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dceu_kinkmeme2016-04-14 12:37 am
dceu_kinkmod) wrote in dceu_kinkmeme2016-04-14 12:37 am
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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.
- 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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Bruce/Clark, breathplay
(Anonymous) 2016-04-15 01:44 am (UTC)(link)Bonus if there's some more gentle throat-petting going on, or grabbing each other by the throat while fucking.
Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 1
(Anonymous) 2016-05-09 12:01 pm (UTC)(link)I also just made up a bunch of stuff about Clark's need for breathing etc. and how kryptonite works. I'm also super sorry for typos, I know there must be some, as this is unbetad at the moment :(
Siiiighhh, I want to write mutual choking next XD
-----
Bruce knows that under ordinary circumstances, Clark doesn't need to breathe. Or if he does, it's far less regularly than any human.
Clark has learned to mimic it – the rise and fall of the chest, the open mouth, that slight movement of the throat. He had to, if he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than the Kansas farm boy come to the big city, and Bruce imagines he took to it with the dedication he takes to everything about his human disguise.
Sometimes, usually when he’s lost in thought but always when it’s just the two of them alone, Clark lapses into an unearthly stillness that, before he even realises what he’s doing, Bruce compares to a corpse (and of course there was the time that Bruce had jerked awake to find Clark still in the bed beside him; he may have said his name, fingers scrabbling after signs of life, until he heard Clark’s preternaturally calm, Bruce? What is it? It was after that that Bruce started leaving the bed – or whatever surface they’d collapsed against – and finding somewhere else to sleep).
This is all under normal circumstances. Bruce doesn’t remember how he discovered it – actually, that’s a damn lie, he knows full well when he first noticed, even if he didn’t put all the pieces together at the time – but when Clark is affected by kryptonite, he needs to breathe.
They’ve been using the collar for a while already. It had been Clark’s idea, and Bruce still remembers the way his eyes had slid away as he suggested it, the colour that rose in his cheeks and the hesitancy in his voice. He hadn’t needed to ask twice, though.
There’s nights when Bruce allows himself to let go, and be taken in any way Clark wants to take him; when he lets himself forget who he is. Clark’s fingers and lips and tongue and cock can make him forget his own name on those nights, which is exactly what he wants.
This isn’t one of these nights, however.
He’s waiting for him, the collar laced through his fingers. He hasn’t taken the cowl off – for this, he wants to leave it on. He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.
Bruce is the one who chooses when the collar comes out. It’s just one of the things they have come to an unspoken agreement over. It’s a tacitly understanding between them that Clark shouldn’t know when to expect it. He’ll be able to sense it before the full power of the kryptonite hits him, but Bruce has never asked how close he has to be before he realises; if he’d even have the chance to collect himself and fly aware before it can take hold, or if he really doesn’t have any choice but to come crashing down in front of him, his landing awkward and heavy as his powers are sapped.
That’s the first – and only – warning he gets.
“Bruce?”
Clark’s voice echoes through the caverns of the burnt-out remains of Wayne Manor, and Bruce’s fingers tighten on the collar.
Bruce doesn’t like talking – if he ever likes talking – during these times. While Clark is still on his knees on the ground he’ll reach down and pull his head back, wrapping the collar around that long white throat of his. Sometimes there’ll be a boot in the small of his back, forcing his spine in an unnatural curve that, despite his current state, Bruce knows his body can take. But more often he’ll just tug on the leash, forcing Clark to scrabble after him on his hands and knees, slipping on concrete ground and only just managing to keep up.
And Bruce is nothing if not methodical in pursuing his goals. And he’s realised by now that when he has Clark collared and completely at his mercy like this, it’s not the fact that he's feeding him his cock that's making him come so hard. It's not the tightness of Clark’s throat around him, or the sight of his lips stretched around the base.
It's also the small, desperate choking sounds he makes, the ineffectual movements of his head as he tries to either throw him off or swallow him deeper. It’s the short, wheezing gasps he makes when Bruce withdraws briefly, only shove himself back in, forcing himself past the gate of Clark’s lips and teeth. It’s the helpless look in those blue, blue eyes that has him coming harder than he ever has before in his life, before he finally pulls out, for good this time, utterly spent, and leaving ropes of come smeared across Clark’s lips and face.
Fuck. He’s already hard, standing in the darkness, watching as Clark’s shadow grows shorter on the marble floor, his footsteps echoing. He hesitates, and Bruce knows he can feel it now – the kryptonite’s dark pull on his body. He once told Bruce that it felt like someone injecting ice water into his veins and feeling it slowly spread throughout his body, and that’s an image Bruce can work with.
He waits until Clark has passed him in the entrance hall, where he’s waiting behind a pillar.
“Bruce?” Clark says again, and Bruce can see the slight tremble in his shoulders, the clench of his fists as he fights to stay upright. He can’t hear him, can’t detect his presence. Not this close to the collar, with his senses dulled like his.
He doesn’t want to wait. He slips out from where he’s standing, coming up behind Clark and wrapping one hand under his chin, forcing his head up, while the other winds the collar around his throat and snaps it closed.
“Don’t struggle,” Bruce says, voice low in his throat.
Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 2
(Anonymous) 2016-05-09 12:02 pm (UTC)(link)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.”
Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-09 12:04 pm (UTC)(link)Bruce can tell he’s surprised from the way his eyes fly open again – he’s gotten used to that pain, Bruce reflects. So it’s time to try something different. This is what he came here for, and called Clark here for. The things he can’t do with anyone else, their bodies writhing against each other in the dark.
