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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More plz. 8^)

[Going to do these in order; and it may take a while. Reply to 1/4]

Author!anon, a tl;dr to start off the comment: this fill is fantastic. It's great, and there's probably not a lot of ways for me to convey that, that don't sound entirely repetitious; I am, however, going to try.

One of my favorite things about this fill is how it takes the impersonation of Batman & Clark's adventure in the Batsuit as a given, and catapults us right past that into the aftermath of a hostage situation with the Clock King. The unraveling of what exactly happened prior to Bruce undressing Clark in his office is slow, comes to us in sideways glances (and only, finally, fits together when Clark is enumerating his wishlist); but what a picture. I like how it accomplishes for the reader what Bruce is doing with Clark: we have to imagine what Bruce and Clark were doing with the Clock King, build that fantasy, add it to what's already going on in the story itself to find the context behind the immediate scene.

In part one of the fill, I'm struck by how much of the emotional energy revolves around Bruce's dichotomy of truth vs. lies, failure vs. success, and how those two overlap (truth::failure) in the scene. Of course, as a a man who's built an entire goddamn life in hiding himself, he'd see the revelation of both his (and Clark's) feelings as a simultaneous, mutual failure. BUT EVEN BETTER THAN THAT, is that when he's finally "drunk on honesty," he's still fucking projecting. I was so struck by Bruce's line during this reading:

"But you're not quite as interested in that in its own right as you are in hearing me talk about it."

Bruce is putting this desire (to talk about it, to be open about it) onto Clark, but, for fuck's sake, Bruce, it's like you export your honesty!kink onto everyone around you. Probably because it's the single most intimate thing that Bruce Wayne has to offer. And Clark knows this about you, Bruce. Who wouldn't want Bruce to talk about his feelings, after he's spent maybe years hiding them?

And that cuts at me in the hurts-so-good way. Each turn of Bruce's thoughts about Clark obscure and reveal all at once, because they've both, through very dissimilar circumstances, and because of one another, evolved very similar defense mechanisms. And so while I laugh along with (and at Bruce) a bit, I hit Bruce thinking this about the potential xeno-sex he may be having momentarily:

"...if only to manage the likelihood and timing of that particular sort of rejection"

And it slips the knife into my heart. That's what Bruce has been doing, all this time, hasn't he? His lie...his timeline created as a mirage through his biofeedback training... it's all to manage this possibility. Maybe put off indefinitely a rejection he couldn't bear; or at least time it in such a way that it doesn't fall on him like a ton of bricks.

FUCKING OUCH.

THIS SMUT IS GIVING ME TOO MANY FEELS. DDDDDDDDD:

Anyway; all of this is threading under a gorgeous and delightful surface of bickering, Bruce totally making Clark's a hell (he doesn't deserve this; but then again, he's the one who likes Bruce), and incredibly hot smut.

But wow do those undercurrents rise up to grab me unawares. It's fucking amazing.

/op

Now available on AO3 in fewer-typos flavor!

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9270209

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.

There is an exoticism to the danger, even in this controlled environment. Clark brushes his fingers over the links at his neck. He lets himself be conscious of the particular weight of it, the pressure. Bruce gives the chain another turn around his fist, shutting down Clark's breath and tugging him close at the same time.

"You'd have to let me," he repeats, soft over Clark's gasping. He kneels and touches Clark's face, the leather of his glove warm against Clark's jaw. Hs fingers curl and draw him in. Then the chain slackens and Bruce's mouth is on him all at once, stealing what's left of his breath without apology.

Black dots dance at the edge of his vision. Realization blooms in him.

He'd assumed that Bruce would keep to a clinical, methodical approach, purely business, and Clark would extract what he needed on his own time. Bruce's life seems like such a grim procession of duty over self, Clark hadn't anticipated that he might actually want--

Tonight is full of surprises. He makes a shaken sound into the kiss. He tells himself he'd have made the same noise if Bruce had punched him.

He finds something to do with his hands--runs them over Bruce's shoulders, his arms, grabs at his chest until Bruce grunts and takes his wrists one-handed, pushing him back onto the bare concrete of the cave floor. He's a looming silhouette against the cave's stark lighting, bearing down to kiss him with consummate aggression. It feels the way Clark imagined pain did, before he'd really felt it. Almost abstract, Bruce's mouth pushing hard against his, lips bruising against his teeth, a sharp intensity to it like he might draw blood. It feels like the palm pressing down on his wrists might leave behind a delicate imprint of his uniform's texture; the fingers gripping his face might tear his skin.

It's not the same as in his dream, but it's close enough.

