dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

Please have a look at the extended rules here.

The important rules in short:

Post anonymously.
Negative comments on other people's prompts (kink-shaming, pairing-bashing etc.) and personal attacks of any kind will not be tolerated.
One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
Prompts should follow the format: Character/character, prompt.
Keep prompts to a reasonable length; prompts should not be detailed story outlines.
No prompt spamming.

Please direct any questions to the Ask a mod post. For inspiration: list of kinks .

Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

Here's the discussion post for all your non-prompt/fill needs.

We now have a non-DCEU prompt post for any prompts in other 'verses (comics, animated series, other movies or TV shows etc.).

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Bruce putting Clark in kryptonite-reinforced chains/handcuffs. Bruce gets off on the ultimate power kink of having Superman at his mercy. Clark gets off on the unfamiliar feeling of actually not being able to free himself.

Even after Clark comes back from the dead and he and Bruce start working together, there's a lot of tension between them, and when they fuck, it's usually rough and angry. It takes them months, if not years, until they're actually tender and gentle with each other (can either be just one time, or a slow build-up of increasing gentleness). While still being emotionally constipated idiots who sure as hell aren't going to talk about why they've started being nicer to each other.

I'd love to read about Diana tying Bruce up with her magic lasso, bending him over and then fucking him nice and deep with a nice, big strap-on. It ends up being one of the most intense sexual experiences he's ever had.

Bonus for unresolved Superman feelings.

To distract Lex from villaining, Bruce seduces him into a D/s relationship and takes him in hand. Think of a m/m "50 Shades of Grey" type thing but with more manipulation and seduction rather than outright coercion. I'd love it if Bruce were very paternal and caring, but also manipulative, training Lex to please him in sexually in exactly the ways he likes most.

Bonus for anal training and anal penetration as an act of dominance. (Especially if it involves Bruce training Lex's ass to take his fist.)

Bonus for bondage and various forms of painplay.

Bonus for Bruce manipulating Lex to do things things he initially isn't keen on, and conditioning him to like them.

Feel free to go wild with the kinks; the only thing I ask is no permanent mutilation although tattooing, branding or otherwise permanently marking Lex are OK.

A bit specific, but I really want Bruce yanking Clark's hair to bare his throat and growling "son" in his ear. I don't really care how you make that happen. :D

Clark has a really, really big dick, to the point where Bruce needs lots and lots of stretching before he can take him. Give me Clark fingering Bruce open for a long time, with lots of lube, and it still burns and hurts when he finally fucks Bruce, and Bruce loves feeling so full.

Bonus if Clark has never actually fucked anyone before because his previous sexual partners couldn't take his big cock, at least not all the way.

I just need Mercy fucking Lex with the biggest strap on ever.

Bruce uses that Bat iron to brand Clark in bed knowing it won't really leave a mark.

And then comes the day when Clark wants him to use a Kryptonite infused brand so that the mark will stay and the two will know who he really belongs to.

Some pain play and temperature play would be great!

Someone captures Superman and puts him up for bid on some weird high scale black market sex auction.

Cue the bidding war between Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor.

(I was loving the fill on the other kinkmeme, but I admit I'm also greedy and don't mind multiple fills)

Maybe alien tentacles inside of a space ship made it happen. Maybe Lex raped Clark or injected him with something. Maybe Bruce is the dad. I don't care how it happens, but I ultimately just want Clark FREAKING OUT about being pregnant. And he's just at his wits end because Kryptonian natural births haven't been a thing for many years so there's not many resources for him to turn to.

So since he's stuck six feet under, Clark can't exactly heal as fast as he can since the yellow sun isn't reaching him. So he's going to be stuck in that coffin for awhile in a weakened state maybe even long enough to develop a fear of small, dark enclosed spaces.

Long story short, Bruce helps Clark get over this fear of the dark by having rough sex with him in the dark and growling encouragements in his ear.

For some reason (gathering intelligence somewhere?), Bruce and Clark have to pretend to be a couple, while they don't sleep with each other yet. They're both kinda grumpy about it, but Clark still gets the full charming playboy treatment once Bruce has started pretending to be his date. And he realises he's actually into it.

Clark fucking Bruce so long and hard and rough that Bruce turns into a shivering, exhausted mess and eventually passes out.

Bonus if the whole thing was Bruce's idea because he figured that'd get him a good night's sleep for once. And he had to talk Clark into it because Clark was worried about hurting him, but eventually goes along with it.

Bruce has dozed for ten minutes, may be twenty. Long enough for sweat to dry and the feverish heat of sex to fade, and enough that Clark has drifted off next to him, hands tucked against his face, hair in disarray against the sheets. He doesn’t need to sleep, of course, but Bruce appreciates the solidarity even as he resents how easily Clark can punch out.