He released his grip on Clark’s heavy cock, his own blood stirring a little at the strangled noise that forces its way past the man’s lips. He has been painfully hard for some time now, but he’s pushed that into the corner of his mind, ignored it, the same way he has learned to ignore all the needs of his body until he’s ready to deal with them.
Sitting back on his heels, Bruce opens his suit, taking out his hard cock, holding it in his hand. Clark’s eyes fall on it immediately, as if they’re drawn to it by magnetism, and he runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. For a moment, Bruce is tempted simply to feed it to him, force it down his endless throat until he chokes.
But again, that’s not what he’s come here for tonight.
Bruce withdraws a little, and Clark moans, swaying a little, his cock swaying a little at the movement, dripping over his stomach, his balls heavy with unspilled come.
“Bruce, please, I need you – I need –”
His words are cut off as Bruce throws himself forward, one hand going to Clark’s hip, the other to his throat, pressing down just above the collar. He stares into Clark’s eyes, watching comprehension dawn, just before he presses down, and they slide shut.
Bruce looks down, looking between their bodies where their cocks are pressed against each other. He brings his hand up to wrap around them both, as far as he can manage, before thrusting his hips forward. Clark arches up off the ground, as far as Bruce’s weight pressing down on him and the bonds of the leash will allow him, the muscles in his stomach twitching, his breath coming in short, breathless gasps around Bruce’s hand.
The heat of Clark against him sends pleasure spiraling through Bruce’s body; already he can feel that dark gathering at the base of his spine, the slow build in his cock. Nonetheless, he lets himself thrust forward twice more, squeezing them together, letting pain spike through the building pleasure. When he moves back, releasing them, he buries his face in the white arch of Clark’s neck, bound by the collar, before shoving his hips forward. Clarks stiffens beneath him, every muscle going taut, as Bruce rubs his cock against him, letting him feel the length and the hardness; barely brushing over the entrance to Clark’s body. Clark jerks against him, as he’s trying to force himself down onto his dick, his back bending, desperate.
He doesn’t want it to be that easy, though; Bruce simply ruts against him, ignoring Clark’s increasingly desperate moans. Clark is so ready for him, so willing, so desperate to be filled, but Bruce needs to make himself wait. There is nothing he wants more than to bury himself to the hilt, to fuck Clark until neither of them know their own names.
But he’s methodical. When he is doing something he has never done before, he wants to devote time and attention to getting it right.
So he forces himself to heave back, taking his lips from Clark’s throat, though not without leaving a dark red mark behind him. The collar worries against it, pressing on it.
Bruce slides his hand down over Clark’s steel-perfect muscles, squares his hip to him, and then presses forward, sinking himself into the throbbing, living heat of Clark’s body.
Clark arches to meet him, his head thrown back, everything in him taut and straining. Bruce cannot hold back a groan as he pushes past the ring of his muscle; there is nothing that can compare to this, this first penetration, no matter how many times he may do it. Clark’s body holds him like a glove, seemingly trying to draw him in deeper, even when he is sheathed to the hilt, buried as deep as he can go.
He lies there a moment, simply feeling the twitch of Clark’s muscles around him, the heave of his chest. Clark’s lungs are filling with air in a way they do not ordinarily need to, pushing out and then drawing it in again, sustaining him despite the dark hold of the kryptonite at his throat. Bruce grits his teeth as Clark squeezes himself around his cock, evidently trying to spur him to some movement, but Bruce forces the surge of pleasure that nearly overtakes him back, forcing his mind to stay focused.
He is slow, at first, pulling himself in and out of Clark’s body with long, slow drags of his hips, feeling his body flutter every time he pushes forward. The next time Clarks opens his mouth, the sound that emerges is almost a sob, and Bruce feels his control wavering, if only for a second. The sound sends fire down his veins, darts of pleasure curling through his body, his dick twitching where it rests inside Clark’s body.
The cry that rises in Clark’s throat when Bruce makes his first hard thrust bounds off the walls around them, echoing through the empty chambers of the Manor, disturbing whatever creatures have made their home here since its destruction. As Bruce speeds his movements, shoving his hips forward quickly and brutally now, the cries that leave Clark’s lips and those that are still flying around them become indistinguishable. Clark has never held back the noises he makes when Bruce touches him; when he fucks him. It’s just one other thing that Bruce files away in his mind about him, and tries not to consider too hard until later, but then never quite makes the time.
He can feel dark heat gathering in his groin, feel the pull of everything within him surging towards one single point, and he forces himself to slow, pausing as he shifts his weight, the sweat over their skin making him slide against Clark’s body. The clench of Clark’s muscles around him in reaction seems to wash over his whole body, sends white heat licking over his nerves, and Bruce has to struggle to concentrate.
Leaving his left hand where it grips Clark’s hip, Bruce raises his right, catching Clark’s throat in his fingers. He presses down, his thumb over the pulse that flutters in Clark’s neck, squeezing ever so slightly. He watches as fear spreads over Clark’s face at the unfamiliar sensation – he might know that that kryptonite means he has to breath far more regularly than usual, but Bruce is sure that he has never known what it feels like to suddenly be deprived of oxygen; has never felt the panicked instinct rise in his chest when he finds he cannot breath.
Bruce eases his grip for a moment, only to tighten it again when he thrust forward, feeling Clark’s feeble struggle beneath him. His eyes are locked onto Bruce’s, mouth widening as he seeks after a breath that will not come. Bruce watches him, knowing that he’s doing so at the expense of giving himself over to his own pleasure, keeping his hips moving steadily, driving himself into Clark over and over again.
