#ashysiashy

[daedalusdavinci]

24. superbat. this motherfucker JUST got to bed if any of u assholes wake him UP

24. Protecting your lover’s sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you. thinking about.... jlas superbat. i may not have followed this prompt to the letter but its very long so you get what you get at this point

It was just one of those days- one of those nights- one of those weeks- where one problem shifted right into the next without break, and they all found themselves running more ragged than usual. In the tower, heroes everywhere seemed sluggish and exhausted, running low on sleep and worn out from the last battle. Diana had tipped onto a couch and hadn't gotten back up again, and Wally had nearly passed out in the cafeteria, starting awake and drifting off again in the middle of a burger. After being pried away from the monitors, J'onn had gone straight to his room to sleep, and there were countless others who had followed his example.

Bruce was too stubborn. Clark was reasonably sure he'd been awake longer than anyone, but Clark could still see him typing away, doing god even knew what.

"I'll sleep when I finish," he said, before Clark had even said anything.

"I wasn't going to tell you to sleep," Clark said, taking that as his cue to approach.

"Yes, you were."

"I know better." Clark set a hand on the back of Bruce's chair, glancing briefly over the monitors. Logs, security feed, news reports- all of it a huge mess of information to sort through. Someone had to do it, but that someone didn't need to be Bruce.

Bruce looked tired. His shoulders sagged and his fingers hesitated, slow on the keys. He'd been drooping all day, attacking everything with the energy of a man on his very last leg. He'd sustained too many injuries during the fight. He'd been slow, and sloppy. He needed to sleep, but he'd never let Clark talk him into it if Clark let on that that was what he was doing.

"Can you do all this from anywhere?" Clark asked.

Bruce blinked slowly. "Not from anywhere."

"But from another computer."

"Yes. I have others."

"A laptop?"

"Yes." Bruce was eyeing him with suspicion, now, leaning back in his chair.

"Then you're doing it from there," Clark decided. "You can burn your retinas to your heart's content- I won't stop you. But I need company."

For a long moment, Bruce looked at him. Clark could practically hear the gears turning as he thought it over, taking longer to consider it than he usually would in his exhaustion. Then, finally, his gaze softened. He sighed, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. "Just don't watch one of your stupid cooking shows while I work."

"They're not stupid," Clark protested.

"Whatever." Bruce waved a hand, pushing himself up out of the chair. He hit a few more buttons, and the monitors condensed into the smallest screen, allowing Bruce to pull it off of its docking station. "Lead the way."

The tower had grown quiet and still with sleeping heroes. With his hearing, Clark could hear Booster and Ted's laughter from the cafeteria, but everywhere else had turned muffled and heavy with the air of sleep. People murmured back and forth to avoid waking up sleeping heroes in the commons, and most of the sleeping quarters were occupied. Somewhere, Wally got ready to portal home, while somewhere else, Oliver snored loudly. No one passed them on their way to Clark's room.

It was easy to get stuck on the fringes of his senses, listening to everything instead of whatever was closest. The need to keep an ear out for danger hadn't quite abided yet, and it left Clark feeling unmoored and anxious. Normally, it was a nuisance, but maybe this time it'd keep him awake long enough that Bruce would sleep first.

It was almost too easy to pile on his couch with Bruce. Normally, any attempt at getting Bruce to accept even a mediocrum of comfort resulted in a fight, but he sat without prompting, eyes never leaving his tablet. He didn't complain when Clark flopped down with a heap of blankets, even when Clark twisted to lean against the arm, swinging his legs across Bruce's lap. Somehow, they settled in like that; Bruce, on his tablet, and Clark, half-watching some nature show that was interesting enough, but not so interesting that it offended Bruce's sensibilities.

As the narrator droned on, Clark struggled to narrow in his focus. The lights from the TV flickered colors across the dark room, and it felt so quiet, surrounded by the suffocating vacuum of space. If he strained hard enough, he knew he could hear Earth, but he tried not to. He could feel each individual fiber of each blanket, and each snore in the building. The tap of Bruce's finger against the screen of his tablet felt obscenely loud. The constant shifting of his attention and the overwhelming amount of stimulus was exhausting, and he could feel himself sagging under it, so worn out that it was hard to hear the words coming from the TV. He rubbed his face, running through grounding exercises in his head to no avail. He wasn't sleeping, at least.

Bruce's hand came to rest on his knee. The pressure of it was enough to shock Clark out of his thoughts, but light, and gentle. Bruce hadn't looked up from his tablet, but his thumb tracked back and forth absently.

Slowly, Clark relaxed back into the couch again. His eyes fixed on the TV, but without really registering the pictures. He couldn't feel every fiber in the blankets, or hear every snore, but he was suddenly hyper-aware of that weight on his knee- a single point of focus that he locked on helplessly. It wasn't constant- every now and again, Bruce lifted his hand to tap the screen- but it always returned. Somehow, that caught Clark's attention more, leaving him waiting, expectant, caught on every detail of Bruce. The bracing warmth of Bruce's legs under his own, the vaguely ticklish stroke of his thumb, his breathing, steady and slow. Out of habit more than anything, he found Bruce's heartbeat, listening to the low thump of it until it felt like his own had slowed in turn. The familiarity of it was soothing, safe, protected, the reliability of the Batman unexpectedly grounding after so long.

His head slipped off his hand, and he started, eyes opening. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.

"Seems like I'm not the only one trying to stay up," Bruce commented.

"I'm not," Clark said. Although, maybe he was. He frowned through the haze of exhaustion, trying to focus on the TV.

"The life and death of a sea star are just that riveting," Bruce said, teasing under the deadpan.

"Shut up," Clark muttered, and shifted again, re-propping up his elbow on the arm of the couch.

It was difficult to understand how Bruce stayed awake. Without the cowl, the bags under his eyes were dark and deep, his expression something beyond exhausted. And yet, even now, wrapped up in blankets and secluded in the quiet comfort of Clark's room, listening to the soothing drone of a documentary, he tapped at that stupid tablet. Clark was beginning to doubt his ability to outlast him. The restless discomfort that had kept him awake earlier- his ace in the hole against Bruce's stubbornness- was fading into a sleepy warmth all too quickly.

And then, Bruce started to hum.

Clark could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he'd heard Bruce sing. Diana had once told him that Bruce had a voice so beautiful it could make a villain weep, but Clark had only ever heard it rarely, and never meant for him. It was a quiet lullaby, murmured to a baby that wouldn't stop crying as Clark searched for the mother, or a hum, pressed against Robin's hair in the aftermath of fear toxin. It had always felt like something he wasn't meant to hear. Now, through the ridiculous fog of exhaustion, Clark thought of sirens, calling soothingly to sailors from a distance.

Bruce's humming was soft and low, just under his breath. The tune was impossible to place, but haunting, and mournful. The sound of it seemed to vibrate through Clark, blanketing his senses until all he could focus on was just Bruce. Bruce was warm. He was safe, and close, and so confusingly present, as reliable as the tide. Time seemed to turn fluid, listening to that soft song, and Clark's eyes closed without his permission, just listening.

When Clark next opened his eyes, it was dark. The TV was off, Bruce's tablet forgotten somewhere in the tangle of blankets. His neck should've ached from the arm of the couch, but his head was on the cushions, propped up by a pillow. How Bruce had pulled that off without waking him, he had no idea.

Bruce was a warm weight against his chest, breathing slow. Judging by the awkward positioning, Clark doubted he'd meant to fall asleep, knees still jammed under Clark's own and cape still on. One of his hands was tucked against Clark's side, his face hidden between his own shoulder and Clark's sternum. It was... sweet, really. To have Bruce feel comfortable enough to sleep was a unique privilege, and one rarely afforded.

