DCEU Prompt Post #1

[dceu_kinkmod]

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/Clark, kryptonite bondage

[(Anonymous)]

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.

FILL: Here Be Dragons -- Bruce/Clark, kryptonite bondage [1/3]

[(Anonymous)]

I kind of smooshed a bunch of the krpytonite kink prompts together, and managed to miss the mark on all of them. WELL DONE, ME.

This is probably the most appropriate prompt to post this under, so apologies in advance to OP. Have some chains, gloves, painplay and heavy-handed metaphors.

---

Clark Kent chose this job for a reason. The reason, this time, is that nobody raises an eyebrow when he pitches an in-depth investigation into kryptonite trafficking.

He's been tracking the movement of it on his own time for months now. Most of it is still coming from southern India--an impromptu industry has sprung up around the shattered remains of the World Engine: pearl divers combing the seabed for a new treasure; ton upon ton of sand panned and scoured for the smallest fragments of the mineral. Maybe it happened spontaneously, considering how much Luthor paid for his motherlode, but his research tells him that there was no such activity for the duration that Superman was dead. Something has precipitated this since his return.

Maybe his return in itself, but there was no mention of kryptonite in the press. It's not general knowledge that it's his Achilles heel; in fact, Clark suspects the only detailed information extant is emphatically stamped classified. Regardless, now there is a demand and he wants to know who, or what, is driving it. There is only so far he can pry on his own, so he leverages the Planet's resources to learn what he can.

Which isn't a whole lot. Eighty-nine percent of the stuff is brought into to the States, six to Russia, the rest split between a number of different countries. A decent quantity does end up in legitimate scientific institutions--laboratories and universities and research facilities, which isn't entirely reassuring but isn't imminently threatening, and is at least above-board. Some goes into private collections belonging to the same kind of people who pay thousands of dollars for meteorite fragments of dubious provenance and blurry satellite photographs of Area 51. They're joyful in their vindication, these days.

The rest, though--the rest vanishes. Once it hits American soil, things seem to get a whole lot harder to track.

He follows one shipment from Boston to Chicago to Star City into a dead end. Another from Tampa to Metropolis, alarmingly, and then nada. Wilmington to Gotham, even more alarmingly, and then it disappears. What potential informants he can dig up have their mouths glued shut.

If it were anything else, he could infiltrate--stevedore, truck driver, there are plenty of hands for the cargo to pass through. And there's the rub. The one time he attempted to verify a shipment, he got his verification alright. Two days sick leave.

The K is elusive. The money trail is nigh-on impenetrable even with the boundaries he can push with the Planet's name behind him.

He's starting to have stress dreams about it. In his sleep, he tries to catch someone who is falling, only to find he's falling himself. He hits the earth and finds himself in the shadow of a beast, indistinct but massive. Its very presence renders him powerless. All he can do is struggle as it snaps him between its sagittate teeth.

After a fortnight of waking up twisted helplessly in his sheets, he thinks, with some reluctance, that it might be time to call in a favor.

*

Clark lands in the cave a little before eleven.

"Clark," Bruce says, immediately minimizing a half-dozen windows. He calmly moves his chair a one-eighth-turn in Clark's direction without taking his hands off the keyboard.

"Evening." Clark can already tell this is a terrible idea by the line of tension in Bruce's shoulders. "I need you help with something," he says anyway, with enough earnestness to disarm most people. It only puts Bruce more deeply on his guard. Clark is still trying to get the measure of him; he keeps making mistakes like this.

Bruce maintains his you-have-interrupted-me posture, but he's bothering to disguise his impatience, which is promising, at least.

"Okay." Clark can be businesslike about this. "So I've been keeping tabs on something lately. Imported goods with a twist. You know the deal. I can track the movements of the, uh, the cargo to a point, but eventually it drops off the map. At least some of it came through Gotham."

Bruce swivels back to his computer screen and picks up typing rapidfire, filling in some impenetrable spreadsheet or other. His jaw tenses. "If you're concerned about the shipping containers on the north pier that were emptied yesterday night, it's under control."

"I know," Clark says. "That's not what I'm investigating."

"Then unless it's boxed up in lead, Clark, I don't understand what you're struggling with." Bruce glances at him sidelong, quietly gauging. "But anything coming into Gotham, I already know about. You don't need to be concerned."

The obvious rears up and strikes him in the face. He's not sure why he's quite so surprised; part of him must have known all along. It is simple mathematics, after all. Kryptonite plus Gotham equals Bruce. His stomach falls through the floor anyway.

He worries that he's starting to develop a substantial blind spot.

"Is that the case?" he says.

Bruce's typing halts abruptly.

Clark blinks and feels the minute differential pressure on his eyeballs as new detail blossoms across his vision. He can see the circuitry in Bruce's computer; the wires that snake from it and through the reinforced concrete, into the server room below. Bruce, his bones, his ribcage like some delicate ornament. The Batmobile beneath them, and beneath that, a bright slab of something impenetrable to x-rays.

Bruce has gotten to his feet. He's watching him, as likely making a mental note on the current properties of Clark's corneas as preparing to explain himself.

"Turns out I'm pretty damn concerned," Clark says. He folds his arms so Bruce can't see his hands shake. He's not sure if it's fear or anger, as Bruce tends to inspire both. "Were you going to tell me about this?"

"I just did," Bruce says. "So, evidently." He mirrors Clark's body language: arms folded, chin up, but with the advantage of an inch or two of height and the cowl's inscrutability. The result is nothing short of infuriating. "It's in your interest."

This temerity combined with Bruce's particular brand of paternalism makes Clark want to grind his teeth. He takes a breath and silently counts to five since he's not sure he could make it to ten. "How much do you have?"

"Most of it."

"God, Bruce--" He feels a little ill. Psychosomatic, he hopes.

"You'd rather it was circulating freely?"

"No, but I'd rather you didn't have it, either."

"Listen, the last thing I need is a two-bit thug with a fistful of kryptonite and delusions of grandeur getting one over on you. Or worse. You've already had more than your fair share of funerals, Clark. Did you think I'd just let it float around on the black market?"

"That's touching," Clark says wryly. He knows that's not the whole of it. This is symptomatic of something that's stayed unaddressed for the most part, butting up against the twin edifices of Bruce's secrecy and paranoia. Nobody knows how to weaponize kryptonite as well as he does. "What are you going to do with it all?"

"Nothing," Bruce says. "Unless I have to."

*

Clark's restless nights don't get any better. He's stalked by a great mechanical beast, monolithic and terrifying in its burnished steel hide. Its eyes are bright and empty, its teeth and claws an acidic green, glowing, cruel. It is fear brought violently to the surface, hunting Clark down only to toy with him. It always ends the same way, with his skin penetrated in an orgiastic frenzy.

