Word counts and prices can be discussed, no worries. ^^ Ko-fi

If you want to see what my writing looks like, then just go here to see the fics that I’ve written. Or visit my AO3. Commission samples below: 

Samples, more below the keep reading section:

YOU KNOW WHAT PHOTO IM TALKING ABOUT

https://x.com/thecinesthetic/status/2074581838673408469?s=46

*Sigh* You're lucky you're my youngest. I (unfortunately) do have a soft spot.

-

Bruce can feel the way his throat closes up, saliva building up in his mouth.

There's a growing warmth in his core, an itch between his legs that he highly, highly wants to ignore.

Under the sun, hauling large bales of hay is Clark, working shirtless and glistening with sweat. His biceps bulge with each heft of his arms, his triceps popping when he bends down to pick up another bale. His back on full display as he turns to throw the hay into the stack he's building.

Sweat sliding down the prominent line of his spine and down to where the garter of his boxers are, his jeans sitting lower from the movement.

The sun is beating down, already feeling like it's at its peak at 10 in the morning, and yet it's not the heat that has him feeling warm.

Pressing his thighs together, Bruce is reminded the burn of his skin, that lingering scratch of rough facial hair rubbing his flesh raw until he was shaking, squirting just from feeling the texture of a beard in the crease of his thigh and crotch.

Clark bends down and takes the bale by the straps keeping it all together in its rectangular shape before turning, the movement fluid, natural, routine. Then he throws it, easily, quickly, adding it to the stack, before moving closer to it, reaching up effortlessly to take the reins of the bales and shuffling them around.

His height making it simple to just reach up and fix the structure he's building.

Bruce swallows and crosses his legs, shifts his weight to lean forward, elbow on the table and chin perched on his palm. The weight helps with putting the slightest bit of pressure, his thighs keeping his mass centered to where he wants it to be.

It's not satisfying, but it's enough to keep the pressure building.

Clark ineffectively wipes at the sweat dotting his forehead by sweeping his sweaty forearm across it, but it does have the effect of flexing his arm naturally. A move born out of habit.

The hair on his chest must be drenched now, the hair on his pits sticking to his skin. And Bruce closes his legs tighter as he imagines that body pressing against him, the sweat of their skin mixing, their scents mingling.

Oh, he thinks, Clark musk would be potent. And now he's torn between filling his mouth or letting himself be bent over.

"Hey, doll." He jumps, blinking at the spot where he'd just last seen the man, and lifting his head to see Clark standing by his side, wiping his sweat away with the shirt he'd discarded earlier. "You should go inside, take a nap."

"I'm not tired."

Clark hums, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of Bruce's head, "You were spacing out, thought the heat was getting to you."

He turns to the pitcher he'd set out, instead of responding. "Lemonade?"

Dimples pop, mouth stretching into a smile, "Yes, please." Clark leans in then, just enough to loom over Bruce's head as he reaches out to take the pitcher and pour himself a glass.

Like this, Bruce can smell that scent of scent, of Clark's natural musk, and he tilts his head just enough to get the most of it without being obvious.

When Clark takes a step back, glass to his mouth, their eyes meet, locked as Clark drains the lemonade in large, audible gulps—a quick three swallows and he's done.

His Adam's apple bobbing along the line of his moist neck.

When he puts the glass down, he positions himself to stand in front of Bruce instead, his free hand reaching forward and propping up on the back of the chair.

"Got something in your mind, doll?"

Bruce's gaze flickers downward then, from his wet chest up to the where he can see the short texture of stubble around his neck, to the thicker bush currently growing on his chin and jaw, then further up to where Clark's look at him, eyes half-lidded but inquiring. Prominent eyebrow raised.

"No." He says with a subtle shake of his head.

"No?" Clark repeats back to Bruce with a tilt of his head, just before leaning down to breathe against a pink-tipped ear. "So, if I do this—" The hand that he'd had gripping the glass comes down, laying flat on a taut thigh, feeling the tension there and the way Bruce squeezes his legs harder together, his fingers are just about skimming along the crotch line, "You don't get any ideas?"