Clark hadn't outlasted him, in the end. But Bruce was sleeping, and as Clark let his eyes drift shut again, he allowed himself to consider it a win.

[popomerrygamz]

hey, i know your pretty big/ well known in the spirting community, so i was wondering if you could help me with something? When i was 15/16, i made an oc using spirte base parts, but i never put down where they came from, so now i just have an oc made using uncredited spirte parts, and i don't know where i got them from, so i was wondering if i could submit the troll to see if you/ any followers know where the parts came from so i could credit the makers? I've tried looking through deviantarts folders, but theres just so many different ones that i cant find them, and it sucks, because they deserve to be credited

I would be glad to help!

[lostmystyx]

tagged by @redactedcrow, so heres five songs ive been listening to a lot lately

um. the entire bnl stunt album its just whats in my car rn

cant take my eyes off of you (from. the just dance soundtrack.)

dare by gorillaz

happy by mitski

tusk by fleetwood mac

i think these r the ones ive had on hour loops recently, tho what i listened to last is an entirely different question

im tagging @mudp1es @roomfulloferidans @dumbkiwi and @ashysiashy whether or not u do it is ur own bsns yknow

[tamamita]

mr skitty man, have you watched castlevania season 4? i know you said you werent the biggest fan because of how they handled issac and their depection of islam (which, yeah, understandable, wish they did reasearch) , but i woud def consider season 4 a improvement over season 3

Gonna wait until my wife arrives, then I’ll watch it with her. I’m overlooking their writing flaws

[daedalusdavinci]

"If we get caught kissing in a small, dark, kind of shady alleyway, it's on you." twomatch. or whatever. i never remeber that ship name

ive done this prompt before with these exact same characters, but i really like it, and its been a while, so im going to give a rewrite a swing. maybe my writings improved

"If we get caught kissing in a small, dark, kind of shady alleyway, it's on you," Matches says, but there's a smirk on his lips as he pulls Two Face back against the brickwork.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have sidetracked me," Two Face says, the same playfulness reflected back in how he lets the warmth of their bodies collide, lips almost touching, but not quite. It's a tease, knuckles brushing against Matches's cheek as his smile hovers close to the corner of his mouth, but doesn't close the distance- not yet.

Two Face loves the way Matches grins in moments like this, caught somewhere between that cocksure, sly amusement, and the more genuine fondness that burns underneath it. Calloused palms smooth across Two Face's chest, bold and burning, and then his fingers hook into Two Face's vest again, keeping him in close. He touches Two Face like he has ownership on it, always unfaltering and unapologetic in the way he draws him in. "Ain't it your job to keep me on track? You're the boss, aren't you?"

"Since when have you ever done what I've asked?"

"When you ask real pretty," he says, so smug and cocky that Two Face ought to shoot him, if he wasn't so fucking smitten. As it is, his fingers pull on Two Face's vest, and finally, Two Face gives, meeting him in a kiss.

It's the kiss that really betrays Two Face. It's so slow and filled with warmth, there's no mistaking the affection he hides so poorly, instantly marking him as one of those few villains stupid enough to allow himself love. He kisses Matches like he loves him, catching him in the little moments they manage to steal with the foolish, doting affection of a husband welcoming a partner home after some time away. It's one of the stupidest things he's ever done, especially with a henchman as difficult to tie down as Matches.

But Matches already knows. For his part, the way he touches Two Face is where all of his bluster falls apart, the hand that rises to cup the side of Two Face's neck too gentle for the careless attitude he puts on. He touches Two Face like something delicate, sometimes- like something he's already lost, and will spend the rest of his life putting back together. If Matches doesn't love Two Face, then it must be something like it, because he cares too much for anyone in their line of work.

When they part, Two Face can still feel Matches's smile, brushed into the corner of his mouth as their foreheads lean together. "Ask me something," Matches says. His thumb follows the divot of a thick patch of scarring on Two Face's neck, his shoulders against the brick, his back arched into Two Face just to press a little closer. The twist of his mouth is like a dare, sly and tempting, and Two Face has never been good at avoiding his traps.

Two Face steps into it: "Come home with me." He wants to put his hands in Matches's shirt and watch the way he unravels in his sheets. He can picture Matches with coffee in hand and the warm light of the kitchen on his face, and he wants it, wants to step away from the chaos and danger of being a villain for a night and fall into Matches for as long as he'll let him. Sometimes it makes him feel mad, the way he wants Matches- like a sailor following a siren call, irrational with a desire he didn't know he had. He never seems to get anything done with Matches around, and most maddening of all, he never really minds.

Matches's smile cracks into a grin. He kisses Two Face again, pushing away from the wall and into him this time, hands sliding into his jacket to his sides. "You gonna make that curry of yours?"

"Darling, I'll make you whatever you want, if you slow down enough to eat it," Two Face teases.

Matches hums, leaning into his hold as his arms go around him and nosing at his jaw. "Mm, I can think of something I wanna eat."

Two Face's laugh is rough and snorting. It's a terrible laugh, like a lifetime of smoking glass shards echoed in a harsh rasp, but Matches seems to adore it, pecking a kiss under his jawline. "Come on. Take me home."

"Now I'm just doing what you want," Two Face says, amused. Still, he steps back out of their embrace, his hand slipping to catch on Matches's. When they walk, they walk together, calloused fingers tangled tight in his own.

[daedalusdavinci]

22, twobat. heard u were talkin SHIT

22. While someone demeans your lover, standing up for them. Either in word, or by physically placing yourself right in front of them as a protective barrier. im thinking about emotional dysregulation and a strong sense of justice and how bruce is the reason alfred lost all his hair. in the words of karkat vants: anger can be a love language. alksdjnfsldjknfs i am NOT editing this

You get in fights for him. You've been getting in fights since no one gave your parents a chance to, something in you quick to snap and your fists faster than anyone could stop. You don't know how many strings Alfred had to pull to keep you from being suspended in middle school, but you know it was a lot, because he used to pick you up with a sigh written in the lines of his face, white gloves hiding the tension in his hands on the steering wheel. Sometimes he tried to argue with you about it. You never folded, because you were certain you were right.

Your school records are a mud-stained mess of arguing with teachers, getting in between a bigot and a victim, and the crack of your fist against someone else's jaw. You grew up stocky and angry, and you never had a problem taking things outside so someone else didn't have to. You think a part of you still feels like if you take on every fight yourself, no one else will ever have to get hurt. Regardless, it means that the college you get into isn't near as prestigious as everyone expects of you, and you know Alfred had to grease a lot of palms to do it. You think he's hoping maybe you'll keep your head down for a few years, and the intellectual challenge will be enough to keep your fists steady.

But then you meet Harvey, and he's simultaneously everything Alfred wants for you and everything Alfred doesn't.

He's optimistic in a way you aren't, level-headed and determined, but filled with the same drive for justice you are. Unlike you, he got in with scholarships and smarts, and he tells you stories about the kind of lawyer he's going to be one day, and the way Gotham will change. He flips some kind of switch in your brain, and your plan for the future starts to take a slightly different shift, accommodating for a world where you're not the only one who cares. He motivates you. He challenges you. He makes you better, and you think Alfred would like the person you become when you're around him.

At the same time, Harvey's a brown kid struggling with some kind of disability you'd never heard of before you met him, and the privileged fucks around you can smell it. So you get in fights. You're so quick to snap to his defense, putting yourself between them and him because you've never done anything else in your life, and Harvey tells you he's sick of patching you up, because you're bleeding again and he thinks it's his fault and he's trying to make you laugh.

It works. It always works when it's Harvey.

