DCEU Prompt Post #1

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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.
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• One prompt per comment. Warnings for common triggers and squicks are encouraged, but not required.
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Prompt, write, draw, comment, and most importantly have fun! Please link to your fills on the fill post.

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FILL: and if sun comes; Bruce/Clark, involuntary soulbonding (11/13)

[(Anonymous)]

Okay, this parts estimate should actually stick. Probably. :D



After Clark leaves, Bruce finishes eating. It's not that he feels hungry; but the pancakes are there and it would be a waste to throw them out, and he can sit in the sunlight and fill his mind with the sensation, the taste, which is the next best thing to not thinking anything at all.

He can feel Clark, but they're—they're separate again, or at least more than they had been. If he allows himself to wonder, he finds he does know where Clark is, can bring forward the faintest sensory echo of a wooden railing underneath Clark's palm, Martha Kent's hair against his—Clark's—cheek as she leans in to hug him—Clark—

Stop it, Bruce tells himself. He calmly picks up the last slice of strawberry, and thinks about nothing but the taste, the sweetness of the juice, the texture of the flesh against his teeth; and then he stands up and goes downstairs.


*


He finds something to concentrate on. It doesn't matter what it is. It only matters that his attention is on it, that other concerns fall away, that it keeps him from—

That it keeps him from thinking about what he wants.

(As if that were even possible. As if he had any hope of stopping himself.

He'd thought it would never matter. As long as he could keep it to himself, shut away—he'd never have said anything. He'd never have done anything. No one would ever have known. But now—

Even if they do fix this before Bruce can cause any irreparable harm, Clark's going to remember it. Clark's going to remember everything he saw and felt inside of Bruce, and there won't be any pretending otherwise.

And Bruce shouldn't have the goddamn nerve to be relieved—)

He manages to keep at it for a couple of hours, and if half his mind is still spinning its wheels over Clark, it's at least doing it relatively quietly.

But he suspects that's only because Clark, too, is occupied. And it's a suspicion that's borne out by the fact that as soon as he feels Clark's attention return to him, he's lost. The words on the screens in front of him simply can't demand his focus next to the sensation of Clark reaching for him, sidling with cautious care into that wide-open space inside him.

And Bruce is aware, from a distance, that his body has just shivered helplessly—because it's like last night, the way he'd felt when Clark's hand had eased into place against his back, the reckless and heedless pleasure of it. Except now he knows better than to let himself enjoy it; now he understands why Clark is doing it, that it's only one more symptom of his own sick fucking desperation—

But that's not the only reason he's been acting like this, is it?

The thought is Clark's: intent, gentle, inexorable. He's moving with purpose. Something about whatever he did this morning, whatever conversation he had with Martha, has brought him back here to Bruce

(—and it's not that Bruce is trying to hear it, but I couldn't stand it, I'd do anything to stop it is running on a quiet loop somewhere in the back of Clark's head—)

to find something. But what?

Bruce has every argument Clark didn't let him make this morning lined up, the clean and gleaming lines and angles of logic above and the shadows they cast tangling below, the dark clinging morass of guilt and self-censure and resignation—but Clark picks them up only to set them carefully to one side. That's not what he's looking for. And Bruce catches the reason, now: that was only this morning. Bruce has been trying to push him away, keep him out, for a lot longer.

And Bruce is running with this theory of his about Steppenwolf, about how the bond works, not just because there's a modicum of evidence for it but because it fits. Because it makes sense to him on a whole different level, that this should carry with it some intrinsic harm—

Clark's startled, by Bruce's immediate agreement with that thought; it's easy to tell. His bafflement is almost charming, in its artless sincerity. And of course Clark can tell how Bruce is reacting to it, is even more bewildered by that, but—who is he kidding? Bruce's first gut reaction to Clark's existence had been to try to kill him. With a side of holding him down and fucking him, as they're both now excruciatingly well aware. Has he somehow managed not to associate Bruce with unprovoked and disproportionate danger coming from unexpected directions? What, in all their acquaintance with each other to date, has given Clark the impression that Bruce is in any way predisposed to alleviate pain rather than cause it?

Clark may or may not actually be frowning; but the feeling that motivates a frown is coming through loud and clear. What? Why should that be? Bruce's first gut reaction to Clark's existence formed on a day when Clark blitzed into Metropolis out of nowhere, completely failed to stop a hundred skyscrapers from coming down, and then murdered somebody.

(—a neck breaking; Bruce knows the sound but hasn't ever felt it, the jerk and the crack—)

How has Bruce managed not to associate Clark with unprovoked and disproportionate danger, with pain, with death?

Because—

(and Bruce is abruptly fumbling, reaching to scrape together some way to explain it, some way to make Clark understand; because it does make sense, it does, it's—it's fact, inarguable, fundamental, true)

—Clark is better. Clark is—Clark is better. Clark is kind, generous, merciful; it isn't even deliberate. Clark's so unthinking, so reflexive, in the exercise of his better nature that it just—is him. He's brilliant with it, shining.