He is tired, always is, but it’s the wrong kind of weariness. Physically exhausting himself generally works to knock him out cold; his best sleep is always after a long night of gruelling patrol. It switches him off at the plug and doesn’t give his brain a chance to boot up the static of his memories.

But with Clark and Diana on-side, there’s not so much heavy lifting to do. He hasn’t been coming home at dawn and dropping into a stone-cold stupor, and that’s the real kicker. Instead, he lies in bed as his mind dredges up whatever bullshit it wants to torture him with that particular morning and keeps looping over and over and over, wearing him out but not letting him go.

(That’s why Clark first came to him, heard him tossing and turning a city away.)

Bruce sighs lightly and closes his eyes again. Just a half-hour of peace. That’s all he asks.

After three hundred and forty-seven futile seconds, he rolls out of bed--lets the dipped mattress up gently--throws on some sweats and goes to beat the fuck out of his punchbag.

*

“It’s only just gone seven,” Clark says, leaning in the gym doorway. He scrubs his hair back, misbuttoned shirt riding up over his stomach, jeans slung low on his slim hips. He gives Bruce a sweetly bemused raise of his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t come on Bruce’s chest less than an hour ago.

Bruce lays a mean one-two into the bag, a dull thud-thud and the jangle of the chain. “Nowhere I have to be today,” he says, shakes the impact out of his knuckles. “And I can’t sleep.”

“Bats in your belfry, huh,” Clark says.

Bruce glances at him sharply, but there’s nothing but sympathy on Clark’s face. He batters at the bag a few more times, welcomes the burn in the muscles of his arms.

“Hey. Come back to bed.”

“And stare at the ceiling some more? No thanks.”

“Well,” Clark wraps one arm around the punchbag, stilling it. He draws a finger over Bruce’s sweat-slick collarbone. “I thought you might find a better way to wear yourself out.”

“Heh,” Bruce says, huffs out the breath like it’s a release valve. He tugs at Clark’s shirt collar, brings him in so he can kiss that earnest mouth of his and feel it curve into a smile against his lips. “Or we could stay down here.”

“Hmm.”

It certainly doesn’t take a genius to know when Clark is being accommodating, and the man allows Bruce to manhandle him into position, hanging on the punchbag, hips tilted back. “Spread ‘em,” Bruce growls in his ear, and slaps Clark’s hip when he gets gentle laughter in response.

“You say that to all the boys?” Clark says, over his shoulder.

“Only the troublemakers.” Bruce slides his hand over the broad expanse of Clark’s shoulders, down the slabbed muscle of his back and then around his stomach, over the solid geometry of his abdomen. When he thumbs the button of Clark’s fly, he’s already half-hard, hot against Bruce’s palm and stiffening quickly when Bruce squeezes him and lets go.

Clark makes a breathy sound and presses back, encourages Bruce to slip his jeans down over his thighs. “Best behavior, then,” he says, in a filthy murmur that has no right coming from that face. “Scout’s honor.”

Bruce drags two fingers over Clark’s lips and he opens his mouth, takes them in. Clark sucks obediently, tongue working over the digits, nips and scrapes of his teeth like he can glean all of Bruce’s secrets from his fingerprints.

Bruce grunts and takes his hand away, leans in to kiss Clark’s ear as he works his slicked fingers inside. Clark sighs and trembles and Bruce can tell he is trying not to clench; his thigh muscles are tight with restraint. Bruce doesn’t get to do this often--Clark is adamant that it’s dangerous either way, no matter how many times Bruce insists he can take it--and maybe this is just a pity thing, amelioration for his rough morning, but Bruce won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Bruce,” Clark is saying, arms tense where he’s gripping the punchbag. “Bruce…”

Between the adrenaline from his workout and the haziness of not enough sleep, Bruce realizes he’s been at a disconnect from his body, something that comes slamming back into place with Clark’s plaintive gasps. He is hard, straining in his sweatpants with an erection that easily qualifies him to challenge Clark for the Man of Steel title. He licks his palm, strokes himself. “Is it enough?”

“Fine, it’s fine,” Clark says, “come on.”

Bruce butts the head of his cock against Clark’s ass, eases in slowly as though he might actually hurt the guy. There’s a little too much friction but it feels good for now, satisfying in the same way that stitching up a wound is, or pulling out a splinter.

“Fuck,” Bruce says, under his breath, and Clark jerks his hips at that, seats him completely inside. Bruce spreads his hand on the small of Clark’s back, feels the interplay of muscles under his palm. He groans and slides himself halfway out only for Clark to push back onto his cock again.

