Ficlet: Losing Control
Title: Losing Control
Characters/Pairings: Superman/Batman
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark learns mind-control can be a lot of fun, when done properly.
Word count: 930
Note: A PWP continuation from 5 Times Superman was Mind-Controlled and Didn't Try to Kill Batman.
Superman was lying on his narrow cot in his sparse Watchtower quarters. His hands were pulling down his tights with clumsy urgency, his body tense and taut.
Which would have been more enjoyable if he were in control of his hands and his body.
He felt a sudden panicked desire to struggle against the device Bruce was using on him, to make sure he could still wrench control away from the other man if necessary. Yes, he had given permission, but--it was terrifying to be trapped in his body like this. Bruce could do anything to him, could use his own hands to hurt him...
Those hands--his hands--came back up to cup his balls, to circle the base of his cock, and Clark felt the wave of his panic crest and break into something else. Not passivity, not resignation, but knowledge, as steadying as a warm hand on his arm: if he couldn't trust Bruce with this, he could trust no one in the universe. Bruce would never hurt him willingly.
Never.
His hands paused as a rush of elation went over him, then moved up to brush his lips, touch the corners of his eyes. Bruce had said he could feel some of what Clark felt through the link; could he feel Clark giving himself over, letting trust lift him like joy? Clark hoped so.
He wished briefly he could feel some of what Bruce was feeling as well.
Lying there, his emotions and reactions laid bare, his own body merely an instrument for pleasure, Clark reveled in the sensation of his own skin beneath his hands, his own hands touching him more gently and lovingly than he ever would. Fingers skimming down across his body again to finally grasp and stroke himself, delicately at first, until Clark felt he could hardly bear it, he wanted more, more, and harder, stronger...
His hand clenched more, tighter, until it was applying pressure no mortal could give him, and he would have groaned aloud if he still had control of his vocal cords. Yes...all the intensity he craved and couldn't get from non-powered sex, but without the predictability of masturbation. Bruce, Bruce, you're making me feel so good, he tried to think as coherently as possible, hoping some of it got through, that at least the pleasure got through. He wanted to thrust against the sensation, wanted to move, but all he could do was feel.
It felt amazing.
Desire was spiraling through him like white heat, his thoughts unable to focus on anything more than sensation, when he realized one of his hands had slipped beneath him and was caressing his ass, stroking, slick with his own wetness, exploring. He felt another jolt of worry and would have tensed against the coaxing finger--but his body wouldn't tense when he wanted it to, of course. Instead it stayed relaxed, yielding easily to one gentle finger. He wasn't sure he wanted it, wasn't sure he wanted that sensation at all, but with no ability to freeze or flinch it wasn't that bad, just a little uncomfortable.
Not really so uncomfortable.
It was--
Fingers far surer and competent than his own should ever be crooked slightly, and Clark felt a pulse of pleasure run through his body, almost agonizingly good. He heard a grunt of pleasure and wasn't sure if he had broken the control in that moment of crystalline sensation, or if Bruce was speaking through him. Bruce, do that again, do it again, please do it again, he thought as fiercely as he could, and when his fingers obliged he felt language slip away from him entirely and he was reduced to little more than a prism of light, refracting pleasure and surrender and trust and joy. The one-way link thrummed between them like a chord, like a cord, and his last true thought was a wistful acceptance that it would only ever be this one way, that he could never ask Bruce to make himself this vulnerable, to feel this overwhelmed and overcome with ecstasy. That was all right.
He would savor it enough for both of them.
His climax was sharp, silent, and almost terrifying in its intensity, if anything had remained in him that could still feel terror.
Clark felt the weight of Bruce's will leave his limbs slowly, and he flexed a sticky hand in front of his eyes, both relieved and disappointed to be able to control it once again.
There was a JLA meeting that evening, and Superman got through chairing it with Batman's opaque eyes on him, seeing through him to the desires inside. Superman felt like he was trembling in front of everyone, remembering--merely the touch of his own hands. Bruce had never once touched him. Maybe he never would. Was this the way it would be now, a sort of long-distance affair which Bruce would never have to fully acknowledge?
That would be enough for Clark.
As it was, it was more than enough to drive him nearly to distraction with lust.
He cut the meeting as short as possible and went back to his quarters. Would Bruce be planning on another encounter? For all Clark knew, this had been a one-time experience. He closed his eyes as the door slid shut behind him, struggling with a surge of depression at the thought.
When he opened them, he saw the simple gold circlet on the table.
Next to it a note in a familiar precise hand:
Your turn.
