL OF COHABITATION, WHAT THE HECK BRUCE
SERIOUSLY. god DAMN Bruce, think about what you're saying sometimes. :B Okay so that was all pretty gratuitous, but if I can't be indulgent on a kinkmeme, where can I be, I ask you this!! /flings tropes around with abandon
Clark not putting up with Bruce's bullshit is another one of my many favourite things. Though that list is very long, because my favourite thing about these guys is basically EVERYTHING. I'm so in love, help.
/spins til you're dizzy. :DDD
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 01:54 am (UTC)(link)Clark touches down at the lake house a little after three in the morning. He has a moment of indecision once he realizes he has no way back into the cave via whatever elaborate means that constitute the lake airlock. Nor, in fact, the more straightforward process of the front door.
I am kind of cracked up by Clark not having a key after all this time. ;D
"I trust you've had an edifying night stomping around in Gotham's gutters."
Alfred snark! :D And Clark realising that Alfred wants him to take off his shoes, awww. I seriously adore how you write Alfred: "And a bottle of single malt, for when you simply can't endure it any more."
a dark figure that blurs through the frame and in its wake leaves its targets scrambling in terror.
I love seeing the Bat from an outside perspective, and I so get Clark's fascination with watching him work. Clark worrying him while still noticing that Bruce wouldn't want or need his help. Ooooh, and I love the "violent angles", what a great description.
Bruce takes it--but instead of pulling him up onto his feet, he settles his knees either side of Clark's lap and slowly collapses against his chest. He's heavy, still in armor; he smells like rain and blood and ozone. Clark pushes the cowl back and kisses the taste of the city from his lips.
These lines are so, so beautifully written, and Bruce in armour in Clark's lap is such a great image. That entire scene is utterly gorgeous.
"Too tired to sleep," he says, with the kind of unguarded frankness that exhaustion brings. "My bones ache."
My heart. <3 Bruce being this unguarded, oh my good. And I think being too tired to sleep is a thing for Bruce. And then that whole description about Bruce stretching out with his head in Clark's lap like he's only ever seen people do it, not done it before, dfkgbldfgbdfolgbd my HEART. And Clark really knows how to appeal to Bruce's soft spot here, haha.
"I'll get you a key." Said casually, matter-of-fact. A purely logistical decision, of course, now that Clark's flying freely again, except for the way that every muscle in his body has gone tense.
Oh my god, Bruuuuuuuuuuuce. And then Clark reacts in the worst possible way, and of course Bruce withdraws, oh no, my heart.
"I'm not the kind of guy you take home to your mother, Clark. The fact we've already met notwithstanding."
Bruuuce, why are you the way you are? But at least he does come along, despite being an idiot bat. <3 And that scene with Martha is so adorable.
Man, this fic is so wonderful, I am a little sad to see it end soon because I'm enjoying it so much. :D
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-03 04:10 pm (UTC)(link)I admit, if I didn't start off being utterly self-indulgent, I am 100% wallowing in it with these last parts. I'm just glad everyone seems to be enjoying it as much as I do, haha. I just... wanted Bruce is armor in Clark's lap. SO THATS WHAT I DID* /doesn't bother killing any of her darlings
Bruce is such a dummy, I think he only half-knows what's going on with himself. Poor Clark has no chance. Just take the idiot bat home to mom. <3
*I typoed that as ID ID, which... yeah. :D
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 06:52 pm (UTC)(link)I've read this like twice just trying to figure out whether the sensation in my chest can even be translated into words. And I DON'T THINK IT CAN but I'll do my best anyway. :D
I didn't know I loved Clark with kids as much as I love Bruce with kids, but oh, man, I really do, and the bittersweetness of what he finds out just kills me. And I thought once I got to the next scene that I was done being killed of it, but then he ASKS BRUCE TO BE HIS BAD COP and I'm so. much. deader. Alfred! Alfred inviting Clark to watch Bruce from the cave, oh, god. And then COZY BAT-KISSING and KEYS and Bruce SO BRUCELY being all weird and stunted about Clark leaving, /o\ I JUST CAN'T.
AND THEN as if I weren't already thrilled enough with all of this, ♥MARTHA♥ YAY. Oh, anon, I will be so sorry to see the end of this fill, but so glad to get to reread the whole thing over and over and over again when it's done. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-03 04:19 pm (UTC)(link)I am generally not one for kids on the whole, but oh my god do I make an exception for these two. Ok so Bruce is the archetypal BatDad, but Clark is killing me in the comics lately. Jon! <333 p.s. WHERE IS SUPER-SONS, DC >:(
Ahaha keys. More keys to come. And smooching, and Bruce being weird, and more Martha, too. And, yes, it's all tropetastic! :P
Thank you as ever anon, you are a delight! ♥
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-01 08:38 pm (UTC)(link)<333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333
CUTENESS OVERLOAD WITH THAT LAST BIT, OH MY.
Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (18/19)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-03 03:58 pm (UTC)(link)<333333