It's usually a nightmare, but sometimes--isn't.

*

"Show me it."

He's shaking again--this time it's a toss-up between dread and anticipation. He doesn't bother trying to disguise it.

"What for?" Bruce says. "You know what it does to you."

Clark does. He has difficulty forgetting, in fact. He can almost feel it melting his bones, the pain that crowds him out of his own mind. In his dreams, when he feels his knees want to buckle on him like this, he knows it won't be long before he is caught and savaged. Hot breath on his face, blood bubbling in his throat, his skin pared back. Sometimes he tries to crawl away, but then the creature only mounts him, its claws filleting him from sternum to groin as it does.

Those are the most intense dreams--the ones that wake him at the point of climax, disoriented and paralyzed, unable to do anything but give himself over to it. The vividness of the memory makes him shudder where he stands.

"Clark," Bruce says. "What's wrong?"

He feels nebulously unwell. Bruce's eyes narrow, shadowed in the low light of the cave, but he doesn't look concerned so much as analytical. Clark wants him to--he wants to understand this craving, if not resolve it. Bruce, with all his internality, is always going to be his best shot, but Clark knows there's a significant chance he'll come away from this worse than empty handed, shackled by refused desire.

"You need to do something with it," Clark says.

Not just perch on top of it like a dragon guarding its hoard. But then, a beast like that should be easy to provoke.

"In case," Clark continues, in the face of Bruce's skeptical eyebrow-raise. "In case the worst happens. You need to be prepared."

Clark can acknowledge that he holds the potential for threat. There is a chance that he might need to be counteracted, and not just because Bruce's paranoia has gotten the better of him again. His mere existence has put humankind through a paradigm shift, and the resultant power struggles have not been reassuring. The world does not have a shortage of ambitious, amoral individuals who would seek to leverage him to their own ends.

And Bruce knows this as well as Clark does. He knows that Bruce, despite his claim to the contrary, must have designs for the K. He also knows Bruce hardly needs permission for anything, least of all this, but maybe in giving it he'll be receptive to--he might let Clark help.

He never anticipated using this scenario to bargain with. Not like this. Not for this.

"What do you have in mind?" Bruce asks

*

This is probably not what Bruce had in mind.

"You didn't use enough to weaken me sufficiently," Clark says, holding Bruce against the cave floor with ease, one hand on his wrist, the other caging his throat. Bruce glowers at him but remains otherwise calm, his pulse stable against Clark's palm. He doesn't try to test Clark's grip. His free hand curls into the hem of Clark's cape.

It's petty of Clark to antagonize him when he doesn't need to. And risky, he knows that, but a kryptonite-edged batarang to the neck isn't exactly a polite greeting, even for Bruce. He started it, effectively.

Provoke, and be provoked in turn. He doesn't quite have a headache, but his muscles cramp and his blood feels heavy and thick, languishing in his throat and his gut. The batarang shines menacingly, the color of nightmares, and Clark kicks out to send it skittering away across the cave floor.

"Noted," Bruce says.

*

"A bit cumbersome." Clark feels sweat prickle across his forehead. "But the… quantity is getting there."

Bruce makes a considering noise and wraps a length of chain around his fist. Clark sways on his feet. He's not certain how much of it is down to the K.

"I'd have to let you," Clark says. "I'd have to have the presence of mind. Not practical, Bruce."

"You'd have to let me," Bruce agrees. He drapes the chain across Clark's shoulders. It's heavier than he anticipated, and now he can detect the glow to the thick metal links. Clark wonders if Bruce developed the alloy recently, or if it's a holdover from the last time he considered the intricacies of employing kryptonite as a weapon.

He wonders what, exactly, Bruce would have done with it. Dragged him over broken rubble, definitely. Strung him up like Andromeda chained to the rocks, perhaps.

He suspects it wouldn't have gone quite like this. Bruce wraps the chain around his neck, a furrow of concentration appearing between his eyebrows as he slowly draws it tight, as though he isn't certain what to expect. The links bite into Clark's skin. His breath catches and his vision blurs, and he feels a dull, useless panic as his bones turn gelatinous. He staggers to his knees, the chain pulling taut as he goes down.

Bruce/Clark, first time they're tender

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Bruce/Clark, first time they're tender

[(Anonymous)]

WANT

Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

[(Anonymous)]

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.

FILL: Votive Garments (1/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging

[(Anonymous)]

Warnings for: grieving; wordiness; Greek metaphors; trying to capture a several millennia-old warrior’s interiority; seriously, do you like the Illiad and the Aeneid? I crib from them like it’s going out of style; porn with plot and feels; unrequited Bruce/Clark feels sprinkled in per nonny's request.

Because this is my weird AU of events, I'm going to pretend that identity porn could still happen: neither Bruce nor Diana knows Superman's identity, and Clark didn't know Batman's. (For all the good it will do him. Godspeed, little doodle.)

-------------

The hero's aim was true. The kryptonite spear sunk into the abomination's chest.

It roared and reared back, scrabbing weakly to break the kryptonian's death-hold. The plan, however, held: the gas from Batman's launcher weakened it, Diana's lasso restrained it, the spear pierced it. Red energy spewed from the creature's maw.

The ground around them groaned, and the kryptonian redoubled his intense grip. Chance and skill had given them this opportunity to kill the unkillable creature. The distance sounds of the city fell into a mute hush, as if it waited to see whom would gore the other. Diana thought of Aeneas and Turnus, shields locked in bloody strife by the banks of the Tiber, when Zeus himself had held the scales of battle to see whom effort doomed and with whose weight death sank down.

Something prickled at the back of her neck.

(It's killing him too, she thought faintly.)

But the thought slid from her mind before she could attach any meaning to it. Their current plan was a patchwork of anticipation and split-second timing on the battlefield. For her to call out to the kryptonian to drop the spear would be madness; they had no clear command, no accord between them but the need to destroy the creature. Locked into a tableau of struggle that would have made the muralists on Paradise Island faintly giddy at the play of light and form, the kryptonian held on to the spear.

Pride swelled in Diana's heart. She had killed threats from other worlds before; she and her sisters had slain beasts from Almerac; she had subdued Osira, who had thought to control the minds of this planet; this... plaything of man would be no different--it had been so long since she had fought by heroes that rivaled the gods--

And then the unthinkable. The unbreakable lasso--the lasso that Hephaestus forged strong enough to contain the power of Ares himself--wrenched from her hands.

She fell to her knees as she grabbed for the end. Another vicious yank, and it moved entirely beyond her reach. Her body faltered, and she collapsed into the detritus of the destroyed city block.

