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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 (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-22 10:40 pm (UTC)(link)Time passes around Bruce almost without touching him. The moments of greatest awareness are also the moments where the throb in his head, his side, are the most acute; he tries to hang on to them anyway, but mostly only manages brief eye contact with Alfred—a squeeze of Diana's hand—the knowledge that he's moving, that sunlight is falling on his face, someone else bearing his weight—before it all slides away from him again and leaves him in the dark.
The damage wasn't that bad, surely. But he's not thinking clearly enough to realize that he shouldn't be having so much trouble, that he must have been medicated somehow, until after the medication wears off.
Which it does, eventually: he blinks himself awake on an indrawn breath in a room he doesn't recognize, propped up on an impressive array of pillows. The shades are drawn—presumably as a concession to the concussion he undoubtedly has—and the bed is comfortable, if also a little softer than Bruce prefers. Not Wayne property; but someone's arranged things with an eye to his care.
And perhaps he's not quite as clearheaded as he'd like to think. There's a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a dozen little planets suspended and bobbing gently around each other. The motion's slow enough not to prompt nausea or dizziness, irregular enough to hold his attention. And Bruce discovers he can't actually be sure how long he's been staring at it before a sound at the door finally jolts him out of it.
Not that it makes much difference, he thinks distantly, because he ends up staring just as stupidly at Martha Kent, as she steps inside with a tray and then pushes the door shut again behind her with one foot. What is she doing here? Or—what is Bruce doing in Smallville?
She doesn't seem surprised that he's awake; she just smiles at him and says, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Bruce says, smiling back. His head is still aching in slow persistent waves, and the ribs, the gunshot, make it difficult to breathe deeply. But it's still not a lie. He's had much, much worse.
Martha's mouth quirks, but she doesn't say anything, not until she's crossed the room and set the tray down on the bedside table. "There's nothing to worry about," she tells him. "You can take all the time you need. You're—on vacation on a private island somewhere, I think, or—" She waves a hand. "Alfred knows the details. And you couldn't get spotted in Metropolis, or have people coming in and out of the lake house all the time. So I told Clark he'd better just bring you here."
For a second it doesn't register, not really. And then Bruce feels it swing into him, slow and solid as a wrecking ball: he doesn't quite remember the blow that did all this to him, but he remembers what he was doing right beforehand, and if Clark was there, if Clark had been the one to find him—
He drags his gaze away from Martha and swallows once, twice.
(There's the nausea. Delayed reaction, no doubt; he shouldn't have spent so long looking at the mobile moving.)
There's still a chance, he tells himself. And then he looks back up and Martha touches his hand, and says, very gently, "He knows."
This was always going to happen. It was inevitable, and what is inevitable can't rightly be greeted with shock, dismay, discomfort. There was all the time in the world to prepare, after all. "He won't be angry with you," Bruce says, because surely that will be the first thing on Martha's mind. "Not for long. You only kept it from him because I asked you to—he'll know who to blame."
"He shouldn't be blaming anyone," Martha says quietly, squeezing Bruce's hand, and her gaze has gone dark and sad. "Bruce—"
"I should have explained a long time ago. I realize that. He's upset with me and he should be." Bruce had absolutely had the opportunity, before they'd ever slept together; it was just that it hadn't seemed necessary, then. He hadn't been sure Clark would ever even encounter Batman again, and it might easily never have mattered. And then it had become necessary just as rapidly as it had become impossible, and Bruce had turned his attention to the task of bracing himself to bear the consequences.
(He'd almost looked forward to it, in a way. Absolution was far too much to ask from Clark, who'd given Bruce so many unearned gifts already, and yet—he'll understand, Martha had said, and just because she should have been wrong, that hadn't meant she was. If Clark had offered forgiveness—
If Clark had offered forgiveness, Bruce would have been too selfish to refuse it.
If nothing else, it should now no longer be possible for that mistake to be made; and the elimination of a potential source of error is always a relief.)
"Bruce," Martha repeats, and squeezes his hand again. "Please, please tell me that you know you don't need to burn this down and salt the earth. You can still fix this—"
Bruce doesn't laugh by an effort of will alone; he closes his eyes instead. "You don't know what I said to him," he tells her, very low. "You don't know what I did."
There's silence for a moment. And then Martha says, "He didn't want to bring the tray up himself. But he told me you were awake; he was listening for it." She waits a beat, letting him turn that over, and then pats his wrist, adds, "Go on, eat something—please," and stands.
The tray's contents are all very simple, easy to swallow: soft toast, soup, tea with honey. Bruce can't claim that any of it appeals to him at the moment, but he makes an effort.
(It would be harder not to. Martha never asks him for anything.)
He picks over it all a bit at a time, his careful spoonfuls of soup gradually settling to room temperature; and the light leaking around the edges of the window shades turns warm with sundown and then cool with dusk. His head stops feeling so heavy, so unsteady, on his neck—and the throb of it eases a little, or perhaps he grows more used to it.
Either way, he's able to concentrate well enough to hear when there's a step on the stair.