“You’ll never get to sleep at this rate, Bruce.”

“I’m just warming up.” Bruce grabs his hips and gets deeper with a series of short thrusts that make the punchbag swing and Clark brace himself hard, muscles shuddering around Bruce’s cock. There’s something heady about taking Clark like this, to have the Superman gasping and vulnerable under him, and there’s also something humbling about how quickly Clark has come to trust him. Bruce wonders sometimes why he thought the amiable farmboy was an act and not as much the heart of him as the cape is.

(Bruce tries not to think about the boot on his throat, the fear in his eyes at his sudden mortality.

He fails.)

He picks up a relentless pace, one hand tight enough on Clark’s hip to leave bruises, if he ever bruised, the other curled into the hair at the nape of his neck. Clark’s turned his head, pillowed his cheek against the canvas of the punchbag. Maybe he can smell the musk of Bruce’s sweat there, or pinpricks of blood left by the imprints of his knuckles. Either way his eyes are closed, mouth parted, a determined set to his brow as though he’s concentrating on the pure sensation of it.

Bruce can’t blame him; he’s rapidly getting out of control, slamming into Clark just to hear the soft noises he makes, the way he bites at his lower lip. He presses his forehead against Clark’s back, grinds deep and his orgasm is like being hit in the spine with a crowbar, leaves him slumped over Clark’s body and blinking away dark blots at the edge of his vision. He can feel his pulse thundering, and under it in counterpoint, Clark’s steady, slow heartbeat.

He slides out, palms at the firm flesh of Clark’s inner thigh, gathers the slickness he’s left there. When he touches Clark’s cock, the man groans and shifts and the punchbag creaks. Fragments of plaster dust scatter from the ceiling.

“Steady,” Bruce says, even as his own legs are in danger of dumping him on the floor. His endorphins are settling to a satisfying ebb, and maybe if he closed his eyes he could sleep for a while, but he’d just be skimming. He needs to be put out of commission.

He works at Clark’s cock, rough twists of his hand over the head and slow, teasing strokes down its length. When he’s close, read in the telltale tensing and relaxing of his body, Bruce backs off, leaves him hanging there.

“Oh, you are not,” Clark says, and there’s the spark, there’s what Bruce is looking for. Clark wraps one arm around his waist, pulls flush and kisses him roughly, hand grabbing his ass, and Bruce breaks the kiss to flash him his best rakish Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy grin.

The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back in the bedroom.

*

(More porn to come soon. Lots more! Also happy for other anons to contribute misc debauched sex acts to the Fuck Bruce Wayne To Sleep Foundation.)

reposting my prompt from the lj kinkmeme

Clark lets Bruce work out his issues on his indestructible body. He doesn't get off on being beaten, but he loves that Bruce would trust him enough to show his most violent streak that he has to rein in when fighting criminals.

(Inspired by the moment in A Death in the Family where Bruce lets out his anger at the Joker and Jason's death by punching Clark, who not only doesn't stop him but is considerate enough to roll with the punch so Bruce doesn't break any bones. [scans: http://imgur.com/a/fcWva] I'd love to see this with BvS Bruce and Clark)

Oo, thanks for providing a link to the scan. Now I'm trying to picture scenarios, and it'd be pretty easy since BvS Bruce has a lot of anger.

This got pretty long and now has dressed, semi-public, slightly competitive bathroom sex. :D

http://archiveofourown.org/works/6556504

A little preview:

Clark braced himself with both hands on the sides of the stall, his back turned to Bruce, and he could feel the warm press of Bruce's body against his own, so maddeningly close, with no kevlar and leather in the way, just the soft, decadently expensive fabric of Bruce's suit and the rougher scratch of Clark's own clothes. Hot breath washed over the back of his neck, and Bruce's hand was still in his hair, his grip so strong that Clark imagined any human would be wincing in pain. Slender and manicured and yet so clearly not the hands of an idle billionaire.

Another hard pull – not enough to make Superman move against his will, but Clark wasn't Superman here, he was just Clark Kent, just a reporter cornered in a bathroom stall by one of the richest, most powerful men in America, and he let his head be pulled back, bared his throat and felt a strange thrill go through him, as if this actually made him vulnerable. And in a way the uncertainty of what exactly Bruce was up to made him feel that way. He'd seen Bruce angry and that wasn't what this was. But Bruce had to be playing same kind of game. Maybe he was simply trying to make Clark uncomfortable, make him flush and pull away in outrage and shove his way past Bruce.

Clark couldn't help the heat in his cheeks, but he sure as hell wasn't going to give Bruce the satisfaction of making him react like a shy country boy who'd never been hit on by a man before.

