DCEU Prompt Post #1

[dceu_kinkmod]

Welcome to Round One of the DCEU Kink Meme!

Please have a look at the extended rules here.

The important rules in short:

• Post anonymously.
• Negative comments on other people's prompts (kink-shaming, pairing-bashing etc.) and personal attacks of any kind will not be tolerated.
• One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
• Prompts should follow the format: Character/character, prompt.
• Keep prompts to a reasonable length; prompts should not be detailed story outlines.
• No prompt spamming.

Please direct any questions to the Ask a mod post. For inspiration: list of kinks .

Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

Here's the discussion post for all your non-prompt/fill needs.

We now have a non-DCEU prompt post for any prompts in other 'verses (comics, animated series, other movies or TV shows etc.).

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FILL: wildest dreams (burn it down); Bruce/Clark, heat (3a/4)

[(Anonymous)]

LEAST EXPLICIT HEAT FIC EVER. I APOLOGIZE, OP. I TRIED. /o\




Clark isn't alone.

He's supposed to be. He—he's pretty sure about that.

He's been here for days; for forever, it's felt like, touching himself every way he can think of and absolutely none of it enough. He gave up on the hope that he'd figure it out, that he'd trip over some secret perfect combination of sensations that would finally make this stop, hours and hours ago. He's just been stroking himself off since, again and again, helpless and relentless, because every time he comes his head clears a little—just for a minute, but he can—he can think again, about something other than how many fingers he can fit into himself.

He gave up because he knows what he needs. He knows what he needs, and it's not here.

He can't quite remember why anymore, but he knows that's important: Bruce isn't here. That's true, and is going to stay true—has to stay true.

("Please clarify: access—"

"Denied," Clark insists, thighs tensing, "denied—")

Bruce isn't here, and Clark is, and that's—

(—wrong, god, it's the worst thing Clark has ever felt; what is he even doing here? What is he doing anywhere Bruce isn't?

"Granted," Clark gasps, "oh—" but no, he—he shouldn't say that, he has to make sure Bruce never ever—)

—how it's staying.

Which is what makes it all right to wish. If Clark weren't here, safe—because the ship won't let him out, he made it promise—then it would be wrong to wish so hard, because he couldn't be sure he wouldn't do something about it, letting himself long for it like that. But Bruce isn't here, and so it's all right to want him to be, to think about all the things Clark would do if he were.

Except—suddenly, impossibly—Clark isn't alone.

He tries to focus, to understand what's changed: he's not better yet, there—there shouldn't be anyone until he's better. The need is the same, the desperation and ragged furious energy, and of course the heat is still there, persistent and inescapable, smothering.

And then he realizes it's Bruce. Who isn't here.

He tries to explain this—that no matter what it looks like, he knows Bruce isn't here, because that's why Clark is; that's why Clark is allowed to be here and to keep feeling like this, that's why Clark gets to keep wishing. But he doesn't think very much of that makes it out.

(Even if it had, Bruce never listens to him. Bruce is stubborn that way.)

And then—

Then Bruce is still here. He says Clark's name, and he sounds—strange, hoarse and uncertain. He's in the doorway, not touching Clark at all, and that's nothing like what Clark's been imagining; he's wearing clothes, even.

That's—it's—it's really him.

And there's something about that that's not right. But Bruce is here and Clark can't remember what—

He's crossed the room, and he's touching Bruce—actually touching him, for real, not just seeing it or telling himself he is, remembering something that's never happened. "Bruce," he says. It's for at least the thousandth time; but it feels like the first, knowing Bruce can hear him saying it, and that's so good it makes Clark shudder.

All of it is good, everything. Putting his hands on Bruce the way he wants to, the way he's always wanted to—there'd been a reason he hadn't, he thinks dimly, but Bruce is in front of him now and closing the space between them is the easiest thing in the world. It would be harder not to.

Bruce is odd at first. Braced, Clark thinks, but there's nothing he needs to be braced for here—all Clark wants to do is kiss him. Clark manages to find half a thought to spare for the room, the lights; he tosses a muddled request through his link to the ship, and everything obediently dims around them. Bruce is more comfortable in shadows.

He's also more comfortable when no one is looking at him or touching him, but Clark can't manage that part. "Sorry," he murmurs, "sorry, Bruce, oh," but he just can't help it: Bruce is right there, all of him, increasingly bare under Clark's hands and mouth, and there's so much Clark wants. So much he hasn't done, and now he can.

"It's okay," Bruce is saying, "it's okay, Clark—" and then he hisses, gasps and throws his head back and oh, his throat, god.