He sets down his spoon, the teacup, settling everything back on the tray just as it was when Martha brought it up; and he carefully fights the urge to climb out the window. He could do it, even like this—and he wants to, with the kind of animal intensity that makes coyotes gnaw their own limbs off, the sensation of being trapped so much harder to bear than mere pain. But it wouldn't do any good.
(Nothing will.)
Clark opens the door, steps through and closes it behind him, with unnecessary care—he only looks up at Bruce when he can't avoid it anymore. He doesn't smile; his face is perfectly calm, his expression precisely measured.
"Feeling better?" he says, after a moment.
"Yes," Bruce says. "Please thank your mother for allowing me to stay in her house."
Clark stares at him for a beat; his eyes narrow, his jaw working, and then he looks at the wall and shakes his head. When he does open his mouth to reply, his tongue ends up pressed against his upper teeth, like he's trying not to spit out the first angry thing that pops into his head—in the end, what does come out is, "Are you serious? That's the thing you want to say?"
There are a lot of things Bruce wants to say. It's just that most of them would be, at this point, purposeless. "It seemed like the most important one."
"The most—Christ, Bruce, what is wrong with you? You got shot for me, but you'd rather insult our whole relationship to my face than tell me who the hell you even are—"
Bruce tries to resist the urge to rub at his head, even though its pounding has picked up a notch again. Why is Clark dragging all that up? Surely he has to understand that Bruce's response can't change—
Maybe he just needs to hear it again, needs to be sure.
"We weren't in a relationship," Bruce says.
"We were sleeping together and we saw each other like five times a week," Clark says firmly. "There isn't anything else I'm going to call it. You might not have been serious about it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there. When I—" and his throat, his cheekbones, color up beautifully, but he soldiers on through it. "I didn't know, but you did. After I kissed you—why did you even do it? You had to know it was only going to make this worse."
The script. Just stick to the script. "It was convenient."
And it shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow Clark manages to look struck—like even after everything Bruce has done to him, he still expected better. "What?"
"It was convenient. You wanted to, it was worth a go, you had assets. We've been over this, Clark—"
Clark is staring at Bruce like he can't believe what he's hearing, the edge of a dark thunderous anger beginning to furrow his brow.
And then, so suddenly Bruce can't compensate for the shift, like he doesn't believe what he's hearing. "Bullshit," he says softly.
"Excuse me?" Stall, stall—
"You heard me," Clark says, still quiet. "Stop it."
"I don't know what you—"
"Stop it. Stop it, for Christ's sake, just stop lying to me," and now Clark is practically shouting; but then he catches himself, chest heaving, breath shuddering through him, and shakes his head again, and when he says, "Please," it's gone back to being soft. When Bruce doesn't answer right away, something close to cruelty flashes across his face—he adds, sharp, "If you don't think you can do it, I'm sure Diana would lend me the lasso."
(All choice removed, all responsibility in other hands; no decisions and no calculations. Nothing but the questions and the answers, perfect freedom hidden within the inescapable compulsion to say exactly what he feels—everything he feels, all the words trapped at the heart of him spilling out and out and out like blood—)
It would ruin everything. But he owes Clark that much, if Clark's truly moved to ask for it.
"I'm sure she would," Bruce hears himself say.
And encouragement, of all things, is what makes Clark falter. Physically, for a moment, as he wavers backward with an uncertain look on his face. And then emotionally, as all signs of anger drain out of him; he crosses the room, never looking away from Bruce, and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I don't want it," he says. "And I don't need it, if you'll just—just tell me. Because bullshit, it was convenient. It wasn't convenient, it was stupid—I almost got your shirt off half a dozen times, and if I had I would have seen the scars, and then what would you have told me? That bruise: you got that as Batman, didn't you?" And his eyes go narrow again as he adds, "If you didn't want me to find out, letting me fuck you three times a week was about the stupidest thing you could possibly have done—"
"It doesn't matter," Bruce says.
(Clark did ask him not to lie.)
"What?"
"It doesn't matter," Bruce explains. "You gave me your trust—both of me—and I betrayed it. I can't undo that, and I can't make up for it, and there is no conceivable reason why you should forgive me."
Somehow he's stopped Clark short again. (Why can't he ever manage that when he's actually trying to?)
Clark is looking at him like he's a badly-shaped puzzle piece, like Clark is trying to understand what sort of shape his edges could possibly make that might fit into the rest of the picture. And then he reaches out and puts one hand on Bruce's knee, over the blanket, and says, "How about because I want to? Forgiveness isn't something you earn, Bruce—if you'd earned it then there wouldn't be anything left to forgive, there wouldn't be any need for it. We'd just be even.
"This thing with us, it matters to me. I don't want to let it fall apart and walk away. I don't want to never talk to you again, to never be around you again. I want to—" He stops and huffs out half a laugh. "Well, I want to be mad at you for a while, but I got some of that out of the way while we were waiting for the swelling in your brain to go down. I just want to understand—" and then he stops again, chin coming up, something like comprehension dawning across his face. "But you didn't think I would."
He pauses, like he thinks Bruce might reply. But there's nothing to say.
