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.
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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 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!

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)

Oooooh, this is niiiiiiiiice, anon, thank you so much. :D I love Bruce's possessive hand on the branding, that's a great touch.

Glad you like it!

No need to apologize, anon, this is great! +1 to the anon above, I LOVE Bruce's hand covering it. HOT DAMN.

Thank you!

You heat the brand until it blazes as hot as your fury.

You can almost taste the distortions it makes in the air, heavy and metallic like blood in the back of your throat. You are sweltering as though in the epicenter of a battle, face and chest running with perspiration. The steel kicks off tremendous heat even with your gauntleted fist holding it at arm's length.

The body beneath you, however, does not sweat. Nor does it bleed, or burn, or otherwise scar. You could press the searing metal to the side of Clark's face and he might flinch, might grit his teeth, but he wouldn't feel a thing.

For now, though, Clark gazes steadily up at you, and waits. He can have the patience of a mountain when he sets his mind to it, and sometimes you think that's the only reason the two of you haven't already sheared apart like a fault plane, everything laid to waste by your tectonic moods.

Often, it's this constancy that sparks the anger, sets off the fulminations in your head. It gets you thinking about how you'll turn back to earth someday, be nothing but ash and dirt while Clark will remain for centuries, maybe, millennia, eons, until the sun expands into a red giant--and how here, in this moment, you can't leave a mark on him that lasts any longer than an exhale.

(You tried to explain it, once, and Clark had looked at you as though you'd said something absurd. "Do you think you're that easy to forget, Bruce?"

"By then," you had replied, "I will have been gone for longer than the Earth has currently existed. Tell me, is your memory that good?")

You don't know that you can call it compassion, that Clark has decided to allow it. It seems like the wrong word for this kind of behavior, with its connotations of tenderness. It's indulgence, perhaps. Or pity, because you both know what will come of it: nothing.

But whatever it is that causes him to endure this repeated exercise in futility, you can only ever be grateful with the first press of the brand against his body, emblazoning your sign over his heart. There is a hiss--not of burning flesh but of evaporating moisture, your own sweat where it's glazed Clark's skin--and that's all. No cloying odor of burning hair or blistering skin, no agonized writhing, no pained gasps. No cruelty to it, in practice or intention.

Clark's eyes are open, sharp and blue; his chest steadily rises and falls. You take the brand away. Underneath he is turned a lurid pink, though it's quickly fading, like a fingerprint pressed into flushed skin might.

You bend his head and kiss the mark. It's too hot against your lips. You keep your mouth to it anyway, take a deep breath, and another, pull the heat into your lungs.

You know what grief feels like. It isn't quite like this, but it's something that needs to be weathered, regardless. It can't be allayed by gentle words or fingers in your hair, as much as Clark always tries. It doesn't leave, only changes, steadily transmuting back into a slow anger, as inexorable as a lava flow.

He murmurs your name and draws you up, touches the tight line of your mouth, the gray that creeps along your temple. He asks if you need to talk.

You do, but there's nothing to say that hasn't already been said. Eventually you spin Clark in enough circles that he arrives at the Kryptonite almost of his own volition.

*

It's straightforward to grind it down into a fine dust. Nothing you haven't done before. With a little trial and error, you devise a fluidized powder. After that, it's just a case of applying it with an electrostatic spray.

Your brand glows a savage green.

*

The cave is dark except for a single point of sickly light. Clark breaks a sweat as soon as he arrives. By the time he gets his shirt off and you've settled across his thighs, his hair is soaked, plastered to his forehead. You check in with him as you go--nonverbal questions in the weight of your touch, the crease of your brow. His response is forbearance incarnate.

It will hurt him, this time. You both know this.

You push his hair from his forehead, then draw your hand down his cheek. He turns into it and presses his nose into your palm, trusting. He is an awful color, and when you bring the brand closer, it only gets worse. Your adrenaline surges. He tremors between your thighs.

You decide you're going to make him stay the night so that you can see him bathed in tomorrow's morning sun.

"Here," he says. "Bruce." He guides your hand. His eyes are glassy. It'd be easy to tell yourself it's lust and not fear, but you've seen that look before.

You touch the brand to his skin, only briefly. There is a fine line between marking and maiming, and Clark Kent is thin-skinned. His mouth falls open but he doesn't make a sound; he convulses silently beneath you, arching as far as it can with the demand of your body on him.

You kiss him.

He only starts panting once you throw the brand into a lead case.

