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.).

Newest page | Flat view | Flat view newest page

Comments

FILL: and if sun comes; Bruce/Clark, involuntary soulbonding (8/11ish?)

[(Anonymous)]

... This may be the cockblockingest thing I have ever written. /o\



Bruce really must be feeling it, going all this time—what is it, now, a hundred hours? A hundred and thirty?—without sleeping. Clark can tell not just because he can feel it, too, but because Bruce doesn't seem to be paying any attention to the fact that Clark's following him until they're already at the top of the stairs.

It's hard to be sure. Even with the connection, it's hard to be sure. Bruce's mind is so—so vast, so quick, so intense. These days Clark's a lot more aware of what a jumble his own thoughts actually are. Sure, they're words sometimes. But more often they're just sort of half-formed impressions, a string of images and memories and references, concepts held suspended without any need to figure out how to articulate them before he moves on to the next.

And Bruce is—Bruce seems to be thinking at least six things at any given moment, feeling two or three more. Like running water, a dozen different ripples catching the light at once, and a moment later a dozen others, never the same river twice.

Right now, Bruce is exhausted, sure. But he's also off-balance, somewhere deeper; off-balance and moving cautiously because of it, even warily. There's some kind of mistake he's trying desperately not to make, and if he'd just hold still in there for a second, Clark might be able to get a good enough look at it to figure out what it is—

He blinks and catches himself a half-step from walking into Bruce's back. It's so easy to get lost in that interior space, now that he's—almost, sort of, maybe—allowed to take a look around.

Bruce has come to a stop at the top of the stairs, and turned to look over his shoulder. And his expression is utterly bland, featureless, but inside—inside, he's suddenly been washed through with apprehension, green and unripened, sour, so strong it makes Clark's heartbeat kick hard for a second.

(Or was that Bruce's, too?)

"Planning to tuck me in?" Bruce says, and his tone is light. As if Clark's going to buy that. He thinks it, deliberately loud, and he can tell Bruce hears it by the way Bruce's gaze flicks away, the slow blue-tinged rue that wells up.

And maybe he's right, maybe it is weird for Clark to have assumed, except— "Bruce," Clark says aloud. "It doesn't matter where I am," and he gestures helplessly to himself, his physical self, and then to his head. "I'll still be in bed with you."

There's no way for Bruce to misunderstand what he actually meant, given that Bruce knows exactly what he's thinking. But it still doesn't—sound quite right, when he says it like that. Clark swallows and feels awkward heat start to climb his throat, his jaw. Maybe he should leave. Except—

Except he said it because it's true. Even if he goes right now, flies back across the bay to Metropolis and turns the radio on so loud even Superman can't hear past it, a part of him is still going to be wherever Bruce is. A part of him is still going to be there when Bruce slides between his sheets and drifts off—and god, is that ever hard to imagine. Batman's so exacting, so vigilant, so unrelenting. It's almost impossible to picture Bruce with his eyes shut, his face slack.

And of course Bruce must be able to tell he's trying. Clark clears his throat and looks up. It's kind of fascinating, honestly. Bruce's expression really is just as inscrutable as ever. But now Clark can feel exactly what's going on behind it, the quick sequential flicker of doubt-uncertainty-foreboding-exhaustion-resignation that Bruce is flashing through. It makes it so much easier to be patient, to wait Bruce out without frustration or resentment. In fact, what Clark's feeling right now is mostly warmth. Warmth, and something that might be the first unfurling bloom of fondness, around the edges of the lingering embarrassment.

He realizes it and feels Bruce realizing it in the same moment, and grimaces as the embarrassment kicks itself back up a notch. He's expecting irritation, maybe disdain—or maybe no reaction at all, maybe Bruce will just think Clark is stupid and rosy about everybody and move on. But instead he gets—what is that?

Clark closes his eyes for a second, just to help himself pick it apart. It's almost the same as before, but not quite: doubt, again, and uncertainty, foreboding—exhaustion, but different, deeper, and—sorrow—?

He looks up, startled. Bruce hasn't moved, and Clark discovers to his own distant surprise that he himself has reached out unthinkingly, not just in there but with his actual hand. He watches his own fingertips brush Bruce's crisp white sleeve, catch the fabric, and Bruce is just standing there, looking back at him.

He doesn't look sad. He doesn't look much of anything. And yet he is, Clark knows it. But it's a little harder to pick out the reason why. Because Clark isn't angry with him? Because Clark likes being able to understand him, even if it won't last?

