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

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

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

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

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FILL: and if sun comes; Bruce/Clark, involuntary soulbonding (9/12ish?)

[(Anonymous)]

Okay, so my first estimate wrt number of parts was wrong. No surprise there. /o\



They do dream.

In all the scenarios Bruce had envisioned, as he'd scrabbled for solutions with increasing desperation, Clark had been awake. Awake, aware, and unable to do anything to escape the full scope of Bruce's mind, unleashed.

But Clark is in his head. Bruce invited him in, and he doesn't make a single move to leave. He felt Bruce's tiredness, he followed Bruce upstairs and got into Bruce's bed. And when Bruce finally slides into sleep, Clark is still there. Bruce isn't alone—literally, abstractly, or in any other respect.

They sleep, and they dream, and they do it together.

It doesn't work the way Bruce had anticipated. The two of them, together, it—it changes the quality of the dreams, the way they feel—even the way they happen. Bruce does dream of the ship, of clutching Clark's slack arms with hands covered in Clark's blood. And then all at once he's not on the ship anymore but at the port, kneeling over a version of Clark with a much, much bigger hole in his chest—

—and then they're in the genesis pool, and it's Clark's dream, Clark's sensations, how it felt to come abruptly alive in that weird clinging fluid, and this isn't how it happened but somehow Bruce is still kneeling over him, grip tight on his wet arms, gazing down at him with a look on his face like—

And then they're somewhere Bruce has never been, a vast expanse of white, and he looks at his hands and drops to a knee, sets his fist against the ice, and flies.

It keeps happening like that, old familiar despair intercut with places Bruce has never been, fields and sunlight, a kitchen Bruce doesn't recognize. And then a nightmare that isn't Bruce's, coughing up blood and falling to his—their—someone's knees, a floor made up of empty eye sockets, the sudden ominous darkness of a stormcloud overhead, a—a tornado—

Bruce comes half-awake. The lake house settles into place around him. Still night; but then the sun had only just set when they first came upstairs, so there's no telling how long they've been sleeping.

And in the quiet, the dark stillness, it's so treacherously easy to shift and turn into Clark, to settle against Clark's shoulder and slide a foot between Clark's ankles—to never even open his eyes all the way, to let himself pretend that this is allowed to happen.

(Clark touched him first. Clark wanted to touch him. Bruce would never have believed it, except—

Except he can't not. He knows; he could feel it for himself.)

He lies there, greedy and desperate and too goddamn tired to stop himself, and soaks it up. He can tell when Clark starts to surface a little—the soft-edged chalk-smudged impressions of warmth, comfort, the nightmare's dissolution, and then the slow dawning awareness of Bruce himself, the vague memory of where Clark is and how he got there. And this, this is only going to make it worse: feeling Clark's own consciousness of Bruce's weight, his heat, his closeness, and the sheer blurry pleasure he takes in finding Bruce there, just before he shifts to sling his arm around Bruce's shoulder, fingers curling lazily against the back of Bruce's neck.

He hadn't lied, earlier. Not that he'd spoken any of it aloud, but Bruce had seen it in his mind, the awkward shuffle around the question inevitably raised by deliberately spending the night in Bruce Wayne's bed. Clark hadn't meant anything by any of it, not like that. He hadn't done this because he wanted to fuck Bruce.

A day ago, Bruce would have called the very idea laughable. And yet here, now, in this dark silent room, Bruce hears as if from a distance his own breath catching. Because there is a lazy simmering heat in the idle meandering of Clark's mind, now—in the thought-impression-memory of his fingertips against Bruce's tie and shirt-collar, the way he'd brushed Bruce's hands and forearms as he'd unbuttoned Bruce's cuffs. In the way he's spinning out, with a distant prickle of electricity, how it would have looked if Bruce hadn't moved; if he'd still been standing, if Clark had reached for something other than his shoes, when Clark had gone down on his knees—

On his knees.

Bruce's eyes snap open. He stares at the shadowed hollow of Clark's throat two inches away and doesn't see it.

Clark is already sinking away from him again, too drowsy to do more than feel faint bewilderment in Bruce's direction before he's drifted back to sleep.

Which is good. It means Bruce doesn't have to respond.

Clark was right after all, to think of the ship. Bruce lies there, silent in the blackness, and feels himself ice over.


*


He does doze off again, eventually. He sleeps longer than he normally would, longer than he should, but still wakes before Clark does.

He blinks his way back into awareness, and then spends a long moment just looking across the pillows at Clark's sleeping face, warm light striping the walls, the floor, the sheets. Clark's hair is wilder than Bruce has ever seen it, loose curls rumpled, expression placid; he's moved, they both have, but his arm is still draped across Bruce, fingertips trailing bright warmth along the faint curve of Bruce's waist.

Not far, in fact, from the lower edge of Bruce's dress shirt where it's come untucked. It won't hurt anything for Bruce to allow himself the pretense, just for a minute. To leave the illusion intact: a world where Bruce could shift and stretch and let the shirt ride up that critical inch, where he could let Clark touch him and let himself enjoy it; where he could kiss Clark awake and Clark would allow it, would smile into it and slide that hand luxuriously up the line of Bruce's back—and then break away and tell him how terrible his morning breath tastes to Superman, and laugh. Where that would be all right.