Bruce pulls back, just watches him for a moment. "Can you get free?" he says, briskly inquisitive. Then he wets his lower lip, and says in the same tone: "Can you get me off?"

Clark may be weakened by his own standards but he's still a powerhouse in human terms, and despite his involuntary grin, one that's not particularly impressed by unsubtle innuendo. "Mm. The chain isn't really working for me," he says, and flips them over.

It jolts a grunt out of Bruce and he swears as though he wasn't expecting it. He's playing, Clark realizes with a hint of incredulity, watching the angle of his mouth, his shoulders tremoring with suppressed laughter. The chain slides from around Clark's neck as he leans over, coiling onto Bruce's chest and then pouring onto the floor under its own weight. He feels the passage of every link, sparking against his skin.

"What's so funny?" Clark says.

Bruce looks up at him like butter wouldn't melt, so Clark draws his fingers over the solid bulk of his body, following the seams of the Batsuit until his fingers hook into his utility belt.

"What are you playing at, Bruce?"

"I could ask you the same," he says.

"But I asked first," Clark says, tugging.

"That's playground logic, Clark."

"Beats Bat-logic by a country mile." He lets up on the belt--it's fastened with some over-engineered pressure-release buckle system that obviously requires a certain knack to undo, and for all his sudden amenability, he guesses Bruce won't be too impressed if he snaps it off him like it's a giftwrap ribbon. He slides his hand between Bruce's legs instead, flattening it over the hard cording of his inner thigh. "So… shall I say it, or are you going to?"

"That implies that I have something to say."

"You don't?"

Bruce's reply is one of his patented silences, somewhat undermined by the way his muscles are repeatedly tensing against Clark's palm. His breathing has shallowed slightly. He's trying hard not to nudge Clark's hand into a more stimulating position and it's obviously testing him.

"Okay," Bruce says eventually, mock resignation and equally mock disappointment. "Are you sure the chain does nothing for you?"

"Well… not by itself. What else did you make?"

*

"This is going some way to selling me on it." Clark inhales through his nose and arches. The chain clanks as he rolls his shoulders. It's heavy around his wrists, almost as present in his attention as Bruce is, kneeling between his legs.

The gauntlet he's wearing lacks the grooves and detailing of his usual pair. A prototype, Bruce had explained, and had done something with the outer layer. A sour glow had lit the mezzanine, enough to make Clark reel but not enough to knock him off his feet.

(Bruce had taken care of that himself, pushing Clark back into his ridiculous desk chair, then climbing over him to tie his wrists with the chain. He'd wedged a knee between Clark's thighs and guided Clark's hands over his head, settling his wrists on the seat's headrest. First he'd bound them to each other, then to one of the cave's ubiquitous wire rope suspensions.

With Clark safely restrained, he'd dropped to his knees like a supplicant.)

Bruce delicately touches his gloved hand to the crest of Clark's hip. There's no sensuality to it, no slow, teasing turn-on, just the sharp crack of something deadly at the contact, like a current passing through him. It brings with it a heady hit of adrenaline, brute force arousal. He's hard in his suit already.

"How does that feel?"

Clark isn't sure there's a word for it--compelling in how borderline unpleasant it is, tangled up in the recall of Bruce towering over him, blade to his face. The fear he felt then, the thrill he feels now, his heavy thudding pulse. The phantasmagoria of his nightmares.

"Weird," he decides.

"Good-weird or bad-weird?"

"You're the detective."

"The evidence suggests," Bruce says. He doesn't bother finishing the statement. He angles his head and noses at Clark's dick.

He briefly touches his fingertips to Clark's hip again. The kryptonite radiates tart, thrumming sensation, and Clark gasps, his dick twitching. Bruce nuzzles at him, drawing long slow breaths.

"Are you going to do that all night?" Clark asks faintly. It's not that it isn't hot as hell--Bruce is something to see like this, his bare hand splayed over Clark's thigh, his face buried in Clark's crotch, but Clark finds himself coveting more. As much as he can get before the walls inevitably slam back up.

"Maybe," Bruce says. He glances up, a challenge. "What are you going to do about it?"

Clark grins and yanks his hands apart, expecting to feel the links twist and separate as if it were nothing more than jewelry. Up until this exact moment, somehow he thought he could do just that. But the chains don't snap, the links only pinch deeper into his skin. His earlier slow panic returns, constricting his chest.

His head swims. "Oh," he says, in the absence of anything more eloquent. Bruce might be on his knees, but only one of them has yielded here.

"Something like that," Bruce says agreeably. His ungloved hand rests warm on the inside of Clark's knee. It's solid and grounding, even if the eye contact is verging on uncomfortable. Clark offers him a lopsided smile, his chest slowly unwinding from its tightness as he breathes. The chain isn't the only thing holding him fast.