Bruce was leaning in until his nose brushed Clark's neck just above his collar, breathed in deeply before he kissed his skin. A shudder went through Clark's body, for all that he tried to hold still. He was acutely aware that, even when he wasn't slouching, Bruce was taller than him, just enough to be noticeable.

“You think I didn't notice that you were watching me, son?” Bruce growled, and this time the sound of his voice caused more than only a shudder, more than just goosebumps on the back of Clark's neck. His breath caught and he felt himself harden. Behind him Bruce's heartbeat was slow and steady as a machine, as if this was nothing to Bruce, as if Bruce did something like this every day. Maybe he did.

This is fabulous. Everything about Bruce's insomnia is perfect, and I love how much of their personalities you get across in a single porn scene. I'm eagerly anticipating part 2!

Also I may have laughed horribly at his orgasm is like being hit in the spine with a crowbar.

OP here, and this is wonderful! I love everything about this, your style is beautiful and your characterisation is great and I'm so excited that there's going to be more!

(That’s why Clark first came to him, heard him tossing and turning a city away.)
This is such a great idea and I feel like that should be a whole fic on its own. I should prompt this. :D Hastily dressed Clark is super hot, btw, I loved that. And haha, the "bats in your belfry" line, cute. I love concerned Clark trying to help, but also being kind of playful and adorable.

Also, FUCK, them fucking against the punching bag is super hot, that never would have occurred to me, but it's amazing.

“Best behavior, then,” he says, in a filthy murmur that has no right coming from that face. “Scout’s honor.”
Unf, unf, unf, anon. :D And this entire bit is absolutely amazing in every possible way:
There’s something heady about taking Clark like this, to have the Superman gasping and vulnerable under him, and there’s also something humbling about how quickly Clark has come to trust him. Bruce wonders sometimes why he thought the amiable farmboy was an act and not as much the heart of him as the cape is.

(Bruce tries not to think about the boot on his throat, the fear in his eyes at his sudden mortality.

He fails.)

He needs to be put out of commission.
This line is hotter than it has any right to be, holy shit. And Bruce teasing Clark and Clark grabbing him then, fuck yes. I can't wait for the continuation of this because I am so here for Clark, eh, putting Bruce out of commission. :D You rock, anon author.

I thought that Clark almost looked turned on when Bruce scratches his cheek with that kryptonite spear. It made me want Clark with a pain kink who's just so amazed that anything can hurt him and it's the most exciting feeling ever for him. And who better to give him some pain and rough sex and kryptonite pressed to his throat than Batman?

Bit of bloodplay would be a bonus.

Either direction is good. Bruce choking Clark (maybe near some kryptonite so Clark actually feels weakened), Clark choking Bruce who's freaked out by how much he likes it, mutual choking, all the choking. :D

Bonus if there's some more gentle throat-petting going on, or grabbing each other by the throat while fucking.

A/N: It's been a few years since I've written fic (and even longer since I wrote smut), so forgive any rustiness! I welcome (and would really like to read) others' takes on this prompt.

---

It shouldn't work. Really, it shouldn't. Bruce - Batman - had spent most of their short acquaintance valiantly attempting to defeat him, and Clark in turn had done the same. But then Clark was back, and Bruce was there, and things just happened. Clark had wondered what to call it once, sitting up in bed and staring down at his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor, trying to parse out whether or not he ought to get dressed and leave or not. Bruce had told him to stay or leave at his own discretion; what they had was an arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. They're both men with a lot on their plates. They've certainly got to blow off steam somewhere.

What that had led to was a lot of sex, and a little something else, something neither of them knew how to define, and something that Clark didn't dare give voice to. Thankfully, he found that they didn't get a whole lot of talking done, so it was more or less immaterial in the long run.

And hell, the sex was good. It was damn good. Whenever Clark had seen Bruce sway his around one party or another, limbs loose and languid, a suggestive smirk tugging at the corner of his lip, he could only imagine him in bed as a slow lover, someone who would take his time meandering his way to pleasure. He couldn't have been more wrong. Instead, what he got was every ounce of Batman's laser focus, hot and heavy, and one hundred percent on him. Bruce seemed to regard getting Clark off as a job, and one he intended to do well. He was demanding in the way he fucked into Clark in a way that would have been painful if he were nothing but human, fingers digging deeply into his shoulders and teeth scraping against Clark's upper lip.