"No," Bruce breathes out with a barely contained shudder, shifting his weight just a bit further forward now to use the fabric of his underwear to run along the seam of him.

Leaning back swiftly, Clark grins, "A'ight, if you say so." With that accent of his, leaning in to give him a peck on the cheek.

Just as he's about to think that Clark would go back to lifting his bales of hay, his chair is tilted, pushing to lean on its two back legs, and the gravity has his stomach in knots, and his thighs pressing so firmly together that the muscles are starting to ache.

Clark looms above him with a smirk, making a show of his one hand sitting on his hip while the other remains on the back of the chair, pushing him down.

Hands gripping the chair, Bruce tries to glare in admonishment even if he knows it won't work, if the smugness on the other man's face is anything to go by. "Put me down."

He makes a thoughtful face, then leans the chair further backward. He can feel himself shaking, trying to keep himself still. "Clark!"

"Care to tell me what goes on in that pretty little head o' your's?"

"I wasn't—" Clark leans the chair even more and at this point, Bruce fears that he's almost parallel to the porch floor. He lets go of the chair in favour of wrapping his fingers around a strong wrist, digging his nails into skin as he holds on. "Clark, put me down!"

Then, his eyes dart down, and Bruce knows the moment their gazes lock once again. "I can cross my legs whenever I please."

"I ain't seein' you opening them either."

He lays his hand down on Bruce's thigh again, subtly, carefully shifting his left foot to lean it against one of the teetering chair legs, a anchor just in case. And uses himself to keep Bruce's attention solely on him. "You hidin' somethin' from me now, pretty?" He leans in, presses his jaw and nuzzles it along a flushed cheek, "Don't r'member you keepin' them this hidden from me last night."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh?" He dips down to give Bruce's neck a kiss, right over where a bruise is black and purple now. "Always so cute when you're coy."

"You're within kicking distance."

"Can you even kick me?"

Then, Clark puts the chair back down, taking Bruce's momentary gasp of breath to spread his legs open, pulling him to the edge easily, swiftly, just before he shoves his hands on the underside of each thigh and hefts Bruce up with a few bounces for added effect.

"Nice and open. Was that so hard?"

"Shut up." Bruce wraps his arms around broad shoulders, tucking his face against sweaty skin. And doesn't pay mind to the small little hitches of his hips rubbing against the man.

"Hey!" Some shouts from below. When he looks down, all he sees is a child glaring at him, fists tight by his sides. His hair brushing along his forehead, blue eyes sparkling like the sea. "You're sitting on my tree!"

He looks at the tree's body, feeling at the bark, looking up and around at the bright green leaves.

Gripping on to the branch he's sitting on, he aims downward and pushes off. He lands with a muffled thud onto the grass. "I'm sorry."

The boy is shorter than him, and stands rather adorably, but the huff and glare seems to be personal.

His cheeks are a bit flushed, his hair the same colour as the night. His eyes carry the same depth as the wide sea.

His skin is sun-kissed, and his robes are of silk.

He hadn't meant to sit on anyone's tree. "I didn't mean to." He doesn't stay any longer than he has to, and starts making his way back to the city proper.

He tries to ignore the burning of his throat, tries to ignore the circlet he'd noticed the boy was wearing. Tries to swallow down the shame of having sat on the prince's tree.

-

He tells himself the tree isn't allowed, the hill isn't allowed.

But it's the best place to watch the water, the best position see the shore and the people working there. From his spot, he can watch his parents and their crew working.

The sea is pulling back—low tides. It's easier to catch shells at this time. Good for fresh harvests to trade. In the distance, he can see the way the rough figures of his father's crew moving about on the sandy shore.

"Hey!" A familiar voice cries out.

He looks down at the grass. He isn't sitting on the boy's tree any more. Is the grass his too?