Bruce takes his time just touching Clark's body, methodically tracing the outline of Clark's musculature with his gloved fingers like he's charting a topographical map. He seems fascinated by the way Clark's muscles spasm and bunch at the contact, and with the small, halting noises that come with it.

The kryptonite filters into Clark's bones with each firm touch, the pain gathering and building. It promises something vast, only to subside as Bruce moves from one spot to the next, leaving a bright echo in his wake.

His skin feels hot and tender and his breath rasps in his throat. Bruce flattens his hand over his abdomen, close enough that his thumb brushes Clark's dick. Clark's whole body jackknifes, chains pulling tight at his wrists. He think he might have actually whimpered.

Bruce looks up at him, eyebrows raised. Yeah. Probably did. He laughs breathlessly, which Bruce takes as a cue to finally, mercifully cup him. Softly at first, still pacing out the limits of Clark's endurance, climbing in pressure until Clark's choking out uncontrolled moans and his hips are rolling up of their own accord.

It feels like every hair on his body is standing on end. He swears he can taste ozone.

Bruce's grip relaxes, and Clark wishes he could grab his wrist, keep him pressed there until the heat and tension mount beyond endurance, until the pain splits him open.

It would be really good to be naked, he thinks. "Touch my shield," he says.

Bruce snorts. His thumb traces Clark's dick where his uniform's moulded to the heavy curve of it across his stomach; the touch snaps and bites like a static shock. "Your dirty talk needs work."

"Sorry it's not your speed. Maybe you can--" He cuts off with a groan as Bruce squeezes him again, pulling his dick away from his stomach and stretching his uniform so he can almost get his hand right around it, lighting him up in a wreath of pain. Clark's heart pounds hard and the back of his head hits the chair's headrest with force. "God--crime statistics, maybe. Does that get you going? Or would you prefer a blow-by-blow of--"

"I would like to be involved in a blow of some kind, yes."

"Then stop being deliberately--just touch the damn shield, my god--"

Bruce leans up, pressing closer between Clark's legs, the hard plane of his stomach flush against Clark's dick. "Like this?" he says, and drags his gloved fingers along the red border of the S, and then over Clark's pectoral, rasping over the texture of the fabric. It leaves a chain of shocks in his wake. He finds Clark's nipple.

Clark hisses through his teeth, hips jerking. A rush of precome dampens the inside of his suit. "Not like that," he says, trying for nonchalant but falling decidedly short. He laughs breathlessly. "That's not a magic button, Bruce."

Bruce appears unconvinced. He grips Clark's nipple through the fabric, pulling and rubbing in turn. It's on the threshold of unbearable with the mineral doing its work, and Clark writhes between Bruce and the chair, one moment trying to get away and the next inviting more. Each meticulous pass of Bruce's thumb drives him closer to the edge of his endurance.

Bruce turns his attention to Clark's other nipple, apparently content to make zero goddamn effort towards getting either of them naked, but finally relents when Clark starts digging his heels into the back of his legs and making inarticulate, demanding noises.

"Impatient," he murmurs, and spreads his hand over the S of Clark's shield. He does it unceremoniously, as though he isn't expecting anything to actually happen. Clark takes some hazy satisfaction in the way he starts back in shock when his uniform swiftly folds up, separating from his body in a flowing spiral of geometric plates. Usually he can hear the metallic click and pulse of its bioelectromagnetic field as the material retreats into his shield. It feels substantially more eerie--more alien--now that he can't.

He hopes, belatedly, that it doesn't kill the mood. His skin is bared to the chill cave air. It feels different, and it takes him a moment to realize it's because he's actually perspiring. The prickling sensation is the rapid cooling of sweat on his skin. His arms are beginning to ache from the weight of the chain and his wrists tingle where it rests against his newly-bared skin. The tactile input is novel enough to enjoy for the time being. Bruce's level observation is more of a challenge to endure.

"What?" Clark says. Bruce's hand hovers over his chest; close enough that his skin shivers in anticipation, but he doesn't quite touch. He idly wonders if Bruce would consider clawed fingertips for his gauntlets. It certainly wouldn't be the most dramatic element of his costume, though probably too fussy a detail for his style--but he can imagine it clearly, the way Bruce could rake his stomach and leave lacerations, hook into his skin and tear--

"I take it you have some control over making that happen."

Clark blinks, mentally backtracks. Right--his shield. He hums an acknowledgement. "I have to tell it to," he says, in a vastly abridged explanation. And then, because no matter how tightly he's pressed to Clark's body, Bruce seems ready and willing to take a detour into dissecting his suit's tech, he says, "Would you just touch me?"