The fear in Clark’s eyes becomes panic as he realises that this time, Bruce isn’t slackening his grip; his fingers remain where there are, pressed against his windpipe, just above the collar, his thumb reducing his pulse to a thread. He watches as Clark’s lips part, hi mouth open wide, heaving in what sips of breath he can around Bruce's fingers, as his eyes slowly begin to roll back in his head, before snapping shut.
Now, Bruce thinks. It has to be now.
Shifting his weight, he takes his hand from Clark’s hip and curls it around his cock, griping it firmly, jerking up and down along his length, sticky and glistening from the copious amounts of pre-come Clark has spilled over himself. His cock is as stiff as Bruce has ever felt it, his pulse beating against Bruce’s palm, warm and solid and hard as steel.
Bruce shoves himself forward twice more, one hard digging into Clark’s throat, the other circling his dick, and then he feels Clark spilling his come over his palm, spurting in warm waves that drip down his wrist and spatter on to Clark’s own chest and abs. Bruce keeps rubbing him up and down, milking him of every last drop, until his cock is twitching in his hand, spent and useless.
The tiny cry that escapes Clark’s throat is ragged and hoarse, barely a sound at all; it’s not the sound of pleasure, but of the desperate attempt to suck air into his lungs. Bruce grunts; Clark’s muscles twitch around him, his body pulling itself tight, squeezing itself into a tight ball of panic. It’s only then that Bruce lets him go, and Clark gasps in a breath, a massive, wheezing gulp of air.
In the next second, Bruce feels his orgasm bearing down on him, coming almost unexpectedly, tearing through him with a force he has come to know, but never to expect. Every time it shocks him just how deeply he is shaken; just how powerful and engulfing. His orgasms at times like this seem almost ripped from his body, leaving his nerves ragged and tattered behind it. He empties himself into Clark, his hips jerking in spasms, gasps leaving him in spasms; for the moment at least completely empty of all thoughts; of everything except engulfing pleasure and heat.
All that remains is the husk of himself, his memories, his surroundings, all of them obliterated if only temporarily.
It's this that he is constantly chasing, every time he calls Clark to him; it’s this momentary void that, in the moment, makes him feel the kind of peace he has never found anywhere else.
He doesn’t know how long it takes him to come back to himself, only that when he does, he’s curled over Clark’s body, sweat dripping from his chest and onto Clark’s, his hand still curled loosely around Clark’s throat. Clark’s hands are still tied, of course, the collar still around his neck, still necessitating the breath that is heavy in his chest. He’s still buried in Clark’s body, his softening cock only just now beginning to slide out, his come forming a slick puddle on the ground below.
Sitting up, Bruce reaches down and tears the collar off him and throwing it across the vast chamber, into the darkness beyond. Beneath him, Clark suddenly jerks awake, or at least, out of whatever state he had drifted into after Bruce had choked him, forced him to come while his breath died ragged in his throat.
Clark blinks, his blue eyes slowly focusing. Bruce watches him, curious, in a detached way, to know what he’ll see there – if this has finally been a step too far, if this is the time that Clark will say to him, no more. But as he looks up at him, his eyes clearing of the haze, Bruce sees nothing other than what he always sees: deep assurance, acceptance. The question of whether Bruce got what he wanted, and the willingness to do it again if he hasn’t.
Bruce jerks himself to standing, even when his knees protest. He shoves his soft cock back inside his pants, and then turns and walks away.
Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-09 09:03 pm (UTC)(link)I love how many details there are in this. How Clark has taught himself to appear more human, for one, but also how comfortable he is around Bruce (and how it actually freaks Bruce out a little). I also love that the collar makes an appearance! Fuck yeah, kryptonite collar!
Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.
I am so, so into this. And I love how hard Bruce gets off on the power trip of having Clark at his mercy. And there's something so hot about Clark's helpless struggling.
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.
AND THEN YOU GIVE ME FEELS! I also love that they're doing this in the ruined manor, like that's a normal thing to do, fucking your superhuman totally-not-boyfriend in the burnt out ruin of your parents' house. :D And that Clark is wearing his Superman suit and Bruce just cuts it open, unf. ALSO YES SIZE KINK, CLARK BEING HUGE AND BRUCE LOVING IT, I AM ALWAYS HERE FOR THAT.
I love that Clark is such a mess in this whole fic, needy and helpless and so turned on. And then the choking at the end and the actual fucking, I don't even have WORDS for how hot this is, especially when Clark starts to panic. I'm dead and you killed me, congrats.
The ending is so bittersweet - that moment when they just lie there together, but then Bruce gets up immediately, how Bruce worries that he went too far, but Clark is still there for him and cares about him and OF COURSE Bruce runs away from that, because what are feelings? This is absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much for writing this. :D And I hope you write many more fics for this ship because this is so great.
Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-10 02:54 am (UTC)(link)I admit, I had way too much fun with this, and just thought, 'WHAT THE HEY', and threw in a bunch of my other fave kinks like size kink and cutting off clothes and usually strong characters being all helpless XD
If I can carve out some time, I'd still love to write the mutual choking thing as maybe a little semi-continuation, where Bruce wants to know what it feels like, he's still not quite ready to let go yet, though XD
Once again nonnie, I'm so glad you liked it, and thank you so much for this lovely feedback :DDD
Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-10 02:20 am (UTC)(link)Like, I thought I was dead of the collar, okay, and of Clark's tacit trust and willingness to experiment with Bruce, and of Bruce's preoccupation with Clark when he's helpless, but, oh, look:
Clark blinks, his blue eyes slowly focusing. Bruce watches him, curious, in a detached way, to know what he’ll see there – if this has finally been a step too far, if this is the time that Clark will say to him, no more. But as he looks up at him, his eyes clearing of the haze, Bruce sees nothing other than what he always sees: deep assurance, acceptance. The question of whether Bruce got what he wanted, and the willingness to do it again if he hasn’t.