"Come on," Clark hears himself say, and he curves a hand around Bruce's elbow and doesn't let go.



*



The lake house is interesting, and pretty, but also frankly kind of stupid. It's just such a ridiculous design for a house. There's no rooms, no doors, everything just sort of placed to present the idea of a room with hardly any walls in between. Bruce's bed is just—there, and for once there actually is a wall but it doesn't even cross the whole house, ending a good arm's length shy of the glass on either side. So much glass, and there's something almost ironic about Bruce surrounding himself with all this endless transparency when he's the most opaque person Clark knows.

Plus it must be a pain in the ass to clean.

"It isn't that bad," Bruce murmurs, pausing at the edge of the bed. "Alfred developed a sprayable fluid for it that he's very pleased with."

Clark looks at him. He's poised, steady, but only on the outside. The apprehension's so strong now that Clark is almost sick with it, and jesus, what the hell is it about this that's making Batman feel like that? It's just Clark.

"Bruce," Clark says, and tightens his fingers around Bruce's elbow—squeezes, just a little, and then starts to slide them down Bruce's forearm.

"Clark—" and Bruce has grabbed his wrist, his tone flat, a warning in it, but Clark's not going to—he just wants to—

He keeps moving his hand, and Bruce is still holding his wrist but doesn't quite stop him. He unbuttons Bruce's cuff, and Bruce still doesn't stop him; and then he has to break Bruce's grip, slowly, to reach the other cuff, and Bruce doesn't stop him from doing that either.

Then Bruce's tie—because of course Bruce put one on and tied it perfectly, even while so sleep-deprived he's probably hallucinating. Clark keeps his eyes on the knot as he picks it apart, doesn't dare let his gaze wander up to Bruce's face, and he's so conscious of their—their closeness, his hands, the texture of the tie under his fingertips, the lines of Bruce's chest, that maybe he's not thinking about Bruce's mouth hard enough for Bruce to notice it.

Maybe.

He slides the tie carefully free of Bruce's shirt-collar, and that sick heavy feeling in Clark's—Bruce's—gut is blurring now, its edges overtaken by something tentative and warm, a light sweet taste at the back of Clark's mouth—

Clark's attention is Bruce's attention; Clark noticing it makes Bruce notice it, too, and Clark flinches helplessly away from the sudden bitter recrimination that blots it all black as a shadow. "Wait," he says quickly, "wait, don't—it's okay. Whatever it is. I won't hold it against you."

And that gets him a mingled rush of wordless cynicism (you shouldn't make promises you might not be able to keep) and something almost—wistful? (if anyone could forgive me this, it would be you, wouldn't it—)

He still has Bruce's tie in his hands. He closes his fingers around it and deliberately clears his mind, thinks of nothing at all except Bruce's shoes. And after a second, Bruce lowers his eyes and sinks to the edge of the bed.

He's going to pry them off himself, Clark can feel his intent even before he tilts one foot to settle the heel against the ball of the other. He isn't expecting Clark to sling the loose tie around his own neck and drop to his knees.

And that flush of stupid reckless heat must be Clark's, it must be, but there's no way Bruce can't feel it. Clark swallows and closes his eyes and reaches for Bruce's shoe—and he doesn't miss, which he realizes after a second isn't just down to Superman's hearing or Clark's own aim. Bruce's eyes are still open and he knows where his feet are, and that means Clark does, too.

Bruce jerks, startled, when Clark doesn't stop at the shoes but slides a hand up his calf, looking for the edge of his sock. And it's not—it's not words, as such, just a sudden swift exchange of impressions. It's fine, you don't have to—it's not fine, don't be ridiculous. Who sleeps with socks on?—some people—Bruce, come on—

Clark discovers he's grinning helplessly at Bruce's knee as he tugs Bruce's sock off, and Bruce nudges him unthinkingly with the bare foot (Clark knows, can feel the moment he realizes what he's done and his fierce frustration with the loss of judgment, impulse control—so you do need to sleep, Clark tosses in snidely, just to make him stop yelling at himself) and then leans down to yank the other off.

The movement brings him nearer, and suddenly their faces are almost on a level. Clark squeezing his eyes shut tighter isn't any help when he can smell Bruce—

He jerks to his feet and turns away, and concentrates on sliding his own shoes off, his own socks after. But then he's done. No tie or cuffs for him, he's only wearing a t-shirt. He's got a lot less armor to take off.