Bruce sucks his teeth as though he's run the odds and come up long.

"Please," Clark says. He struggles to make it sound like a command. The crack in his voice lets him down, but maybe it's a combination that works well on Bruce. He capitulates with something like eagerness, curling his hand over Clark's hip.

It's several degrees more intense on his bare skin, his nerve-endings screaming with it. It feels like he's being branded--like Bruce will move his hand and there will be an imprint of his touch left behind. He grits his teeth at the hot bite of it, grunting as his back arches away from the chair.

"Steady," Bruce murmurs, and then bends to lick the head of Clark's dick, firm and slow, dipping in to taste his precome as though that'll do anything to keep him under control. Clark shudders and collapses back into the chair. He can feel every crease in the leather seat and the direction the air is circulating in the cave, his own pulse against Bruce's tongue--all distinct, even through his kryptonite-dimmed senses.

It's a muffled kind of silent, all the peripheral racket of his surroundings muted without needing his input. His vision is like fuzzy VCR tape, bereft of the elaborate contour of waves and signals that usually patina his environment.

This is probably how the average human perceives the world. He takes a moment to wonder how the hell they manage, then Bruce opens his mouth and slides it around most of Clark's dick in a typically ambitious movement. After that, Clark isn't thinking much about anything except the careless scrape of his teeth and the ferocious dig of the gauntlet into his hipbone.

Bruce pushes himself down, mouth stretched and frowning like this is some kind of goddamn problem he has to solve. Clark helps him along with a thrust of his hips. Bruce rides up with it then pulls back, cheeks hollowing as he sucks hard on the head. Too hard--almost spitefully hard. Clark convulses.

Bruce circles the length of his dick while he's shuddering--and god, he can't figure out of it's agony or pleasure, but the sensation is an expected one. An anticipated one. His mouth is watering with it. He's never wanted something so awful so badly. It's excruciating, thunderous, quickly resolving into warmth that gathers at the base of his spine, and he gasps and twists in on himself as far as the chains will allow, just to keep himself a little longer.

The look on Bruce's face is--he uncurls his hand and Clark falls back, heaving in breath and making rough noises of relief that won't quite keep to themselves. He sounds like this when he wakes up, sometimes.

"Okay?"

He takes a few more shaky breaths, and swallows. "I'm okay." He thinks about the augmented batarang, about claws and his skin parting. "Bruce," he says urgently.

"I'm listening."

"Remember, when--I messed up your car," Clark says, then shakes his head, fumbling for a more lucid explanation. His concentration is shot, thoughts scattering when he tries to pin them down. "Back when we were--when we first--" He sighs in frustration. "The thing you asked me."

Bruce blinks at him. He wets his lips. "I remember," he says, carefully uninflected.

"I want to--remember what that's like," Clark says. "To bleed like that. To just--keep bleeding."

"It's not as exciting as it sounds," Bruce says.

"You don't have to worry about whether it'll stop."

Bruce presses his mouth into a hard line, a muscle clenching in his jaw. Clark rolls his head back against the chair and watches him sort through whatever logic tree consists his decision-making process.

"No, Clark," he says, not unkindly.

"Then, can you--" Clark starts, but Bruce has already pressed up against him again, bare hand tangling in his hair to pull him into a slow kiss. The other slides between his legs, bypassing his dick to grasp his balls. Again the shock of the kryptonite, the heady burn of it. The moan it startles out of him is lost in Bruce's mouth.

Bruce continues to feed him shallow, messy kisses, slowly rubbing his own erection against Clark's thigh. His fingers roam lower, brushing over Clark's ass and his whole body seizes with the promise of it, the wicked crackle of the kryptonite and those vicious fingers curling inside of him.

"I'm gonna," Clark says, "oh god, I--"

He's going to come against the Batsuit. Bruce doesn't seem to care, so neither does Clark. He loses Bruce's mouth when he arches his neck, but then there's the sting of his teeth bearing down on Clark's Adam's apple, his nose pressing in against his jugular, making his head rush. Bruce could tear out his throat.

Bruce's fingers press harder, not breaching him--but they could, with just a little more. Could settle deep.

"Why do you want this?" Bruce asks quietly, muffled against Clark's neck, as though he doesn't feel the same need in his bones a hundredfold stronger.

He must know that part of it. But maybe what he's not understanding is that he's the only person with enough ruthlessness and empathy in balance to do this to Clark without devastating him, one way or the other.

And, because if it comes down to it, Bruce won't shy from using this against him, but--here be dragons.