In later years, they'll call him Apollo. He's the handsome white knight who brings light back to Gotham, and he'll find it embarrassing and flattering all at once. You'll tell him you think it's apt, and he'll shove you, laughing like you told him a joke. But in college, he's the sun you orbit your world around, warming you when nothing else will.

The dean calls Alfred after you land a kid in the hospital. He doesn't need hospital treatment, but his friends don't know medicine like you do, and they panicked. He'll be fine. Alfred still calls you, cold, clipped anger in his voice, and you feel like you're eight again, angry and muddy and past the point of reason, the crushing feeling of a meltdown spiraling past what you can handle. Alfred tries hard to be a parent, and he tries to be a butler, and you're his kid and his spoiled charge, and this isn't the first time the two of you haven't nailed the impression of a functional family unit. You fight.

Med students aren't supposed to hurt people. Med students aren't supposed to snap and beat the shit out of other students. Med students aren't supposed to have meltdowns, no matter how crazy the workload is, no matter how much injustice happens in the medical field alone, no matter how much injustice your best friend faces at the hands of people you're supposed to view as mentors. Med students aren't supposed to recognize themselves in the textbooks. The dean is threatening you, and you're supposed to shape up.

In a few days, you still haven't gotten over it. Alfred isn't talking to you, you're not talking to Alfred, and a call from Leslie only makes things worse. You don't go out of your way to pick fights, but you don't need to, because people seem a little afraid to say anything after you sent that kid to the hospital. Harvey tells you it'll blow over with a grim confidence that you take seriously. It sounds too much like he's speaking from experience.

Then, someone makes a comment about your parents. It's not a particularly interesting comment- you've heard much, much worse over the years, and they've lost a lot of their effect. It stings- it's cruel- but you brush it off. You're in enough trouble already, and you've never cared about standing up for yourself the way you do about standing up for others.

Harvey's fist snaps out before you know what's happening.

The kid is flat on his ass, gaping up at you both, and Harvey is brimming with rage. "Shut the fuck up," he says, thick and growling. "You'd be fucking lucky if your parents loved you half as much. They probably only sent you here to get rid of you."

"Harv!" You grab his arm, tugging his attention back to you. You're torn between shock and worry, but worried for him, and what this will mean for him once the stupid kid reports him to the dean. You think for a terrifying moment that he could get expelled, and selfishly, you don't know what you'd do here without him.

You can tell he's furious, but he lets you drag him away, ushering the both of you away from the scene before things can escalate further. You stand in an abandoned stairwell and Harvey's fingers clench and unclench in your sweater as you hold his arms, giving him time to breathe.

"You didn't have to do that," you tell him quietly.

"Shut the fuck up, Bruce," he scoffs. His gaze flickers up to your face, thumb grazing the bottom of a bruise that's purpled in the past few days. You didn't get out of that fight scot-free, but no one ever cares about that. Except Harvey, who always cares. "You don't get to talk to me about when I should or shouldn't stick up for someone."

You don't have anything to say to that. The words all dry up in your throat as you stare at him, caught on the heat of his touch, the soft brown of his lips, and the determination in his face, like he'd do it all over again. You've never met anyone who understood you the way Harvey does, who matched your drive for justice and inspired you so completely. You look at him the way an astronomer looks at the stars, struck by their beauty and complexity- understanding, and yet endlessly wanting to know more, to know everything, to hold something you don't think you ever can. "Okay."

Something pricks embarrassed in his face, eyes shifting away suddenly. You think his cheeks are a little darker, but it's hard to tell.

You'll think about that moment for years. For years, when you hold his face and try to figure out how to tell him all the ways you love him, and when you watch him become the hero you always knew he could be, and when you watch him fall, holding his hand in the hospital and meeting his eyes across a rooftop, you'll think about what it was like to be so young, trying to put words to the way you wanted to press your lips to his. You tell him, once, that you think you're always going to see that little college kid in him, and he laughs at you. His laugh has turned raspy after years of smoking, and the shake of his shoulders makes the chains rattle, but it's the same laugh. "Maybe it's better that way," he says, grinning. "We were two of a kind, back then."

"Three," you correct.

His grin turns a little more sincere, a little more embarrassed. He says his words like a tease, but it's only to lighten the truth. "We thought the sun shined out of your ass."

"That's just the light reflecting off of it," you say, and he laughs again. You still love his laugh.

These days, you fight each other. You don't think it'll ever stop you from loving them both every bit as much as you did then.

[daedalusdavinci]

16, riddlebat. disabled people time

16. At your lover’s complaining, rubbing a spot where they ache, smiling as they lean into your touch and melt at both the touch and warmth. the way youve literally sent me this prompt before lol tho tbf that one was for 2f and matches. anyway now that im done teasing heres your eds eddie that ik youre dying for

It takes less than a minute for Edward to start complaining. He complains like it's the fuel that keeps him going, eternally bitching every moment he isn't bragging, except for when he manages to do both at once. He complained so much about being left behind, but he complains just as much about the stakeout, so there's no winning. He fidgets, stretches, grumbles, riddles, bitching first about nothing, then about boredom, then about Bruce, rolling from one subject to the next seamlessly. If Bruce wasn't so used to doing stakeouts with children, he might have found it impossible to tune out. At least Edward has never tried to walk on his hands along the edge of the roof.

It takes one hour before Edward's complaints start to have an edge. He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably, stretches his legs out in front of him, and twists his back every way he can. He pops every knuckle, shifts his jaw, and hunches forward over his knees. His complaints are biting, now, grumbled and sulky and miserable, instead of too loud and delivered with a whiny flair.

"I told you we would be sitting here for a long time," Bruce tells him, even as he unfurls from his hunch, moving back from the edge of the roof.

"I didn't think we'd be sitting on a roof. It's freezing," Edward grumbles, but he shifts forward when Bruce moves behind him, peering more carefully over the edge.

"I told you it'd be cold."

"There's cold, and then there's sitting on concrete a hundred feet up, feeling the ice travel through your fucking bones. Riddle me this, Batman. What bites, but has no teeth?" Edward grumbles. He's leaning into Bruce's hands even before Bruce applies any pressure, and the minute Bruce's thumb finds the first knot in his shoulder, he groans in relief, head tipping back.

"Watch the street," Bruce instructs, digging in deep. His thumbs smooth, pull, and press, working it out gradually. Edward is a tangle of defunct connective tissue and stress, and at their age, the cold has a way of finding aches. He should have made sure Edward wore something warmer, or at least brought something for when he inevitably disregarded the advice.

Edward is like putty in his hands, pliant and heavy, but he does return his gaze to the street. "You're deflecting."

"It's not nearly cold enough for you to get frostbite," Bruce says. "At worst, you'll catch a cold and spend the next week bitching about it."

"I'm going to be sore for days."

"You'll be sore tonight. We'll take a hot bath, you'll warm up, and I'll work on whatever's left. And next time, when I tell you you're not coming with me on a stakeout, you're going to listen."

"I need to be here," Edward insists. "I need to see it all happen, as it is. I have to catch the things you miss."

"I never had any problem catching you."

"That was then. This is now. Things are more complicated than they used to be. That's why you have me, remember? Or are you forgetting things too, now, in your old age?"

For that, Bruce digs his thumb into a particularly sore spot. Edward flinches, shooting him a sour look over his shoulder before Bruce resumes his ministrations. "You've always been able to solve things from my files before. Consider it an extra challenge."

"You're just an OCD tightass who can't stand anyone else messing with his precious case."

"I'm a tightass who can't stand the way you throw yourself headlong into trouble," Bruce corrects.

"Aw. Because I'm your precious headcase?" Edward doesn't turn, this time, but Bruce can hear the grin.

