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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: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-20 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)Overestimated. That's a good word. Neutral. Clark hadn't made an idiot out of himself, hadn't completely lost perspective, hadn't let himself get carried away thinking—thinking things he had no business thinking.
He'd just overestimated. Literally: he'd thought there was more than there was.
Being angry is easy; he does that for a couple days. It wasn't that Bruce had really given him the wrong impression, technically—he'd never said they were dating, or implied commitment in so many words. And even if they had both agreed they were starting to get serious, it would still have been fair for Bruce to stop Clark, to tell him if it wasn't working and say he just wasn't interested anymore.
But the way he did it is—Clark had at least thought they were friends, for crying out loud. If he'd ever imagined it, he would have thought Bruce would—what? Set aside a little time for it: be waiting for Clark instead of on the phone when he arrived, knowing what was coming; sit down with him and explain, saying things like—
(—assets. Assets.)
(—boring.)
—the spark is gone, or I just can't see this going anywhere. Maybe even with a companionable I still care about you—you know that, right? tossed in there for flavor.
Take more than five minutes out of his day over it.
As it is, it had been about a half-step up from a text message. Clark might have preferred a text, even; that way he wouldn't have had to look at Bruce's face while he said it, wouldn't have had to hear the words in his voice.
So: Clark is angry. And he rides the righteous wave of Well, fuck you too, Bruce! for a good satisfying while—until, of course, it curls in on itself and crashes, foams up over the shore of him, slides away.
Then he's mostly just tired; sad, and sorry, and wistfully heartsore. Bruce had been having particularly good sex, is all, that evening before the nightmare—but it's easy to forget that, easy to stare at the ceiling and flip back through the memories, the sensations, and ache with helpless quiet bitterness. God, it had been so good; and Bruce hadn't been bored yet, not that night—not with the way he'd looked at Clark.
He gets sick of himself for going back to it again and again, for remembering how thoroughly Bruce kissed or how warmly he'd smiled as if it meant anything. It hadn't, Bruce had made that perfectly clear—or it had, maybe, but didn't anymore. And really, it's a good thing that Bruce broke it off before Clark could—do anything, or—or say anything—
Considering how awful he feels, and that it's Bruce's fault, he really shouldn't miss Bruce as much as he does.
(Some people think kryptonite is the only thing in the world capable of hurting Superman.)
(Sometimes Clark wishes they were right.)
The righteous anger was kind of a boost to Clark's productivity. But now that it's burned itself out, he ends up staring at his monitor more often than not, absorbing the shapes of words he isn't actually reading; telling himself to forget about it, that Bruce undoubtedly has—that he's just going to need time to get over it, that he needs to stop thinking about what could have happened if he'd reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm and really had gone for that "last hurrah"—
All told, Ron has to lean over and tap him on the arm twice, raise his eyebrows, and point before Clark realizes his desk phone is ringing.
"Oh, uh—" Clark clears his throat and picks up. "Kent, Daily Planet."
"Clark," Diana says, warm.
"Diana," and god, it's such a relief to find himself smiling without having to work at it.
"If you aren't already busy, I was hoping perhaps you'd like to get lunch?"
As if maybe she knows, Diana doesn't pick one of the high-flying places Bruce likes—liked—to eat at. It's a neighborhood restaurant instead, the kind of place with TVs mounted in the corners of the room and a bar wrapping around part of one wall. But when Clark spots her and waves, she looks at him and smiles: no trace of pity or sympathy, just bright, pleased.
Bruce hasn't told her anything, then. Clark can't decide whether that's a kindness or something that should make him angry all over again.
It feels like more of a kindness, he has to admit—at least at first. Diana doesn't make fun of him for ordering about three plates' worth of food; she laughs and gets two entrees herself, plus mozzarella sticks. "My home doesn't have quite so many fried things," she tells Clark, putting two in her mouth at once; and then, around them, contentedly: "I love them."
And if she knew, she wouldn't have said it. She'd have been calm and quiet and serious, and given him good advice—she wouldn't laugh, wouldn't point her fork at him warningly when he takes a mozzarella stick for himself. She'd ask him how he was, dig it all back up, instead of telling him about her work: that she'd been invited to evaluate a collection of antiques, three-quarters junk. "And then at the very back, a real pelike! Genuine, perfectly preserved, and I recognized it right away. I knew the woman who made it—of course I couldn't tell him that," she adds, "but it was so good to see some of her work again." She smiles at him, and then leans in and says a little lower, confessional, "I chose this job because I knew I could do it; but I hadn't realized how good it would be to see these other things like me, that have made it all this time."
Clark thinks about how it had felt to see the ship that had brought him here, when Dad had finally showed him—to blast through the last of that ice in Antarctica and realize just what he might be looking at. It's about distance for him, not time, but— "Yeah," he says aloud, and smiles back. "I know what you mean."
