Unheard Conversations
Title: Unheard Conversations
Fandom: DC
Pairings: Bruce/Clark; various
Characters: Various
Word Count: Varies (none of them are long)
Rating: PG (for the most part)
Warnings: None
Synopsis:
Conversations are strange at best when you don't know how they start, what people are talking about, and just how misconstrued some conversations are when overheard by others.
( Conversation One ) -
Where we warp a famous Children's Book. Word count: 1,447 (slightly taboo)
( Conversation Two ) -
In which mine is Bigger than Yours. Word count: 956 (Extremely suggestive)
( Conversation Three ) -
In which positions are discussed. Word count: 1,125 (Really Suggestive! lol)
( Conversation Four ) -
In which Perry learns not to ask Questions. Word count: 1,229 (Just plain silly.)
The next conversation -
Conversation Five: In which Cultures Kiss Violently. Word count: 1,582 (Racial. Taboo? A lil' bit.)
Conversation 5: In which Cultures Kiss Violently
(And you KNOW this is true. So stop LYING!)
Bruce could only tilt his head curiously. Anything else he could have done or said would have just been wrong somehow. He waited, listened to the oncoming noise that was booming down the street, and sighed heavily knowing who and what it was. He didn’t understand it. He just couldn’t quite understand it, nor did he try to. Trying to make sense of it made his head hurt, and his head hurt enough from the knocks he took last night whilst dealing with the freaky jokers and their shapely but crazed harlequins. Part of him wondered if it was indeed a bad thing to want to be grinning madly instead of listening to what the hell was coming down the way, stopping in front of him long enough for the occupant behind the wheel to roll his window down.
“Get in.”
Bruce rolled his eyes, slipping into the comfortable and clean Cadillac that was gleaming brightly under the morning sun. It smelt of spice and whatever breakfast John happened to whoof down on the way, which made it seem all the more…house-broken? He didn’t know just how to place it, but it was comfortable and a nice change from the upholstery of the back of some foreign limo.
He aimlessly swatted at the fuzzy dice hanging in the mirror, smiling a bit at the frowning man sitting behind the wheel as he put the car back in motion. The music blared again, and Bruce was forced to sit there and take it like a man.
After about a minute, John grinned a little and turned it down. “You’ve got balls to sit here and not complain,” he mentioned.
“It’s better than it being quiet,” Bruce admitted. “Listening to this…whatever it is.”
“It’s called Hip-hop…though the definition of it has varied vastly in the coming years,” John said wistfully. “Before, when it first came into fruition, they were talking about the real deal. What was going on then and applying it to the masses in a sure way to get their attention…music. Now...” John snorted a bit, pushing his foot on the break to stop at a nearby light, “Now it’s all about the materials…all about the booty. Sorry, Booh-tah.”
“I thought that was a good thing?”
“Nah. In some cases, like in the club, yeah it’s all right,” John said. “No one’s really thinking about the lyrics too much. A good beat tends to get every ass shaking. No, when it’s being lived, and people forget that materials are only good for as long as they are valued, then it’s not okay. But, sometimes listening to it tends to keep you from thinking too much, or thinking about something else entirely.”
“Like Rock and Roll when it first became a revolution,” Bruce mused.
John canted a brow at him. “What do you know about Rock and Roll?”
“Enough. I don’t just listen to Tchaikovsky all day,” he said. “I listen to a bit of everything under the sun.”
The light turned, and Bruce was spared the skeptical glance John gave him. “Right, and my mama doesn’t know how to make fried Chicken.”
“Even if she didn’t, there’s always KFC.”
“Bo’jangles dude. Get with the colored program.”
“It’s kind of hard to when there is no certain color at this given point,” Bruce sighed. He leaned back in his seat, enjoying the soft scent of whatever was drifting up his nose. It was perhaps one of the main reasons he didn’t mind riding with John when he needed something. John kept silent, though he did shove Bruce a bit to make him finish the unspoken thought sitting tightly on his tongue.
“You know you can’t say shit like that and not explain,” John said. “Spill it.”
“It’s exactly how it sounds. There is no defining color or culture unless one goes to other continents, and even THEN there is no clear cut origin. Just pieces of the past mingling with the present…and shit,” he cursed, rubbing the back of his head tiredly, “how in the hell can we claim to have culture when Mexicans are running Chinese stores and Caucasians are becoming ignorant thugs while African Americans are climbing the corporate ladders and compromising their cultures because they chose to be better? What in the hell is wrong with learning to speak proper English?”