NO, IT'S THIS. THIS IS WHY I'M DEAD.
/lies down and accepts it
Seriously, anon, this is so marvelous - thank you so much for this fantastic fill, it was great and so are you.
Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-10 07:55 am (UTC)(link)Thanks again for this super kind feedback :D
Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-10 06:16 am (UTC)(link)Re: Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-10 07:57 am (UTC)(link)FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 10:00 pm (UTC)(link)It was the first indication Clark had that Bruce was awake. He made the mistake of glancing down to see him, watching him work. The split second was enough to cause a typo that sent Clark's fingers into a ten word pile-up before he could stop. He'd done what any self-respecting reporter would do when they woke up in the bed of a handsome naked billionaire: gotten out his laptop and started writing. He owed Perry a story for the weekend edition.
"I ate a lot of scrambled eggs." Clark started backspacing. The muscles of Bruce's back shifted invitingly as he rolled onto his stomach in the sea of white bedding. He was sleep-rumpled, unshaven, and had pillow creases and a skeptical look on his face. He was lightyears more beautiful than he had been in his bespoke suit when they went to bed.
"Scrambled eggs?"
"My mom used to volunteer to make a pile of angel food cakes for the school bake sales and made me crack and separate all the eggs. Get even a drop of yolk in the whites and they're useless." Clark set the computer aside and scrunched down from where he was propped against the plush padded headboard.
Bruce Wayne was using two services while he was in Metropolis on business, a palatial hotel penthouse, and a free nightly shuttle service courtesy of Clark so Batman could still patrol Gotham. He had taken one night, one single night, for the two of them. Clark wasn't going to waste the opportunity, story or not. They met in the middle to kiss, Bruce dragging himself up as Clark slouched. "Why—mmm, do you ask?"
"Just curious. If I could do the things you can I'd probably break the keyboard."
"That wasn't exactly a bloodless battle either," Clark admitted as his hand drifted down Bruce's back. "These days the springs and I have reached a détente. I don't type too fast and they stay attached to my computer."
A lock of hair fell messily across Bruce's temple when he collapsed, laughing wry and warm, against Clark's stomach.
It was idyllic.
Which is why it was obvious Bruce was lying through his teeth.
___
In Bruce's bed again, a few weeks later. Gotham, so his actual bed. The sheets were still pristine white. Alfred had his mouth pinched up tight the time he'd mentioned it was easier to get bloodstains out of something you can bleach.
Clark was the second one to wake this time, to the feeling of a leg slung over his, and of fingers lingering over his back, systematically tracing each muscle, most he didn't know the name of. Bruce undoubtedly did.
"How is your skin completely invulnerable?" Bruce's voice was raspy and warm. It had been a good night. "I used to wonder if it was some kind of forcefield, before, but your skin feels just like anyone else's. Unless it's a proportionate response to pressure, so the lighter the touch," and Clark gasped as Bruce did just that, scraping his fingernails up the side of his ribcage. "Really?" Bruce laughed. "Do you even need to breathe?"
"You try having someone do the same thing to you and see if you don't," Clark said dryly. "Good morning to you, too." The playfulness was bittersweet. If Bruce were always as at ease as he seemed he wouldn't be Bruce—not his Bruce, as Clark had unfortunately caught himself thinking once or twice, the man somewhere between this mask and the bat's.
Clark panted carefully through his nose—had to, if he didn't want to flail—as Bruce traced each knobbly vertebra of his spine with technical precision.
"And whatever cell death would occur in a human from lack of oxygen would heal anyway because you feed on sunlight." Bruce wasn't laughing anymore. There was a reason Clark hadn't mentioned he would heal even if he wasn't breathing. The scar had been gone for months and Bruce could still trace the outline from memory. He'd gone still, palm broad and warm flattened between Clark's shoulders. His hands told the truth, the same way they told all his secrets if someone were to look. He had scars and calluses left by everything from electrical wiring to knife fights, and in those quiet, focused moments under the jokes and questions he touched Clark like he was a gadget Bruce wanted to take apart and look at the insides of.
"So that's the real secret of Superman," Bruce said finally. "He's part plant." His fingers barely skimmed the fine hairs at the nape of Clark's neck, and Clark shivered as he arched, tell-tale goosebumps prickling up along his shoulders. Bruce's hand stilled again. "Wait, are you ticklish?"
Clark cracked one eye open to give him an appropriately withering stare. "Why don't you stick to your strengths and leave asking questions to the professionals, Mr. Wayne?"
"Mr. Wayne's strengths," Bruce said as he spread himself out over Clark's back, breath hot and damp against his ear. "That would be spending obscene amounts of money and taking beautiful people to bed, I take it? And here I am without my wallet."
____
It wasn't a coincidence that Bruce Wayne's talents involved keeping company with beautiful people. Clark had seen it in action, covering a charity function where Bruce had been charming a strikingly gorgeous Kenyan woman who was—and Clark could say this with authority—built like an Amazon. When Bruce found out she was an MD-PhD in Tropical Medicine and Pharmacology he lost even his feigned interest in taking her home and funded her vaccine program instead.
Whichever mask Bruce was wearing at the time, there was always a trained investigator underneath, one who couldn't afford to be investigated in return. Smart was dangerous, with a secret like his.