The monster shook free.

(She didn't see the arm-spikes scythe into weakened flesh. She didn't see, she didn't see...)

Green energy battered the air. She could feel the raw, twisting wrong as the kryptonite combined with the creature's natural power. Green lightning crackled across her skin.

In a flash of sulphurous rage, alien knowledge from a dead world sunk into her skin. Diana gritted her teeth, and hunkered under the shelter of her bracelets. She knew even the slightest give now, and she could be lost to an invading presence--

Scenes played out in her mind in disjointed skips. A creature gestated at the height of an empire's expansion, its mission attuned across time and space: protect life. The right kind of life. Destroy the impurity that taints civilization. A mission that she could accept. Man's World was so endlessly corrupt. Hadn't she seen that in the century of war that she had beheld? Hadn't that been why she stepped away from Man's World, became nothing more than a kyrios to an empty household? Wouldn't a mission, a purpose fill another century with something other than loneliness? The cleansing would be undeniably hers, hers, hers...

The temptation to yield to the invading desire pierced her like another lightning clap, as the emptiness of the years wandering Man's World cascaded on her like a choking deluge.

(The lasso, she thought dimly...)

She sought blindly for the lasso, scrabbling through the dirt, a prayer to her mother, Hestia, any god who would listen. Her fingers met the silky texture of the rope in the sliver of space between her and a sickening drop, and she wrapped her hand around it tightly, the touch of its truth a surety that spread deep into her bones, and shone through her body. The green energy screamed as it was drowned in incandescent light.

The alien desire receded from her mind like the foam on a breaking wave.

She was Diana of Themiscyra, the Truth-Bringer. She who stands, until it breaks her.

She caught the lasso in her hand and stood as the last energy wave dissipated in the dark sky. Clouds kicked up from the smoldering ruin, and she saw movement on the edge of her vision. Her allies emerging from their own shelters. The Dark Knight, and...

It was done. The monster was dead.

But so was Kal-El of Krypton.


* (W) *


The Dark Knight of Gotham eased the body into her arms. Ash settled on his hair like a halo. She laid him down on the uneven ground as gently as she could--but even her body had limits, and the kryptonian’s superdense body strained her endurance. If he landed heavily, no one reproached her for it.

Bruce leaned over, and… his fingers curled away from Kal-El’s hair, as though he’d meant to comb his fingers through it, but couldn’t.

Lois bent over the body, weeping. Diana turned away from that raw expression of grief.

It would never be long enough to forget the sharp echo that rose in Diana’s chest.

* (W) *

Diana had words for the dead, but they were not hers to say. Kal-El was not her brother-in-arms; he was not even of this world. She had not known if he had any other people than Lois, and could not mourn him as she surely did now, miles away from this public spectacle.

She lingered at the edge of the military procession through Metropolis, not particularly impressed by the hero’s funeral that they now bestowed on the Superman, as they polished up his hagiography, when fresh-turned soil had not yet been laid on his casket.

As the procession passed her, she whispered a prayer to the gods of the underworld (that those who remained, and who had replaced the old gods who had faded) to carry his soul lightly, and to embrace him as he had not been embraced in this life.

The honor guard congested the road for ten minutes; men and women of all branches of military and civil authority marching together.

A stifled sob at her elbow caught Diana’s attention, and she politely turned away from the woman beside her (she had been taught that acknowledging another’s pain in this century had cultural nuance that she did not fully understand). The feeling of grief pressed on her. And then--Diana caught a face in the press of people across the promenade. Unlike the expressions on other mourners’ faces, it was carefully neutral, mouth drawn tense. The lines of his face were hard as stone; statues on Themyscira had more animation than his blank indifference. Someone jostled her side, and gave her a quick “hey--sorry--need to tweet this--” and the face disappeared, camouflaged in the crowd.

That was the last she saw of Bruce Wayne for half a year.

Bruce/Lex - BDSM, daddykink with manipulation

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

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

Fill: World's Finest Handjob, Bruce/Clark

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Bruce/Clark, size kink

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Fill: Unfair, Bruce/Clark, size kink, Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

This is probably not what the OP had in mind, but here's my try
---------------------------
Clark didn’t think he would ever get to see this, Bruce on his hands and knees, his ass up in the air. Clark couldn’t help but touch the broad back, full of old scars and slick with sweat and stray lube. Bruce shivered as Clark’s hand slowly ran through his spine, running back and forth slowly to his ass and his sides, feeling the crevices and bulges of muscle and scar tissue underneath his hand. He could feel the body trembling, the shivers running up from the point where skin met the palm of his hand and up to Clark’s head. The kind of trust Clark got from a man who was often attacked from behind his back -

Clark’s sight moved downward, where his other hand kept three of his fingers inside that beautiful ass, working it open slowly with a lot of lube. He’d found the special spot inside two fingers ago, and he’d done his best in both touching it and avoiding it. Clark was entranced by the sight of Bruce, trembling in both pleasure and pain as his ass was stuffed with Clark’s wide and clumsy fingers while his cock was hard, even after coming once. The ring of muscle was snug around his fingers, sucking him in as he stretched the opening. Even Bruce’s breathing was shaky, his heartbeat was running fast instead of the steady beat Clark was so used to hearing. And it was…

God, Bruce is beautiful.

Clark took the hand caressing Bruce’s away, reaching for the bottle of lube by his side. His hand already missed the sensation of Bruce’s skin, and Clark couldn’t help but smile when he heard the soft, choked whine from Bruce’s throat when his hand left his back. His ass pushed back, pulling Clark’s fingers even deeper, and Clark’s mind translated it as more.

Clark could feel his cock was throbbing, as if he could get even harder than he already was. He ignored the need to touch his cock, to get that little bit of relief. Tonight, Bruce comes first.

Clark leaned down, kissing Bruce’s left cheek as his left hand reached back to Bruce’s hip, his thumb moving in a circle to soothe, even as his fingers kept on their ministration.

“I’m just getting more lube, B,” Clark whispered, before his left hand left its favorite perch to reach for the lube again.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Bruce growled out, impatient, even as his thigh trembled in his effort to keep his ass up. He lifted his head and glanced back to Clark, his copper brown eyes glaring in demand even as his face was red, sweat matting his hair and made his face shine.

Clark bit down the spot he had kissed as his left hand snapped the cap open with his thumb. There was a flinch and a cut-off moan from Bruce. Clark wished Bruce would let out his voice, but he also knew Bruce will, later. Clark stared at the teeth impression on Bruce’s left buttcheek, the light bruise he managed to leave. He wanted to leave many more.

But, there’s still work to do, he thought.