It's just an idle thought. But he stops and thinks it again more slowly and then looks up, and Bruce is looking back at him.

(And isn't that always true? Batman's suit—even when it isn't covered in a metal shell, it's got so many parts and pieces, so much damage to absorb or turn aside. Clark only ever needs the one layer, cloth, even if it is technologically-advanced alien cloth. But Bruce can't get away with that. Bruce needs a thousand different kinds of defenses, because—

Because underneath it all, Bruce is so easy to hurt.)

"Come on," Clark says to him gently.

He rounds the bed, and—is it that he thinks he can feel Bruce's eyes on him, or that he actually does know where Bruce is looking? It feels weird and staged, like he's in a play, as he lifts up the covers with Bruce staring at him like that; and then Bruce stands all at once, lifts his own corner and gets in, and they lie down.

Bruce settles on his side, his back to Clark, but of course it doesn't matter. Clark can feel the harp-string tension in him, the doubling and redoubling self-consciousness and recrimination. A nightmare of an observer effect, self-conscious about being self-conscious, recriminating himself for being recriminating where Clark can see it.

Which is, of course, ridiculous, because there's nowhere in him Clark can't see. And nowhere in Clark that he can't see, if he looks. Like this, allowed in, opened up, there's nothing hidden for the simple reason that there's nowhere to hide it. And that should bother Clark, because he's already proven he's got plenty of cause for embarrassment

(—as if he could go to his knees in front of Bruce and not think of—jesus, that had been so stupid—)

but instead he thinks it and all he feels is—

The sudden intensity of Bruce's attention, in there, is impossible to miss: reaching out to take hold, carefully, of what Clark's just handed him, to turn it over and examine it.

Relief? Bruce is startled, uncomprehending. He can't understand how Clark could possibly be glad about this.

And god, it's just so easy, being able to tell him everything without having to figure out how to say any of it. Clark can just—share it, shove the whole armful of remembered moments and impressions into Bruce's hands and let him pick through them. The constant, relentless self-monitoring he has to do, every single second he isn't with the League. Always having to make sure he isn't moving too fast, hearing or seeing anything he can't explain, that he isn't too strong. That if he stubs his toe loudly enough to make somebody look over, then he needs to wince; that if he spills hot coffee on his hand and someone sees, he has to go run cold water on it, wrap it up in paper towel, pretend that it hurts, until they're gone. Ten thousand different things that could give him away, and he'd only have to slip up once—especially now that people know about Superman, now that there's a two to put two together with.

Superman, and in some ways that isn't any better. Superman is an ideal, someone for people to look up to. Clark can use his powers when he's Superman, sure. But the price is that he can't—he can't be Clark anymore. He can't be petty, can't get snappish, can't be rude or have a bad day or just not want to go out. People need saving, it's life-or-death; Clark can't possibly weigh that against the way they stare at him, their rapt attention, all that smotheringly worshipful admiration, and find it wanting. He could never justify it. He—he couldn't call himself Superman, if he let himself be that selfish. But Superman sets the bar so high; and Clark can fly, but only literally.

And now he doesn't have to choose. He can't. Bruce just gets it all, unfiltered, and Clark can't blame himself for failing to keep it from him because it's just plain out of his hands. Clark is, for once, in this single respect, absolved of all responsibility—

Clark blinks up at the ceiling, startled. That wasn't him. Or—it was, but it wasn't; the same thought in a different flavor.

The room is dark. The house is silent. Bruce is lying beside him, still facing away, unmoving. But he's not asleep, they're not asleep, and in that space inside them, Clark looks and finally sees, and there's not one single thing Bruce can do to prevent it.

It is a relief. A relief Bruce has been forcing himself not to grab after this whole time, while Clark was sitting in there next to him doing exactly the same thing, and Clark laughs and wipes his wet face, his stinging eyes, and stretches out his arm: settles one palm against the broad strong angle of Bruce's shoulderblade. It's too much and not enough, nothing compared to what's happening inside their heads

(—what words are there for it? Who else in the world has ever done this? Has ever known and been known, like this—has ever reached so perfect and whole and complete an understanding?

Who else in the world has ever been less alone?)

and yet Clark can't help but catch his breath at the sudden coruscating bloom of colors in Bruce's head when Clark touches him, just before Bruce's exhaustion finally drags them both under.