Continued in Trust...But Verify
Characters/Pairings: Superman/Batman
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark learns mind-control can be a lot of fun, when done properly.
Word count: 930
Note: A PWP continuation from 5 Times Superman was Mind-Controlled and Didn't Try to Kill Batman.
Superman was lying on his narrow cot in his sparse Watchtower quarters. His hands were pulling down his tights with clumsy urgency, his body tense and taut.
Which would have been more enjoyable if he were in control of his hands and his body.
He felt a sudden panicked desire to struggle against the device Bruce was using on him, to make sure he could still wrench control away from the other man if necessary. Yes, he had given permission, but--it was terrifying to be trapped in his body like this. Bruce could do anything to him, could use his own hands to hurt him...
Those hands--his hands--came back up to cup his balls, to circle the base of his cock, and Clark felt the wave of his panic crest and break into something else. Not passivity, not resignation, but knowledge, as steadying as a warm hand on his arm: if he couldn't trust Bruce with this, he could trust no one in the universe. Bruce would never hurt him willingly.
Never.
His hands paused as a rush of elation went over him, then moved up to brush his lips, touch the corners of his eyes. Bruce had said he could feel some of what Clark felt through the link; could he feel Clark giving himself over, letting trust lift him like joy? Clark hoped so.
He wished briefly he could feel some of what Bruce was feeling as well.
Lying there, his emotions and reactions laid bare, his own body merely an instrument for pleasure, Clark reveled in the sensation of his own skin beneath his hands, his own hands touching him more gently and lovingly than he ever would. Fingers skimming down across his body again to finally grasp and stroke himself, delicately at first, until Clark felt he could hardly bear it, he wanted more, more, and harder, stronger...
His hand clenched more, tighter, until it was applying pressure no mortal could give him, and he would have groaned aloud if he still had control of his vocal cords. Yes...all the intensity he craved and couldn't get from non-powered sex, but without the predictability of masturbation. Bruce, Bruce, you're making me feel so good, he tried to think as coherently as possible, hoping some of it got through, that at least the pleasure got through. He wanted to thrust against the sensation, wanted to move, but all he could do was feel.
It felt amazing.
Desire was spiraling through him like white heat, his thoughts unable to focus on anything more than sensation, when he realized one of his hands had slipped beneath him and was caressing his ass, stroking, slick with his own wetness, exploring. He felt another jolt of worry and would have tensed against the coaxing finger--but his body wouldn't tense when he wanted it to, of course. Instead it stayed relaxed, yielding easily to one gentle finger. He wasn't sure he wanted it, wasn't sure he wanted that sensation at all, but with no ability to freeze or flinch it wasn't that bad, just a little uncomfortable.
Not really so uncomfortable.
It was--
Fingers far surer and competent than his own should ever be crooked slightly, and Clark felt a pulse of pleasure run through his body, almost agonizingly good. He heard a grunt of pleasure and wasn't sure if he had broken the control in that moment of crystalline sensation, or if Bruce was speaking through him. Bruce, do that again, do it again, please do it again, he thought as fiercely as he could, and when his fingers obliged he felt language slip away from him entirely and he was reduced to little more than a prism of light, refracting pleasure and surrender and trust and joy. The one-way link thrummed between them like a chord, like a cord, and his last true thought was a wistful acceptance that it would only ever be this one way, that he could never ask Bruce to make himself this vulnerable, to feel this overwhelmed and overcome with ecstasy. That was all right.
He would savor it enough for both of them.
His climax was sharp, silent, and almost terrifying in its intensity, if anything had remained in him that could still feel terror.
Clark felt the weight of Bruce's will leave his limbs slowly, and he flexed a sticky hand in front of his eyes, both relieved and disappointed to be able to control it once again.
There was a JLA meeting that evening, and Superman got through chairing it with Batman's opaque eyes on him, seeing through him to the desires inside. Superman felt like he was trembling in front of everyone, remembering--merely the touch of his own hands. Bruce had never once touched him. Maybe he never would. Was this the way it would be now, a sort of long-distance affair which Bruce would never have to fully acknowledge?
That would be enough for Clark.
As it was, it was more than enough to drive him nearly to distraction with lust.
He cut the meeting as short as possible and went back to his quarters. Would Bruce be planning on another encounter? For all Clark knew, this had been a one-time experience. He closed his eyes as the door slid shut behind him, struggling with a surge of depression at the thought.
When he opened them, he saw the simple gold circlet on the table.
Next to it a note in a familiar precise hand:
Your turn.
Continued in Trust...But Verify