"Something like that," Bruce allows, pressing his lips just softly against Edward's shoulder.

"Look at you, you big bad bat," Edward says, fond and teasing. There's more on the tip of his tongue, Bruce knows- there's always more- but he stiffens suddenly. "Wait- There!"

Edward grabs Bruce's shoulder as he lurches towards the edge, and suddenly both of them are silent, watching. The rest of the massage will have to wait.

[daedalusdavinci]

im feeling bold tonight. 3 with superbats/bruclark

3. things you said too quietly. not sure how well i followed the prompt but i dont think anyones going to be shaking their fists about it so long as theres still old men kissing

Things had always been different with Clark. So many of Bruce’s relationships were a constant push and pull, full of lies, distrust, and betrayal, eternally split by differing morals and too stubborn to budge. But with Clark, it was always... easy. He was reliable. Constant. Safe.

Parts of it had been hard-won. Bruce still remembered the first time he’d seen the Fortress, or when Clark had met Alfred, or when he’d first let Clark patch him up after a mission. But, after a certain point, that trust had just started to bleed into everything. Bruce couldn’t remember when Clark had become the first person he turned to, or when it had become so normal for Clark to stay over, or when he had started relaxing into Clark’s constant touch. It had just... happened. As slowly and steadily as boiling a frog, Clark had intertwined himself completely into Bruce’s life until it was hard to say what, exactly, Clark was to him now.

Sometimes, it occurred to him that most of his children considered Clark part of the family- that Dick had perhaps always seen Clark as another father figure, relying on him just as much as he did Bruce. Sometimes Lois made jokes that stuck in his mind for days, hinting at something he never quite knew what to think about. Sometimes, Clark was there to meet him when he finally went to bed, the warmth of him like sunlight as he folded around Bruce, nose tucked against the curve of his shoulder and limbs loose with exhaustion, and Bruce remembered that, at some point, Clark had slept in the guest bedroom instead.

It didn’t take a detective. But sometimes, he wondered if there was anything left to solve- if, through quiet subterfuge, Clark had already gently pushed them to exactly where they needed to be. Everything that had needed to be said had already been said too quietly, without Bruce ever hearing the words.

In the early hours of the morning, it was hardest to question it. Clark’s skin looked gold in the sunlight, his curls soft and unruly from dozing off on the couch while Bruce worked, his own paperwork still scattered somewhere across the side table in the study. His robe softened his silhouette, the V of his neckline doing him no small favors with how it drew Bruce’s eye unerringly to that broad chest, gold and plush and dusted with dark hair. His smile was the only thing more stunning, soft and fond every time he caught Bruce’s eye. 

Clark pressed a mug into Bruce’s hand as he joined him at the kitchen island, leaning warm and steady against his back to peer over his shoulder at the blueprints he’d been trying to study. His thumb swept gently across Bruce’s hip, brushing along the skin just under the hem of his shirt. “You know you promised Alfred the day off today, right?”

Bruce hummed, leaning absently into the kiss Clark pressed against his temple. “I recall. Is this your attempt to take over the nagging?”

He could hear the smile in Clark’s voice, quietly amused. “No. This is me asking if you plan on getting any sleep before you have to drive the kids to school.”

Bruce groaned suddenly, dropping his head back. “Fuck.”

Clark laughed softly. He set his own mug on the counter to wrap his arms around Bruce instead, taking his weight as he leaned back into him. “I had a feeling. I’ll take them, and you can spend the rest of the morning trying to get this done before I get back.”

“Why then?” Bruce asked, letting his head lean against Clark’s. The fingers of one hand traced the back of Clark’s absently, finding the spaces between his fingers and sliding into place.

Clark’s hands slid under his shirt, slow and warm where they ran across his stomach and hips. The way he kissed his neck, lingering and soft, Bruce had an idea of what he’d say before he even said it. “Because we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

The way Bruce hummed was low and appreciative, his own mug abandoned to thread his fingers up into that soft, soft hair. “So it will be. How long has it been since that happened?”

“I haven’t a clue, but I intend to use it to make you sleep.” The last word was punctuated with a pinch, making Bruce start.

“Bastard,” Bruce accused, pulling free of his embrace.

Clark’s laughter was unashamed as he pulled Bruce back by the hips, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “I promised Alfred. And haven’t you always told me to put your family first?”

It was infuriating how true that was, and how much it made Bruce love him for listening. It was something Bruce didn’t even know how to begin to say, but he tried in the way he let Clark drag him back, and the way he threaded his fingers into his hair, kissing the taste of coffee off his lips. It was quiet, but judging by Clark’s grin, he always seemed to hear it anyway.

[daedalusdavinci]

10) I have never been this sick before I'm sorry did I, haha this is so weird, but did I confess my love for you? f- four times? yeah? haha oh, superbats

listen. as someone who has been entirely out of my mind on medication for the past two days, i felt like i understand exactly what to do with this prompt. and yet. and yet. i still went off the rails with it. this is not as superbat as i wanted it to be but duke is there and i feel like tha tmakes up for it

id link the prompt list this is from but i lost it. sorry. i ptu off answering this for too long

Alfred said it was the flu. Not Ivy's newest batch of toxin, or Tetch's mind control, or the lasting effects of a JLA fight gone wrong, or even a stomach bug from eating Tim's latest feeble attempt at cooking while desperately trying to practice to impress his boyfriend. It was just the plain old flu. And Bruce had never felt worse.

Alfred said it probably wouldn't have been half as bad if he hadn't gone out to patrol in the snow, multiple times, even after being warned not to. Damian said it probably wouldn't have been half as bad if he hadn't insisted on testing those antitoxins on himself recently. Jason said he'd slipped a viral strand of zombie DNA into his coffee grounds the last time he swung by, and it was only after Cass pointed out the coffee grounds also would've poisoned half the house that he realized Jason was most certainly just fucking with him. Duke said he should probably run the tests just in case, because the freezing batcave would certainly do him a lot of good, and somehow that entirely reasonable suggestion just wound up making Alfred more frustrated than ever.

And then Alfred did the unthinkable.

He called in the cavalry.

There were few things more humiliating than being babysat by the man of steel in his own home. Objectively, Bruce could understand why Alfred had called Clark; Clark was responsible, kind, reasonable, already familiar with the Manor, and very good at fielding both Bruce and his kids. He also had the physical strength to literally stand his ground with Bruce, when needed. But Bruce was half-out of his mind with the flu and even through the fogginess of his own miserable stupidity, he had just enough awareness to know that it was beyond embarrassing for Clark to see him like this.

He was sleepy and disgusting, useless beyond any injury he'd ever sustained, even his mind rendered weak in the face of the sickness. He was sweaty all the time, and half the time he could barely think past the sensory nightmare of being sick, all of his routines shattered and his own bed so nasty it made his skin crawl. Words felt impossible most of the time, until it was easier to communicate with Cass than anyone else. When he did speak, it was barely more than incoherent mumbles, and usually about The Gray Ghost, which was the only thing he could bring himself to focus on for more than ten seconds at a time. His memory came and went, and being sick turned into a montage of Gray Ghost episodes and beloved faces, with Clark's featuring most heavily.

When his fever finally broke, he felt desperate to be out of bed and gain some semblance of humanity back. It was humiliating to constantly be guided back to bed like he was frail, or to lie around in a shivering, sweaty mess while Clark tried simultaneously to keep him distracted and pretend not to notice. He needed a shower, and food, and goddamn it, even some sunlight would be welcome. More than anything, he needed to not be in his damn room for ten seconds.