If someone didn't already know it.
It didn't add up. The first few months—the after to Bruce's nebulous before, since they'd figured out the friction between them could be put to better ends than fighting—had been restrained in a way Clark would call hesitant in someone else. If it had been some kind of force of habit for Bruce to question someone he'd taken to bed it should've happened then.
The potential intelligence Bruce had garnered from those few cautious months all zipped through his mind as quickly as if he were speed-reading a newspaper: gauging how observant he thought Clark would be when Bruce did start questioning him, making his own assessments before he asked for Clark's, or determining whether the intimacy was worth suffering through in exchange for the intimate access.
Clark had a brain that worked so fast his heart couldn't keep up. All those possibilities had torn by before he'd even lurched to a real understanding of the last one, halfway back across the bay to Metropolis, and something in his chest clenched so tight he had to careen to a clumsy landing on the maintenance platform for one of the channel markers so he could catch his breath and wait for the pain that was always so foreign to fade.
Whatever access Batman could've wanted, he'd certainly gotten it. The idea of some government drone opening Clark up to see how he worked had given him nightmares since he was a kid and his dad had to explain why he couldn't join the Pop Warner team.
All Bruce would've had to do was ask.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 10:13 pm (UTC)(link)Alfred had his mouth pinched up tight the time he'd mentioned it was easier to get bloodstains out of something you can bleach.
I can imagine this so perfectly. <3
his Bruce, as Clark had unfortunately caught himself thinking once or twice, the man somewhere between this mask and the bat's.
Awwww, yes, yes, I love this.
He had scars and calluses left by everything from electrical wiring to knife fights, and in those quiet, focused moments under the jokes and questions he touched Clark like he was a gadget Bruce wanted to take apart and look at the insides of.
That whole part about the scars (or lack thereof in Clark's case) is utterly beautiful and so perfectly Bruce. And Bruce snarking about it is cute. <3
When Bruce found out she was an MD-PhD in Tropical Medicine and Pharmacology he lost even his feigned interest in taking her home and funded her vaccine program instead.
This makes me so happy. Bruce's actual philanthropist side comes out so rarely in fics and I love to see it here. I generally love how you write Bruce, continuously questioning everything, weighing different parts of every equation, never really relaxing.
This doesn't even have breathplay yet and yet I'm already completely in love with this fill anyway. Can't wait to see where this is going. Your characterisation of both of them is so perfect. <3
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-15 07:22 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 11:15 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 11:16 pm (UTC)(link)And the thought of Clark being ticklish is just adorable.
I like where this is heading.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-19 12:45 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-15 02:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-19 12:50 am (UTC)(link)FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-19 12:43 am (UTC)(link)There had been vague indications of someone in the background pulling strings and whispers about a particular kind of cargo coming into Metropolis. Bruce was insistent they had to operate under the assumption that Luthor was behind it all and kryptonite was in use.
"The container ship isn't due for another week and a half," Clark said. "We should focus on the building." The left two monitors swirled together as he called up blueprints for the warehouse their suspicious shipment would be transported to. For a place that was ostensibly storing small home appliances it had more security features than most government buildings.
"Exactly," Bruce said. "We only have a week and a half, and it could be days before we get any more information." Nothing changed with the two of them: they came at every obstacle from opposite angles.
Unfortunately, Clark couldn't argue the point. Getting Arthur to show up on anything but his own time was like pulling teeth (frankly, so was watching someone who looked like that come striding out of the surf and calling him Arthur). "We don't need to assume the worst about everything," Clark said, crossing his arms over his chest so he wasn't touching anything he could break.
"I'm not assuming anything. I'm telling you we should have a plan that doesn't require you going inside that warehouse."
"That's not your decision to make." Funny how Bruce never considered extra precautions when they were running into a building full of people with guns.
Sitting farther forward Bruce was only a chiseled profile, impassive. "You're absolutely right. It's a joint operation, we can take it to the others for a vote when we meet with them." The others. Everyone who'd been in Luthor's files, anyone else they could find who could help the way they could. "Until there's a decision one way or another, we need to plan for every possibility."
Any potential Luthor might be involved always made Bruce squirrelly, and Clark had a lot of patience for that. It couldn't be easy for someone as tightly controlled as Bruce was to butt heads with someone who'd manipulated him once before. But they were quickly approaching the point of annoyance where they'd be better off either stepping away and cooling off apart, or burning it off together, and as far as options went it didn't have the same appeal it used to. Making that kind of offer got a lot harder when Clark wasn't sure exactly what information he was offering.
"This new epoxy they're using," Bruce said, "it's advertised as opaque in all known spectrums between terahertz and x-ray. Do you think you can see through it from the facility perimeter, or do we need to get an alternate visual?"
Of all the questions he'd asked, it was the most reasonable, timely, and appropriate. A straw could break even Superman's back.
"I should," Clark said. "Which you'd probably already know if you'd asked for a full inventory of my abilities outright instead of interrogating me." Bruce continued staring resolutely at the display. "Although I guess I should thank you for not waiting until I'm naked this time."
"It's nothing," Bruce said. "Idle curiosity."
"You don't ask idle questions." Bruce had spun his chair away from the desk and gotten half a step before Clark added loudly, "You had to know I would notice."
Bruce clenched his fists so tight the muscles in his forearms jumped beneath the rolled up cuffs of his shirtsleeves. "Of course I did," he said easily.
Clark slipped off his stool and turned Bruce back to face him with a hand in the crook of his elbow. "What do you mean you—" and he cut off when Bruce picked his hand up, fingers cupped under his like he might ask him to dance.