“I don’t know,” John laughed. “My people tend to scream that their own folk is ‘white’ when we’re educated enough to spell something without looking it up through the friend network.”
“What the hell does ‘acting white’ mean anyhow?”
John shrugged a laughed a bit. “The hell if I know. It means so many things to different people, it’s a wonder we haven’t all killed one another in a sea of fucked up fire.”
“…what do people say when they see you with Wally?”
“Same ol’ shit…only it’s a little worse because he’s a man…and white on top of it. Personally,” he smirked, easing into the next lane to get onto the bridge, “I think it makes him cute as hell.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Hell yes it bothers me. It bothers me to the point where I wonder why I’m not in jail…but then I really don’t care enough to make something of myself in a negative light…because I love that little red head too much to deck the next ignorant fuck-tard in his damn face for saying something smart-assed.”
“Eloquent.”
John grinned widely at the shark like sideways smiling sneer he was getting. “Blatant. I’m sure you have your share of issues.”
“Surprisingly enough, yeah…I do. Girls spread their legs faster for me because of my money, and guys bend over with just a look.”
“How is that bad?”
“They are quick to pick a fight with Clark,” he sighed tiredly. He rubbed his face a little, trying not to growl. “They think just because the man is shy that he’s dumb, and because of my status, people think I’m fucking a brick wall, or that he’s with me to keep his dirty little secret, whatever the hell that is. I hate upper crust assholes, and half of the times I wish I wasn’t so tied down with money that I can freely fucking punch half the douche-bags who think I’m some walking prick waiting to fuck anything in my way. Can I touch?”
“Man, just don’t start playing anything that’s going to get your ass whipped.”
Bruce tapped the tuner button on the radio, reminded of that Rush Hour movie. He was half expecting John to say it, but John was above that. He said it without saying it. “Kinky Green eyed Bastard.”
“And you love it. Turn that UP.”
Bruce complied, sitting back again as the sound of cars aside them whizzing by in their own haste was drowned out by the sounds of a well known band that could be found blaring in the ears of youth today and surprisingly them. He let the beat wash over him, the words screamed but making sense to his soul. He toyed with closing his eyes and letting his mind drift, but he caught himself grinning with John pushing the gas another five miles above the speed limit, singing the next verse.
And I'm not a robot
I'm not a monkey
I will not dance even if the beat's funky
Opposite of lazy / far from a punk
Ya'll ought to stop talking start trying to catch up motherfucker
“You know Dick would probably piss his pants if he knew you sung Linkin Park,” John laughed.
“I like Disturbed as well,” Bruce said as he chuckled lightly. “I like a lot of underground bands…but I won’t say no to some KMFDM.”
“…I should be ashamed that I know of them.”
“Why? Someone might scream sheep in wolf’s clothing?”
John barked a loud laugh and slapped Bruce in his chuckling knee. “Shut up, Wonder-Bread.”
“Should I be offended?”
“No more offended than I am at Wild Cherry.”
“Does it look like I play Funky music?”
“Nope. You look like more the Bee-Gees type.”
Bruce snorted and folded his arms in mock anger. “I’ll have you know that John Travolta strutted with the best of them.”
“And stole it all from the Black man. Face it, white men can’t dance…often. Excluding your ass,” John smirked. Bruce couldn’t keep from smiling, popping the laughing man in his shoulder as he said, “I’m sure you could drop it like it’s hot as well as foxtrot!”
“I think the world might end if people knew that you knew how to foxtrot…and knew what it was.”
John shrugged. “Who says the world hasn’t ended? I’m in this car, listening to Linkin Park, sitting my poor black ass next to a white billionaire who owns half of Gotham and is talking freely.” He looked over at Bruce, giving him a cheesy grin than was echoed freely in the quiet domain of their vehicle. “I’m all for Armageddon if this doesn’t stop anytime soon. I like talking to you. You’re not full of shit…usually.”
“I could say the same of you, although…can you NOT play that damn song the next time you pick me up?”
“Man, I thought you liked ‘Bruh Bruh!’ ”
“Blame my white ignorance….but what in the hell does that mean?!”
John turned off of the bridge and laughed long and hard. “Don’t ever change Bruce.”
The next Conversation is Conversation Six: In which areas are examined.
I'll leave you to guess until tomorrow. ^-^ Topic drops welcomed.