It would probably insult Bruce to know that Clark could ever become distracted during one of these sessions, but he did. His legs are wrapped around Bruce's midsection, and his cock is hard and leaking against his abdomen, but somehow, Clark can't keep his eyes off of Bruce's face. Bruce's eyes are focused somewhere on Clark's chest, a deep look of concentration written all over his face and in the furrow of his brow, and there's something almost feral, almost vicious in it. Clark's had his whole life to discover what human limits are, and when he closes his eyes, he imagines what it would be like if he could feel like they could. He would have bruises where Bruce's fingers are digging into his hips, and Bruce's thick, heavy cock inside of him would be just on the right side of painful. Even the steady slap of Bruce's hips against his ass would make its mark over time, making his cheeks ruddy with the sheer prolonged pressure of it.

Bruce starts to groan, unable to take it any longer, and his fingers press in deeper. In his mind's eye, Clark can see Bruce's fingernails dig into his flesh and -- and they would draw blood, wouldn't they? He takes in a huge, gulping breath as he remembers the feeling of the kryptonite spear digging into his cheek, the deep, immediate sense of pain, and that's enough to make his body convulse as he shouts, "Oh, Christ!" and comes longer and harder than he can ever remember doing before.

He lays there in a fuzzy sort of haze as Bruce lazily rolls out of him, groaning, and drags himself to his feet to throw out the condom. He pads across the floor and drawls, "Didn't know you country boys took the Lord's name in vain that easily."

Clark doesn't have the same quick response to that as he normally would, nor does he even have the wherewithal to appreciate the beautiful curve of Bruce's ass like he usually would, the way those broad shoulders were battered and scarred from years and years of fighting. No, instead he's slowly sitting up, dragging the tips of his fingers through the judicious amount of come settling on his chest, rubbing it in a little as he realizes, aghast, exactly what had made him come so hard.

And then, immediately afterwards, because he's not nearly as good as everyone would make him out to be, wonders how it can happen again. World's greatest detective or not, Bruce doesn't seem to read too much into Clark's silence, instead of collapsing back on top of the covers, expression slack and peaceful in the way that it only gets immediately after orgasm.

The words are out of Clark's mouth before he can consider the many, many ways this is a bad idea. "Hey, Bruce... do you still have Kryptonite?"

He's never seen anyone's expression shut down so fast, not even Bruce's. Incisive reporter Clark may be, but Bruce's face is unreadable save for a deep and insistent unhappiness when he sits up again, frowning at Clark.

"You ask that now?" He snaps, gaze somehow making Clark feel naked even though they're both in the nude. "If that's what you're thinking about while we're fucking, you can -- "

"No! No, that wasn't what I was thinking," Clark says hastily, eyes widened with alarm. "I mean, it was what I was thinking, but..."

Bruce's eyes narrow. "But what?"

"It's, uh... more relevant than you think it is. I was just thinking that we could use it. Here."

Lowly, Bruce replies, "You want to use the weapon that can kill you to get off. Is this - " and Bruce leans over to swipe his fingers through the come on Clark's chest and begins rubbing it between his fingers, and Clark should be feeling embarrassed or pissy, but holy hell that's hot "- not good enough for you?"

"It's not about good enough, it's..."

But that's exactly it, isn't it? No matter how roughly he gets fucked, he'll never feel it. It had never been a problem until he'd met Bruce, and all of a sudden, not feeling it just wasn't enough. Too aggravated to voice it, Clark gets up and out of bed and rolls his eyes upon looking at Bruce's unhappy expression, and trod into the washroom.

"You know what? Never mind. I'm taking a shower."

Bruce doesn't join him for round two like he sometimes does, and Clark doesn't ask him to. After he's showered, he gets dressed and leaves, expecting to get the cold shoulder for at least another few days.

A week later, he's busy typing out some damned fluff piece Perry's forcing him to write when his phone buzzes. Almost idly, he flips it over to see what it says.

The cave. 9 PM. Don't be late.
-B.

It's stupid, perhaps, but his heart leaps into his throat the moment he sees it. It must show on his face, because Lois laughs, leaning over from whatever great scoop she's working on, and asks, "What's going on, Smallville? You look like someone just bought you a present."

Clark laughs, then demurs, "I wish. I got an interview lined up, that's all."

"Then I expect to hear all about it," she says, but Clark's saved from saying anything more by Perry storming back into the office, yelling about this and that.

Clark's not listening. Instead, he's rubbing his cheek and remembering wet, hot blood.

Clark's early, but Bruce is ready. He feels somehow overdressed when he flies in at Superman to see Bruce waiting for him in one of his perfectly coiffed suits, standing at attention as if he had anticipated Clark's arrival all along. It would almost seem if Bruce was the one with all the power if Clark's powers of observation weren't so great; he can see the way Bruce's hand won't stop fiddling in his pocket, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches at an almost perfectly rhythmic beat, because even when stressed, Bruce is nothing if not consistent and methodical.