The boy puts himself in front of him, blocking his view of the shore and sea.

Unfurling his body, he keeps his arms loosely wrapped around his legs. "I'm sorry." He doesn't know why or what he's apologising for, but the glare the other boy is giving seems personal once again.

He starts moving back to stand up when the boy thrusts his hands at him.

"It's a flower crown." The boy angrily mumbles. The petals are a bit withered, and some of the stalks aren't twined properly to form a coherent ring. "You must know of it."

The flowers are of different colours, but soft and tender in their shades.

"It's very pretty." He answers as he looks back at the boy. When no more word is spoken, he starts to get up once again, only to be stopped, again.

"You're not going to wear it?"

This time, he can't help but frown, looking at the boy in confusion. "Why?"

The boy huffs, cheeks and ears growing red. "I-it's for y-you."

Oh.

Well, he didn't really know that. "Oh." He mumbles, looking at the ring in the boy's hands once again. "I didn't know."

The boy snorts, his fingers tightening around the crown. "Who else would it be for?"

He glances up at the boy for a moment before leaning his head in. He waits, and when the boy gets the hint, he feels fingers carefully tousle through his hair as the crown is placed.

When he lifts his head up, the boy's face turns into a deep rouge, chest puffing out and lips pursing as if he isn't blushing wildly.

-

"How do you plan to do that?"

Fingers twirl through his hair, his eyes falling closed as the chest beneath his ear rumbles with a low hum.

"I'll have our tree uprooted." A pause, then, "Or, I have our home be built here. I'll do it myself if I have to. It will have your favourite flowers, a garden for you to train on, the perfect breeze to catch in your hair, the sun for your skin to shine beneath."

He looks up then, their gazes meeting.

"Then, you can always watch the sea from here. "

Warmth bursts in his chest in a great big tidal wave, he can feel the tears threatening to come. "That would be great."

-

Voices echo as he comes closer. Behind closed doors, he can hear them, candlelight casting long shadows along the floor.

There's no need to pay us a dowry, Wayn. Our boy is smitten already. We doubt there would be need for such a thing.

Well, I admit, traditions aren't a must in certain instances.

Where should we plan the ceremony, then? I mean no offense but your village is far, with Sparta being so vast. More than a week's travel at most.

He hears a whispered breath in the air, quickly, he turns, clutching the dagger hidden within his robes using the darkness as cover for his hand.

Immediately keeps the weapon hidden when he sees the familiar face, a grin building on that youthful visage. As if sneaking up on others is amusing.

"Kal, were you not told that sneaking on others will lead to your death?"

"I knew you would recognise me before you drew my blood."

All he can really do is huff at the other's confidence. It's not unwarranted, but years of training is hard to ignore—the alertness and knowing his surroundings are ingrained to his very being.

"Your arrogance will be your hubris."

Kal lifts his chin with a smirk, "It is not arrogance when it holds truth."

He stops himself from rolling his eyes to focus on other matters. "What are you doing here? We were told that we couldn't see each other."

"Yes," Kal nods, reaching out and taking his hand, twining their fingers with a gentle pull, "However, I couldn't resist seeing my bride-to-be before we wed."

Ignoring the warmth and flutters in his stomach, he opts to rolls his eyes instead, "You saw me yesterday."

"But not today."

Unable to help it, he casts a loving look upon at the other, words escaping in a mumble, "Such a lovesick husband-to-be." He's pulled close until an arm wraps around his waist, the hand holding his is lifted higher as lips press against his knuckles.

"Only yours, my petal."

-

It hurts. It hurts, and he's fully aware that it must strike a chord in the jubilee of the celebrations around him, but it hurts.

The sun has set, and Selene sits, wrapped in Nyx's darkness.

The sea sparkles with the glow of the goddess's shine.

Behind him, he hears a quiet foot falls approaching, threading carefully but not silently. At least, not as silently as its known to be.

