#cuddle drabbles

A collection of drabbles off prompts from this list. Requests are still open.

Note: I will be taking a while with going through requests due to busy schedule.

Updated 12/01/2021

Masterlist

Key: Fluff [f] Angst [a] Crack [c] Smut [m]

Seokjin

18. when someone’s crying [f]

Hoseok

10. totally romantic + 13. falling asleep [f]

Jungkook

15. in the dark [f]

Namseok

Cuddle Drabbles – Part One

I’m starting a new thing called ‘cuddle drabbles’ and ma boi Clint is the first one! I’m hoping to get a few more out this weekend, so I hope y’all like this!! 

Clint Barton x Avenger!Reader 

“Stay close to the people who feel like sunlight”

When Clint wakes up, the first thing he does is groan, realise why he’s in pain and roll off his bad shoulder (dislocated, don’t try new acrobatic moves without practice). On his other shoulder, he faces you, and he decides this is better anyway.

The sound of rain penetrates the room, big, heavy droplets fall onto the windows and a chill runs through the room. It hadn’t rained in a while, and he was sure that leak in his roof would be forming a puddle in his kitchen, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

The dull light from the window hits your bare shoulders, illuminating the fresh bruises (slammed against a wall, surprise attack), and healing cuts (knife to the bicep, kick to your opponent’s knee). His own knuckles are raw and swollen (punch punch punch, until they stop fighting back), and his muscles ache as if he’d been at the gym for 38 hours straight (one mission, three hours).

superwonderbat drabble for the prompt “cuddling in the bath”

Ao3

Summ: Clark is fascinated by Bruce’s huge bathtub

again, shoutout to @tantalum-cobalt for co-writing this <3

It’s no exaggeration to say that Bruce Wayne has a lot of money. And money can certainly buy a lot of big things. He’s got a big house, a bigger estate, a big family, a big… bed. And apparently, a big bathtub. More of a hot tub, really, with all the bells and whistles and room enough to fit three people comfortably.

Clark’s never seen a bathtub big enough to comfortably fit himself inside, let alone to fit more than one of him. It opens up tantalising new possibilities for getting clean, perhaps while not alone. Clark has been thinking about them since the first time he saw the tub.

Clark floats to Bruce’s bedroom window, opening the latch and flying across the sill, making a beeline for the bathroom. The spacious bathroom is filled with afternoon sunlight, spilling in through the frosted glass window. It’s all sleek granite and tile that Alfred keeps so polished Clark can see his face by his feet when he looks down.

Bruce should be at work for another few hours and the rest of the house quiet. That giant bathtub beckons Clark forward. The taps don’t squeak when he turns the water on; the plumbing in Wayne Manor is much better than his mid-tier apartment.

Clark opens drawers and cupboards while the tub fills with water. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he knows it as soon as he sees it. A single bottle of bubble bath, hiding behind a pack of new toothbrushes and a box of tampons, still with the safety seal intact. Bingo.

Clark turns back around and finds the tub has filled almost to the top. Another excellent thing about Wayne Manor’s plumbing: the best water pressure Clark has ever had the pleasure of experiencing. A few squirts of bubble bath then he quickly turns the taps off and strips, kicking his clothes into a rough pile.

The water is a little too hot but that doesn’t bother Clark. He climbs in gracelessly, water splashing over the side, soaking into the ridiculously fluffy bath mat. Oops. He probably shouldn’t have let the water run so long. It comes up to Clark’s neck when he sinks down, feelings almost silky from the bubble bath.

On the shelf beside the tub, three pairs of eyes stare at him. Three little ducks, all in a row, dressed respectively in armour, a cowl, and one with a very familiar hair curl.

What on Earth? A peel of laughter bubbles from his lips, unnaturally loud in the echoey bathroom. Of all the things he expected to find in Bruce Wayne’s bathroom, rubber ducks weren’t even close to being on the list. Maybe they belong to Bruce’s kids? They’re all a little too old for bathtime friends, he thinks, but it’s not like he can judge.

He sets them down on the surface of the water, watching them bob across the light waves he makes with every movement. Batman and Wonder Woman bump together, rubber bills touching, and Clark grins in delight. He’s taking a bath with the Justice League’s trinity, what more could he want?