"Hello to you too," Clark says, mostly because he's at a loss for what else can be said.

Bruce, never one for pleasantries once stripped down to his bare bones, says, "You wanted Kryptonite."

It's not phrased like a question, but Clark knows Bruce well enough by now to know it is one. He had hoped this would be up for discussion when he came, hoped so hard that it was distracting throughout the rest of the workday as he tried to hide the bulge forming in his pants as he so much as thought about it, but hadn't dared think that it would be possible to get Bruce to agree.

Then again, ever since he got back from the dead, Bruce had been every inch as disgruntled with him, but incredibly bad at telling him no.

"Yes," Clark says, voice cautious. "I do. But... look, Bruce, if it's not something you're interested in, just forget --"

"I'm not. Not interested." He says, and his voice is uncertain, halting, and Clark realizes with a lurch that Kryptonite means a lot more to Bruce than it does to him, somehow. Sure, it had buried Clark, but Bruce is the one who had watched him be buried. Clark has seen his fair share of bodies being buried and knows, intimately, that it's so much worse.

Bruce almost looks angry at his own indecisiveness, so Clark finally closes the distance between them, placing his hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. They could have an honest conversation about their feelings, true, but they could also have an honest conversation about something... else.

"You're so hot when we fuck," he says, voice low, breathy. "You fuck me so hard. I want to feel it."

It's not entirely honest - I want to bleed is probably not the sort of thing to bring up yet - but it's honest enough. Clark almost thinks it doesn't work until he hears the way Bruce's heartrate suddenly spikes, sees goosebumps rise on his exposed flesh.

"Wait here," Bruce growls, and he suddenly manages to sweep off as dramatically as if he were wearing a cape, and Clark's left to his own thoughts until Bruce all but tackles him to the wall, forearm pressed deep into his throat as he leans in and kisses him.

Clark can feel the Kryptonite held in Bruce's hands right away. It dulls everything else different about him, special about him; he can't hear as well, can't see as well, can't do anything as well except feel. And feel he does as Bruce kisses him deeper, firm and hot, and for the first time, knows what it's really like for Bruce's stubble to scrape against his cheeks, knows what it's like for him to bite and suck on his lower lip. He doesn't mean to moan, but he does anyway, trying to take ownership of the kiss back and utterly failing as Bruce begins to kiss him with a vengeance, sucking almost hard enough to hurt before he tears himself away.

Bruce drags his index and middle finger across Clark's mouth and Clark pants, breathless, reaching out to suck on them when Bruce suddenly yanks his hand away.

"Your lips look sore." There's something deep and hungry in his gaze, one cheek twitching as he takes in the sight in front of him. Clark already looks debauched, hair mussed and lips red, panting coming uncharacteristically strongly, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead and hard as hell. Bruce's eyes rake across him like he's trying to memorize it, and Clark can practically feel his gaze in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the Kryptonite.

"Get undressed," Bruce says afterwards, voice quiet but commanding, an almost imperious tilt to his head. Clark doesn't move for a moment, so he adds on, sharply, "Now."

Clark scrambles to obey, realizing with mortification that the inside of his suit is sticky with precum. His mortification quickly fades when he realizes that he actually does have to scramble to obey; his limbs are slow, and clumsy, and he has to fuss with the latches of it before he peels his suit off of himself and stands nude before Bruce.

Bruce fondles himself almost absently through his suit, then surges forward again. "Better," he mutters, and leans in to kiss him again, just as hard as before, only this time, he links their legs together and grinds.

Clark moans, and even if all they've done is kiss, he's so hard it hurts, desperate to get off, but even more desperate to just feel more of this, this beautiful thing that human beings get to feel every day, feel the intoxication of being with someone who could hurt him. Bruce has had the Kryptonite all along, could have attacked him at any moment, and even if it shouldn't, the very thought practically drives him out of his mind.

He moans, grinding right back into Bruce and getting that expensive suit filthy as he leaks right through it, inwardly reveling in the foreign feeling of fabric scratching against his cock, grinds to just that side of painful. It's incredible, and he leans in and begins to rub back and forth into a hard, steady rhythm, pressing down so deeply that a weaker man than Bruce would crumple underneath the pressure.

"Yeah," he chants, pace becoming more and more urgent as he feels his balls tightening, and it feels so good, too good, that he can't even think about the fact that he wanted to feel Bruce inside him, he just wants to come, and he wants to come now. "Yeah, yeah, yeah -- "

He lets out a small, strangled sound as Bruce steps away from him again, and has to catch himself on the wall. He shoots Bruce a deeply betrayed look, but Bruce stares back, rolling the Kryptonite between his fingers. Clark watches as it almost hypnotically dips between Bruce's fingers, and he can't help but think about where else he'd like those finger.

