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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Comments

Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 2

[(Anonymous)]

Of course, he doesn’t listen, and Bruce curls his fingers, pressing down, feeling Clark’s weak scrabble against his wrist. It's nothing like the strong grasp that even at its strongest, Bruce knows is only the merest fraction of what he’s capable of. But this – this is pathetic, his fingertips sliding over his skin as they look for purchase, the struggle as Bruce pulls him back against his body, letting him feel his hardened cock pressing into the small of his back.

Bruce can just see the wild look in his eye as he strains his head around, and then he lets him go, and Clark drops to the floor like a stone.

Bruce circles him slowly, watching Clark struggle on his hands and knees, his breath already coming at a pant. Bruce lets the leash uncoil from his palm, pooling on the floor in front of Clark, before twisting it around his hand and giving it a vicious tug, brining him down on his elbows.

“I told you,” he mutters, his voice thick, dark and filled blood.

There’s a thousand things he could do to Clark when he’s like this – a thousand things he has done. But tonight he’s only interested in one thing he’s interested in. Clark doesn’t need to breathe. Except for when he does.

This is more than just libido, Bruce sometimes realises when he lets himself think about it, which isn’t often – this is trying to fill a crack that runs so deep within him that filling it is like trying to fill an empty well. He has tried for years, filling it with everything and nothing, but until this – until Clark – he never even came close. Even if it drains empty again every morning, it doesn’t change the fact that the only moments of peace he’s known have been there, with this man.

Clark is heavy, but Bruce drags him across the floor without even feeling it. He can hear Clark’s gasps behind him, feel the tug on the leash as he rolls on the ground, pulling at the collar, trying to halt his inexorable progress deeper inside the Manor. Bruce pulls again, hearing Clark’s corresponding cough.

“I won’t tell you again.”

Things are smoother after that, Clark’s struggles stopped for now. There’s an iron reinforcing wire sticking up out of a collapsed piece of ceiling; a vast slab of concrete that used to form the floor of the dining hall. Despite the ruin, Bruce has every room still mapped out in his head, knows where every piece of rubble once used to stand. He can put it all back together in his head and take it apart again, and has done, any number of times over the years. Piece by piece, stone by stone.

The slab, with its curled and twisted wires, suits his purposes now. He winds the leash around it, pulling Clark so his back is against the concrete, leaning back propped up against it. Bruce takes one of his hands and lifts it, feeling only the slightest struggle, before he presses it back, circling it with the leash, fastening it to the wire. The other hand he leaves free; there’s no point if he can’t see Clark trying to do what he says, knowing things will only get worse if he doesn’t.

Then he leans back, to look.

Bruce is breathing now, his chest rising and falling heavily, desperately, trying to heave in enough oxygen to power his body through the effect of the kryptonite. His left hand is tied, but his right is on the collar, trying futilely to slip his fingers between it and the skin of his throat. It can’t be done, and he knows it. He knows how meticulous Bruce is, and it’s not as if they haven’t done this before.

One foot if planted on the ground, as if Clark is trying to push himself up, his hips rising as his leg scrabbles ineffectually against the floor.

“B-Bruce, I – ”

His voice is breathy and weak. Bruce stands before him, looking down. He can still see him, even in this dark – the blood rising in his cheeks, his blue eyes glazed and half-lidded, lips turning dark and swollen. It could have been fear that’s making him pant and writhe like this, except for the fact that when Clark opens his thighs, Bruce can see the growing bulge between them, pushing against the material of his uniform in a way that’s almost obscene. It reminds Bruce that, despite the effects of the kryptonite, it’s still Superman he has lying here before him, powerless and weak and desperate and panting, like a cornered animal.

The suit still traces all the thick valleys of his muscles, every perfect line of his body. Every dip and groove, from the sharp V of his hips to the straining cords of his biceps, Bruce can see everything, watching every twitch and quiver. And for a moment when Bruce drops to his knees in front of him, he forgets which one of them holds the power here.

The knife he uses to cut away the uniform is tried and tested; of course, he collected samples from Doomsday’s broken corpse before the government had it spirited away. It could punch through the suit then, and the knife Bruce had fashioned from it slices through the suit like it’s butter now, leaving Clark’s skin bare below it.

Bruce doesn’t bother with the top half; his desires, his needs are too urgent now, and he cuts away at the suit over Clark’s hips, forcing them down when Clark tries to twist away.

“Stay still, goddamn you.”

When there’s a big enough cut, he yanks it down Clark’s thighs, his cock springing free, hard and leaking against his belly. Clark moans, as if he’s beyond words, beyond the capacity to form words, even though Bruce has barely touched him. His cock leaves trails of pre-come over his abdominal muscles, clenching and twitching beneath his pale skin.

He watches Clark’s face – that inhumanly beautiful face – as he slowly trails his fingers down over his stomach, past his navel (why does he have one? Bruce has time to wonder as he passes it by), calloused fingertips scraping over the sensitive skin in the valley between hips and thigh. Clark gasps, jerking up, as if seeking more, and Bruce decides to have mercy.

Clark whimpers when Bruce wraps his fingers around his cock, the sound so pathetic that Bruce almost laughs.

When Clark is as full and straining and swollen as this, he's too thick even for Bruce's fingers to fully encircle (and if he's being honest, Bruce likes the fact that, no matter how prepared he is and how much lube they use, he still feels a dull slice of pain down his spine when Clark enters him; he still struggles to relax himself around the massive intrusion, even on the nights when Clark tells him that he will be gentle). Pre-come leaks from the head, sliding down the length of him, dripping onto Bruce’s hands as he holds him.

He doesn’t move; he simply allows Clark to make what small movements he can, thrusting up into palm. Bruce watches his face, watches the muscles in Clark’s neck cord against his skin, pressing against the collar. When Bruce tightens his fingers, even a little, Clark’s head falls back against the concrete slab, his mouth falling open in an unstifled moan.

“Keep doing that,” Bruce mutters, staring down as Clark rolled his hips, seeking more contact, his hips stuttering from the effort of keeping going, even as the collar digs deeper into his skin. He wants to watch this; there is something artless in Clark’s moves, as if he is doing this for the first time, moving wholly on instinct. It’s almost as if everything that happens still comes as a surprise to him, as if he remains a stranger to the sensations that Bruce can pull out of his body, and they still catch him unguarded every time.

So Bruce just watches, allowing Clark to fuck his hand, his face contorted, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled back into what is almost a snarl.

Eventually, he has to close his eyes; the cords of desire that run through his body are pulled too taut inside him, and if he does not keep control of himself, he’ll do something he cannot take back. He clenches his free hand into a fist, still feeling the long slide of Clark’s cock in the other. He twists his hand and Clark cries out, hips shuddering to a stop.

Taking up the knife again, Bruce slices down the front of Clark’s uniform, not being careful, not caring if the blade bites into his skin. Clark doesn’t resist, he only moans, his body held still by Bruce’s fist around his cock. He feels it pulse against his palm as he cuts, letting the material fall away.

For a moment, Bruce traces the pale circle of Clark’s peaking nipple with the point of the knife, the pressure just shy of breaking the skin. Clark turns his face away, his eyes rolling up to look at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Bruce watches him carefully, watching the way his pulse flutters around the collar as he presses just a little harder, driving the point into his skin. Clark’s eyes snap shut.

“Bruce, please.”