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.
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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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And now, 18k words later, we are almost at the porn. PHEW

"I know the how and the where," Bruce says, "I just don't know the when." He turns a baseball bat in wide circles with a flex of his wrist. Clark watches the supple glide of muscle in his shoulder as he brings it up ready, the shift of tendons in his forearms as he adjusts his grip. "Most guys will come at you like this--" he swings the bat in slow-motion, an arc at chest-height, "--or this." A jab, stomach. "Occasionally, this." Back of the knees.

"So we're on a time limit now," Clark says, anticipating the next swing. He turns to catch the bat under his arm, attempts to twist it out of Bruce's grip by pushing his elbow up. Bruce clings to it stubbornly.

"You need to step inside the swing. Grab my arms, not the bat, or you'll end up with bruised ribs at best." Bruce pulls himself free, hands the bat to Clark. "And what's this 'we' business."

"I still want to help." Clark swings so Bruce can demonstrate again. He traps Clark's arms with his own, torques Clark's hold until he's forced to let go. He catches the bat, flips it into his grip.

"A few weeks of training and you think you can take on the world. No. I've got everything under control."

Of course he does. He is never anything but in control.

(Clark wonders how he could make him lose it.)

Bruce starts another slow swing, one-handed this time. Clark sets his jaw, ignores everything Bruce just showed him and wills himself to move. The air splits around him, relinquishes its drag and Clark has a moment to appreciate Bruce's eyes widening a fraction when he grabs his wrist. He should use Bruce's own momentum to somersault him over onto the mat. Instead he flicks the baseball bat away, trips Bruce backwards over his leg and catches him by the front of his t-shirt.

"Actually," Clark says, "grabbing the Bat works."

"Clark." Bruce's voice is flat with admonition. He braces one hand in the crook of Clark's arm.

Clark hears the rushing of his blood, a faint uptick in his heart rate before his powers begin to ebb again, then his muscles are suddenly straining under Bruce's weight, shaking with the effort of keeping him dipped. "Damn," Clark says, and Bruce's mouth quirks.

Bruce throws himself to the side, pushing off against Clark's body as well as the floor and--Clark finds he doesn't stagger back from the force of it, another swell of power anchoring him firm to the mat. The sensory feedback rushes in on him as Bruce twists away: threads pulling around his fist, the shearing of fabric; Bruce's sharp intake of breath as the material pulls taut and the seams press into his skin; the sound of the shirt ripping. Tiny droplets of moisture spatter Clark's skin; perspiration sent arcing from Bruce's body as he moves.

Bruce tumbles across the mat, a roll into a handspring into a one-handed cartwheel. "Okay," he says, as he straightens up. He strips off the remains of his t-shirt, fingers the tear thoughtfully. His skin is bright in the low light of the cave, his eyes dark. "Estimate your strength and speed right now."

Heightened, compared to the average human, but still a far cry from what he's used to. "About… thirty percent of normal, maybe?"

"Consistent?"

"Intermittent. I need to focus."

"Flight?"

"Haven't tried. Still feels risky."

"Hmm." Bruce is thinking something over, evident in a small frown, the way he's turned his eyes to the side. He's being assessed, Clark thinks. Bruce is determining if he can beat him.

Clark grins, wide and reckless. "Gloves off," he says to Bruce. "If I win, you take me along on the bank bust."

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "And if you lose?"

Clark shrugs at him, lets his eyes drop briefly over Bruce's bare chest. He can pick out every filament of scar tissue, from the old, gnarled wound in his shoulder to the pale seam of a knife-slice at his hip. He meets his eyes again. "Your choice of forfeit."

"If," Bruce says. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "And only if you win, and you prove to my satisfaction that you won't get yourself injured or worse, I might consider it."

"That's good enough for me."

"Might."

Clark flashes him a bright smile, drops into a fighting stance, raises his chin in invitation.

Bruce whips around him like wind through grass, throws a couple of jabs and then knocks Clark off-balance when he steps past and grabs at the hem of his t-shirt. Clark has a moment to wonder what on earth he is doing, then he tugs it sharply, makes Clark half-turn with it and brace for a strike on the follow-up. It doesn't come--Bruce just bounces on his toes, feints to get Clark to back off, and then repeats the cycle again: jab, dart, yank.

After the fifth time, Clark pulls the damn thing off over his head, throws it into a corner.

Bruce's mouth twitches and his hands drop fractionally, the slightest flicker of distraction.

Clark seizes the opening, pushes to connect a right cross--and as he swings he can feel he's got it wrong: too swift, too much force behind it. It's enough to break bones. His heart jolts; he tries to pull back in the barest of a second he has left but it doesn't feel like it's going be enough.

His fist connects, and Clark feels the impact up his arm, the dull slap of flesh and the grind of bone and teeth under his knuckles. Bruce's head jerks to the side and his body twists; he goes to his knees on the mat.

"Jesus, Bruce," Clark gasps, kneels down. "God, I'm sorry, I--are you okay?"

Bruce grunts, pulls a face as he pushes at his teeth with his tongue. "Nothing broken," he says. There's blood on his lips. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Clark goes to touch his face. Bruce pushes his hand away. "Let me see," Clark says, insistent. His stomach keeps turning, mind stubbornly repeating the moment of impact whether he likes it or not. Bruce relents grudgingly, lets Clark cup his face in his palm.