*

Gotham is your legacy, but she won't last forever. Long enough after you've gone for the Bat to pass back into myth, remembered by an esoteric scrawl of graffiti on her underbelly. Maybe long enough that she'll see a true dawn, but in truth, you think she would rather collapse under the weight of her own treachery first.

In the cosmic scale of things, she is no less ephemeral than you are. From founding to rubble in the blink of eternity's eye. Look on my works, ye mighty. All this means is you have a grudging respect for your own mortality and an objection to everyone else's, a desire to rail against the impermanence of human existence. You understand all too well how short a life can be.

Superman, though. He is a very different animal. Not now, sprawled in your sheets, skin blasted out white by the midday sun. Right now he's young enough to be human.

He rolls over, tucks his chin against your chest and smiles, sleep-sodden. He has healed as much as he is going to and this time your mark remains, a shiny keloid on his sternum. When he wears the suit, it will ride under the red and gold of his crest. You hope that he will always feel it, rubbing against the fabric. It should maybe stir feelings of possessiveness, ownership. Instead you only feel an abiding calm.

Time changes people, and he is going to have all the time in the galaxy, one day. And that's why when it's over, when the heat death of the universe comes for him, all you want him to do is touch a hand over his heart and remember you.

*

Woah, this is beautiful. I'm not OP, but I've been hoping for a fill for this for ages, and this is just great. I'm usually not a big fan of 2nd person, but it works well enough here, and the whole thing is just so, so beautifully written, I love every single sentence.

Often, it's this constancy that sparks the anger, sets off the fulminations in your head. It gets you thinking about how you'll turn back to earth someday, be nothing but ash and dirt while Clark will remain for centuries, maybe, millennia, eons, until the sun expands into a red giant--and how here, in this moment, you can't leave a mark on him that lasts any longer than an exhale.
This is so great. And then the bit about Bruce kissing the heated skin. Oh, and I love this here: You know what grief feels like. It isn't quite like this, but it's something that needs to be weathered, regardless. It can't be allayed by gentle words or fingers in your hair, as much as Clark always tries. It doesn't leave, only changes, steadily transmuting back into a slow anger, as inexorable as a lava flow.

And also, Bruce basically making Clark think of the kryptonite himself, cunning as always. ;D And holy shit, but the actual branding scene with the kryptonite is so fucking hot.

That ending, though, my heart! You broke it thoroughly, anon, I hope you're proud of yourself. I like that some kind of scar actually remains and that Bruce feels less possessive about it than reassured that Clark will remember him. Awwwww. Feels in my porn makes for the best porn. <3 Thanks for writing this!

Aah, I know second-person ain't everyone's cuppa so I was taking a risk, so thank you for reading in the first instance. At least it wasn't very porny-porn? :D

I am truly sorry for your heart anon, I promise to mend it by posting absolutely filthy smut in the near future, ok <3

Oh, anon, this is SO INTENSE, I don't even know what to say. orz The detachment of second person is so perfect for Bruce here, I love it, and the obsessive undertones suit his movieverse characterization so incredibly well. I was expecting to fill this space with yammering about how even the simplest descriptions here are somehow incredibly hot (Clark trembling, good god), but the ending's pushed all that aside in favor of wrecking me somewhere a little deeper. Which is to say: thank you so much for writing this and sharing it, and I may now need to go cry for a little bit somewhere quiet.

I love second person SO MUCH and it burns that it's the red-headed stepchild of PoVs, hahaha.

Thank you so much and I'm sorry for the unmitigated angst, anon. I hope your heart is recovered <3

Whoa. Clark's possible immortality is something that I haven't seen explored much in the DCEU verse, so this kink took an unexpected turn for me! That said, this is so beautifully-written. Even though it's from Bruce's POV, Clark's utter love comes across so clearly, and not just in how he agrees to the branding. So gorgeous <3

Yeah, I will be interested to see what's made of it in JL, if anything beyond 'oh you're alive again cool cool' because yeah... anyway, that's what fanfic is for. Either way I suspect I'll get a lot of mileage out of the angst and tragedy. :DDD

Thanks, anon! <33

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Bruce/Clark, branding in bed

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

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

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FILL: Forget-Me-Not - Bruce/Clark, branding

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Re: FILL: Forget-Me-Not - Bruce/Clark, branding

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Re: FILL: Forget-Me-Not - Bruce/Clark, branding

Re: FILL: Forget-Me-Not - Bruce/Clark, branding