But wouldn’t it be nice if Bruce and Diana were here, if the real trinity were taking a bath together? As nice as the rubber versions are, Clark would rather run his fingers through Diana’s hair, feel Bruce’s muscles against his back. Lips against his neck, his cheek, hands massaging hard to reach places, slipping further and further down his back until-

Clark is broken from his daydream when he hears Bruce enter the bedroom, his oxfords light against the floorboards, naturally quiet even in his own home. Not that it matters since Clark heard his heartbeat before the car even turned up the driveway.

“Clark?” Bruce calls out, knowing, always knowing, although Clark has to concede the open window is a bit of a give away. That and the clothes strewn across Bruce’s bed.

“In here,” Clark says, even though it’s obvious Bruce already knows.

The door pushes open and Bruce leans against the frame, arms crossed, the fabric of his rolled up shirt sleeves pulled tight across his biceps. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a bath.” He suppresses a smile at the way Bruce’s eyebrow twitches.

“Clark, get out of the bathtub,” he grunts.

“No.” Clark sinks lower beneath the bubbles. They tickle under his nose and he sneezes, spluttering at the soapy water that goes up his nose. Bruce just rolls his eyes.

“How long have you been in here? It’s got to be freezing… you’re re-heating it with your vision aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Clark’s lips are barely above the surface. “Join me?”

“I have work to do.” It’s a lie. If Bruce had work to do, he’d be doing it.

“I know your knee is acting up again. Come on, this will help.”

“Are you a doctor now?”

“Met U gave me an honorary doctorate.” Clark grins. “So yeah, guess I am a doctor now.”

Bruce rolls his eyes but starts unbuttoning his shirt. Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to. Each item is folded meticulously and set on the lid of the laundry hamper, out of reach from the expanding puddle of water on the floor.

Bruce’s left knee is bathed in purple and blue as he steps into the bathtub, careful not to put weight on it. Clark winces in sympathy as Bruce sinks beneath the bubbles, sitting opposite Clark in the tub. Their legs tangle together, feet sliding along muscular calves.

“See?” Clark says, carefully avoiding Bruce’s injury. “This is nice.”

Bruce just grunts at him, his foot brushing past Clark’s knee and-

“Bruce?” Diana calls out from the other room, the sound of her heels clicking growing louder and louder with each step.

She stands in the bathroom, hands on her hips, eyebrow raised in disapproving half-smile. “Boys,” Diana says, her tone chiding, “we have reservations in an hour.”

Dang. Clark had completely forgotten about dinner. But food is the last thing on his mind right now. “Dinner can wait, come join us.”

Bruce hums his agreement; the reservation is in his name after all, and it wouldn’t be the first time Bruce Wayne cancelled last minute. Or was unfashionably late. It might be the first time it’s because he’s relaxing not working himself to death though.

Diana sighs and kicks off her heels. Clark beams at her, feeling more and more like the cat that got the cream. Even better, he’s the man that got Batman and Wonder Woman.

“You’re a bad influence, Clark Kent,” Diana says as she slips off her dress, letting it pool on the floor, along with her underwear.

“Who me?” Clark says, the picture of innocence.

Bruce snorts and holds out a hand for Diana to help her into the tub. More water sloshes over the side, creeping across the tiles and soaking into Diana’s pile of clothes.

“Come here,” Clark says, arms stretched out to receive them. When neither moves, he sighs, and reaches out for them. Clark pulls them both close, their wet skin sliding slickly together like well oiled machine parts. They fit together, the three of them, pieces of a jigsaw, snug and at home in each others arms.

The three little ducks bump into each other, Superman between Wonder Woman and Batman. Perfect, Clark thinks, smiling contentedly at his ducky counterpart from between his lovers.

(superwonderbat whump for the prompt ‘cuddles as they wake up’)

Ao3

Summ:  Bruce wakes up with a headache and no memory of the night before. It's certainly not the first time it's happened, and he doubts it will be the last, but he hasn't had a morning like this since... in a long time. At least he’s in his own bed, the plush mattress as recognisable as his own scent on his sheets. But there’s another scent, something familiar that his fuzzy brain can’t pinpoint just yet.