When their main dishes arrive, they're both quieter for a few minutes, just eating. The way they both can hear, it's no surprise that they catch the low murmur of the nearest TV saying something about Wayne Technologies, flashing a picture of the logo. Clark glances at it and so does Diana, and it's no surprise that the next thing she says is, "By the way, have you spoken to Bruce recently?"
She doesn't know. She doesn't, Clark reminds himself, but all of a sudden that feels like a punch instead of a comfort: that everything Clark had started to want had come apart, this huge thing about his life overturned—because it was huge to him, even if it hadn't been to Bruce—and it hasn't left a mark, didn't even shake the ground when it fell. Diana has no idea.
"Yeah, you could say that," Clark tells her, and it's a sudden sharp embarrassment to feel his eyes sting, his face going hot. "It—wasn't a good conversation."
Diana frowns for an instant, but of course her face goes soft, kind, as she reaches across the table and grabs his hand and says, "Clark—"
And then she freezes. Her grip abruptly tightens—it's a good thing she's got Superman's fingers in her hand instead of the table, Clark thinks, and then suddenly the words filter in for him, too:
"—taken over by unidentified gunmen, but we don't know whether—yes? I'm sorry, I—we're just now receiving this, ladies and gentlemen. Breaking news, we do in fact have confirmation that Bruce Wayne is inside the building—"
Clark feels rather than hears his own breath catch, because for a second there seems to be something wrong with his ears.
(Apparently Bruce wasn't kidding: "boring" really isn't his style.)
He fumbles his free hand down to his pocket, to the League radio, and presses the little button on the side. Batman shouldn't be fighting with a bullet wound, but who knows what he'll think if Clark and Diana go Leagueing off without telling him what they're doing—
"He won't answer," Diana says, flat, her gaze still fixed on the television.
Clark hesitates. Somehow he hadn't gotten the impression that a gunshot wound would keep Batman from having the radio on pretty much 24/7.
"Clark."
He looks up and meets Diana's eyes.
"He won't answer," she says, more gently, "and we need to go."
"Right," Clark says, and at the exact same time, as if they'd counted down, they stand.
They don't have much trouble getting inside the Wayne Technologies facility, once they arrive. Admittedly, Batman's armor usually holds up just fine; but after seeing him get shot like that—it's nice, Clark thinks, to be going in as a team made up solely of people bullets bounce off of. Especially when the problem is a lot of twitchy guys with semi-automatics.
The reports from police and SWAT put most of the action somewhere in the lower levels, but there's also hostages collected on a few of the upper floors. Diana, with a tilt of the chin, makes it clear she's going up. So Clark heads down.
Parts of the stairwell are kind of creepy, dark except for the flashing of some kind of alarm light. But Clark can x-ray down through the staircase and get the drop on anyone with a gun in their hands, easy as pie, and—
Aha: through the floor, he can see what they're here for. Those LexCorp robots—and Wayne Enterprises does have a history of consulting for the Gotham PD. LexCorp itself hadn't been capable of containing those things when they activated themselves. Stands to reason the PD would need a little help.
He frowns at the stairs two, three, four levels below him. There absolutely are people with guns at the landings; or there were, except someone's already taken them out. None of them are dead, but they're sprawled out on the concrete, unmoving. There are five or six more on the bottom level, already in the basement lab, but—
Something moves, all the way down there, and one of the guys with guns yelps and starts shooting—that's all Clark needs. The stairs pass in a strobing blur of red light and gray shadows, and then Clark bursts through the last door at the end, and—
It's Bruce.
Clark almost yells for him, seeing him there, except it's—
He only even recognized Bruce because he came in at a split second where Bruce's face was turned partway toward him. Bruce has caught one man's gun and smashed him in the face with it, braced himself with two hands against the man's chest so he can kick out and catch another one around the shoulders with his knees. One impossibly strong twist of his waist, his hips, and the second man flips over, gun flying out of his hands, crying out. A third man's just taking aim; Bruce still has the first man's gun in his grip, and he yanks it loose and throws it at the third man, strikes him in the head with a dull thunk and sends him toppling to the floor.
Two more are already on the ground. He—he must have done that while Clark was on his way down the stairs—?
"Not going to take the shot?" Bruce says quietly, to—
To the last man. He hasn't seen Clark yet.
"You weren't supposed to be here, Wayne," the last man says, "but our instructions were pretty clear. Apparently Luthor's got something specific in mind for you."
Bruce turns, kicks out and catches the last man in the thigh, lands a blow to his shoulder; and then, over the man's head as he staggers back, that's when Bruce sees Clark.
Sees Superman, standing there and staring at him openmouthed, completely unhelpfully—Christ, Clark needs to get a grip—
The last man powers himself back up and drives his foot into Bruce's side with a crack, and Bruce—Bruce just folds over it, face twisting, terribly and unnervingly silent, and lands on the floor on his knees. The things he was doing before, he's—he's more than capable, but he doesn't get up; he doesn't seem able to. He wraps an arm around himself and tries to breathe in, and Clark can hear him fail, can practically feel it—and all in all, Bruce never sees the butt of the guy's gun coming.