"The novelty," Clark gasps.

Bruce's fingers nudge hard, both punishment and reward for his lie, and Clark trembles violently as his orgasm lashes him, burning up his spine and drawing every muscle in his body taut. He doesn't have the breath to yell. Bruce holds him steady through it, pressing cheek to cheek as Clark shudders. He might be saying something, but it's drowned out by Clark's roaring blood.

He's vaguely aware of Bruce reaching over him as it ebbs, and there's sudden relief as the chain uncoils from his wrists. He lets his hands slide bonelessly over the wide span of Bruce's back, just breathing as the wider world starts sparking back into his consciousness.

His arms ache and his fingers feel weird, like they're not his. He clenches and unclenches his fists against Bruce's shoulder blades.

Then he digs in his fingernails and gently pulls the weave of the Batsuit apart. He feels the hard catch of Bruce's breath as he tears out the seams down his chest and through the wet mess soaking into his stomach, peeling back his tough hide, exposing his soft underbelly.

He snaps the belt like a ribbon.

He's going to be in an entirely different world of pain for this. He grins up at Bruce's furious, desperate expression and pulls away the suit's protective cup.

"Shit," Bruce rasps and presses his forehead into Clark's shoulder. He's coming before Clark can even work his hand inside the compression shorts he wears underneath the suit. Clark rests his palm over the damp material instead, luxuriating in the pull and release of Bruce's orgasm, his uncontrolled shivering, the way his breath burns against Clark's skin.

He shudders one last time and then sighs

"I am incredibly unhappy with you right now," he says. He plucks at a strip of ruined fabric.

"Sure," Clark says sunnily. He is phenomenally tired all of a sudden. If Bruce wants to go ahead and have this argument while he's only half-conscious, that would be quite optimal. "Business as usual."

Bruce peels the glove off, but lets it drop to the floor instead of putting it away. Clark's not sure whether it's that or the exhaustion or a combination that's fogging his senses, but he's pretty sure he can get away with tilting his head and pulling an openly hopeful face. He catches Bruce's eye roll before he's obliged with a kiss. No argument. Later, then.

"Come on," Bruce says. "It's cold down here. Are you good to move?"

Clark considers this, and then shrugs lethargically. Even if he could, he doesn't want to just yet, but Bruce gets to his feet and hefts Clark up out the chair and straight over his shoulder into a fireman's lift. It's an impressive maneuver, even if he has to grunt and step back to center his balance.

"Jesus, you're heavier than I remember," he mutters. "What are you made of, moon rock?" He hooks an arm around Clark's thigh, grabs his wrist and bears him out of his lair.

"Doesn't matter," Clark says, lets his grousing wash over him with unprecedented fondness. "You're strong." It's way more uncomfortable than Clark could have anticipated, being carried like this. Bruce's shoulder digs into the soft flesh below his sternum and makes talking, and breathing, a more labored experience. He quickly feels lightheaded on top of his orgasmic high.

"Don't patronize me," Bruce says, and slaps Clark's ass with his free hand.

Clark starts in surprise and laughs, or tries to, just wheezes out a few breaths. That sets off a chain reaction of snorting and Bruce muttering jesus under his breath, which just makes Clark laugh more. By the time Bruce dumps him onto his bed, he's almost asphyxiated himself.

It's late evening. Clark didn't expect it to be, for some reason. The dipping sun smothers him in its low, red rays and he feels a twinge of wistfulness as it bathes the ache from his muscles. Bruce stands beside the bed, arms folded. His uniform hangs in shredded loops around his waist.

Clark closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them again, it's fully dark. Bruce is at his back, silent. He sleeps again. He doesn't remember his dreams.

***

Bruce twists the bedsheets and shouts himself awake. Clark leans over him, and when it takes a good few seconds for the terror in Bruce's face to subside into lust, Clark remembers that the Bat is not the only one with glowing eyes and the strength to break a man.

I'm not the OP, but I. FUCKING. LOVED. THIS!!! Clark chasing his pain kink under the guise of experimenting with kryptonite and what levels make him super helpless is my jam!! And there are so many narrative details that I just loved as well as the character voices.

And Clark just breaking the belt at the end, ha.

That final line was perfection too.

Thanks for this fill, author!

I'm the OP of at least some of the prompts that inspired this (notably the kryptonite lined gloves) and I am in love. This is perfect and one of the hottest things I've read in a long time. I love how sensual this is, all those descriptions of pain and pleasure intermingling for Clark. I'm on mobile and can't quote your whole fic back at you right now like I want to, but fuck, it's absolutely breathtaking.