There was a miniscule flinch again when Clark poured more lube to the cleft of Bruce’s ass. He pulled his fingers out, took a second to admire the lube dripping from Bruce’s gaping, fluttering asshole and down to his thigh, before using those fingers to gather more lube and entered three fingers into Bruce again, still slow and careful. His other hand already put the bottle of lube to where he can easily reach again and returned to its perch on Bruce’s left hip.

“I’m putting in another finger, Bruce,” Clark said. He could hear Bruce’s shaky exhale.

“Shit - just fuck me already, Clark,” Bruce rasped in between gasping breath. Clark could hear the tremble in his voice, the excitement, the impatience.

“I need to make sure,” Clark whispered, even though he, too, longed to enter the stretched hole, wondering how it would feel around his cock. But, his cock was too big, too much, always too much.

Lois was the only one that would ever let him try, but even she could only handle less than a half of his cock, just a hint of movement, before she told him to fucking pull out. After Lois, before Bruce, there were others too. Men and women, as he worked over his heartbreak. But, no one dared to even try, cringing away from the sheer size and backed away from him. They’d rather have his mouth or ass, but not his cock. That was probably when he truly realized even physically, he was a freak. As if his ability and being an alien didn’t make him freaky enough.

When he and Bruce finally got together and progressed to bedroom activities, he had been afraid of showing the freak of nature that was his cock to Bruce, scared of the rejection, scared Bruce would change his mind, of losing the wonderful thing he had since Lois. Even as he stripped himself to nothing, he’d assured Bruce he was fine with whatever Bruce wanted to do, he didn’t have to let Clark fuck him, whatever he wanted.

Whatever Clark’s fears were evaporated when Bruce saw the entirety of Clark’s cock, already half hard and too big, and licked his lips instead of grimacing, like Clark used to see his partners did.

“I want that in my mouth,” Bruce had said decisively and Clark thought he had misheard. Until Bruce suddenly knelt down, bare chested and his pants were still on, looking up coyly through his eyelashes, and asked Clark the question that would set the pattern in their lovemaking.

“Yes?”

Clark wanted to ask if Bruce was sure, if he was just teasing and was actually thinking of having his cock in Clark’s mouth. But, the word that came out of his mouth in a breathy whisper was a simple “yes”.

Clark could only stare, still unsure if it was actually happening, as Bruce’s gaze was focused on his cock again, feeling himself just get harder as Bruce concentrated on it and licked his lips again once more. That tongue then licked around the head, the shaft, mouthing and kissing on top of the shaft, as if familiarizing his mouth with his cock, planning and strategizing the best way to have it in his mouth. Clark could only groan, hands gripping tight on each other behind him, unsure of what to do with those too big, too clumsy hands. But then, it didn’t seem to matter when Bruce giving his cock so much attention. His lips, his tongue, his hands on Clark’s hips -

Then Bruce opened his mouth as wide as he could and Clark could only stare, mind hazy with pleasure and the sense of dreaming, as the head of his cock disappeared into Bruce’s mouth. The warmth, the wetness, the feeling of Bruce’s tongue -

Clark groaned, and while Bruce couldn’t smirk, not when his mouth was stuffed with his cock, his eyes did.
And God, how hot is that?

Clark was grateful. He was thankful. He wanted to worship Bruce, give him anything, everything, and he felt like he was too close to coming -

Then Bruce leaned forward, little by little, jaw and throat working to accommodate the sheer size of Clark’s cock until he could feel the tip of his cock touching the back of Bruce’s throat. Clark’s cock was barely halfway in, but God, it was already so fucking good. Bruce’s tongue on the underside of his cock, the wetness and warmth surrounding him, more than he ever felt -

“B-Br-huse - I-I’m about to cum-” Clark moaned, trying to lean back, pulling out from Bruce’s mouth. But, before Clark could really drag his cock out, Bruce’s lips followed his cock. His eyes were glaring at Clark, daring him to pull out. Bruce’s lips had tightened around his cock as well as the hand on his hips, and if Clark was anyone else, his cock would probably be bitten off by now and his hips would be very bruised.

Shaking, Clark stayed, trying his best to stand his ground and trying his best to keep himself from coming. There was something satisfactory in Bruce’s eyes before he concentrated on Clark’s cock again, leaning back just a bit then leaning forward sharply. With his mind too hazy, concentrating on not coming, it took Clark another forward movement for him to realize that Bruce was fucking his face on Clark’s cock, sucking as well as trying to get more of Clark’s cock into his throat.

“Oh God, B-Bruce - B - I’m -“ Clark stuttered out, gasping and moaning, afraid to move his hands or his hips but wanting to grip on something, anything, preferably Bruce’s head. But, he was also afraid he might lose control of his strength, of something, so he kept his hand behind him and his hips still, shaking and straining as he came.

Mercy/Lex, pegging

[(Anonymous)]

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

Re: Mercy/Lex, pegging

[(Anonymous)]

Mercy was hot. I would read this tbh.

Bruce/Clark, branding in bed

[(Anonymous)]

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!

FILL: Mine (Bruce/Clark, branding, possesiveness)

[(Anonymous)]

I *kind* of did an art fill for this--it's after the fact. Sorry I cropped it before the good part, but I fail at drawing dicks >.<

Hopefully some other anon will be able to write the actual branding!

Imgur (http://imgur.com/33nPHUq) | Direct link (http://i.imgur.com/33nPHUq.jpg)

Bruce/Clark Lex/Clark, sex slavery

[(Anonymous)]

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)

Bruce/Clark, mpreg

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

OMFG I love this idea so much.

+1!!!!!!

Bruce/Clark, fake dating

[(Anonymous)]

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.

FILL: tell all the truth (but tell it slant); Bruce/Clark, fake dating (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

So, uh, this got away from me a bit—the scene that relates directly to the prompt's scenario is absolutely going to be in here, it just ... grew a thing. (I'm not sure I can call it a plot, it's more like thousands of extra words of ridiculous setup/"everyone thinks they're doing it". ???) tl;dr: please forgive my longwindedness, OP, and I hope someone else decides to fill this more faithfully and more succinctly!




It takes a while for Batman and Superman to work things out, once Clark comes back from the dead.

It's not because Clark is angry about it. Far from it, actually. Bruce's reaction to Superman is about what Clark had expected—if Bruce is paranoid for it, then so was Dad, for thinking people who weren't paranoid would still react that way. Objectively speaking, Bruce's concerns have a lot of merit: Clark intends to always do the right thing, to never use his powers to cause harm; but that doesn't mean he'll be able to, and a road to hell paved by Superman's good intentions would be a thirty-five-lane superhighway. Clark gets it.