His jaw is clenched tight and the inside of his cheek has a nasty gash, but he's telling the truth--no breaks or fractures or loose teeth. A low throb sets up in the front of Clark's skull as he blinks his x-ray vision away.

"You still punch like a grade schooler," Bruce says.

Clark is done checking him over, but he can't quite manage to take his hand away. Bruce's skin is warm. His stubble prickles Clark's palm. "You saw it coming."

"Before you did." Bruce gently takes his wrist, thumb against Clark's quick pulse, shifts him off. "Not soon enough to avoid it, but enough to roll with it."

He pats Clark's shoulder, picks himself up and gestures for Clark to do the same.

"What?" he says to Clark's doubtful expression. "You didn't think you'd won, did you?"

*

Clark wipes his damp hair from his forehead and considers throwing the match. Anticipating Bruce's next move as well as maintaining his heightened strength and speed is quickly taking its toll, and Bruce is clearly toying with him now--if he hasn't been all along--barely winded to Clark's heavy-limbed exhaustion.

He's let Clark throw and pin him over and over, only to twist free with ease every time, his sweat-slicked skin gliding against Clark's, all heat and friction and borderline indecency. Each time Clark has to bite the inside of his cheek and think about his least favorite farmyard chores.

One more attempt. If Clark can't keep him down this time, he'll throw in the towel--and then go have a very long, very cold shower. He waits for Bruce to come at him again, soaks one jab, manages to deflect another, considers whether he has the reserves to try this. If he is fast enough he might be able to--

Bruce's next salvo comes in unexpectedly low; he braces his shoulder against Clark's chest and swipes his feet out from under him, drops with him to the mat so he can't roll. Clark grunts, grabs at him, fingers slipping and leaving fading pale marks on his skin.

Bruce straddles his hips and leans over him to hold his wrists down. Clark arches under him, feet on the ground, pushing up against his solid weight, not trying to dislodge him because Clark is beat, wrung out, done. He just wants to feel Bruce against him, needs to scratch this insane itch.

And Bruce, he's--Clark can feel him alright, firm and hot through his sweats, way more than Clark bargained for. Bruce just stares ahead, drags in an open-mouthed breath while Clark presses against him, leaves him absolutely no way of hiding it.

Not that Clark is in a much better state now, pulse throbbing erratic and heavy while his heart tries to decide whether it wants to stop dead or hit double-time. He exhales shakily. "Are you getting off on this?" he says, not accusatory much as breathless with disbelief.

(And why is he so surprised? Bruce on his bed; a half-remembered touch to his face; Malone's hungry stare.

His hands are trembling. He can't even tell whether it's from exhaustion or anticipation or both.)

"Clark," Bruce says. Any reproval he might be attempting is lost in the roughness of his voice. "I'm not made of stone." He lets Clark pull a hand free, lets Clark take his chin and make him look at him. There's a bruise rising on his jaw, a tightness around his eyes and in the line of his mouth.

"I don't know," Clarks says, drawing him down closer, brushing noses. He grins wickedly, knows his face is red. "You feel kinda rock solid to me."

"Jesus Christ," Bruce says on a rush of breath, and whatever tension was holding him in check has snapped. He pushes a hand into Clark's hair, drags his head back with it, leaving bright pinpricks of sensation across his scalp that makes his mouth water. He breathes across Clark's throat. "Okay, you win. You win, Clark."

*

UNFFF

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH THIS IS SO PERFECT. :D

Sparring pooooooorn, shirtlessness and sweaty skin on skin and Clark accidentally hitting Bruce harder than he meant to and being so, so sorry while Bruce just shrugs it off.

And then them wrestling to the floor and not even being in denial about what's going on, it's beautiful.

"Clark," Bruce says. Any reproval he might be attempting is lost in the roughness of his voice. "I'm not made of stone."
Oh, Bruuuuuuuuuuce. Bruce. <3 Such a beautiful admission from him. And Clark's terrible pun, haha. I can't wait for the next part, give me all the porn please? :D

I can't help the puns, it's just in my Clark's nature. Gotta have something for Bruce's super-dryness to contrast with, right? :D

I am glad you like sweaty shirtlessness and are prepared for all the porn, nonnie, because *waves vaguely at next part*

Believe me, anon, I have treasured EVERY SINGLE WORD of that 18k and have been thrilled with all of them. AND THIS PART IS NO EXCEPTION. :D Love love love Bruce's lecturing, Clark being stubborn and sometimes ignoring him and making terrible terrible puns, and I'm just entranced by the almost slow-motion effect of the writing during Clark's intermittent powered moments, it's wonderful. And Clark accidentally hitting too hard, MY HEART, and of course Bruce brushes it off. AND THEN. ANON. THE LAST HALF-DOZEN PARAGRAPHS. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD Bruce being forced to admit that Clark is affecting him is basically almost as hot to me as Bruce dragging Clark's head back by the hair, AND YOU GAVE ME BOTH. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Clark hitting Bruce too hard was 100% unnecessary and entirely down to the little h/c demon perched on my shoulder. Just a tiny bit, it whispered. You don't have to make a big deal of it. Just make them feel a little bad and then touch each other.

It's an evil demon.

Ohhh, anon. The last parts were a warm up, and I sincerely hope the main event does not disappoint. HERE WE GO <3

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DCEU Prompt Post #1

Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)

Re: Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (12/?)