NA

+ so very, very many ones to all of this! *_______________* All the sensations Clark is feeling throughout this whole thing are just so vivid and clear and spectacularly hot, GAH. It deserves a way more articulate comment than I'm currently capable of composing, given that my brain just basically melted. AMAZING.

!!!!! This is so great, I can't wait for the rest. I love how you've woven the competitiveness in their relationship into how Clark reacts- and then this:

If Clark turned his head right now he would see him in his moment of climax, guard dropped for an instant. Maybe he'd see if this is a way that Bruce can be gentled.//

<3

"Imagine your father left you a watch. Maybe he did leave you a watch, I don't know, and while we're being frank I don't care. Imagine your father — he left you a watch."

Lex's hand is cold against his wrist, like a demonstration.

"You're insane."

"Granted. Imagine your father left you a watch, and it works, it's a good watch, thick band, analog dial, good up to 300 meters under water, it's a pretty fucking sweet imaginary wristwatch. But it doesn't fit, and you take out links and you take out links but it's starting to grate on you because you don't even wear a watch, because who does, and your father should have known that. Nobody wears a fucking analog watch any more unless they're too cowardly to admit they just want an expensive bracelet. So you can put it in a box, or sell it on eBay, or throw it behind your bed and forget about it, but what you really want to do is smash that fucking watch."

"And LexCorp is the watch."

"You're thinking so small."

Clark is short of breath and weaker than he has ever felt, weaker than after Zod forced his hand — his lungs are straining and the muscles of his chest are a cage.

"Lex?"

"You know, he used to turn me over his knee," Lex says, squirming heavily against Clark's lap, "Until I got too big, and he got too impatient. He'd get all pissed off and haul me up to that big hardwood desk and bend me over—" and Lex's mouth grazes his ear, only briefly, he speaks too quickly and too deftly to make that pinpoint touch appear calculated but it must be— "He made me keep count. His hands smelled like newspapers and he must've worn a belt every day of his life—"

Lex's hands are crammed under the band of Clark's belt, are fumbling with the cheap metal clasp, they probe against the hard muscle that Clark the civilian dresses to hide.

"—because he always was generous about laying it on me. I bet you're wishing you could touch me now, Clark."

Clark is touching him, if not necessarily in the way he wants — unwillingly, from beneath. He is strapped to an examination table — the way his dad must always have feared, somewhere at the bottom of his heart, only not quite like that. There's no panel of scientists behind the glass, or he'd know. The two of them are alone.

"I made him do it — and it was easy, if I didn't call him sir or I didn't cooperate with my doctor, or if he heard I cried. He'd kick the shit out of me. But you're not human, are you, Clark. You don't know."

The line of contact between their bodies is a zigzag. Lex keeps talking, drumming the backs of his fingernails against the surgical steel tabletop.

"You know I used to bang my head against the wall, it used to drive him crazy. He couldn't fucking stand it." His forehead knocks against Clark's, gestural. "Why don't you give me a real what-for, huh? I bet underneath that Boy Scout act you're just dying to beat me bloody, you could crush me to death with one hand—"

Clark could never, least of all now — in another place, without the strength bled out of him, he could fend him off a dozen different ways without harming him. He could carry him right into Metropolis State Hospital if he had to. Lex has cracked, he's only fit for a hospital now, he needs help. That just makes this worse — Lex needs help.

He wants Clark to say something. Clark doesn't know what to say.

"—and I was just a kid, but I knew—"

Lex, a child, sick and hurt. Kids get hurt in every neighborhood, in every city and state, everywhere. It doesn't always make the papers. Sometimes Clark's not fast enough.

"—he'd kill me if he could, one day he'd hit too hard or pick me up and squeeze—" His hands are on Clark now, spasming on his throat, beneath his adam's apple. His hands are sweating; his voice is strained with fright or with arousal or both. "He wasn't a big man, but he'd do it. I was just a kid then, I thought he could do anything."

His grip releases; he shifts again to tend to some other part of him. Luthor's skin is cold and damp with sweat. The hollow of his hand brushes over Clark's knuckles, and reflexively his fingers spasm up into a solid fist.

The click reverberates like a gunshot — then another as a reinforced tumbler unlinks itself, metal churning against metal. He is unlocking his shackles.

"I could feel his fists on my body for days. Is that strange? Is that strange to say? You don't know what it's like to be hurt — feeling pain — but it sticks on you, you know? You don't forget it."

He's hard in his pants. Clark becomes aware of it, horribly aware with Lex's skinny hips snaking against him and horribly guilty.