He doesn't turn when arms encircle his waist over his ceremonial robes. "We must visit them, once things have settled here."

"When will that be?"

The man holding him tightens the embrace, a face pressing against his back. "Not for quite a while." He's gently guided, turned around to face his new husband. Hands reach up to cup his face. Palms with thick callouses, arms corded with muscle and beating veins.

"It feels as though I didn't get to say my farewells." He tries but the whimper escapes him regardless.

He's pulled into a chest, burrowed into a neck as he weeps for his parents' embrace.

The palace is finished, agreements made, a new king made, a new queen crowned. Their wedding bed remains cold despite it being the third day of celebration.

Men are still being appointed as guards, soldiers still trained, maiden servants desperately being offered.

"My love," Kal whispers, "I'm sorry." And it makes him cry harder.

-

The shadows move with cloaked figures. They thread through the halls, hiding behind the pillars.

The grass whispers of their arrival, and his husband's statue stands guard in the distance.

Purposefully dropping the ball of spun thread to the ground, he bends down slow and careful as he takes note of the moving figures looming closer and closer.

As he rises, just as slow, a dagger's pointed tip is pressed on the underside of his chin, it stings like a needle as it keeps his head tilted. One of the cloaked men takes his hood off to reveal a face, grinning triumphantly.

"Well, well, my Queen. What a surprise." The other men all take his cue and they too lower their hoods. The one with the knife to his chin presses the weapon further, enough that he knows is drawing blood now.

"Such a coincidence to find you weaving your threads, so late into the night. And in such darkness too. Tell me, are you able to see without the light?"

"Of course," he intones, "I have been weaving this for quite some time, I would say I know what to do."

The man coos, "Without knowing the pattern you sew?" Just then, he kicks at the basket where he keeps the flint and matches hidden.

One of the men lights up a torch, directing the light to cast onto the kicked materials laying scattered on the grass.

Their snickering and chuckling are enough indication that they know what he does under the night's blessing. "My, Great Queen, what such unusual instruments for weaving." The man kneels down to take hold of the flint and thin sticks from the ground. "With these present, it's almost as if—" The man fakes a gasp of scandal, "Do you ruin the shroud you'd promised to weave?" He clicks his tongue as he drops the materials, leaning forward and pressing himself, slotting himself forcefully between the Queen's legs.

"It's almost as if you had planned for this, o' Great Queen."

Hands lay upon his legs, bunching the fabric of the robes he wears, starting from his shins up to his knees.

He doesn't give the the satisfaction of seeing the disgust on his face as he keeps his gaze firmly rooted upon the man who forced himself in his space.

Just as the hands—disgusting, unfamiliar, and foreign slide deeper and deeper to his thighs, he snaps his hand up to the wrist holding the dagger.

With surprise, he uses it to throw the man off-kilter and bites down on a thumb, making the man let off a choked scream in pain and causing him to let the weapon go.

The man between his legs scramble to take the dagger he's got hidden by his ankle. He kicks him down and stomps on his wrist as he lays on the ground.

The others all draw their measly daggers, some blunt and uncared for. And the all make the mistake of charging at once.

Weaving between sloppy lunges and ignorant stabs is easy. One raises his arm of high that it leaves his flank wide open. Making stabbing him easy.

One swipes his dagger, like a thief who doesn't know what to do, standing with his knees too close together and arm swinging wildly from one side to the other. Taking him by the arm and throwing him over the shoulder is a quick manouevre.

The one who held the knife to his chin drips blood onto their clean rich green grass. His face contorted in fury as he runs. The man manages to wrap his arms around him, but the Queen drives his elbow back before leaning all his weight backwards, tilting their bodies and using his weight to slam the man onto the ground.

The man with the broken wrist takes him by the robe and lifts him. "You fucking whore—" And he leans his head back and slams his forehead forward to the man's nose.