"You got what you wanted. Get over here," he growls. "On your knees. Clean up the mess you made of my pants."

Clark doesn't even think twice before obeying, dropping almost instinctively to his knees and shuffling towards Bruce. He leans forward and laps at the wet spot on Bruce's trousers, tongue rasping against the fine material as he works his way up to where Bruce's cock is (and god, Bruce is just as hard as he is) and traces the outline of it with his tongue. He trails his tongue along it until he finds the head and stops to suck at it through the fabric, gently at first, and then harder, more insistent afterwards until Bruce's willpower finally crumbles and he hurriedly unzips his fly and pulls his cock out, leaving it to hang full and heavy right in front of his nose. Clark breathes in the scent of Bruce, of clean skin and soap and the salty, musky scent of his dripping cock, but he doesn't get to enjoy the moment for long.

To be fair, he enjoys the moment after a lot more. Still holding the Kryptonite, Bruce grabs onto his head and fists his hands in Clark's hair.

For the first time, Clark understands what getting his hair pulled feels like. It hurts, the shorter hairs being dragged further from his scalp, and it hurts even more when he's tugged unceremoniously onto Bruce's cock and held into place and Bruce fucks into him mercilessly, leaving his eyes to well up as he chokes around it, silently luxuriating in the fact that his throat feels sore. The Kryptonite is hard against the back of his head, and it makes him feel weak and shaky and oh so good.

"That's it," Bruce mutters, eyes rolling towards the expansive ceiling above them. "That's it. Look so good -- you don't know how good you look like that."

When Clark's hand drifts towards his own cock to take some of the edge off, Bruce's voice is sharp, and the hands fisted in his hair jerk his head back a little, a jarring, painful reminder of who's in charge.

"Don't. That's mine to take care of."

After that, Clark balls his hands into fists on his knees and relaxes into the weight of Bruce's cock on his tongue, lets everything but the smattering of pain, the soreness of his jaw, and Bruce's grunts fade away. He closes his eyes, losing himself in it when suddenly Bruce’s pace quickens erratically -- but, with a sound that suggests it’s almost painful to do so, drags his cock out of Clark’s mouth, leaving Clark’s mouth questioningly open, ready to be filled up again.

Bruce makes a low, hoarse sound in the back of his throat at the sight of him, as if his own throat’s been ravaged instead of Clark’s, and cups his twitching cock in one hand.

“I’m not as young as you are these days,” he says, wryly, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head before neatly taking off his jacket, folding it, and draping it over a nearby table, so unlike Clark’s uniform still crumpled messily on the ground. “We finish this the right way. To the cot, now.”

Until now, Clark’s let Bruce give out all the orders. Hell, it’s what he’d wanted in the first place. But he looks over at the cot, and while it’s not nearly as cushy as the bed in Bruce’s master bedroom, the covers are soft and expensive, the pillows perfect for burrowing your face into -- Clark would know.

He feels the hard ground beneath his knees, feets the way stray rocks dig into them, and inhales deeply. “We could,” he says, imagining how it would feel to have Bruce’s cock rocking him insistently into the ground. “Or we could do it here.”

Bruce pauses in unbuttoning his pulling his pants off and tossing them on top of his shirt, almost completely nude now. “Here,” he repeats, a touch questioningly, the first sign that he’s not quite as confident with this as he’s presented himself to be.

“Yeah,” Clark says, only tangentially aware that they’re speaking monosyllabically at each other. “Here.”

One moment of indecision was, it seems, enough. In an instant, Bruce is behind him, large, strong, calloused hands pushing down between his shoulderblades, hard, forcing Clark’s head to smack against the stone below. He lets out a quiet hiss of pain, and there’s far, far too much good humour in Bruce’s voice as he pushes down on the back of Clark’s head, forcing him to push harder and harder against stone and grit. “Remember,” he says, leaning down so that his breath is hot in Clark’s ear. “You asked for this.”

Clark doesn’t have any time to center himself before two lube-slicked fingers (Bruce has a sadistic streak; he’s not so unreasonable as to fuck him dry) plunge into him, twisting and fucking into him as roughly as if Bruce had been preparing him a long time before then. With the sickly green glow of the Kryptonite so close-by, Clark feels every inch of it, the almost-painful stretch, the burn where Bruce’s fingers are just a little too thick, the scrape of his rough callouses against his skin. He lets out a sound that’s almost embarrassing, a stuttered whine crossed with a moan, but it feels too good for him to feel even the slightest bit self conscious about it.