Perhaps taking pity on him, Clark agreed to it, deeming that he was at least well enough that he could probably make it down the stairs without falling over. The world felt a lot less hateful after a shower, and even bundled up in a miserable huddle of blankets, unable to smell the fresh pancakes through his congestion, it felt good to sit in the kitchen and breathe fresher air, out of the cramped darkness of his own room. His coffee was warm in his hands, and for a while, he just closed his eyes, listening to the rush of the gas stove and the scrape of Clark's spatula against the pan.

"Hey, looks like the jailbird's flown the coop. Or are we finally posting bail?" Duke's voice was light as it drifted into the room, shoes scuffing on the floor. It wasn't the same heaviness as the Signal's boots, so he was in his civvies. Not here on bat business.

"He wanted a change of scenery," Clark explained. His footsteps were steady, the tap of a plate as it touched down in front of Bruce soft. His fingers brushed through Bruce's hair, combing it back out of his face. "He's doing better today. His morning report says he's still got the shakes, and his congestion is pretty bad, but there were barely any typos this time, and it was actually coherent." Bruce didn't miss the teasing tone in his voice, and he scowled.

"Wow. Does that mean the spelling error "love you" era has come to an end at last?" Duke's voice sounded from closer to the stove, no doubt stealing pancakes from the remaining pile.

Bruce could hear the grin in Clark's voice. "I overestimated on the pancake batter. Help yourself."

"Sweet."

Clark kissed the top of Bruce's head, giving his shoulder a squeeze before he returned to the stove. "Eat, Bruce. You're only going to feel more shaky if you don't eat anything."

Bruce sighed, taking one long, last sip from his coffee before he set it down and forced himself to open his eyes. Clark hadn't given him a ton of food, probably knowing he wouldn't be able to finish it, but the pancakes looked golden and warm enough that he allowed himself to unfurl from his blankets, reaching for the fork. Clark and Duke's chatter fell into fuzzy, comfortable background as he ate, and he had to admit, it was nice. It was always nice knowing one of his kids was close by and safe, and it was good to listen without any real expectation of having to participate himself.

After a while, his phone buzzed in his pocket. There was a text from Duke that said, "How are you holding up, big guy?"

The string of texts before the most recent one were disturbingly incoherent. He could remember some- his rant about The Gray Ghost most clearly, from when Duke had dropped in to check on him and infodumping to Clark had turned into infodumping to Duke- but a lot were lost to the fog entirely. There was a pattern to them, though; Duke, checking in, or sending him pictures, keeping him updated, and Bruce responding with some variation of "I'm ok, tell lckar to let me uot," or "Thank yuo, loev you."

A quick look at his other recent contacts revealed a similar pattern. Jason had blocked him two days ago after Bruce had texted him the same check-in message ten times in one day. Cass had started texting him pictures all the time. Barbara had gently informed him she was locking him out of his emails and social media for his own good. Diana had delightedly texted him back that she loved him too. Bruce did not want to even look at he and Clark's history.

He texted Duke back, "I know they're saving screenshots of me. Make them delete them, immediately."

Duke's laughter was loud and warm. "It is way too late for that, B."

[daedalusdavinci]

lets go second prompt bABY. 16 "At your lover’s complaining, rubbing a spot where they ache, smiling as they lean into your touch and melt at both the touch and warmth." twomatches or whatever the fuck i forget these bastards ship names sometimes

send me a meaningful gesture prompt!

you got it right. anyway bruce needs a mobility aid and dc can meet me in the pit about it. deny it all you want dc, im just going to start giving him internalized ableism or something

In all of the years Two Face had known Matches, he had never once heard the man complain about an injury. It wasn’t that he didn’t get them- Matches probably got more injuries than anyone else on the job. He had the scars to match, littering every inch of his skin so that he looked like he made a hobby of losing fights to a wood-chipper. But Two Face had watched Matches get shot and try to walk it off, hiding all of his injuries right up until Two Face tore open his shirt and forced him to let Two Face stitch him back up again.

There were signs, though, when an old injury was flaring up or he’d taken one too many hits in the field. On bad days, he started to shift when he’d been standing for too long, bracing his hands against his back and leaning back into it like he could crack it himself. He spent more time stooped in a crouch, or looked a little too relieved to sit down.

Tonight was a bad night. By the time they retired to Two Face’s safe house, Matches was eyeing the stairs like they’d personally hurt him, leaning a little too heavy on the railing. The second the door to Two Face’s apartment had closed behind them, he was toppling onto the couch like he hadn’t slept in months, graceless in his sprawl. He didn’t get back up again.

Two Face sighed. He shrugged off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, dragging the first aid kit out to start putting his favorite henchmen back together again. “You should really invest in a back brace.”

“Back braces’re for nerds,” Matches mumbled into the couch, muffled. He rolled over at Two Face’s pull, letting Two Face start to work on the buttons on his loud, ugly shirt.

“I swear I’m going to strap you into one and lock it, one of these days.” Two Face peeled the shirt back, studying the network of scars across Matches’s chest for any trace of something fresh. There wasn’t too much, tonight, fortunately. He’d have some nasty bruises in the morning, but Two Face was pretty sure it was the old wounds that were bothering him tonight.

“Only if you promise to make it weird.” Matches flashed him a crooked grin, lazy and shameless.

Two Face snorted. “Shut up. You look like you lost a fight with a paper shredder.”

Matches hummed, stretching his arms slowly above his head. The easy flex of muscle made it hard to stay on task, drawing Two Face’s eye to the arch of his back and shift of his hips. “I think it makes me look rugged.”

Two Face took a deep breath, tearing his eyes away to look at the alcohol he was pouring on a rag. Rather than feed into Matches’s distractions, he focused on cleaning wounds and changing out old bandages, quickly stitching Matches back together. He’d bled through a couple of old bandages pushing himself too hard, but most of the new ones could be taken care of with bandaids. For Matches, it wasn’t bad. There had been days where there was more blood than Two Face knew what to do with. Two Face finished by sticking one last bandaid over his nose, just to watch the way he went cross-eyed trying to follow it. “Flip over, you old whore, so I can get your back.”

Matches obliged, and Two Face tugged the shirt out from underneath him, tossing it to the side. Matches’s back had made it out more or less unscathed, aside from a cut by his shoulder blade. Two Face cleaned it up and stuck a couple of butterfly bandaids on to hold it shut. Then, he patted Matches’s ass. “There. Now stay put, and don’t do anything stupid to tear that open in the two seconds I’m leaving you alone for.”

“You got it, boss,” Matches said into the couch with a lazy flick of his hand.

Two Face left him alone to clean up his own injuries, though there weren’t many. He’d scraped his knuckles bloody with a couple well-aimed punches and taken a couple hard ones of his own, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be taken care of with a couple bandaids. He’d have bruises tomorrow, but bruises were always better than stitches. When he was done, he swapped the first aid kit for lotion and headed back to the living room.

Matches was exactly where he’d left him, and Two Face wasn’t sure if he was more grateful or worried. He swung a leg over Matches’s hip and settled his weight carefully on top of him, listening to Matches’s quiet groan for any sign of pain. Figuring he was in the clear, he dumped a generous dollop of lotion into his palm and set it aside. “Have you ever thought about getting a cane?”

Matches opened his mouth, but whatever he’d been going to say turned into another groan when Two Face pressed his palms into his back, dragging pressure slowly along his spine. He folded his arms under his head, pressing his face into them. “Jesus. Who needs it when I’ve got you, huh?” There was a warmth to his words that made Two Face flush, shamelessly reverent.