Bruce feels his breath catch in his throat. Ah. He was wrong: it does hurt, a little.

He eases out from underneath Clark's arm without touching Clark anywhere else, and leaves.


*


By the time he feels Clark wake up, breakfast is ready, and so is Bruce. The first thing he'd done had been to call off Alfred; they won't need a spectator for this, and Bruce is capable of making a decent batch of pancakes unsupervised, no matter what Alfred thinks. Clark's standards are probably going to be more generous toward him than Alfred's, anyway.

He lays everything out, butter and syrup and sliced strawberries. (He does at least have the self-preservation to not put whipped cream anywhere where Clark could see it or touch it or lick it off of anything. That's the absolute last thing he needs this morning.) He sets two places, seats himself, and decides on a facial expression: placid, calm, not warm but not unfriendly.

It occupies the time, and there's something soothing about strategizing, planning, executing. But that's all that can be said for it, because all the stage-setting in the world is, of course, useless. Clark rounds the corner of the bedroom wall frowning and running an absent hand through his hair, and the first thing he says is, "Okay, what's wrong?"

Bruce gestures to the plate across from him.

Clark's mouth tightens; and Bruce can feel a hot spark of frustration go off inside him. But of course Clark can feel him right back—can tell he's almost hoping for it, and Clark's brow dips, frustration swept aside for mingled puzzlement-exasperation-warmth (always so goddamn difficult, but god help me, I still—), before he sighs a little through his nose and obediently takes the open seat.

He picks up his fork, cuts himself a bite of pancake. But he doesn't take his eyes off Bruce.

"Just tell me. I know I could look," Clark adds carefully, "but there's always so much, and I don't want to—misunderstand."

Which is fair, Bruce thinks, because whatever he's getting from Bruce right now, it's probably so hopelessly self-contradictory Clark can't even guess where to start unraveling it.

He looks down at his own plate, spears half a strawberry, and says evenly, "How much do you remember, after Steppenwolf took you?"

A nauseating whirl of imagery; Bruce braces himself against the edge of the table, and Clark swallows and says, "Once I was—secured? Not a lot. I don't know. I knew you had arrived. The League, I mean, and then—you. I remember the noise, the parademons, Steppenwolf yelling. Bruce, what does this have to do with—?"

Bruce closes his eyes. "Do you remember what he said?"

It's so strange, the way he can still tell exactly what Clark is doing: staring at him, with a slow sick feeling starting to stir low in his gut. "He was threatening you, threatening the world. Something about what he was going to do with me, that you were all going to die screaming, that kind of thing. Bruce—"

And Bruce doesn't have to say it: he can just remember, and Clark remembers with him. Steppenwolf's furious snarling face, that thunderous voice. —he will kneel before me—

"No. No, no—come on, Bruce—"

—he will be my creature—

"You can't be serious! You aren't mind-controlling me—"

Bruce breathes in slowly, and forces his tone to remain calm. "How do you know?"

He makes himself look up. Clark is still staring at him, mouth twisting, eyes fierce; and he could yell at Bruce, he's about half an inch away from it, except all at once the urge transforms itself into stern bronze determination. "Because I've wanted to go down on my knees for you for months now," he tells Bruce quietly. "But you aren't going to believe that, are you?"

Bruce doesn't have to reply aloud. Clark already knows the answer—would have even without the connection, Bruce is suddenly sure.

He wouldn't be surprised if Clark were angry. Even if he is influencing Clark's behavior; or perhaps especially if he's influencing Clark's behavior. He already compelled Clark to yell at him once—he should have known then, should have realized Clark's actions might not be a matter of emotional transfer alone. It was impossibly short-sighted of him not to have realized this earlier, not to have understood the true potential for disaster. He'd thought it himself, Clark had said it aloud: Steppenwolf hadn't been intending to sit back admiring Clark's mind from a distance. He'd have reached in and taken hold of it—the way Bruce no doubt has managed to do, even without specifically intending it.

(Clark had touched him. Undressed him, if only partially. Climbed into his bed, for Christ's sake—Bruce should have known the second Clark had suggested it, pushed for it. He should have realized instantly that something wasn't right.

He should have known he could only ruin this.)

Clark flinches, sudden and full-bodied, and his fork clatters down against the edge of his plate. "Bruce," he says, half-extending a hand; and then he pauses and shakes his head, and Bruce feels something that's almost—amusement? Sour, ragged along its edges, but distinct. And Clark does laugh a moment later, a soft huff of breath, and then brings both hands up to rub at his face instead. "I should've known."

Should've known? Should've known what? That he couldn't trust Bruce not to subconsciously take advantage of the opportunity—

"No, no, jesus," Clark says aloud, reaching out again—palms out, this time, entreating. "Jesus, Bruce, that's not what I meant. It's just that you're—you're always so—"

He hesitates, leaving a blank that Bruce can't help but try to fill in on his own. The possibilities suggest themselves immediately: difficult? Forceful? Controlling—

"Unhappy," Clark says firmly, shaking his head again; and then his face softens, his mouth slanting uncertainly, eyes huge and blue and hopelessly intent. "Bruce," he says again, quiet. "You're always so unhappy."