Fandom: DC
Pairings: Bruce/Clark; various
Characters: Various
Word Count: Varies (none of them are long)
Rating: PG (for the most part)
Warnings: None
Synopsis:
Conversations are strange at best when you don't know how they start, what people are talking about, and just how misconstrued some conversations are when overheard by others.
( Conversation One ) -
Where we warp a famous Children's Book. Word count: 1,447 (slightly taboo)
( Conversation Two ) -
In which mine is Bigger than Yours. Word count: 956 (Extremely suggestive)
( Conversation Three ) -
In which positions are discussed. Word count: 1,125 (Really Suggestive! lol)
( Conversation Four ) -
In which Perry learns not to ask Questions. Word count: 1,229 (Just plain silly.)
The next conversation -
Conversation Five: In which Cultures Kiss Violently. Word count: 1,582 (Racial. Taboo? A lil' bit.)
Conversation 5: In which Cultures Kiss Violently
(And you KNOW this is true. So stop LYING!)
Bruce could only tilt his head curiously. Anything else he could have done or said would have just been wrong somehow. He waited, listened to the oncoming noise that was booming down the street, and sighed heavily knowing who and what it was. He didn’t understand it. He just couldn’t quite understand it, nor did he try to. Trying to make sense of it made his head hurt, and his head hurt enough from the knocks he took last night whilst dealing with the freaky jokers and their shapely but crazed harlequins. Part of him wondered if it was indeed a bad thing to want to be grinning madly instead of listening to what the hell was coming down the way, stopping in front of him long enough for the occupant behind the wheel to roll his window down.
“Get in.”
Bruce rolled his eyes, slipping into the comfortable and clean Cadillac that was gleaming brightly under the morning sun. It smelt of spice and whatever breakfast John happened to whoof down on the way, which made it seem all the more…house-broken? He didn’t know just how to place it, but it was comfortable and a nice change from the upholstery of the back of some foreign limo.
He aimlessly swatted at the fuzzy dice hanging in the mirror, smiling a bit at the frowning man sitting behind the wheel as he put the car back in motion. The music blared again, and Bruce was forced to sit there and take it like a man.
After about a minute, John grinned a little and turned it down. “You’ve got balls to sit here and not complain,” he mentioned.
“It’s better than it being quiet,” Bruce admitted. “Listening to this…whatever it is.”
“It’s called Hip-hop…though the definition of it has varied vastly in the coming years,” John said wistfully. “Before, when it first came into fruition, they were talking about the real deal. What was going on then and applying it to the masses in a sure way to get their attention…music. Now...” John snorted a bit, pushing his foot on the break to stop at a nearby light, “Now it’s all about the materials…all about the booty. Sorry, Booh-tah.”
“I thought that was a good thing?”
“Nah. In some cases, like in the club, yeah it’s all right,” John said. “No one’s really thinking about the lyrics too much. A good beat tends to get every ass shaking. No, when it’s being lived, and people forget that materials are only good for as long as they are valued, then it’s not okay. But, sometimes listening to it tends to keep you from thinking too much, or thinking about something else entirely.”
“Like Rock and Roll when it first became a revolution,” Bruce mused.
John canted a brow at him. “What do you know about Rock and Roll?”
“Enough. I don’t just listen to Tchaikovsky all day,” he said. “I listen to a bit of everything under the sun.”
The light turned, and Bruce was spared the skeptical glance John gave him. “Right, and my mama doesn’t know how to make fried Chicken.”
“Even if she didn’t, there’s always KFC.”
“Bo’jangles dude. Get with the colored program.”
“It’s kind of hard to when there is no certain color at this given point,” Bruce sighed. He leaned back in his seat, enjoying the soft scent of whatever was drifting up his nose. It was perhaps one of the main reasons he didn’t mind riding with John when he needed something. John kept silent, though he did shove Bruce a bit to make him finish the unspoken thought sitting tightly on his tongue.
“You know you can’t say shit like that and not explain,” John said. “Spill it.”
“It’s exactly how it sounds. There is no defining color or culture unless one goes to other continents, and even THEN there is no clear cut origin. Just pieces of the past mingling with the present…and shit,” he cursed, rubbing the back of his head tiredly, “how in the hell can we claim to have culture when Mexicans are running Chinese stores and Caucasians are becoming ignorant thugs while African Americans are climbing the corporate ladders and compromising their cultures because they chose to be better? What in the hell is wrong with learning to speak proper English?”