It smashes into the side of Bruce's head with a sick flat sound. And Clark is halfway across the room, except somehow he finds he's already close enough to catch the guy's arm before he can swing the gun down a second time. "Oh, shit," the guy says, almost blankly, when he sees who's got hold of him; and then Clark tosses him into a wall.
Bruce is on the floor, but he still has a heartbeat. Clark kneels down and grabs at his suit jacket, eases him onto his back, and there's—there's blood on Clark's hands, where is it coming from? He shoves the suit jacket out of the way, yanks Bruce's shirt open with a clatter of buttons; funny he's only getting to do that now, huh—
For a second, he can't do anything but stare. Bruce is bleeding, but it's—it's through a bandage that's already there. A fresh red stain is welling up through layers of gauze somebody very carefully taped down, over—
Lodged in the rib.
The armor adds some bulk, Clark thinks distantly. Changes the way Batman's lines add up, alters his proportions here and there. But the hole, the place where Diana had pressed down her hand, that feeble green glint—Clark had seen it. Clark had seen that wound, had seen exactly where it lay on Batman's body.
And now he's looking at it again.
(—man's a coward. Wouldn't swoop around in the dark like that—)
(—asking me to believe Batman was making better calls than you—)
(You don't know what you're talking about.)
Clark becomes aware that there's some kind of clatter behind him, someone on the stairs. He drags his gaze away from Bruce—Batman—Bruce, just in time to see Diana step through the doorway and then go still.
"You knew," he says, because she had to: friends with Bruce, working with Batman; being the one to carry Batman away after the shooting, because Bruce wouldn't have let Clark do it; the way she'd looked at Bruce, that funny sharp glance, when he'd introduced her to Clark at that party—
And he'd known what he was doing; he'd known about Diana, known Clark was Superman, all along. Clark had thought it was funny.
Joke's on him, as it turns out.
"Yes," Diana says quietly. "And—Clark, I am sorry, but—"
Right. This isn't the time. Clark clears his throat and looks down, and discovers he's still clutching Bruce; and he can't decide what he wants to do more, throw Bruce across the room or hold on harder, hold on so tight Bruce can't slide loose with some glib story and a smile, so tight Bruce has to tell him the truth.
He x-rays Bruce instead.
"Neck's fine," he tells Diana, and it comes out only a little unsteady. "Back's fine. That rib—the shot cracked it?"
"Yes."
"It's broken," Clark says, "and another one above it," and that had been from that last kick, Christ, it had landed in exactly the wrong spot; no wonder Bruce hadn't been able to get up right away. "Neither of them punctured the lung, though."
Diana lets out a sharp breath, and is silent for a moment; and then she takes another careful step. "I can take him—"
"No, no, it's—I'll do it," Clark tells her. "I'll do it."
"All right," she agrees, as easily as if she'd meant to suggest that all along. "I'll let Alfred know you're coming."
Because, of course, Alfred must have known too. Clark closes his eyes. Bruce brought him back from the dead—Bruce helped put him there. Bruce took a bullet for him—Bruce—
Bruce hurt him worse than the gunshot ever would have.
"Thank you," Clark says to Diana, automatic, distant; and he pulls the suit jacket closed again, Bruce's blood sticky between his fingers, and picks Bruce carefully up off the floor.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-20 11:38 pm (UTC)(link)"I chose this job because I knew I could do it; but I hadn't realized how good it would be to see these other things like me, that have made it all this time."
DIANAAAA. This is just lovely. <333
AND THEN
/high-pitched noise only animals can hear. Oooh Bruce you're in for it now.
Nonnie, you have me wrapped around your little finger with this; if Bruce being a total badass and taking out five men while wounded wasn't stroking my id enough, Clark finally having the truth smack him in the face while Bruce doesn't even have the decency to be conscious just makes it SO MUCH
BETTERWORSEBETTER AAAH.I thought I was ready for the fallout, I'M NOT READY FOR THE FALLOUT. I am so ready for the fallout.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-22 10:20 pm (UTC)(link)/o\ :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD MAN I AM SO LUCKY YOU GUYS' IDS SO PERFECTLY MATCH MY OWN. (I find it a little hilarious that I'm so HNG YES BRUCE'S INCREDIBLE COMPETENCE and also so HNG YES BRUCE'S ONGOING INTERPERSONAL FAILURE. /o\ Oh, Bruce.) Seriously, though, I'm so excited that you enjoyed this whole section - this (plus that fallout! :D) is the payoff this entire stupid epic has been working its way toward, and if any of you were disappointed by it IDEK WHAT I WOULD DO. PROBABLY SHRIVEL UP AND FALL OVER. ♥ AND I DESPERATELY HOPE YOU REMAIN NOT-DISAPPOINTED. :D
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-21 12:10 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (21/23ish?)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-22 10:23 pm (UTC)(link)