And in his own way, he wasn't any better. He hadn't tried to talk to Batman, hadn't bothered to track Bruce down and have it out even after he'd realized they were one and the same. He has superspeed—the first time the effects of Bruce's kryptonite shells wore off, he could have taken advantage, pinned Bruce down, explained that Luthor had Mom and was using them against each other. But he'd decided to punch Bruce in the face instead. He'd wanted to, by then, and he'd given in to that want instead of—

Instead of doing the right thing. So maybe Bruce wasn't wrong to be worried about him.

But they'd worked around it to take down Zod together, even if Clark died a little bit while they were at it. And then Clark comes back and—

He's not even sure exactly what he was expecting. That fifteen minutes fighting on the same side had balanced out fifteen minutes of smashing each other into sinks. That they could—respect each other, maybe, even if they didn't like each other. They barely knew each other well enough to do either, not really, but it had felt for a minute like they could get there. Bruce had fired that last shell at Zod just in time for Clark to run him through: perfect, like they'd planned it beforehand. Like they understood each other.

But Clark comes back and it's like none of that ever happened. Bruce Wayne is a smug, smarmy jackass, but Clark almost prefers him to Batman. If nothing else, some of the time it's actually Clark's job to push Bruce, to press him, to point out when he's being stupid. Superman has to try to work with Batman sincerely, no matter how unforgivingly monosyllabic he gets.

As far as Clark can tell, Bruce Wayne is one kind of jerk who spends a lot of time pretending to be another kind of jerk, even if Clark's not entirely sure which flavor is the pretense. And that's pretty much all there is to say about him.




They do reach kind of a balancing point eventually. They have to: the Justice League is important to both of them—or at least Clark assumes Batman wouldn't keep showing up otherwise—and in its early stages they can't afford to be seen at odds with each other. Especially not after the thing where Clark died while Bruce and Diana were right there. Thankfully the media seems to have left the question of where the kryptonite spear came from pretty much alone, but Clark can guess where people's minds might go if the cracks ever start to show.

Clark tries to be careful not to overstep, which helps. Gotham is Batman's; Superman doesn't intervene within its city limits unless asked. And at first, Bruce doesn't ask—but even he doesn't place his own pride above other people's safety. There are some problems Clark really is the best solution for.

"You know I wouldn't ask if it weren't really important," Bruce says, leaning toward Clark on one casual elbow, half his mouth tilting up into that slick Wayne smile. And it may be Clark Kent who's been invited up to his office; but it's Superman he's asking.

So: "Certainly," Clark says coolly, instead of the dozen other things he'd rather say to Bruce. "I'm willing to trust your judgment in this instance, Mr. Wayne."

Which is actually sort of true: Bruce doesn't like Clark any more than Clark likes him, which means he wouldn't ask if it weren't really important. Not exactly the kind of trust Clark wants to be able to put in Bruce—but it'll do in a pinch.

And today apparently is a pinch, because Bruce doesn't immediately make Clark regret having said it. He looks at Clark oddly, almost searchingly, for a long moment. And then he leans back in his ridiculously squishy desk chair, links his hands behind his head, and says, "Then I suppose I'll see you at seven, Mr. Kent."

It's only in retrospect that Clark realizes that's how it started.




At the time, the thought doesn't even cross his mind. Part of the reason Bruce asked him at all was because this event—a gallery opening—is something Clark Kent could reasonably be seen at without raising eyebrows, unlike some of the more exclusive parties Bruce Wayne attends. And they don't do anything particularly strange.

In fact, everything goes fine. No supervillains crash through the roof partway through; no one tries to hold the place up or take hostages. Bruce has reason to believe there's something going on behind the scenes, but in the next building over—and he's uncertain enough about who might be backing the activity, if there is any, that he doesn't want to actually go in. He doesn't even want to risk leaving any trace of Batman's monitoring tech. Which means he needs Clark to do a quick scan with the x-ray vision. That's all.

It's just that the easiest way to get uninterrupted time to do that is by heading off to the restroom. The simplest way for Clark to be sure he doesn't miss anything is for Bruce to be there with him: to tell him what to look for, to ask him to describe one thing or another in more detail. And it's only going to take five minutes, ten at the most—it's not worth breaking out Batman's earpieces for that, especially on the off chance their chatter might get picked up.

It doesn't even occur to him that anybody might have noticed, or that they'd think twice about it if they did. He finishes the check, Bruce hmms to himself and doesn't say anything about whatever conclusions he's drawing from what Clark's told him, and then they unjam the door and leave. Clark flashes a quick apologetic smile at the guy who was stuck outside waiting—he's looking at Clark and Bruce with narrowed eyes, one eyebrow climbing. Clark hopes he hasn't been there too long.

And then Clark heads back out to the party, and decides he might as well try a couple more hors d'oeuvres while he's here.




And it isn't—it doesn't even happen all that often. It's not like they're walking out of mens' bathrooms together twice a week or anything. Once, Bruce needs Clark's superhearing to eavesdrop on a meeting he can't get near, so they spend a little while standing together in a curtained alcove, voices low in between bouts of silence. Another time, he gets injured in an explosion; the easiest way to get him out of it and maintain Bruce Wayne's plausible deniability is for Clark to speed off for a suit from Alfred, and then help an extremely drunk Bruce Wayne get home from a nightclub three blocks over. He's a reporter, it's not that weird for him to occasionally be in the same place as a celebrity. He figures nobody will care.

He's wrong.

Bruce/Clark, marathon sex

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.)

Bruce/Clark - Clark as a literal punching bag

[(Anonymous)]

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)

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Bruce/Clark, pain/kryptonite kink

[(Anonymous)]

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.

FILL 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Bruce/Clark, breathplay

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 1

[(Anonymous)]

I hope you like, nonnie! I have only written breathplay once before, and so I apologise for my inaccuracies -- this isn't really how it works anyway, forgive me, I did it for the kink XD

I also just made up a bunch of stuff about Clark's need for breathing etc. and how kryptonite works. I'm also super sorry for typos, I know there must be some, as this is unbetad at the moment :(

Siiiighhh, I want to write mutual choking next XD

-----

Bruce knows that under ordinary circumstances, Clark doesn't need to breathe. Or if he does, it's far less regularly than any human.

Clark has learned to mimic it – the rise and fall of the chest, the open mouth, that slight movement of the throat. He had to, if he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than the Kansas farm boy come to the big city, and Bruce imagines he took to it with the dedication he takes to everything about his human disguise.