Two Face dug his fingers into Matches’s lats, starting just under his shoulder blades and dragging down toward the base of his spine. There was so much fucking muscle there, it was ridiculous. Matches was built like a brick shithouse, hidden under the ugliest outfits Two Face had ever seen and a shitload of cheap cologne. His pain tended to be centered in the lower portion of his back, where he’d admitted to breaking it some time ago, but Two Face never could resist getting his hands all over Matches, and Matches never seemed to mind. “You don’t even work for me full-time,” Two Face reminded him. “So unless you’ve got another boss under your thumb somewhere...”

Matches hummed, absent-minded and pleased. “I’d love to get you under me.”

Two Face pinched his side, making him start. “A cane, Malone.”

“I have one,” Matches said, wounded. “I just don’t use it outside a lot. Bad for image.”

“Bad for image?” Two Face asked, incredulous. “Two of the biggest villains in this city have canes. You think Cobblepot and Nygma use those for show?”

“It’s different. Can you-” Two Face slid his hands lower, pressing harder into Matches’s back. The sound Matches made was low and relieved, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Yeah. Mm, and you wonder why I keep comin’ back.”

“Next time, come back with a cane. And a back brace,” Two Face added. He leaned more of his weight into Matches, rubbing small circles into his lower back with his thumbs. As he did, he ducked his head, pressing a soft kiss at the top of his spine. “I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

One of Matches’s hands lifted, curling into his hair at the back of his head and keeping him close. Two Face had to shift to hold the position, but he did, pressing warm kisses along Matches’s shoulder.

After a long moment, Matches turned his head to look at him. He’d pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, and his eyes were warm, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Two Face pressed a kiss into it, and then another, bracing a hand up by Matches’s head to follow the pull of his hand. Matches kissed him like it was love, and Two Face fell into it, hopelessly lost for him.

“I’ll get a back brace,” Matches finally agreed, mumbled into the space between them.

“Good.” Two Face kissed him one more time before straightening up, picking back up where he’d left off. “And start bringing a cane, or I’ll tell Edward you want him to make you a trick one.”

Matches groaned, and this time it had nothing to do with the massage.

[daedalusdavinci]

∇(old age/aging) bruce and harvey. OLD SLUTS OLD SLUTS

Put a symbol (or several) and a character/characters in my ask box, and I’ll give you a headcanon.

i think harvey does eventually get skingrafts and admits he needs glasses because he can barely see a damn thing out of one eye anymore and starts like. slowly admitting that hes been punishing himself for being disabled for years and starts taking care of himself instead. and i think as he does this he also forces bruce to do it, which means like, bruce getting a backbrace and a mobility aid and taking care of the chronic pain that he definitely has because you do not just bounce back from the injuries bruce has gotten like that.

i think retirement for both of them is a lot of like, bugging each other to stop pretending like they still rule the world and just slow down and rest. its a settling- a slow acceptance that they dont still have to push themselves the way they used to or care about things that used to feel overwhelming and that they can just. do little things like sit and read together. i think theyre both men who get so driven and ambitious that they forget to take breaks or allow themselves grace and i like the idea that when they get old they finally learn how to just fucking rest

[daedalusdavinci]

❝ you asked me once, if i would ever take a chance on us…maybe that ship sailed. but. ask me again? sometime— doesn’t have to be today. maybe tomorrow just. ask me again. ❞ bruce and harvey

i GOT YOU babe i know exactly what needs to be done

send me a yearning prompt!

With the rain pouring down outside, Bruce let his eyes shut as he lay across the bed, listening to the rattle of the windows and rustle of trees. It was cold in Harvey's apartment, but not so cold that his turtleneck didn't offer a good buffer against it, leaving it to nip at his cheeks and fingers.

Harvey's footsteps were soft against the old floorboards, but the occasional creak drew Bruce's attention to them. The bed dipped with Harvey's weight, just by Bruce's shoulder, and Bruce blinked open his eyes again to see the fond way Harvey regarded him. It filled him with a kind of simple warmth, so familiar that he hardly gave it any thought, anymore.

In one hand, Harvey held a mug that steamed gently. With the other, he traced the curve of Bruce's brow with his finger, following it down to the scar that cut through his cheek. The touch was light, but so intimate that it made Bruce ache for a time long gone, back when they lived in each other's pockets and justice was still an abstract idea.

Harvey was trying, though. Bruce knew more than anyone that he was trying. He'd been released from Arkham a little more than six months ago now, and he and Two Face had both been working hard to stay out. They'd gotten a job and an apartment, and they hadn't missed a single therapy session. The progress wasn't perfectly linear, but it was progress, and for the first time in years, Bruce felt like he really had his friend back.

But the better Harvey did, the closer they got, and the harder it was to ignore what they'd been to each other before. It was just so easy to fall in love with him all over again. No matter the differences, Harvey was still Harvey, from the warmth of his smile to the heat of his passion. Everything about Harvey was like turning his face to the sun, soaking in the sense of home that radiated off of him. The nickname Apollo seemed more apt by the moment.

Harvey's thumb was warm where it pressed against his bottom lip, over the scar that had warped the shape of it. It set off a thudding in Bruce's chest, loud in his ears as he closed his eyes.

But Harvey's hand moved on, tracing the lines cut into his jaw. "You usually cover these up," he noted, quietly.

"Usually," Bruce agreed, more of an exhale than a noise.

Harvey took a slow breath in. "Bruce."

Bruce hummed.

His voice was slow, careful. "You asked me, once... if I would ever take a chance on us. Maybe it's too late. But- ask me again? Sometime. It doesn't have to be today. Maybe tomorrow. Just... ask me again."

Bruce's eyes opened. His heart felt frozen in his chest as he scanned Harvey's face, trying to read what he meant in the downturn of his lips and the skitter of his eyes, carefully avoiding Bruce's. Bruce took Harvey's hand in his own, squeezing it tight as he dared to hope. "Harv."

Harvey's eyes met his, finally. He could see the way Harvey set his jaw, bracing himself, preparing for the worst.

"Please," Bruce said, reaching up to sweep the white curls back from his face. He let his knuckles brush adoringly against Harvey's bad cheek. "I'm asking."

Harvey let the breath he'd been holding go. He squeezed Bruce's hand back, tight, setting his coffee on the nightstand before he leaned down. Bruce pushed himself up, and they met somewhere in the middle, Harvey's fingers digging into Bruce's hair and Bruce's hand pulling at his shirt.

After so long, it wasn't even a question to Bruce. He dragged Harvey closer with a kind of desperation he hadn't felt since he was young, trying to convey thirty years of longing with one kiss. When it broke, it was only long enough for Harvey to climb on top of him, and then Harvey was kissing him solidly into the mattress, his hands grasping at Bruce's hips, his shoulders, his hair, like he couldn't figure out where he wanted to touch him the most. Bruce kissed him breathless, and then some, brushing his lips over the corner of Harvey's mouth, his nose, and under his eye, right over the little mole there. "Apollo," he said, fondness blanketing his voice as he swept curls back from Harvey's forehead. "God, you're just as beautiful as you were then."

"Is it too late to take it back?" He could swear Harvey flushed, embarrassment twisting his mouth into a frown even as he pushed his forehead into Bruce's temple, his fingers sliding into Bruce's.

"Far too late." Bruce squeezed his hand, leaning his head into Harvey's.

[daedalusdavinci]

19) you’ve been blinking SOS in Morse code at me for ten minutes honey this award ceremony is supposed to be honoring you bruharv

prompt meme

you want autistic bruce, right? ofc you do. everyone wants autistic bruce.

It wasn't revolutionary to claim award ceremonies were long and boring. Harvey didn't like them, but he'd hazard a guess that most people in attendance didn't like them either, particularly when they weren't slated for an award that day. Still, it was difficult to name anyone who hated them more than Bruce Wayne, the eccentric playboy billionaire currently beaming vapidly for the cameras as the current mayor ran through a script he only just managed to make sound sincere.

