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.).

Newest page | Flat view | Flat view newest page

Comments

Re: Bruce/Clark, depowered!Clark is the biggest damsel in distress - Part Eleven p1

[(Anonymous)]

Ohhhhhh nooooooo this part got too long and has to be split into two!!!!! And it's all pure porn as well. Oops.

I made this part a bit long as I am sorry nonnies but I have a hard deadline creeping up for an RL thing and so have to turn my focus to that, which leaves me not so much time for fun things :( I think this only has one part left in it, and hopefully I can get it done quite quickly, but it may take a few days :((((( (I'll probably end up ignoring my responsibilities and doing it first thing tomorrow morning, ha ha ha ha... ha).

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


Clark can feel the shivers passing over his body, and he lets it happen, sinking into the kiss. He has been slotting things into place in his head: the dream, the waking up hard, the way Bruce pulled him out of the bathtub and put him into bed – his bed.

He knows what Bruce is like – that any hold Clark imagines he has on him from time to time, that anything he imagines he might know about him, is cut away the next time he tries to grasp it, and instead he finds himself scrabbling against Bruce’s granite-hard surface.

He gives himself away, though, in ways he probably doesn’t even imagine. The kindnesses he seems to dismiss as unimportant, the way he moves and shifts and reappears again, but always remaining fundamentally the same. All the chimera-like qualities he displays have, of course, always been for show – layers upon layers upon layers, from Bruce Wayne to Batman to somewhere in between. But at his core he is unchangeable.

It’s these layers, Clark realises, that he’s been groping through all this time – that’s why they’re never there again when he reaches for them, because Bruce has always twisted away and discarded them by the time Clark has started to push through.

And now….

Now Bruce’s lips are warm on his, his slight stubble grazing Clark’s chin, teeth sliding gently over his lower lip. He’s kissing Clark, not simply allowing himself to be kissed, his fist knotted in the hair at the nape of his neck, so that Clark, in his current state, couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to.

Not that he does. It’s exactly the opposite, in fact.

He doesn’t know exactly when this started, or if, until this moment he had truly figured out what was happening within him, but now that it has…

Clark shudders again, long and slow, as he feels the dry skin on the tips of Bruce’s fingers slide gently along his side. Everything feels different from how it used to. He’s kissed people before: Lois, of course. A high school girlfriend. A waitress who pecked him on the cheek once. A woman who crossed her legs to hike her skirt a little, and then told him to buy her a drink. Exactly one other man, a friend, who’d surged up to him on the fishing trawler before backing away again just as quickly, before asking Clark in a terrified voice not to tell anyone. And although all of those things have meant more or less to him – the only reason they’ve left him breathless before is because of the emotion he has attached to them. The first time he kissed Lois will always be burned into his brain because of when it happened and what it meant and the fact he was in love with her, but the fact had remained with his powers, there were so many things that it was physically impossible for him to feel as deeply or as greatly as he wished he could.

But now…

Clark has to pull back, the still-unfamiliar sensation of actually needing to breathe tightening his chest.

He swallows before he can bring himself to look up into Bruce’s eyes, and face whatever reckoning he might see there.

Bruce’s fingers are still curled lightly in his hair, and his eyes, when Clark can bring himself to face them, are half-closed, almost drowsy-looking. His lower lip looks damp, and his chest, still encased in the suit, is rising and falling more rapidly than the usual slow, deep breaths he usually takes.

“Bruce –” he starts to say, not sure exactly what he’s going to follow that up with, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because then Bruce is kissing him again – harder this time, more demanding, his tongue in Clark’s mouth driving out any thoughts except yes, more.

Pain slides through his ribs, but Clark finds he doesn’t even care – it’s so new, all of it, everything, that the pain doesn’t even register as such; it’s all part of the sensation of Bruce kissing him; of everything that has been building between them finally finding its end.

Bruce stands, pulling Clark up with him, lips still pressed to his; when he lifts Clark’s shirt up over his head, Clark has to raise his arms to get it off, and again, the pain is nothing he can take notice of in between the deft touches Bruce is placing on him: his fingers trailing down his spine, his hand on his hip, just above the waistband of his sweats, thumb stroking over the jut of his hipbone.

Clark gasps, head falling back as Bruce’s mouth leaves his, making its way down his throat. He pauses when he reaches the patch of gauze over the place where Clark so every nearly had his throat cut. Bruce’s hand winds its up his body, his fingertips tracing the edge of the white square.

“Clark.”

Clark licks his lips, trying to get his head together – it feels like he has to scrape it back from all the edges of the earth. He can’t even think straight, not with so much happening, so many hard and bright sensations.

“What?” Even Clark can hear how strained his voice is.

“This is… not advisable.”

Clark blinks, managing with some effort to raise his head from where it’s hanging slack on his neck.

“Do you mean… not in my condition, or not in general?”

Bruce looks down at him, regarding him steadily. “Pick one.”