Whatever it was that had kept Clark from stripping Bruce naked and laying hands on him, it just isn't there anymore. Whatever it was that had kept him from tugging Bruce down, biting his mouth, sliding greedy tender fingers over every hollow and angle and scar, it's gone. Restraint, or caution, or fear: they've all burned away, and only the heat is left.

So Clark—does what he wants.

He does all of it.

He holds on to Bruce and doesn't let go, because he wants to. The ship makes them a surface that's better than the standard decking, somewhere smooth and soft that Clark can press Bruce against, because Bruce is human and so easily hurt—so careless with himself, he always has been, and Clark hates that.

So he goes slowly and is careful with Bruce, because he wants to. And Bruce is careful back, at first, every motion precise and neatly measured; but Clark pulls him closer, slides a knee between his thighs, licks every single scar he can find on Bruce's shoulders, and Bruce—

Bruce changes. Bruce's eyes get heavy, his face flushed like he feels it too—the heat, the deep endless yearning. All his sharp edges start to smooth, all that corded sculpted muscle easing into something close to pliancy; slow, so slow, Clark finally with all the time in the world to coax Bruce through the one thing he hasn't practiced to the point of reflex: surrender. And he touches Clark back, arches into Clark and moves with him and cries out, opens up for Clark as readily as he drives into Clark afterward—without shame or hesitation, until he's sticky and trembling and gasping, holding on as hard as Clark is.

And that, that's it: the thing Clark's wanted most of all, the whole time.




Clark wakes up, and the first thing he thinks is that he isn't hard.

He lets his eyes drop shut again in relief. It had been starting to feel like he'd never be able to say that about himself again. Jesus.

But he isn't hard anymore. He isn't hard, and he's—clean, pretty much. He has a vague notion that the ship had changed at some point, formed an increasing depression in the floor that had deepened and then filled with—not quite water, a little thicker, but something clear and steaming and liquid, whose warmth Bruce had relaxed into with a sigh without ever lifting his mouth away from Clark's skin, as Clark had wet his hands with it and then smoothed them over Bruce's shoulders—

Bruce.

Clark jerks up and out of the—bed? Sort of a bed: a low enclosed space, maybe the same one that had been sort of a bath before, except it's dry now. The lower surface is forgiving underneath him, not the way the deck usually feels, with gentle sloping sides; and the ship's made out of some kind of metal, Clark is almost sure, but somehow a bunch of its material has been fanned out, latticed together in a flexible warm web that's kind of like blankets. Clark peers at it more closely. What are those, dodecahedrons?

Bruce would know.

Clark swallows.

The ship's still a little bit in his head. Further away now than it was when he was, uh, indisposed—but he's the commander, and it must be able to feel him wondering. It chimes gently, and then says, "Your husband is still on board."

Clark carefully doesn't laugh, because if he does it'll come out hysterical. "My—my—"

"Automatic protocols of address are consistent with regulation," the ship says, sounding politely confused. "While cycles themselves have become increasingly rare, spending an entire cycle, both commencement and completion, with the same individual or group of individuals is still considered a binding legal arrangement in Kryptonian-administered regions of space, as of the most recent update to—"

"Commencement? Bruce wasn't there for—" and then Clark remembers Bruce's office and clears his throat, rubbing helplessly at the back of his neck. "There is no Kryptonian-administered space anymore," Clark tries.

"This ship is Kryptonian-administered space, Commander," and that's downright frosty.

"Fine, okay," Clark says, because he's really not up to arguing about the practicality of conforming to thousand-year-old alien statutory codes. "Just—do not call Bruce that where he can hear you. Okay?"

"Yes, Commander," the ship says primly.

Clark puts his face in his hands and tries to breathe evenly. Bruce is still on board. Bruce came here and—knew, had to have known; or else he'd figured it out after the first hour of Clark climbing him like a tree and licking him everywhere—

Jesus, stop it. Whether Bruce had worked it out from looking at his version of the database or not, he'd stuck it out, because of course he had. He hadn't shot Clark in the face with kryptonite and left in the middle because he wouldn't have, no matter what Clark had been doing to him—not if he thought Clark needed to do it.

And thinking that makes Clark's gut sink, with a sick cold weight that even Superman can't bear up under.

Bruce takes responsibility for everything within range. For the entire planet, when he'd thought it needed defending from Superman; and Clark's his teammate now, on a team that is at its heart Bruce's. Of course Bruce would take it on himself to—to do this, to come here and let Clark—

Clark sucks in another slow breath, wipes absently at his face, and decides to start with the essentials. "Ship, can I, um—do you have another one of those uniforms somewhere?"