Bruce rubbed his thumb across the expanse of Clark's knuckles. "As strong as you are and you can still crack eggs and use a keyboard. You can see bones, hear the blood rushing through someone's veins. How am I not supposed to be curious about that?"
He played the part of a curious lover so well Clark actually shivered when Bruce curled his hand in to kiss Clark's knuckles with a wistful smile. Bruce radiated heat pressing in against Clark to kiss him too, guiding him back into the hard edge of the desk with a tilt of his hips, already moving to unbutton Clark's shirt. Clark leaned his hands on the desk behind him, letting his legs fall open so Bruce could flow into the space between them and push his shirt off to get his hands on Clark's bare shoulders. Whatever his thoughts, his body still had a fundamental trust in Bruce's hands. He didn't shiver in the chill or feel pain at the rough scrape of Bruce's calloused thumb--but he felt everything, always so much, enough that he could fall into them entirely, if he let himself. If it hadn't been a blatant tactical move. Almost half a year of sleeping together and the cave had always been sacrosanct.
Clark swallowed hard, awkward with his tipped so far back and Bruce bent to nip at his collarbone. "I can't help but notice you haven't told me what you're hiding."
Bruce's hands fell away from Clark's shoulders, the weight at his hips eased. He went upright like someone had pulled a string up his spine. His mouth was a thin, pinched line. "I have told you the absolute truth." He sounded like himself again, clipped and cranky, and his lip curled with disdain. "I find your abilities. . .fascinating."
"You didn't need to make me one of Bruce Wayne's conquests to get intelligence about my powers," Clark said as he looked away. "I would've given you whatever you wanted."
"I know." Bruce sounded heartbreakingly concerned. Clark never had been the same caliber of actor he was. "Clark," he said, urgent enough to make him look up. "I know." That determination wasn't something Bruce ever faked. He'd never need to. It was indelible, like his fingerprints, or the sound of his heartbeat in a crowded room.
"If you're telling the truth, what aren't you telling me?" Clark pleaded. There was more to the two of them than a tactical seduction, he could believe that. What else lay there was beyond him. As much as Clark could see and see through, and there was still a wall between them. "What do I have to do to get you to trust me?"
Bruce's face went carefully smooth in one slow blink. "You know, for a professional you ask all the wrong questions."
This time Clark was the one who reeled Bruce in. "I'm sorry. That was unfair."
Bruce had his chin tucked down against his chest. "I would be lying, he said slowly, "if I said I blamed you. I know I'm not the easiest person to deal with." He was breathing so steadily Clark could've set a clock by it. He was probably counting.
Clark had to nudge his head up to be able to kiss him. The wall looked different from this side. Like the fact that he saw it at all when everyone else only saw the expensive art hanging in front of it. Everyone knew Bruce Wayne was an open book to anyone who could read a newspaper gossip column. Clark knew the engineer, the observer, the detective--as difficult as he could be.
Bruce didn't ask idle questions, and there was something else lurking in the shadows of that, something still hovering at the edge of Clark's understanding.
"Come on," he said, pulling Bruce away towards the stairs. "It must have been killing you to risk messing up your stuff."
If you can't tackle a problem head on, you have to come at it from a different angle.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-19 01:46 am (UTC)(link)Their animosity is just so great, and Bruce's curiosity, and I just love how you write them so much. Bruce is such a manipulative shit, I adore him. Oh, and this:
He sounded like himself again, clipped and cranky, and his lip curled with disdain.
I love this description. And this one, too: That determination wasn't something Bruce ever faked. He'd never need to. It was indelible, like his fingerprints, or the sound of his heartbeat in a crowded room.
Just, the way you write Bruce's masks and layers is so perfect. And I am very curious about what Clark is going to do next. Such an amazing fill, thank you so much for writing this. :D
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-19 03:03 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 01:00 am (UTC)(link)The fine wool of Bruce's vest scratched against Clark's fingertips while he unbuttoned it slowly, contemplatively, and then did the same for his shirt.
Every thing Bruce had ever loved or desired was a weak point to be exploited by his enemies. They weren't always so different. Clark had been so worried about what Bruce wanted out of him that he hadn't paid any attention to what Bruce had given him. Every question he'd asked was a point of interest: Clark's control over his strength, his breathing and invulnerability, his senses.
"We don't need to wait for a vote to know what to do in bed."
Clark's smile curved against his shoulder. "I'm gathering intelligence," he said, but he pushed his hands under the vest and dress shirt together to let Bruce shrug them off, then smoothed them down over his stomach to get Bruce's thin white undershirt over his head and settle against him.
Something else Bruce had given him: all that skin. Acres' worth, when you could get as much out of it as Clark did. If he closed his eyes and concentrated he could feel the slight change in the tissue on all but the oldest of Bruce's scars, the musculature that spoke of the hours and years he'd worked to mold his body to the peak of human capabilities. Stories Bruce would never bother to tell. The heat and pressure starting to pool against the front of Clark's khakis were the only signs of his impatience. Fascinating, he'd called Clark. He had no idea.
"Hear the blood rushing through someone's veins," Clark said, lips barely brushing the perpetual five o'clock shadow on Bruce's jaw, a prickle that never stung. "That's a very specific phrase."