Bruce yanks his fingers out soon afterwards, and while even the emptiness, cooler and more uncomfortable than usual, is a welcome change, the feeling of Bruce shoving his cock into him is so, so much better.

He doesn’t need Bruce to press his head into the ground for him to do it himself, closing his eyes to the grit pebbling against his forehead, losing himself in the tight burn of Bruce inside him; even lubed up, his cock is too thick for comfort, his thrusts too hard, and Clark loves it. Loves the way his knees are getting scratched up, loves the burn, loves the way that Bruce hasn’t so much as bothered to touch Clark’s cock, that he’s too busy pushing in, and in, and in, chasing down his own pleasure and nothing more.

He feels nearly ready to explode with the sheer pleasure of it, but he’s not quite there -- it’s not enough. “Harder,” he pants out, and Bruce quickens his pace, digs his fingers deep into Clark’s hips, and he can feel it like he wanted to, the unfamiliar sensation of bursting blood vessels underneath Bruce’s thumbs. Bruce has set an almost punishingly quick pace, but it’s still not enough.

“Come on,” Clark says, as if he’s not the one face down on the ground, cock bobbing in mid-air, swollen and leaking steadily onto the ground as Bruce punishes his prostate again and again. “I know you can do better than that.”

Bruce grips onto him harder, a growl more Batman than Bruce escaping his throat as he digs in deep and starts pounding into him mercilessly, balls slapping noisily against his ass as he takes what he wants. Clark can pinpoint the exact moment Bruce digs his nails into his skin tighter than he meant to, scratching him longer and deeper than anticipated, because once he feels blood emerge from his scratches, hot, and wet, the pain as sharp as the pleasure, he becomes overcome by the fact that he’s well and truly at Bruce’s mercy and finally comes with a guttural groan, practically sinking to the ground as his elbows give way, coming and coming and coming until there’s nothing left in him.

Just because Clark’s done doesn’t mean that Bruce is. As Clark loosens up, fucked boneless, Bruce fucks all the harder, not bothering to keep himself from digging his nails into Clark’s scratches again and again until he too cries out, coming, and then allowing Clark to simply fall to the ground.

A small, distant part of Clark thinks that it shouldn’t feel so good to lie face down on solid rock in a mixture of his own come and sweat, but he feels too blissful to consider it deeply. Bruce’s own panting as he presses his forehead to Clark’s spine barely registers, and it’s only after he feels the coolness of his bare back exposed to the air that he realizes that Bruce has left, taking the Kryptonite with him and locking it away in whatever lead chamber he’s got hidden away.

Bruce comes back shortly thereafter, crouching beside where Clark is still lying, tracing his thumbs against the scratches once more, but gently this time. Without the exposure of Kryptonite, they’re already starting to heal, but slower than if they were out in the sunlight.

Bruce’s expression is needlessly concerned, but Clark’s quick to remedy that as he sits up, purposefully rubbing at the sorest parts of his body.

“I’ve got more ideas for next time,” he says, touching his forehead lightly against Bruce’s, and Bruce’s returning grin only lasts for a fraction of second, but it’s filthy.

“Of course you do,” he says dryly. “Now get up; even if you like lying on the ground, I’ve got a warm bed waiting for me.”

Laughing, Clark gets up and follows him there, and for the moment, he is content.

Either one being the bottom; maybe they can take turns?
Bonus if Bruce has to convince/seduce Alfred, who feels too conflicted to do anything.

I screened the comment with the html screw-up for easier reading, hope that's okay. :) Love your fill, that was super hot.

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Bruce/Clark, kryptonite bondage

Bruce/Clark, first time they're tender

Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

Bruce/Lex - BDSM, daddykink with manipulation

Bruce/Clark, hair-pulling, calling him "son"

Bruce/Clark, size kink

Mercy/Lex, pegging

Bruce/Clark, branding in bed

Bruce/Clark Lex/Clark, sex slavery

Bruce/Clark, mpreg

Bruce/Clark, immersion sex therapy for Clark's new fear of the dark

Bruce/Clark, fake dating

Bruce/Clark, marathon sex

Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (1/?)

Bruce/Clark - Clark as a literal punching bag

Re: Bruce/Clark - Clark as a literal punching bag

Fill: World's Finest Handjob, Bruce/Clark

Re: Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (1/?)

Re: Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (1/?)

Bruce/Clark, pain/kryptonite kink

Bruce/Clark, breathplay

FILL 1/?

FILL 2/2 (without the italic screw-up, if it's too distracting!)

Alfred/Bruce, topping from the bottom

Re: FILL 2/2 (without the italic screw-up, if it's too distracting!)