Bruce wakes up with a headache and no memory of the night before. It's certainly not the first time it's happened, and he doubts it will be the last, but he hasn't had a morning like this since... in a long time. At least he’s in his own bed, the plush mattress as recognisable as his own scent on his sheets. But there’s another scent, something familiar that his fuzzy brain can’t pinpoint just yet.

The mattress moves on either side of him. Oh. The bodies beside him murmur and shuffle against the sheets. Again, not the first time he's woken up like this, surrounded by last night's exploits, and again, it hasn't happened in a while. He can’t have been out last night, not as Bruce Wayne at least. The headache is still there, but there’s no accompaniment of nausea, so it can’t be a hangover. What happened?

He cracks open an eyelid slowly, flinching at the sunlight glaring through the open drapes. Either Alfred has come in to check on him, like he has these last few months since the funeral, or he didn’t close them last night. He scrunches his eyes shut, taking a deep breath or two, before trying again. The bodies beside him must feel the tension returning to his body, waking quickly. All Bruce can see is a jumble of limbs and inky black hair.

"B?" The nickname melts against Bruce's shoulder, the rumble of Clark's voice reverberating through Bruce's chest.

"Bruce?" Diana now, her hair ticking the back of Bruce's bicep as she turns to face him.

"You're okay, you're safe," Clark says, his lips brushing Bruce's shoulder as he speaks, "how are you feeling?"

His breath hitches. He's in bed with Clark and Diana, with no recollection of the night before. The first half of that thought is a dream come true, but the gap in his memory? Shit. "What happened?"

Diana's brow furrows. "You don't remember?"

He pauses a moment, wracking his mind for something, anything, before shaking his head. What has he done? He resists the urge to lift up the blankets to see if he was still wearing pants.

"What's the last thing you do remember?" Diana says, her hand sliding across Bruce's bare abdomen.

"We didn't-" They wouldn't have, surely. He'd remember that. God, as if he would ever be able to forget if they did that.

But Diana cuts off his line of thinking, knowing exactly where his mind would go. "What do you remember?" Her tone is insistent.

There's a haze, but he remembers a cold sweat drenching every inch of him, a pain that wouldn't ebb. He remembers panic, like a flurry of bats, and the taste of bile on his tongue. "Scarecrow?" he asks, but he'd pretty certain of the answer.

"New strain of fear toxin," Clark says, and as if guessing Bruce's next thoughts, he adds, "everyone else is fine, it looked like you bore the brunt of the attack." Bruce nods, reassured. "Tim and Alfred were working on an antidote, but-"

"Not fast enough," Bruce rasps, throat raw. "That's why you're here." Here, at the Cave. It doesn't explain why they're here, in his bed. In his arms.

"They needed some help to restrain you while they worked on other things. Seems you're still a bit of an escape artist even when you're hallucinating."

Bruce shrugs. There’s no point denying it. Maybe he’ll speak to Nightwing about some more suitable restraints, or maybe Clark and Diana could help?

"You would not have hurt anyone in your state, so we could not sedate you." Or rather, they would not. Bruce is thankful for that, both that he didn't hurt anyone, and that they respected his wishes, even in the state he was in. "Besides," Diana adds, "the antidote was ready soon enough."

"And you were," Clark pauses, a blush rising on his cheeks, "a little attached to us, so we stayed."

Attached. Bruce rolls the word around his mind. It’s not something he’d use to describe himself, or his relationship with anyone else really. Attachments get people hurt, they get people, good people, good soldiers, killed. Bruce swallows, trying to dislodge the lump forming in his throat, and tries to remember last night to occupy his mind with other things.

He remembers Superman and Wonder Woman, fists raised, chasing away the bats and scarecrows and demons. He remembers arms around him that didn't dissolve into snakes or chains, arms that he clung to so tight he would have bruised them if they were human.

He remembers a voice, too small to be his own, begging them not to leave, not to leave him behind. He remembers warmth, not scalding heat, engulfing him, protecting him. He remembers Clark and Diana keeping him safe from his own mind. "Thank you," he says, in that same small voice, and he'd hate himself for it if he wasn't so grateful for them.