"Sloppy work, for all of you." He tells them as he takes the dagger he'd sheathed into a man's guts and drives it down to the same man's stomach. He approaches the man he'd knocked out with his weight alone. "I would never choose a suitor so unprepared for a fight." Then he kneels and slides the tip through flesh, cutting lengthwise along the man's throat and watching the blood spill.

"You think I would choose a man to wed who knows nothing of a battle?" He takes the man he'd thrown over his shoulder and shoves him back to the ground before stomping on the man's stomach. "I would rather die than choose any of you." The man groans, clutching onto his stomach in pain, huffing through the ache.

He walks up to the one with the broken wrist and positions the dagger right above an eye. "I know one of my servants betrayed me." The man's eyes widen as he sucks in a sharp breath. "Let your bodies never be seen." And sinks the sharp tip, watching as the eye bursts into a pool of red.

The torch burns, scorching the earth. Unable to travel any further than the small patch it stains by the strong breeze keeping the flames small enough to be contained.

Carefully, he picks the torch up and lifts it high above his head. The guards stationed against the walls move then by his one beckoning hand. Wordless as he orders them to take the bodies.

As he sits back down on the chair he occupied, he swallows at the spots of blood staining, breathing in deeply and blinking the tears away.

Blue eyes and black hair, fair skin, and rounded face. Tall, imposing, strong, and intelligent.

He's stuck by his mother's side since he could crawl.

He stuck by his mother's side every night, wrapped in each other's arms as the stars twinkle above.

He stuck by his mother's side since he could walk, hiding behind his robes.

He stuck by his mother's side until he could make sense of the words "wed", "time", and "suitor".

He stuck by his mother's side until he could wield his own weapon.

Fingers comb through his hair, gentle and loving.

"what is a weird plot story that is kind of controversial that you like?"

I wouldn't say it's a plot, but more of a trope/kink/dead dove prompt.

I really like stepfather/father-figure/uncle Clark/Kal grooming and fucking his stepson/surrogate son/nephew Bruce.

Also really like the idea of Clark who's in his 40s and above grooming 16 year old Bruce.

They get married the moment that Bruce turns 18 while being 7 months pregnant, because Clark got Bruce pregnant at 17.

He's just about to reach out and take the animal by the tail when he spots a second snake, slithering just a bit behind the first one.

The first snake stops, allowing the second one to catch up, slithering up the length of the first, twining their bodies together.

Just then, the sound of a surprised yet pleased gasp resounds, and he turns just in time for his wife to come out onto the balcony, only pausing to place his hands on the marble, leaning forward as the bump of his stomach presses against the cool surface.

When he turns, the snakes have disappeared, and instead, his wife takes the empty space next to him.

A breeze passes by, chiming with a very familiar giggle. Beside him, his wife lets out another gasp, lips pulling up into a smile.

"It's Hermes—"

"Báire—!"

They both call out as the god in question materalises in front of them. The wings on his head flaps once as the god hovers above them.

Wow... It's been a while since I've thought of young parents SuperBat.

A tuff of black hair makes its appearance. And he can't help the elation rising within him. "My love, they're almost here." He takes his place by his wife's side, taking his hand and cradling it, letting his wife grip him hard and tight.

"Oh, thank the gods." He breathes out.

His bangs are stuck to his forehead, black hair long now compared the short cut his wife used to keep it at. And he can't help himself. Gently reaching out to sweep dampened locks away. Blue eyes, tired and pained, look up at him.

"How much longer, Kal?"

He glances to the midwife currently drenched in blood and viscera, their eyes locking for a brief moment.

"Just a bit more, my life."

"All right." His wife breathes, a choked cry bubbling out of him. "All right."

"One more push. I know you can do it. My Spartan, my Bruce." He coos, he gets an ineffective glare for his efforts, the hand in his squeezing tightly.

The glare fades into a look of hurt and fear, facing forward to the midwife knelt between spread legs. "Kal," he whispers.

"I know, petal. I know. I'm here, always here."

With a deep inhale through his mouth, his wife groans out as he pushes, body tensed and taut.