Harvey gave it ten minutes before he dug out his phone, shooting off a quick text to Bruce.

SENT: Bruce, you've been blinking SOS in Morse code at me since you stepped onto the stage. This ceremony is supposed to be honoring you.

SENT: Also, you know I don't know Morse.

Brucie: But you understood it.

SENT: A contextual guess.

SENT: Fifteen more minutes. Come on.

Brucie: Save me when it's over?

Harvey sighed, giving Bruce a sharp look across the crowd as he pocketed his phone again. He would, though. Of course. He always did. It was half the reason he even came to these things.

The awards ceremony, as always, was stiflingly long. The urge to fiddle, fidget, or find something else to focus on was excruciating, but Harvey felt like he owed it to Bruce to stick it out, waiting with him for when it would be over. Somehow, Bruce managed to hold together his pleasant disposition the whole time he was on the stage, but Harvey had older memories of when he hadn't been quite so good at it, when long nights of undivided attention had left him frazzled and snappish. Alfred had delicately referred to them as incidents. Harvey mostly just remembered the aftermath of them, sitting in Bruce's room and talking him through it while Alfred tried to keep the peace outside.

Finally, the applause signaled Bruce's freedom. Harvey lifted his arm as Bruce dropped heavily into the seat next to him, letting it rest across his shoulders as the exhaustion finally wiped away Bruce's smile. He had a pretty smile, really- he'd practiced it to be- but there was something reassuring about that deadpan slotting back in place. It always meant Harvey was getting the Bruce he remembered, instead of the Bruce the public got nowadays. "They need new amps," Bruce muttered. "They were buzzing the whole time."

"It's over," Harvey promised him, nudging their heads together gently. "Just a little handshaking and we can go. I'll be right with you the whole time."

"It's so loud." Still, Bruce's hand found his own, lacing their fingers together.

Harvey hummed. "Tell me again about that book you're reading."

Bruce's laugh was a soft huff of air. It wasn't a subtle distraction, but the way Bruce squeezed his hand, he knew it was appreciated anyway. "It's on advanced chess techniques. It gets really into the history, with..."

[daedalusdavinci]

and just to end it all. eddiebats with 23 and "things you said when you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid (homoerotic) (rivals) (idiots)" (the flavor)

23. things you said [make your own] moth this request is so incoherent i shouldnt even count it. send a nonsense request get a nonsense answer. youre getting arkham city riddlebat and youre going to fucking like it. OBVIOUSLY spoilers for arkham city

“You cheated,” Edward hissed, indignant even as he scrambled backward, out of his chair. Behind him, the monitors displayed every goddamn riddle room, blueprints and prototypes that tripped him scattered across the floor. He couldn’t move fast enough to escape the way Bruce’s hand fisted in his collar, slamming him back into the wall.

“You tried to murder people,” Bruce returned, his voice steady compared to Edward’s pitching, terrified one, deep and dangerous. He towered over Edward, forearm pressed across his chest, crowding into his space like an impending doom.

Edward’s laugh was harsh and a little hysterical, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the leather and kevlar of Bruce’s suit. “Big words from the murderer. What finally drove you to it? What did he do to earn that level of wrath?”

Bruce’s grip tightened, his voice coming out through gritted teeth. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Didn’t you?” Edward’s grip on his wrist was tight, but not tight enough. They both knew he didn’t have the strength to fight Bruce off. “Riddle me this. A man is on the brink of death, and only the doctor can save him. The doctor tries his best, but in the end, the man dies. But who made the wounds, Batman? If you turn away with the last exhale, can you deny your involvement forever?”

“He made the Titan formula.”

“But who drove him to it? How mad does a man have to become to get five seconds of your attention?”

“You’re insane.”

“So will you kill me, next?” Edward had let go of his wrist, and now, he grabbed the collar of Bruce’s cape. His fingers fisted into it as he dragged Bruce closer- too close. The green of his eyes burned fierce and bright behind his glasses. “I never killed anyone. But at least I can admit when I’ve cheated.”

Incredulity blazed through Bruce, turning outraged as he caught up to Edward’s real point. “That’s all you care about. That’s the only thing that matters to you. It’s all a game.”

“Of course it is.” Edward rolled his eyes so hard Bruce thought he might pull something, yanking hard on Bruce’s collar. “No wonder you cheated. You must be stupider than I thought.”

Bruce stumbled into him, hands dropping to grip Edward’s hips instead when there was no room left between them. It would be easy to subdue him- to tie him up and leave him here, the way Bruce had with so many other villains in the past twenty-four hours. But Bruce let him pull him closer, ducking his head so easily so that his nose pushed against Edward’s cheek. The way he squeezed Edward’s hips was bruising, threatening, but he knew in the curl of Edward’s lips that he’d lost that ground already.

Edward felt cold and thin. His clothes were ratty and ragged, streaked with oil and dirt and countless other things, and his lips were chapped and rough. Arkham City had not been kind to him, even with all his resourcefulness, but he still managed to kiss Bruce like he could take him apart with his tongue alone, hard and eager and far too clever with it. His fingers dug into the back of Bruce’s neck and slid across his side, like he couldn’t touch enough of him, no matter how many times they’d done this. The punched-out sound he made when Bruce pulled away made it hard not to kiss him again, and lower.

But Bruce wasn’t in the market to offer Edward pity after everything he’d done. Instead, he leaned closer, letting his teeth catch on Edward’s earlobe, just for the sake of teasing him. “Maybe you’re not as smart as you think. I didn’t cheat. Puzzle that one out.”

At the click of the handcuffs, he could have taken a picture of the rage that flashed across Edward’s face.

[daedalusdavinci]

“Wow, someone is in a good mood! You look like you slept five full hours this time!” riddlebat

"Well, someone is in a good mood. You look like you got a full five hours of sleep for- what, the first time in years? It must be."

Bruce could feel the start of a headache pulsing behind his eyes, as he so often did when dealing with the Riddler. He would say he was beginning to regret the decision to allow Edward to assist him on this latest project, but it would be a lie. He had regretted it ever since he'd first asked, nearly a week ago now. "I can take it back," he said, pulling the coffee back out of Edward's reach.

Edward, who had been about to eagerly take it from him, let his hand fall again with a pout. "Perhaps I spoke too soon. You're as testy as ever."

Bruce hummed, carefully perching on the edge of the table so as not to accidentally sit on any of Edward's notes, or cover them with his cape. He recognized several different languages in Edward's handwriting, scribbled across the mess of pages scattered across the desk. It made it more difficult to read his notes, but not at all impossible. He suspected Edward got a kick out of making him decipher them.

"Batman," Edward said, holding out his hand again imploringly. The pout was still in place, as theatrical as ever, but there was a genuine exhaustion underneath it. While Bruce might have slept, it didn't appear as though Edward had at all. The shadows under his eyes were dark, his hair ruffled and quickly coming loose from the product's hold, likely from him running his fingers through it too much. He was wearing the same suit from yesterday, albeit with the jacket and tie missing and the suspenders hanging loose around his waist. He'd rolled his sleeves up past the elbows and unbuttoned a generous amount of the top buttons, so Bruce could see fading bruises and scars on his chest.

Bruce handed him his coffee. Edward didn't bother to hide the way his shoulders sagged in relief. He took a deep drink from the mug, before finally leaning forward over the desk again. He tapped a set of ciphers, written into the margins of a picture printout. "I think I've got something, here."

Bruce sipped from his own mug, waiting for Edward to continue. He always did.