Bruce breathed evenly through his nose, mouth sealed tight to keep quiet. His bare stomach tensed under Clark. There was nothing Bruce needed to hide and very little he could. He'd been transparent about pretending to, all of that careful reserve bent to get him exactly what he wanted with as little risk as possible. It was the only way Bruce knew how to get something he cared about. When Clark could see it all as a plan unfolding it was more like he was being led in a dance than manipulated. Step after step Bruce moved and left an opening for him to move into. Clark rolled his hips down and their pants skid-jumped together in a slow drag of friction, enough to make his eyelashes flutter. He was aroused in the truest sense, every nerve alive and keenly aware as the understanding of exactly where Bruce had led him began to crystallize.
"You wanted to know," he said against Bruce's collarbone, "if you would be able to hurt me if you were gentle. So it was somewhere you wouldn't use much force if you could. Somewhere I couldn't use much force, or you wouldn't care about my control over my strength, or how well I can monitor your vital signs. Am I asking the right questions yet?"
"I'll let you know when I hear one." Bruce swallowed hard. It would've been audible to someone without Clark's hearing.
"Does it disappoint you," Clark said to the soft skin under Bruce's ear, "that I don't need to breathe?"
"Does it matter?"
"So it is both," Clark said patiently. "All right. Blood or air, which way's safer?" Bruce started to tremble, but there was something odd about it, and Clark scraped his Adam's apple with his teeth hard enough to make Bruce hiss and arch. Somewhere under there Bruce was laughing at him. "Well, excuse me if I'm not up on the minutia of chokeholds. Not everyone can be a ninja.
"Let's try this another way," Clark said with his lips over the throb of Bruce's pulse. "What are the risks? Tell me what happens when something goes wrong." He idly covered Bruce's throat in lush kisses, enjoying the strain in Bruce's voice when he finally started to talk.
"They both cause unconsciousness and a," Bruce's voice stuttered at Clark sliding his hand down over the front of his slacks, "a risk of cardiac arrest. Constricting bloodflow causes hypoxia in seconds. Going for the airway's—"
Bruce's hand bumped Clark's, and Clark caught his wrist, nothing Bruce couldn't push through. "I would rather you didn't do that." He did appreciate it though. To act instead of talk, that was Bruce. "Going for the airway is. . ."
"Harder," Bruce said, though whether it was an answer or a plea Clark couldn't tell. "Suffocation takes more time and pressure. It's more painful, easier to damage cartilage or fracture the hyoid."
"Ah. Definitely slow." Clark clamped his hand on Bruce's throat like a vice. Not much pressure, but unforgiving. "Now you can take them off." It was as easy as breathing for Clark to lift up and push back against gravity, moving through it, to take his weight off of Bruce so he could shuck his slacks and boxers together. He waited until Bruce had kicked them off to give a gentle squeeze. "Just take them off," he warned. Bruce's hand flew to grab Clark's wrist, but the grip eased as soon as it formed, and Bruce only stroked his thumb over the soft underside of Clark's wrist.
When Clark had let his weight rest on Bruce's thighs to straddle him and finally got a hand wrapped around his cock. Bruce sighed and sank limply into the pillow with a deep groan that vibrated through Clark's hand. A finger could have crushed his larynx and he was utterly relaxed, the way he should always be when they were together like this. His heartbeat was a slow and steady push-pull in the cage of Clark's palm.
"God, you're beautiful."
Bruce inhaled sharply, and before he could disagree Clark poured more weight into his hand, reveling in the bedrock certainty of it. "You don't want to argue right now." He was magnanimous giving Bruce what he wanted, cutting off his breath with a faint whisper of air--powerful in a way he never could be otherwise. No matter how strong a man is, there will always be something stronger: you can force surrender, you can't force someone to want to. This was exactly where Bruce had led him.
The room was nearly silent except Clark's own breathing and the crumpling of the sheets. Bruce could make noise a little, involuntary gurgling as his face started to redden and his hips started to move more insistently, fucking himself against Clark's hand. Eventually Bruce's fingers tapped jerkily on Clark's wrist, lines of real distress creasing his face.
"I know," Clark said, "almost."
He let Bruce's hips rock in two more yearning contractions before he opened his hand enough to let him take in full sucking breaths, and Clark held his own and listened so the only sounds in his world were the bass drum of a heartbeat and that gorgeous desperate gasping. He spent so much trying to be someone who didn't want that kind of power, and Bruce's surrender would never be an always, but it was there--more than before and more to unfold, a future. Clark pressed their foreheads together and whispered, "God, Bruce," against his dry, tacky lips, choked with his own shame at having so little faith while Bruce panted in hot, damp huffs as he came all over his stomach, shot all over Clark's clothes they were pressed so close.
He eased up from Bruce's throat to cup his cheek, holding him so he could kiss him the way he deserved to be, gratitude and apology together.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 02:09 am (UTC)(link)And, unf, Clark kissing Bruce's throat is so, so hot. Bruce slowly losing control because he's so turned on while still explaining things, perfect. Seriously, all those lush descriptions of how they're touching each other are stunning.
A finger could have crushed his larynx and he was utterly relaxed, the way he should always be when they were together like this. His heartbeat was a slow and steady push-pull in the cage of Clark's palm.
The trust, anon, the trust. I'm having such feels here.
"I know," Clark said, "almost."
Fuck, this is so hot, Clark making him wait just a little longer for it. And the focus on Bruce's heartbeat and his gasping, god, yes. And then that kiss at the end. <33333333333 This is just beautiful, thank you so much for writing and sharing this.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-02 17:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-27 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)Basically I am SO SLAIN BY THIS MAGNIFICENCE. Thank you so much for sharing this fill, it's amazing.