The midwife's expression is quick to screw into a focused one. Hands moving as they pull the babe out.

His wife lets out a relieved sigh, body slumping unto the bed, eyes fluttering open and closed.

A moment and suddenly, a cry. Pitched and young. A first intake of breath, a new life.

He looks down at his wife who smiles softly, sluggishly. "You did it. You did it, you're so strong, love. Thank you, thank you—"

The midwife then looks at him. "Your Majesty, you must cut the cord."

"Me?"

"You are the father, yes?" The midwife raises an eyebrow.

Scrambling, he nods. He gives the hand in his a quick peck before letting go. The babe is handed over to him.

Small little body covered in blood and fluid. Face crinkled as they cry.

Their limbs are all intact, their legs strong and sturdy. A head full of healthy hair, a face just like their mother's.

And suddenly. He feels his heart throb in his throat. The beauty in his arms, soft and vulnerable, tiny and fragile.

The thought is immediate. Doesn't leave him questioning. This is his babe. His child. One he will protect with all his life. One he will care for for his entire life. One he will love until forever.

A pair of shears is handed to him.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring but he eventually cuts through pink flesh.

The babe in his arms has quieted, sniffling and raw and alive.

The midwife takes them from his arms, "I'll just be cleaning them up."

He nods, shuffling to let the other midwives and servants move, they gather around his wife as they start the process of cleaning up the blood.

He helps, gently taking each leg and laying them down. His wife grunts and groans, whimpering from the pain and ache.

Mindless of the blood on his hands—blood of life, of effort, of love—he shushes him softly. Leaning down to lay a kiss on his forehead.

"Rest, my life."

"Our babe, where?"

"Being cleaned up. We'll have them back soon."

Just then, the midwife sidles up to them with a swaddled infant, now clean, and showing the flush of rounded cheeks and half-lidded eyes.

He takes the bundle into his arms, careful and letting the midwife assist him once again on the proper cradle.

Then he kneels to be of perfect height for his wife to see.

"A boy." The midwife informs them.

"A boy." His wife repeats, staring at their babe, at his babe. With still weak and trembling fingers, he reaches out and strokes his knuckle across soft skin. "My Jason."

He looks at the other then, watching his wife watch their son. "Jason, a name for a strong boy like his mother."

A smile graces his wife's features despite the sweat still glistening along his face, the lethargy of his gaze, the pain no doubt still coursing through his being. "He'll be surpassing us soon enough."

Letting out a snort, "I couldn't be any prouder."

-

He has his mother's face. An upturned button nose, peach-coloured lips, rounded cheeks. His hair is as black as the night, the strength he carries one fitting of a Spartan's babe.

And he's grown so, so much.

He can still see the babe he once held, downy tuff of hair sitting in the creases of his elbow as a tender head sat perched on the crook of his bicep and forearm.

He can still see the way his babe would so enthusiastically feed, bright shining eyes that of the sky looking at them, the world around with tender curiosity.

He can still see the way his wife and sleeping son had stood upon the shore of his kingdom as he sailed goodbye. Good bye for a promised short few years turned too long of two decades.

He doesn't have any doubt. The boy knew, the son he cherished. He's grown into a man he never got witness.

20 years, and suddenly all that time has been thrown into moments he will never be able to have. 20 years of time he'll never be able to share.

20 years of missed opportunities to see his son grow before his very eyes.

"Jason?" He chokes out, throat lodged with apologies he doesn't know where to begin.

His son, the boy—the man blinks at him, mouth agape.

"Pa—" He cuts himself off abruptly, and corrects, "Father?"

Oh how it aches. He'd dreamt of the days when he'll be called by his son. But here and now, he wishes he wasn't referred to so formally, strangers with no history.

"Jason." He lunges forward and takes his son into his arms, careful of the wound at his side, his strength hasn't failed him yet as he swiftly cradles the boy like he once used to. "I'm so sorry."