"Always, B." Clark's arms tighten around Bruce's torso, and it's then that Bruce remembers he's still in Clark and Diana's arms.

He can’t exactly complain, not even with the elbow nudging a bruised rib. Having Clark and Diana in his bed, in his arms, he never thought it possible, even as platonic as it is right now. "I didn't do anything stupid last night, did I?"

Diana scoffs, but her smile is soft, "other than trying to take down Scarecrow without backup, no."

"We're okay,” Clark adds, “and more importantly, you're okay."

Bruce grunts at that, unsure how else to reply, but there's still a question on his mind. "I see why you're here at the Manor, but why are you in my bed?"

The blush across Clark’s cheekbones deepens. “I did say you were a little attached.”

Oh no. Bruce groans, muffling his suffering with the pillows.

“Maybe that is something we should talk about?” Diana says thoughtfully.

Bruce lifts his face from the pillows to catch a glimpse of Diana’s expression, his hair falling across his forehead in the process. “What is there to say?” he asks, and he hates how callous it sounds.

She smiles at him, a little ruefully, and tightens her arms around his waist.

Pulling both Bruce and Diana closer, Clark says, “you know you can trust us, right?”

But Bruce already does. He trusts them, explicitly and wholly, and the notion doesn't terrify him anymore. If he's honest with himself, it hasn't for a while.

The memory emerges of their names on his tongue, his hands reaching out for them, and the word “stay”. Attachment. Bruce can't deny it. He trusted them enough to see him at his most vulnerable last night, and he begged them to stay. And they did; surely that means something?

But he trusts them, trusts them not to be spiteful with that responsibility. And he trusts them enough that he doesn't have to stifle a yawn, or hide the way his eyelids droop.

“Go back to sleep,” Diana murmurs, her words like warmed-over treacle, “you're safe.”

He trusts her, trusts them both, so he does.

(superwonderbat h/c for the prompt ‘cuddling between strangers’)

Ao3

Summ:  A Bruce from an alternate reality swaps places with Clark and Diana’s Bruce.

“Hey B,” the man above him smiles. He’s dressed hideously in plaid and denim, but his features aren’t necessarily unattractive: a strong jaw, clean-shaven, with windswept hair across his forehead. His eyes are ridiculously blue, so surreal that they have to be contacts. “How are you feeling?” The hand wrapped around Bruce’s own gives a gentle squeeze.

Bruce rips his hand from the man’s grip. “Do I know you?” he snarls, teeth bared just like his mother taught him. The full, Martha Wayne effect requires blood red lipstick, but Bruce makes do, narrowing his eyes sharply.

“Bruce?” The man’s eyes are wide, hurt evident in his gaze. He takes a few steps away from the bed, like Bruce’s words had been a blow to his gut.

Maybe Bruce should try that tactic next. He tries to leave the bed, to get out of this place, but he gets tangled in an IV line. It looks like a hospital, but it can’t be. It’s not nice enough to be a private room at Gotham Private hospital, and he’s the only patient so it can’t be a more public ward. Alarm bells are ringing in Bruce’s aching head. “Who the fuck are you? Where am I? Answer me!”

“Bruce, hey, calm down,” the man says. His hands are held up in surrender and he tries to step closer. “There was an attack, but you’re safe now. We brought you back to the Watchtower to keep you under observation. Did you hit your head or-”

A woman barrels into the room, a mane of untamable black hair spilling out from beneath some kind of tiara and down to her waist. She’s gorgeous, almost as tall as the man above him, with legs that could snap his neck given half a chance. She frowns as she crosses the room to stop at the man’s side, a hand at his elbow. “Kal, what’s wrong?”

“Bruce,” the man says, like it’s the only thing he can say. “Something’s wrong with Bruce.”

The woman comes closer, and at the lack of any protest from Bruce, she sits down on the edge of the bed. “Bruce, my love, are you alright?”

Love? “Am I meant to know you? This lady here is certainly not someone I could forget.” He winks up at her, but the woman seems unfazed by his charm.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks, brow furrowed.