Clark licks his lips, trying to stop his heart from hammering in his ears, and trying to find his vocal chords.

“Bruce, I – what do you think I am? Some damsel who needs to be protected, whose virtue might be compromised?”

For a moment, he sees the ghost of a smirk tug at Bruce’s mouth, before it’s replaced with the granite-hard line that Clark knows well – but which, nonetheless, doesn’t quite reach his half-lidded eyes.

“Be serious.”

“I am. I can make this choice for myself, Bruce. You aren’t going to scare me away. Not this time.”

Bruce’s eyes widen a little, and Clark can see his words have found their mark, just as he intended them too – Bruce isn’t the only one who can make subtle little digs and intimations, and have them stick.

He says nothing; Clark can hear his breathing slow, and he realises that he’s losing him – that Bruce is already sliding away, changing beneath Clark’s hands, wheeling away like smoke.

He can’t have it, Clark thinks to himself, with suddenly clarity – in amongst all the desperate sensations and things he only half-understands, this is stark and clear. He’s not letting it happen. Not after everything; not after spitting out his own grave dirt. Not after everything he has had to rebuild.

He doesn’t care if he’s being selfish. He died, for goodness’ sake. He can have this. He can know this. He can find out what this feels like for everyone else.

So he doesn’t say anything, then, in the end – he just reaches forward again, having to stand slightly on balls of his feet to reach Bruce’s mouth (if he could still fly this wouldn’t be a problem, he thinks, somewhat abstractly).

And Bruce gives into it – slowly, like melting ice – but then he opens his mouth, groaning, surrendering.

Clark doesn’t even have that much time to savour his victory before Bruce’s hands are on him again, pressing into his skin, arms winding around his back. The Batsuit is harsh and cold, but this, too, is welcome, and besides, Clark doesn't have the first clue about how to go about taking it off.

But the rough edges of the suit send bright darts of sensation through his body, catching gently on his skin, and… he likes it.

He likes all of it – Bruce’s hand on the small of his back, tugging his hips forward and forcing his hardening cock against his stomach through his sweatpants; Bruce’s lips on his, hard enough to make his lips feel swollen and bruised, his stubble grazing gently over his cheek. Bruce’s fingers drifting almost lazily through his hair, fingernails sliding against his scalp.

It’s… a lot.

Clark can already feel that dark gathering at the base of his spine, and he knows that if things don’t slow down, this is going to be very short-lived indeed. When he has his powers, he has full control over these things, but now, when everything seems to be hitting him all at once, forcing shudders from his body and long, low moans from his mouth… it’s a lot.

“Bruce, wait…” he begins, but Bruce, it seems, knows full well what he’s doing – and again, why wouldn’t he – and pulls back, leaving Clark gasping cold air, bewildered, hands filled with nothing.

For a second, cold panic hits him, and he wonders if Bruce has decided that this is enough – this far, no further. But as he blinks and looks around in a mild daze, he hears Bruce snapping at buckles and half-turns to find him shucking off the suit, his fingers working quickly over whatever hidden catches run down his side.

Clark licks his lips. He’s seem Bruce a good deal more than shirtless before – he’s had to cauterise a wound in his thigh, for one thing, and then there was the time Clark needed shrapnel pulled out of what Booster had termed his ‘lower butt’, but that had always been a matter of necessity – the last thing on his mind then had been checking Bruce out. Nonetheless, he knows what Bruce looks like beneath the cowl, the cape, the impeccably tailored suits that cost the same as a small townhouse. He knows the dips and grooves of his muscles, the valley where his hips deepen. He knows the plain of his chest, the raised white scars and the small dark marks that trace a lifetime of injuries.

Clark has, in the past, and does now, feel almost abashed at his total lack of them – it’s just one other thing that separates them, one more thing that he can see Bruce measuring himself against, in the moments when Clark has looked up and found his eyes on him.

Like they are now. Now, though, he is marked – he has cuts and bruises and scrapes and sore ribs and he knows now what it’s like for Bruce. What it’s like for every single other human – to get up sore and beaten but to do it anyway, and keep doing it, every day, for the rest of your terrifyingly short life.

Clark finds he can’t speak – he wants to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. So he settles on walking back to where Bruce is standing, sliding out of the lower half of his suit, and kissing him again – deep and hard and with all the meaning he doesn’t think he can put into words.

And Bruce kisses him back.

Clark feels him tugging at him, pulling him across the floor, towards the stairs. He hesitates and begins to say, “I want to stay here,” but Bruce looks back over his shoulder at him, eyebrow raised, before replying, “No. I don’t have the right… things… here.”

Clark furrows his brow, confused, but then sees Bruce smirk a little as he’s sure his sudden comprehension dawns on his face, along with a bright red blush that starts on his neck before burning up to the tips of his ears.

He lets Bruce lead him, hands on his hands, seeming somehow to touch him everywhere on their way up the stairs, into the study, down the hall and into the bedroom.