It's not within his control. Something pumped into the air, something in his bonds. He didn't ask for this. Clark can't even turn his head. His freed arm is not yet responsive, he can only watch it move as if it belongs to someone else — for a moment he's caught in the horrible suspicion that it is foreign to him now, that Lex has done something to make his own body betray him.

Lex's mouth grazes across his cheek. His sharp small teeth digging into Clark's lip, the foreign sensation of a mountain-ridge of prickling pain — Clark's shirt has come untucked,the sound of his own (inhuman) heart beating is a cavernous thud in a quiet room.

Clark raises his hand — still stiff and alien to him, bled dry of dexterity. He can will it to move, he can will each individual finger to crook and bend, but he's too aghast to strike him down. Lex is watching him move, curled up alongside him, still all busy hands and uncertain flashing eyes.

He could snap every bone in that body, but not without becoming the worst kind of bully in the process. To a child every adult is unimaginably strong.

"Are you gonna punish me, Clark? Are you gonna teach me a lesson?"

He wants nothing more than to clamp his hand over Lex's mouth and must resist the inescapable compulsion to rut against him, as much as his bonds will permit — if this is what Lex wants and what will make it stop, he'll give it to him, he won't hurt him but he has to do something. That's wrong, that's fundamentally wrong.

"Stop." Clark makes a fist in his hair. "Stop telling me this."

"Nobody saved me, Clark. What power on earth can square off against what a red-blooded American citizen does in the privacy of his own home? There wasn't one — nobody cared, and they ran away—"

He flicks the backs of his fingers against Clark's naked stomach, just beside the trail of hair beneath his navel. There's a small but perceptible thud, like knocking on a wooden tabletop.

"What he did to you wasn't right. You don't have to live with this."

Lex's head twists back on his neck, an unnatural angle, a sick arch exposing his slim throat like a pillar.

"All gods want blood sacrifices. It's just a fact of life. You know. You can't have the perfect, shining city on a hill without cracking a couple eggs. You buy this stuff and that's what it costs."

A mad echo in a white room. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Isn't that what you want to hear? That I'm some fucked up little thing who doesn't know the difference— doesn't know the difference between good and bad—"

"Why are you telling me this?"

For absolution. Because Clark was never there, because no one was there — no teacher, tutor, secretary, doctor, priest, nobody who saw a boy hurting —

Whose name is on the sign out front? Who built this place? Luthor breathing against his ear, a whole orchestra of shifting tones, Clark has never exactly known what other people hear but it's not this: "Because no one would ever believe you."

This is amazing. I've been hoping for a fill for this for months and this is every bit as fucked up as I had hoped. Awesome job, Anon.

+1000! A++ creepy and messed up, and Lex's voice and all the mentions of his mannerisms are exactly right. Just spectacular.

idk if this is a weird request since i feel like there's not a lot of tropey, cliché au's like this being requested around here ?? but i just stumbled upon this beautiful fanart (http://rinnirrinnir.tumblr.com/post/146099640555/superbat) and now i really want to read a mechanic!au lol. doesn't even have to be that exactly! maybe bruce's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and oh, look who stops to help, Good Samaritan Clark Kent™.

the basic story is up to the author, i really just want a grease-smeared clark fucking bruce on the hood of his car on the side of the road (and/or vice versa) :)

This was such a fascinating and creepy read, and your Lex voice was great!

During the fight, Doomsday snatches up Superman to dominate him via fucking

+ for xeno genitalia
+ the codex is somehow involved
+ for a spark of angry Zod still being somewhere in there

Faora somehow survived and is back and ends up fighting Diana somehow and really just take it from there

I'm surprised this hasn't been brought up before tbh. I could really see Doomsday with a cat-like spiked cock.

Yeah, he could have a retractable anything since he was stark naked, and we couldn't see anything

“Like that,” Bruce hisses, pushing back into the other man’s thrusts, and across the room Alfred has to subtly shift position, a wave of want washing over him.

The boy is good, does as he’s told, and Bruce was right - there is more than a little of Clark Kent about him. It’s the jaw, Alfred thinks, and wonders idly if one day, perhaps, Clark himself can be convinced to join them.

In the present this is more than enough, Bruce’s face twisting, his breathing harsh, as he’s brought closer and closer. Alfred drinks in the sight. The quiver in Bruce’s thighs, and the way his fingers clench tightly, even with nothing to hold on to. The play of the lamplight across their bodies, and the liquid heat in Bruce’s eyes when he tilts his head to look at him.

“Ah!” Their companion gasps, hips snapping forward, helpless, and Bruce curses, pulling at the wrist restraints keeping his hands out of the equation.

He always was so very demanding.