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-02 17:32 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) - 2016-05-31 17:26 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (3/?)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-02 17:34 (UTC) - ExpandFILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (4/4)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-03 12:54 am (UTC)(link)Captcha, you have it wrong, the underpants should be red not blue
_____
He slid off to Bruce's side, keeping his hand on the side of his neck, holding him. In the span of a few lazy kisses Bruce's extraordinary conditioning struck again. His heartbeat tumbled towards its normal slow thud under Clark's fingertips, and Clark pushed his hips against Bruce's--God, his body. Without Bruce to focus on that full-body awareness of Clark's had zeroed in hard on his own in that same time. He was practically throbbing with it pressed against him, like his body was searching for more of that hot pressure of its own volition even though Clark was reluctant to do anything about it himself. He'd managed so far following Bruce's lead, it seemed selfish not to give Bruce whatever he could when he would never be able to do all the things Bruce would.
Clark rolled gratefully onto his back to give Bruce room as soon as Bruce tugged the tails of his shirt free. He went for his shirt to finish the job Bruce had started in the cave as Bruce deftly flicked the button on Clark's pants to get them open and shoved down enough to leave Clark with his erection poking obscenely through the open fly of his khakis. The release meant he had no sensation at all, thrusting into nothing while Bruce kissed him.
"Don't bother," Bruce said. "I've got what I need," and then he kissed him again and suddenly there was air in Clark's lungs he hadn't put there. He clenched his fists at the shock, too bewildered to respond before Bruce breathed in with a hiss and air suctioned out of Clark the same way.
"Bruce—" Clark started, a sound snapped in half when Bruce frowned sternly and smeared his thumb hard across Clark's lip.
"You don't need to do that anymore." Bruce held him while he filled him again, making his chest go tight. He could take in more than Bruce's lung capacity could possibly supply and it was still overwhelming just for how foreign the sensation of having it pushed inside of him was. When Bruce seemed satisfied that Clark understood what he wanted he let Clark's chin go, and with one last shove at Clark's underwear went right back to his other point of interest.
Clark fought against the urge to gasp, to breathe. Whether he needed it or not it was still an instinct he had to consciously defy, enough to make him lightheaded despite the lack of oxygen deprivation, the physical strain he would never feel. Just as the tension of Bruce jerking him off wound tighter, beginning to tingle up the base of his spine, Bruce broke to delicate teasing right at the head of his cock, too much and not enough at the same time.
Clark felt more exposed than he'd have thought possible when he was the one wearing all his clothes. Everything was so quiet, only the undeniably lewd sound of Bruce's hand and the occasional hiss of air. Bruce alternated his touch to keep Clark dancing on that edge without sending him over and on every third or fourth of his own slow, calm breaths would seal their mouths together and give Clark one.
He couldn't call it holding his breath, because it wasn't his to hold. He was empty, hollowed out when Bruce inhaled, stretched and full when he breathed out, another way to let Bruce inside of him even though he would never be able to get through Clark's skin.
He was a cock and mouth, reduced to the parts Bruce wanted access to. He could give him that much.
It was much too long, twenty chances to breathe, maybe thirty, before Bruce settled into a rhythm and pushed it steadily past the point of teasing, inexorable, dragging Clark along with him. Right as the tension became unbearable he pressed his mouth to Clark's ear, timed so perfectly it had to be intentional.
"Next time I want to do it while I'm fucking you." It was the real thing of the facade Bruce had played at, wry without the warmth, and Clark smothered himself in the heat of Bruce's bare shoulder because he didn't have the air to sob. His own heartbeat hammered in his ears alongside the steady drum of Bruce's as he came in a rush of dizzying release.
He'd been reduced even more from two points to one, his entire existence was Bruce stroking him right through it heedless of the mess he was making all over Clark, soaking through the exposed vee of Clark's undershirt at his throat, on his neck, Christ.
And then Bruce was turning Clark's head back with a thumb on his chin. "Go ahead."
He caressed the line of Clark's jaw and watched with that deep, scalpel-sharp fascination while Clark sucked in air, like somewhere next to the part of Bruce that would lovingly stroke Clark's cheek he was updating a precise catalogue of every one of his reactions and how to elicit them, every possible chink in his invulnerability that could be explored. Bruce had opened him up after all.
In his daze Clark dimly registered Bruce moving away, and he made a half-hearted attempt to follow, only to remember he was still wearing his clothes and--he pulled distastefully at his shirt--that he was sticky. By the time Clark's sluggish thoughts caught up to his body, Bruce was long gone, out of sight behind the sleek wall that ensconced the bathroom. Clark gave up and flopped back to the bed.
"Awfully shortsighted not to undress when you had the chance," Bruce said, an echo in the cavern of the lakehouse. A soft, white washcloth landed on Clark's face with a wet plop.
"My hero," Clark said, muffled and glad to have his smile covered.
___
Later, when he was cleaner and drier, Clark lay still while Bruce traced the whorls of his ear methodically with a fingertip.
"I know how fast you can go when you're moving consciously," Bruce said. "So what happens when it's involuntary? A doctor's hammer to the knee, that kind of thing."
"You're interrogating again," Clark murmured, holding Bruce's elbow when he tried to pull away. "No, no. You're a detective. You would be remiss if you didn't conduct a thorough investigation."
"I guess I did have just one more question." Bruce's weight settled against Clark more solidly, and there was a long, calculated silence as he grazed his thumb up and down the column of Clark's throat.
"Do you have a gag reflex?"
Re: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (4/4)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-03 01:14 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (4/4)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-03 15:59 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (4/4)
(Anonymous) - 2016-06-03 01:49 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: "Twenty Questions", Bruce/Clark, breathplay, (4/4)
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