“I don’t know,” John laughed. “My people tend to scream that their own folk is ‘white’ when we’re educated enough to spell something without looking it up through the friend network.”
“What the hell does ‘acting white’ mean anyhow?”
John shrugged a laughed a bit. “The hell if I know. It means so many things to different people, it’s a wonder we haven’t all killed one another in a sea of fucked up fire.”
“…what do people say when they see you with Wally?”
“Same ol’ shit…only it’s a little worse because he’s a man…and white on top of it. Personally,” he smirked, easing into the next lane to get onto the bridge, “I think it makes him cute as hell.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Hell yes it bothers me. It bothers me to the point where I wonder why I’m not in jail…but then I really don’t care enough to make something of myself in a negative light…because I love that little red head too much to deck the next ignorant fuck-tard in his damn face for saying something smart-assed.”
“Eloquent.”
John grinned widely at the shark like sideways smiling sneer he was getting. “Blatant. I’m sure you have your share of issues.”
“Surprisingly enough, yeah…I do. Girls spread their legs faster for me because of my money, and guys bend over with just a look.”
“How is that bad?”
“They are quick to pick a fight with Clark,” he sighed tiredly. He rubbed his face a little, trying not to growl. “They think just because the man is shy that he’s dumb, and because of my status, people think I’m fucking a brick wall, or that he’s with me to keep his dirty little secret, whatever the hell that is. I hate upper crust assholes, and half of the times I wish I wasn’t so tied down with money that I can freely fucking punch half the douche-bags who think I’m some walking prick waiting to fuck anything in my way. Can I touch?”
“Man, just don’t start playing anything that’s going to get your ass whipped.”
Bruce tapped the tuner button on the radio, reminded of that Rush Hour movie. He was half expecting John to say it, but John was above that. He said it without saying it. “Kinky Green eyed Bastard.”
“And you love it. Turn that UP.”
Bruce complied, sitting back again as the sound of cars aside them whizzing by in their own haste was drowned out by the sounds of a well known band that could be found blaring in the ears of youth today and surprisingly them. He let the beat wash over him, the words screamed but making sense to his soul. He toyed with closing his eyes and letting his mind drift, but he caught himself grinning with John pushing the gas another five miles above the speed limit, singing the next verse.
And I'm not a robot
I'm not a monkey
I will not dance even if the beat's funky
Opposite of lazy / far from a punk
Ya'll ought to stop talking start trying to catch up motherfucker
“You know Dick would probably piss his pants if he knew you sung Linkin Park,” John laughed.
“I like Disturbed as well,” Bruce said as he chuckled lightly. “I like a lot of underground bands…but I won’t say no to some KMFDM.”
“…I should be ashamed that I know of them.”
“Why? Someone might scream sheep in wolf’s clothing?”
John barked a loud laugh and slapped Bruce in his chuckling knee. “Shut up, Wonder-Bread.”
“Should I be offended?”
“No more offended than I am at Wild Cherry.”
“Does it look like I play Funky music?”
“Nope. You look like more the Bee-Gees type.”
Bruce snorted and folded his arms in mock anger. “I’ll have you know that John Travolta strutted with the best of them.”
“And stole it all from the Black man. Face it, white men can’t dance…often. Excluding your ass,” John smirked. Bruce couldn’t keep from smiling, popping the laughing man in his shoulder as he said, “I’m sure you could drop it like it’s hot as well as foxtrot!”
“I think the world might end if people knew that you knew how to foxtrot…and knew what it was.”
John shrugged. “Who says the world hasn’t ended? I’m in this car, listening to Linkin Park, sitting my poor black ass next to a white billionaire who owns half of Gotham and is talking freely.” He looked over at Bruce, giving him a cheesy grin than was echoed freely in the quiet domain of their vehicle. “I’m all for Armageddon if this doesn’t stop anytime soon. I like talking to you. You’re not full of shit…usually.”
“I could say the same of you, although…can you NOT play that damn song the next time you pick me up?”
“Man, I thought you liked ‘Bruh Bruh!’ ”
“Blame my white ignorance….but what in the hell does that mean?!”
John turned off of the bridge and laughed long and hard. “Don’t ever change Bruce.”
The next Conversation is Conversation Six: In which areas are examined.
I'll leave you to guess until tomorrow. ^-^ Topic drops welcomed.