Alfred stands then, trusts that the man they have chosen is professional enough to follow his instructions and disappear into the background. This is just for the two of them, a throwback to that first time, when Bruce came to him - hurting and miserable - and told him that he had spent the night letting a stranger do what he would to him, because Alfred couldn’t trust him to know his own mind, even after everything they had been through together.

It had clawed at him then, the sense of outraged jealousy, and even now, even after such a wonderful show, he aches to put his mark on Bruce. To hear his former charge beg and plead for him.

There is plenty of time however, and Alfred moves slowly. Stands at the edge of the bed, between Bruce’s splayed legs, and lets his fingers seek out the evidence of another man’s enjoyment, his own arousal spiking when he feels how full Bruce is. How the slickness is leaking out of him, Bruce grinding down onto his digits as though he is trying to chase the sensation.

“Shhh,” Alfred soothes, even as he presses his fingers against Bruce’s prostate and watches him twist and writhe, so desperate for completion.

Bruce is beautiful like this, when he can’t keep still, can’t keep quiet. His pupils blown and his cock begging for attention. Alfred sinks to his knees, rewards Bruce with a flicker of tongue against the head of his dick, smiling at the frantic noises which escape Bruce when he doesn’t make good on the promise.

Instead Alfred drops his head lower, losing himself in the intimacy of the moment as Bruce shivers at the sensation of hot breath against his opening. He moves his fingers within Bruce roughly, just to ground both of them, the slide so easy it makes his own cock strain within the confines of his clothing.

He has to press his tongue to him then, working it around and between his fingers. Spearing it into Bruce, over and over, until Bruce’s cries finally pierce the haze of lust and he has to free his cock, has to give Bruce what he’s been waiting so impatiently for.

“Don’t stop,” Bruce demands, voice wrecked and skin burning to the touch, and Alfred lacks the willpower to deny him. Thrusts into him harder, faster, until Bruce is a mess, sweat slick and gasping, whining, helpless. Until Alfred has to push still closer and capture his mouth, fingers digging bruises into the flesh of Bruce’s hips.

Bruce calls his name when he comes, every muscle straining, and Alfred can’t hold back after that. Can’t do anything but push into his pliant body, loving how easy it is, how very wet Bruce is. Bruce meets his gaze, soft and sated, and that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

He releases Bruce’s wrists in the aftermath. Rubs his thumbs against the delicate skin in careful, gentle motions, and Bruce gives him the look that says he’s not made of glass. He doesn’t need looking after.

“If you won’t take care of yourself, someone has to,” Alfred chides and it’s a sign of how intense this has been. How much it has meant to both of them.

Bruce doesn’t even argue.

Woah. I didn't know Bruce/Alfred could be this hot! Great fill, anon!

Thank you! :)

This is incredibly good. So hot and yet sweet at the same time. I love the trust and intimacy between them.

Thank you so much! It's my first time writing this pairing so I'm glad it worked. <3

Hi Anon! I hope you're still around, because I'd like to apologize for taking forever to fill your prompt. I wanted to let you know that I AM going to post it soon, in case you're still interested. I got distracted by some real life craziness and other commitments and I'm very sorry about leaving you hanging like that.

<3

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Page 76 of 99

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: FILL: Convergent Evolution, Bruce/Clark, Clark in the Batsuit [4/4]

Re: FILL: Convergent Evolution, Bruce/Clark, Clark in the Batsuit [4/4]

Re: FILL: Convergent Evolution, Bruce/Clark, Clark in the Batsuit [1/4]

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

FILL: Here Be Dragons -- Bruce/Clark, kryptonite bondage [2/3]

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

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

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

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

Re: FILL: It’s more than silhouettes tonight, Bruce/Clark, voyeurism [1b/3]

Fill: "Full Disclosure" [child abuse, noncon]

Re: Fill: "Full Disclosure" [child abuse, noncon]

Re: Fill: "Full Disclosure" [child abuse, noncon]

clark/bruce, mechanic!au

Re: Fill: "Full Disclosure" [child abuse, noncon]

Clark/Doomsday, primal rough non-con

Faora/Diana, fighting as foreplay

Re: Clark/Doomsday, primal rough non-con

Re: Clark/Doomsday, primal rough non-con

Fill: Bruce/Alfred, sloppy seconds

Re: Fill: Bruce/Alfred, sloppy seconds

Re: Fill: Bruce/Alfred, sloppy seconds

Re: Fill: Bruce/Alfred, sloppy seconds

Re: Fill: Bruce/Alfred, sloppy seconds

Re: GQ Edwards/Rick Flag, Submission Kink, Dub-Con, Power Play