Sometimes, usually when he’s lost in thought but always when it’s just the two of them alone, Clark lapses into an unearthly stillness that, before he even realises what he’s doing, Bruce compares to a corpse (and of course there was the time that Bruce had jerked awake to find Clark still in the bed beside him; he may have said his name, fingers scrabbling after signs of life, until he heard Clark’s preternaturally calm, Bruce? What is it? It was after that that Bruce started leaving the bed – or whatever surface they’d collapsed against – and finding somewhere else to sleep).

This is all under normal circumstances. Bruce doesn’t remember how he discovered it – actually, that’s a damn lie, he knows full well when he first noticed, even if he didn’t put all the pieces together at the time – but when Clark is affected by kryptonite, he needs to breathe.

They’ve been using the collar for a while already. It had been Clark’s idea, and Bruce still remembers the way his eyes had slid away as he suggested it, the colour that rose in his cheeks and the hesitancy in his voice. He hadn’t needed to ask twice, though.

There’s nights when Bruce allows himself to let go, and be taken in any way Clark wants to take him; when he lets himself forget who he is. Clark’s fingers and lips and tongue and cock can make him forget his own name on those nights, which is exactly what he wants.

This isn’t one of these nights, however.

He’s waiting for him, the collar laced through his fingers. He hasn’t taken the cowl off – for this, he wants to leave it on. He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.

Bruce is the one who chooses when the collar comes out. It’s just one of the things they have come to an unspoken agreement over. It’s a tacitly understanding between them that Clark shouldn’t know when to expect it. He’ll be able to sense it before the full power of the kryptonite hits him, but Bruce has never asked how close he has to be before he realises; if he’d even have the chance to collect himself and fly aware before it can take hold, or if he really doesn’t have any choice but to come crashing down in front of him, his landing awkward and heavy as his powers are sapped.

That’s the first – and only – warning he gets.

“Bruce?”

Clark’s voice echoes through the caverns of the burnt-out remains of Wayne Manor, and Bruce’s fingers tighten on the collar.

Bruce doesn’t like talking – if he ever likes talking – during these times. While Clark is still on his knees on the ground he’ll reach down and pull his head back, wrapping the collar around that long white throat of his. Sometimes there’ll be a boot in the small of his back, forcing his spine in an unnatural curve that, despite his current state, Bruce knows his body can take. But more often he’ll just tug on the leash, forcing Clark to scrabble after him on his hands and knees, slipping on concrete ground and only just managing to keep up.

And Bruce is nothing if not methodical in pursuing his goals. And he’s realised by now that when he has Clark collared and completely at his mercy like this, it’s not the fact that he's feeding him his cock that's making him come so hard. It's not the tightness of Clark’s throat around him, or the sight of his lips stretched around the base.

It's also the small, desperate choking sounds he makes, the ineffectual movements of his head as he tries to either throw him off or swallow him deeper. It’s the short, wheezing gasps he makes when Bruce withdraws briefly, only shove himself back in, forcing himself past the gate of Clark’s lips and teeth. It’s the helpless look in those blue, blue eyes that has him coming harder than he ever has before in his life, before he finally pulls out, for good this time, utterly spent, and leaving ropes of come smeared across Clark’s lips and face.

Fuck. He’s already hard, standing in the darkness, watching as Clark’s shadow grows shorter on the marble floor, his footsteps echoing. He hesitates, and Bruce knows he can feel it now – the kryptonite’s dark pull on his body. He once told Bruce that it felt like someone injecting ice water into his veins and feeling it slowly spread throughout his body, and that’s an image Bruce can work with.

He waits until Clark has passed him in the entrance hall, where he’s waiting behind a pillar.

“Bruce?” Clark says again, and Bruce can see the slight tremble in his shoulders, the clench of his fists as he fights to stay upright. He can’t hear him, can’t detect his presence. Not this close to the collar, with his senses dulled like his.

He doesn’t want to wait. He slips out from where he’s standing, coming up behind Clark and wrapping one hand under his chin, forcing his head up, while the other winds the collar around his throat and snaps it closed.

“Don’t struggle,” Bruce says, voice low in his throat.

Alfred/Bruce, topping from the bottom

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Bruce/Clark/(Lex), voyeurism, masturbation

[(Anonymous)]

Inspired by "Is 'Batman vs Superman' Really Just Lex Luthor's Gay Fanfiction?"
http://uk.complex.com/pop-culture/2016/03/batman-v-superman-is-very-gay

Lex orchestrates things so he can surreptitiously watch Bruce and Clark 'launch themselves into each other’s upsettingly large arms', and then writes about it in his journal while he jerks off.

Re: Bruce/Clark/(Lex), voyeurism, masturbation

[(Anonymous)]

This article and the ensuing prompt are gold.

+1

Bruce/Clark + Alfred, voyeurism

[(Anonymous)]

Bruce and Clark are getting it on, Alfred watches them (probably from another room, but they're aware he's watching).

Bonus if past Bruce/Alfred was a thing or is maybe still an on-and-off-thing, though I don't really ship them as sleeping with each other regularly by the time the movie happens.

Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it

[(Anonymous)]

Bruce is not the type to say "I love you" or to let anyone say it to him. That doesn't mean he doesn't have other ways of showing that he cares about Clark, and it doesn't mean that Clark won't find other ways of letting Bruce know how he feels about him. Could be a Five Times fic?

Re: Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it

[(Anonymous)]

I still love this prompt and I'm really considering filling it. It probably won't be very long, though.

Bruce/Lex - tender sex, much to Lex's annoyance

[(Anonymous)]

Inspired by the Bruce/Lex threads over at FFA. Lex wants rough, dirty sex with Bruce, but Bruce doesn't feel comfortable unleashing the kraken on a younger, skinnier, seemingly-super insecure guy.

And Lex can't just tell him to get over it because he's playing a . . . seemingly insecure guy.

Re: Bruce/Lex - tender sex, much to Lex's annoyance

[(Anonymous)]

Definitely seconding this, but can I also ask what FFA stands for? I am very interested in these threads for...reasons...

[RPF] Ben/Henry, flirting

[(Anonymous)]

Judging by all the press stuff, Henry is a huge flirt. Every time he opens his mouth, a dirty comment comes out.

Eventually, Ben takes him up on all that flirting and kisses him. (Bonus if Henry did not expect that, at all, but is very happy to role with it.)

Re: [RPF] Ben/Henry, flirting

[(Anonymous)]

I need it.

Bruce/Lex - spanking

[(Anonymous)]

I can't believe there's no prompt for this yet! ;)

Bruce gives Lex a long, hard bare-bottomed spanking. It would be great if it was actual punishment, but I'll take what I can get.

Bonus for Bruce inserting a butt plug, fingering Lex or milking Lex's prostate afterwards.