"Is that it?" Clark presses. "You just said you didn't think I could forgive you; you never have, have you? Once you'd started to lie to me," and he's saying it slower and slower, damning, every word a nail pinning Bruce in place, "that was it. There was no way out. I was always going to leave you for it—whether you let it go on or you stopped it, whether you told me or I found out on my own." Clark pauses again, and then, deliberate and belated, echoes: "It didn't matter. It—jesus, Bruce—"
Bruce looks away; his head is killing him, sustained eye contact with Clark evidently just as inadvisable as bright light. It still doesn't matter. Whatever Clark thinks he understands, getting the hell out of his life was the best decision Bruce could have made, and Bruce has the strength of will to bear it out, he does—
Clark's reaching out for him, inescapable—except all at once he stops, head turning, and says, "Someone's here."
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-22 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)*feelings bleed out everywhere*
THIS ENDING, these last ...two? three? parts... it's just been one giant emotional hole in my heart, and feelings bleeding out from it. Everything you write is such a gut-punch, identityporn!nonny, and I can't thank you enough for it.
Now just let me lie here and feel all of the feelings now that Clark finally gets it. I am dead, friend, and shan't recover.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 10:43 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-23 08:24 pm (UTC)(link)OHHHHHHHHHH, PERFECTION! <3
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 10:45 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)thank you so much!!
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)By all means - thank YOU so much, for investing the time to keep up with this beast and for letting me know your thoughts! :D
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 08:50 pm (UTC)(link)I am just falling about all over the place over this, and I can't believe it's nearly over already?? What are you doing to me, anon.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)I can't believe it's nearly over already??
/o\ :D AND HERE I'VE BEEN FEELING SO BAD ABOUT DRAGGING THIS DAMN THING OUT SO HARD. ♥ Man, it's just a whole other level of compliment that I can go on at this kind of length and you guys will stick around to read it, and I appreciate it so, so much. THANK YOU.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 11:09 pm (UTC)(link)Your stories are always so tightly woven, however long they end up being, it is such a treat to be there with you.
I'm on board for a 200k soulbonding epic if that's what you have in you. ;D OR LIKE 10K ANGSTY FAFFERY TOO.
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-24 11:24 pm (UTC)(link)/o\ OH MY GOD DON'T TEMPT ME *shakes fist*
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-26 04:00 pm (UTC)(link)This was always going to happen. It was inevitable, and what is inevitable can't rightly be greeted with shock, dismay, discomfort. There was all the time in the world to prepare, after all. "He won't be angry with you," Bruce says, because surely that will be the first thing on Martha's mind.
Bruuuuuuuuuuce. Of course he focuses on whether Clark will be angry at Martha so he doesn't have to think about how angry Clark will be at him. Also DFGDFJGD CLARK LISTENING FOR BRUCE WAKING UP EEEEEEEEEEEEEH.
he carefully fights the urge to climb out the window. He could do it, even like this—and he wants to, with the kind of animal intensity that makes coyotes gnaw their own limbs off, the sensation of being trapped so much harder to bear than mere pain. But it wouldn't do any good.
Oh, Bruce. This is such an amazing description. And then Bruce goes on and is awkward and awful at Clark, noooooooo. That entire following conversation is so, so painful, Bruce forcing himself to say all those things he doesn't really feel.
The script. Just stick to the script. "It was convenient."
And it shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow Clark manages to look struck—like even after everything Bruce has done to him, he still expected better. "What?"
My heart. This is so gooood.And my favourite thing is Clark finally calling Bruce out on his bullshit and not falling for it anymore.
"This thing with us, it matters to me. I don't want to let it fall apart and walk away. I don't want to never talk to you again, to never be around you again. I want to—"
I love your Clark so much. <3 And I love him slowly working out the weirdness of Bruce's logic. dgbdjddf gd MY HEAAAAAAAAART. And woot, now on to the next part (the good thing about missing one update is having two parts to read in a row ;D). /OP
Re: FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (22/24ish)
(Anonymous) 2016-08-26 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)/o\ :D BRUCE INDEED. *flails arms* I mean, your prompts are always such a great excuse to roll around in Bruce feelings! I CANNOT BE BLAMED FOR THIS. BRUUUUUUUCE. Haha, and you just know Martha had a quick, "Oh, Clark, honey, think about what you just did" talk with Clark when he told her, unthinkingly, that Bruce was awake. :DDDDDDDDDDDDD
Oh, braintwin OP, as always I'm so very lucky to have you, because I am chronically unable to keep from wallowing around in Bruce forcing himself to be awful + being so sad about it, and you very generously KEEP LOVING IT so I don't feel bad. ;D ALSO I'M BASICALLY WRITING THE SAME STORY ABOUT CLARK LEARNING TO SEE THROUGH BRUCE'S BULLSHIT over and over and over, and you so kindly KEEP READING IT. THANK YOU. ♥
/o\ :D Clark being emotionally generous and astute at the precise moment Bruce most needs it and is least able to articulate it is my catnip. I ADMIT IT. And I am so, so thrilled, as always, to have managed to delight you with it! GAH. Thank you for the prompt and for your patience with this thing and for your endless enthusiasm, favorite OP, it is just the best thing ever and YOU SHOULD FEEL BEST.