Bruce thinks back. “A gala. My mother was throwing a ball for the 25th anniversary of her Arkham project.” And instead he’s here, of all places? His mother will be so disappointed not to see him in the crowd...

“You mother?” The surprise they both show seems to be sincere, but Bruce can’t pick why. If these people know him, or think they know him, they must surely know of his mother.

“Uhh, yeah. Martha Wayne, nee Kane, Gotham socialite, billionaire and raging philanthropist? She was on the cover of Time last month? Surely even a disaster like you,” he gestures to man, “saw that. It was everywhere.”

“He must be from an alternate timeline,” the man says lowly to his companion, a thoughtful expression stretched across his features. “Maybe in a reality where we never met. That electrical anomaly Ray reported might have switched this Bruce with ours.”

“Should I get the lasso? That way at least we can confirm his story, and figure out what exactly caused the supposed switch.”

Switched? Oh no. Are they serious? What kind of  crazy physics would be needed to create that kind of cross-time transferal? “Oh God,” Bruce mutters, “I’m in some crazy alternate dimension with some very attractive people people who are very into bondage.”

The woman turns sharply to look Bruce dead in the eye. Was that too far? Her gaze is piercing as she demands, “what is my name?”

Bruce wracks his brain but comes up empty. “Like I said before, if we’d met I certainly wouldn’t forget it. I always remember a pretty, well, a pretty everything.”

It’s a compliment, but the woman seems resigned at his words. Odd. She purses her lips for a moment before schooling her features. “My name is Diana, and this is Clark. In our world, you are... very important to us.”

Important. There’s so much he could read into that. The woman -Diana’s- vague words are hedging a deeper truth, and he doesn’t need to be a detective to figure that one out. “So this other me, was he your boyfriend or something?” he asks the woman. Both Clark and Diana nod. “Wait what?”

Diana smiles despite the sadness in her eyes. “There are some people that call us the trinity, and we are, in more ways than one.”

Again with the vague answers. His mother would say that these people are hiding something, or maybe that they’re so used to hiding this. His mother. Panic washes over him, ice cold. “Why were you surprised about my mother? Where is she? Did something happen to her?” The sheer thought of something bad happening to that women makes his eyes burn. Blunt nails dig into his palms to try and stave off the tears. He’s a grown man, for God’s sake, but damn it, where is his mother?

“Bruce,” Diana says, a hand running up and down Bruce’s spine, “we will get you home, and you will see her again. I promise you that.”

“Where. Is. My. Mother?” He grits his teeth, ready for a fight. If these people claim to know him, they know he won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“She isn’t here, Bruce. There’s no Martha Wayne here anymore.” Clark puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. When the man moved closer, Bruce isn’t sure. “She, uhh, she died.”

Bruce feels the colour drain from his face. “What?”

Clark takes a heavy breath and continues, “She and your father were killed when you were twelve. Their deaths made you -our Bruce- the man he is today. His dedication to justice comes from what happened to them. That’s why we were surprised to hear about your mother.”

Dead. Both his parents, dead. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “No. No, no, no.” Bruce gasps, trying to get air into his uncooperative lungs. The rational part of him that always sounds like his father tells him that it’s not his parents, not his mother, but it does little to stop the onslaught of sobs that wrack his body.

Strong arms pull him close and into a tight embrace. From either side, Clark and Diana hug him, hold him as he cries. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” Diana whispers into his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Bruce just nods and cries harder against Clark’s chest.

The sun streaming in through the window wakes Spar up. Groaning in protest, he tries to block it out by shoving his face into his pillow. Cort snickers. Tugging Spar with the arm he already had slung over Spar’s waist, he pulls Spar to face him instead of the window.

“Regretting coming to visit Concord Dawn?” Cort asks as Spar shoves his face into Cort’s chest.

“Regretting staying with an utreekov that doesn’t own curtains.”

Cort’s laughter shakes his chest. Spar bites him in retaliation and Cort laughs harder. “If you feel that strongly about it we can go into town and buy some.”

Here!! Hope you enjoy 🥺🥺