Bruce/Clark, possessiveness/jealousy

[(Anonymous)]

Clark hates seeing Bruce's public persona flirt with everyone. He knows Bruce has a reputation to maintain, but that doesn't mean he's not going to fuck Bruce hard and mark him all over to remind him who he belongs to.

Fill: Teachable Moments [1/1]

[(Anonymous)]

Watching Bruce flirt with Diana in public the first time had been bad enough: the way his eyes had followed her out of the room, as though Clark wasn’t even there. After everything, though, when they’d gotten to know each other better, when Clark had finally, through some miracle, navigated the minefield of Bruce’s prickly nature into Bruce’s bed? That was worse.

Clark knew it was an act. ‘Bruce Wayne’ was an act, one that was decades-old, that smile, the clothes, even the way Bruce stood, slightly hunched, making his imposing height look less threatening. The blank look in his eyes, the limp handshake, the lazy guileless smile: they were all as much Bruce’s armour as his suit’s vambraces and cowl. Some days, though, watching Bruce work the rounds, Clark wasn’t entirely sure if Bruce himself remembered where the mask stopped and where the real Bruce bled in. The ballerina’s lipstick left a red smear on Bruce’s pristine white collar, and Bruce looked at it and laughed, delighted, drunken. Clark looked away, a sour clench in his gut. He was going to have to leave or something was going to break.

Bruce’s ridiculous fishbowl of a house was oddly warm at night, and Clark wasn’t even sure why he’d flown there. Alfred had made himself scarce after a curt welcome: Clark knew that he still unnerved Alfred, deep down. He could understand. Coming back to life had somehow managed to upset more people than his actual death had. He’d lost friendships, alliances - hell, he’d lost Lois.

Only Bruce had remained unafraid, and that, more than anything, was probably why this had even started. Clark kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat, but didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes as he lay down on Bruce’s bed, breathing in his scent, closing his eyes. He wasn’t the only one who’d shared this bed with Bruce, not by a long shot. Clark had read the TMZ tell-alls, the tabloid scoops, every sordid little anecdote.

Bruce Wayne, bleeding into Bruce.

Clark dozed off, and woke up to Bruce yawning as he climbed over to get to his favourite side of the bed, knees and elbows everywhere. Bruce had showered, and he smelled of soap and hot water, unselfconsciously naked, and he frowned at Clark and batted at his hands as Clark rubbed a palm up his thigh.

“Tired,” Bruce said brusquely. “Party ended late.”

Clark eyed the digital clock by the night stand, which told him that it was an utterly ungodly hour in the morning. “You could’ve left earlier.”

“I could’ve,” Bruce said disdainfully, “But there was enough press in that gala to keep the gossip rags happy for another month or so, and I need some peace and quiet to work on the Black Hand matter.”

“You take appearances too seriously,” Clark ignored Bruce’s irritated hiss, rolling them around such that he was on top, between Bruce’s thighs. “Speaking as a reporter? You don’t actually need to keep your ‘public persona’ going like that all the time. Since what you did with the Swedish handball team? You’ve got enough ‘bad press’ for a lifetime. You could take up a new suitably frivolous hobby and it’d still be the same.”

“Yeah?” Bruce glared up at him. “Who died and left you in charge of PR?”

“Leak photographs of you playing golf in the Himalayan Mountains, things like that. Something. You’re not the only billionaire in the world.”

“Only the most high profile one living in Gotham.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, you left the party early, I saw you.” Bruce had a hand clenched down over the back of Clark’s neck. “We had an agreement, Kent.”

In normal circumstances, Clark would have winced at ‘Kent’ and backed off, apologetic. Now, however, his blood was up and he was still annoyed, and Bruce’s indifference was making it worse. “You seriously don’t know?” Bruce opened his mouth and Clark kissed him, almost hard enough to bruise: it would be easy to bruise him, to mark him, and the seething violence of that thought should’ve been shameful. It almost was.

But then Bruce twitched against him and Clark heard it, that stifled little groan that died unvoiced in Bruce’s throat, heard Bruce’s heart rate pick up. Arousal was something that Bruce always tried to keep under control, like everything else. Clark could hear it anyway. He kissed Bruce until Bruce started to relax, until the hand around the back of his neck dropped down, fingers unbuttoning Clark’s shirt. By the time Clark was stripped bare he had bruised a mark on that pale neck, on those powerful shoulders, on the first scar that led down from Bruce’s collarbone towards his breastbone.

“What’s gotten into you?” Bruce asked, though there was amusement in his voice, a darkly lazy purr, so close to bridging Bruce Wayne to Bruce. Clark growled and bit Bruce in response, above a nipple, nearly breaking skin, and felt Bruce twitch and hiss beneath him, cock sliding up against Clark’s thigh.

“I don’t like seeing you with other people,” Clark admitted mulishly, groping in the side table for lube and condoms, and Bruce laughed again, teeth bared, and now this was more like Bruce, less like the playboy. This was Gotham’s animal, laughing, eyes narrowed in challenge.

“What are you going to do about that?”

“We’ll see.”

Some days Clark wondered if Bruce was like this with his other playmates. Impatient, hungry to get off, primed on efficiency, like sex was something he did to scratch an itch, like there were a million other things Bruce would rather be getting around to. Bruce cursed him and grabbed at his hair as Clark pinned him to the bed and gave him the slowest blowjob he’d ever tried, all languid root-to-tip licks, spending time braced on the very tip, lapping the slit until he could taste bitterness on his tongue, even tucking Bruce’s hips up into the air to roll Bruce’s balls slowly in his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Bruce gasped, though the animal was still laughing. “I’m not - agh - getting any younger- fuck-“

“Don’t make me gag you.”

“Ooh, we’re down to threats,” Bruce bit back, “You really scare me, ngh, you and your vanilla farmboy- ouch!” Bruce jerked violently in Clark’s grip as he bit down hard, in the juncture between his thigh and pelvis, hard enough to lick blood onto his tongue. “Watch your goddamned teeth!”

“I’m watching,” Clark shot back, blood still pressed coppery on his tongue as he let Bruce down, as he kissed Bruce roughly, rolling the taste between them. He felt Bruce stiffen under him, as though in shock, heard another moan stutter and die in Bruce’s throat. He’d break that reserve. He’d-

“Now you’re starting to get interesting,” Bruce purred, and Clark was glad that he hadn’t been holding on to Bruce’s hips: his hands clenched involuntarily on the sheets, hard enough to rip them. Insanely, instead of flinching away - that could’ve crushed bone and Bruce probably knew it - Bruce laughed instead, lower now, dangerous. Fingernails scraped down over Clark’s shoulders as he bent back to suck Bruce’s cock into his mouth, hard enough that Bruce was probably hurting his fingers, scratching at unyielding skin. Clark sucked him in a slow rhythm, bobbing up, lavishing attention on the tip, taking him back down, showing off, smirking each time he took Bruce in to the root, backing off to nip at his thighs whenever he felt Bruce getting too close.