"You remember, of course, our earlier discussion about the possible use of Roman imagery in our mystery thief's clues. However, nothing we were running was bringing anything up. Until..." Edward pushed a different picture toward him, looking smug. "Centuries pass, a kingdom laid claim. Though different in nature, what is the same?"

Bruce studied the picture, picking out the telltale symbols in it. "Apollo shares a name in Greek and Roman mythology. You think it's Greek."

"I know it's Greek. I've already cross-referenced everything without you. In fact, I even know where he's going to strike next." Edward tapped the blueprints in the middle of the table. "And you were sleeping." He scoffed.

"You didn't sleep," Bruce noted.

"There were mysteries to be solved, Batman." Edward leaned back in his chair, offering a small, tired smile over his mug. It was the kind of smile that made Bruce want to do stupid things, like touch his cheek and feel the desperate way he leaned into it, or force him to take a damn nap. "I can sleep later."

Bruce sighed. He pulled Edward's blueprint closer, studying it as he sipped his coffee. "You didn't, by chance, happen to identify our thief?"

Edward scowled. "That mystery is proving a little more elusive."

He hummed. "We'll keep looking. But, with luck, we may not need it. This is good."

Edward preened, lighting up at the praise. Bruce almost regretted saying anything. "I guess we make a pretty good team, partner."

No, Bruce definitely regretted saying anything.

[daedalusdavinci]

im challenging you. Visiting them at work, either with lunch, or just to spend the afternoon with them as they try to get things done. Whether they actually get things done, or thing devolve into flirting/romantic gestures is up to you. but SPEFICALLY clark and brucie (NOT bruce). make that man SO stupid

30. Visiting them at work, either with lunch, or just to spend the afternoon with them as they try to get things done. Whether they actually get things done, or thing devolve into flirting/romantic gestures is up to you.

assignment unclear. elaborating unnecessarily on bruces secretary instead

It wasn’t very often that Clark made his way over to Gotham outside of the uniform. But, every now and again, he found a story on Gotham dropped on his desk and wound up with an excuse to travel.

Of course, a visit to Gotham also meant a visit to Wayne Enterprises, and the night owl suffering through meeting after meeting inside. Clark made sure to swing by a coffee place on his way over, knowing full well that even though it was lunchtime now, Bruce probably hadn’t been awake long. He had a habit of sleeping in until the last minute before work, convinced that he would be able to get up just in time to get breakfast and get ready before he had to go. He was usually wrong. And usually late.

The secretary in the lobby flashed Clark a vacant smile when he entered, clearly not recognizing him. It took close to ten minutes to convince her to call up to Bruce’s secretary, and longer for her to wave him in, giving him the keycode for the elevator. People in Gotham were never as trusting, and while Clark didn’t judge them for it, he did quietly mourn that Bruce’s coffee was starting to grow cold.

Upstairs, Clark wove through the silent corridors of upper management, feeling uncomfortably bumbling and awkward compared to the crisp hallways and quiet offices. He hesitated at one too many turns before memory led him to Bruce’s door, carefully shuffling the coffees and pastry bag in his hands so that he could nudge it open.

At least inside, the smile Bruce’s secretary gave him was warm. Bruce’s secretary was a tiny Mexican woman named Marcia, who had applied for the job after losing her job and house to one of the Joker’s many rampages. She’d been working for Bruce for years, and was discreet, loyal, and had a taste for sweets. Her eyes lit up when Clark dug a triple chocolate muffin out of his bag, clicking her tongue at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were trying to get on my good side, Clark.”

Clark flashed her a smile, setting the muffin and a napkin on her desk. “Implying you have a bad side, Marcia?”

“Oh-” She waved him off, a pleased flush darkening her cheeks. She pulled the muffin towards herself, though, carefully peeling back the wrapper. “Your timing is perfect. Mr Wayne is just finishing up a meeting, so you should be fine to go in.”

He thanked her as she waved him in, pushing open the door to Bruce’s office.

Bruce’s office was huge and bright, and not a thing like the Bruce Wayne that Clark knew, who loved darkness and privacy. Gotham sprawled beyond huge floor-to-ceiling windows, Bruce’s biggest project always on display. The table against the wall was lined with vases of flowers that Bruce clearly hadn’t decided what to do with yet, no doubt left by various kinds of admirers, and the furniture was polished and impersonal. The only part of Bruce’s office that ever felt truly right to Clark was the little collections that decorated the shelves, awards, gifts, and pictures from a dozen projects, and on his desk, the few family pictures he allowed himself. That truly felt like Bruce, when all of the different personas were stripped away.

In the middle of his office, there was a coffee table surrounded by a couch and a handful of chairs, which Bruce generally preferred to host meetings at over his desk. He’d recited the psychology of it to Clark, once, but Clark knew that when he really didn’t like someone, he still hosted the meeting at his desk, leveraging that power play over them in a manner so petty it was more befitting of his youngest child. Bruce was sitting on the chairs today, though, across from two women who Clark would describe as looking relieved with the direction things were going. So, evidently, it wasn’t one of the worse meetings.

“Sorry,” Clark said, as the three looked up at him. He flashed them a sheepish smile. “Marcia said you had finished up already, but I can leave if you need another minute.”

“Clark! You didn’t tell me you were in town.” Bruce’s grin was his patented, charming playboy grin, genuine enough to make hearts melt and pretty enough to make stomachs flip, with just a touch of air-headed. He glanced back at the woman, gesturing towards Clark. “This is an old friend of mine, Clark Kent. He works for the Daily Planet over in Metropolis.”

Clark fumbled with the bag and coffee, eventually freeing up a hand to give them an awkward, little wave. “Hi. I’d shake your hand, but...”

The woman on the left smiled at him, gesturing between herself and her partner. “I’m Christi, and this is my wife Michael. Don’t worry about it, we were just about to head out.”

“They’re helping me out with that children’s event down at the museum,” Bruce told him.

Clark couldn’t remember Bruce mentioning any event, but he nodded anyway. He wove his way carefully around the chairs, lifting Bruce’s coffee cup out of his arms and passing it to him. The gesture knocked over the pastry bag where it was precariously perched in his arms, but Bruce’s hand flashed out to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Careful,” Bruce said, setting the bag in his lap instead.

“Nice catch,” Michael said, impressed.

“Isn’t he?” Bruce winked, his grin playful. He checked the inside of the bag, before flashing Clark one of those smiles that was brighter than he knew what to do with. “Aw, baby, you got my favorites.”

“I try my best,” Clark said, offering a smile back.

Christi got to her feet, shouldering her bag. “We should get out of your hair. But thank you, Mr Wayne. We really appreciate your involvement in this.”

“Yes, thank you so much again,” Michael seconded, getting up as well.

Bruce set the bag and the coffee on the coffee table before rising, reaching across to shake each of their hands. “No, thank you. Your expertise will be invaluable, moving forward. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing. I’ll be in contact with you about the plans for the event going forward.”

“We’ll be looking forward to it.” Christi smiled, slipping her hand into Michael’s as they started for the door.

“It was nice to meet you,” Clark called after them. They waved back, so Clark thought he was probably forgiven for cutting the meeting short.

The coffee cup was plucked out of Clark’s hands, and suddenly, Clark found himself being dragged back into Bruce’s armchair with a yelp. Bruce’s laughter was warm in his ear, his hand slipping under Clark’s lapel to rest against his chest. “I’m going to have to have a chat with Marcia about letting distractions in,” he said, a smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss into Clark’s cheek.

“You are so unprofessional,” Clark whispered, but he still found himself smiling up at Bruce, chasing his lips for a proper kiss.

Bruce’s answer was a hum, his mouth otherwise occupied with kissing Clark slow and sweet.