Bruce held out for a long time. The clock had ticked an hour closer to the morning by the time Bruce let out a tiny, wrecked sound, passing an arm over his eyes, his shoulders trembling against the bed. It wasn’t so much surrender as a hostile ceasefire. He could see the animal there still, glaring, as Clark obligingly let go, allowing Bruce to buck into his throat, to chase the edge, listening to his heart beat pick up almost to critical - then he pulled off, holding Bruce down.

“Fuck-“ Bruce gasped, wide-eyed, but he was already too close, his hips jerking in Clark’s grip, heels digging into the sheets as his cock spat a wet line of come over his belly.

“Didn’t say you could come,” Clark said breathlessly - Gods above, Bruce was gorgeous, even like this, shaking from a ruined orgasm, furious and desperate all at once. Fingers clawed against Clark’s shoulders as Clark leaned up for a kiss, as Clark slicked up a finger to press it into Bruce’s hole, not waiting for the come down.

“Jesus,” Bruce blinked, his breath hot on Clark’s cheek. Dazed.

“Okay down there?”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth gritted. “Hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“A little,” Clark admitted. He paused, a little concerned, and Bruce growled, squirming down over his finger. “Hey, you never know, you might get it up again.”

“Fuck you, asshole. That fucking boy scout attitude, all a fucking lie,” Bruce hissed, “Fuck fuck fuck,” he added harshly as Clark pressed in another finger.

“That mouth of yours. Needs a gag.” Clark wouldn’t do it, though. He liked hearing Bruce like this, pinned naked under him, stripped of everything but his acid tongue and temper. That very last inch of defiance made any conceded ground all the sweeter.

Bruce went silent as Clark stretched him out, his breath evening out despite it having to hurt when Clark got to four fingers. He didn’t even make a sound as Clark turned him over onto hands and knees, but when Clark groped for a condom packet, Bruce let out a hoarse laugh. “Save it.”

“What?”

“I’m clean. Besides, it’s not like you can catch anything.”

Clark had to hastily grab at the root of his cock to fight off the sudden spike of visceral lust. “Are you sure about this?”

“Pretty sure my self-control died an early death the day I decided to let some cocky asshole with super-strength into my bed.”

“You,” Clark swallowed his grin, lining up, and Bruce let out a soft exhalation as Clark pushed in, and this had to be hurting Bruce, he was still too tight, but as Clark hesitated, ready to pull out and try more prep, Bruce swore and grabbed at his hip and tugged. Skin to flesh, with Bruce beneath him, this seemed far too intimate. Clark had to be hallucinating.

“You’re mine,” Clark breathed out, as Bruce arched against him, hands fisted on the bed. Bruce didn’t answer, and Clark nipped at one of his scars, the one close to his spine. “Do you hear me?”

“Fuck off.” Bruce hissed.

“I could,” Clark drew out an inch before shoving abruptly back in, hard enough to jerk Bruce up against the bed. He pulled an arm around Bruce’s waist, holding him flush. “Could stay like this too,” he added, as Bruce shuddered and squirmed. “You’re so hot and tight… I think I could stay hard like this for hours. Make you sleep off the day plugged up with my cock. I could spend the morning inside you.”

“Christ,” Bruce gasped, disbelievingly. “What happened to the nice innocent farmboy?”

“You pissed him off?” Clark suggested against the shell of Bruce’s ear.

He didn’t expect Bruce to answer, or to bite out anything but a sardonic answer, but Bruce bowed his head against the pillows, his breaths hissing out in shallow gusts. “All right,” Bruce said gruffly. “Sorry.”

“That’s the least convincing apology I’ve ever heard.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say? I’m sorry, fuck. Fucking move. You’re killing me.”

Clark obliged, if only because it was always possible that Bruce wasn’t entirely joking. That tension in his arms and shoulders spoke of some kind of strain. His back, maybe. Bruce huffed out in annoyance as Clark pulled out and flipped them over, though he tipped his head back, biting down on his lip, as Clark shoved back in, lifting Bruce’s hips. Ankles caught over Clark’s shoulders and Bruce shivered in relief as Clark started to take him, all deep, punishing thrusts. Clark fucked him until Bruce’s hands were shaky on the sheets, until his handsome face went slack with pleasure, until the first tiny, helpless moans slipped past Bruce’s fraying control. Clark had always known that he could break Bruce like this if he wanted to, with lust, with a little kindness. But that had never been the point.

Bruce let out a small and grateful sound as Clark got a hand on his cock, letting it stiffen the rest of the way, then he choked out a whine as Clark shifted, nailing his prostate. “All right there?” Clark asked, his own voice thick. Bruce managed a nod, and Clark grinned, driving in faster, bruising him, the bed frame knocking against the wall. Bruce started to squirm weakly, sensing that Clark was getting close, nudging back against him, and he hissed as Clark started to come, orgasm cored out of him in waves.

“Shit,” Bruce gasped, as Clark pulled wetly out, “C’mon, I’m still-“ He tried to touch himself, but Clark pinned his wrists down to the bed. “Clark.”

“Said you’re mine,” Clark breathed against his mouth, and this time Bruce didn’t curse him, trembling instead, quiet. This was probably as much acquiescence as Clark could get. He pressed his thigh against Bruce’s cock and felt disbelief shake through Bruce, chased by annoyance and then by desperation, and Bruce rubbed against him, breaths stuttering, all uneven thrusts until he was coming against Clark’s leg.

Exhausted, Bruce dropped off to sleep, and didn’t even wake as Clark kissed his cheek, then his mouth, didn’t flinch as Clark touched the puffy edge of his hole, dipping fingers in the fluids seeping out. Bruce would learn. But Clark could sense that it was going to be a long and difficult lesson - not that he’d have it any other way.

Lex/Clark, Kryptonite Noncon

[(Anonymous)]

Basically, I want PWP where Lex kidnaps Clark and keeps him weak enough with kryptonite that he can't escape... And then has his way with him.

Bonus points if Lex also gets off on being able to make marks on Clark's body, i.e. scraping his nails down his back just hard enough to leave scratches.

[Fill] Lex/Clark, Kryptonite Noncon

[(Anonymous)]

OP, I actually wrote this for another kinkmeme prompt, but it contains everything you asked for, so I hope you like it! :D archiveofourown.org/works/6461224/chapters/14787901