He's a light. Bright warmth, in a vast dark place.

(Bruce had managed not to say it to Diana, days ago. But it doesn't matter whether he says it or not, with Clark.)

And of course that brings with it some natural corollaries. It's only to be expected. But Clark is—Clark is digging through them with sudden intensity, dismay, something approaching horror. As if he's taken aback; as if it makes no sense to him to reach the entirely reasonable conclusion that no one like that is remotely likely to find merit or worth or value in Bruce.

It's no struggle, to lay it out for him so he can see for himself. It's not that Bruce has nothing to offer the Justice League. If that were true, Bruce would already have removed himself from their company. It's not that Bruce can't be useful or contribute meaningfully as Clark's associate, or teammate, or even as a friend. But it isn't realistic to push further. There's a simple and concrete limit to the number of things Bruce has that Clark needs, or is ever likely to want.

Bruce would never have said anything. He'd never have done anything. The relief he feels at the thought that Clark knows is a double-edged sword: yes, pretense will be impossible after this—but Clark's inevitable discomfort around Bruce, once the bond's coercive effects have faded, will probably weigh on them both at least as heavily, in time. Bruce will have to renew the effort at some point, and carry on long enough to allow Clark to assume that he's moved on; Clark may even ask, and Bruce will have to be prepared to look at him with placid friendliness and smile, and say of course, Clark, don't worry—it was never anything serious—

—no. No. No, Bruce, it's not going to be like that. Are you kidding me?

It's not a problem, Clark—

It's not a—what the hell. You are so full of shit, and Clark's insistent thought-impression is half a dozen things at once: outraged, bewildered, frustrated, pained, and all of it flooded through with soft translucent sorrow. Which transmutes, as so many things seem to do when they come into contact with the alchemical miracle of Clark Kent, into slowly brightening light, dawning determination. That's never going to happen, do you understand? Even after this stops, I'm—I'm not leaving you alone. I'm not going to let you be alone.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, and doesn't even try to prevent Clark from feeling the bitter resignation filling him. Of course Clark is saying that, now. Of course that's how Clark feels.

That's what Bruce has always wanted most, all along.

A small chime sounds, and Bruce blinks and reaches for his phone where it's lying on the desk. Clark is still there, behind his eyes, as he reads the message on it—from Victor.

I think we've got them this time. Look familiar?

And the coordinates do look familiar, Bruce realizes, with Clark in silent agreement, a moment before his phone chimes again. A contribution from Barry: a map of the northern hemisphere, with sprawling arrows scrawled across it in bright red. From a point in the Pacific Ocean, near the west coast of the United States, to Canada, to Iceland, to—Russia.

E.T. PHONE HOME, Barry adds a second later, and the bright burst of amusement from Clark, loud as a laugh, makes the corner of Bruce's mouth twitch.


*


Clark actually comes to the hangar with the rest of them this time, instead of just flying off by himself. And it's been a while, Bruce realizes, since the two of them have actually been in the same place with the rest of the League. It's—hard to remember that, when as far as they're concerned they've been together every second since Steppenwolf. But the last time was Saskatchewan, which hadn't exactly been their best moment, and—

And no one else knows what's happened since. It takes Bruce a moment to understand why Barry's glancing at him so apprehensively right before Clark arrives, why Diana and Arthur are watching him with near-identical steady stares; why Victor is very casually powering down his armor a bit at a time, as if running a quick diagnostic.

But he and Clark haven't stepped away from each other at all, this time. His realization is Clark's, and Clark's grinning as he comes in for a landing. He claps Barry on the shoulder and says aloud, "It's okay, we're fine."

—except for the thing where you're being a stubborn jackass who thinks he knows everything, but I'm sure I don't need to tell them that—

Bruce snorts and shakes his head, and Barry looks back and forth between them and then starts to smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Bruce says.

Because it is, in some sense, true. Clark is still troubled by Bruce's convictions; Bruce's convictions remain steadfast, alongside a vague sense of contempt for his own subconscious.

(He knows he's right about this—but at the same time, he can't keep himself from making Clark insist that he's wrong? Christ, how shameless can he get?)

But the bond's compulsions don't seem to be affecting that much of Clark's behavior. Even if Bruce had feared that they were—Clark went to visit his mother this morning. If Martha Kent hadn't noticed anything wrong, then Clark couldn't be deviating too far from his baseline, at least in areas unrelated to his conduct toward Bruce.

(Bruce has never wanted Clark artificially agreeable, mindlessly obedient—has never wanted him to be anything other than wholly himself. Except in the single crucial respect that Clark, if wholly himself, could not plausibly want Bruce the way Bruce so helplessly wishes he did—)

The touch of a gentle hand draws Bruce's attention; except it wasn't a physical touch, because he looks up and Clark is at the other end of the Flying Fox's bay, watching him silently. Because they understand each other, now, even if they can't agree. They understand each other better than anyone else ever has or ever will, and that sensation will never find its equal.

Barry had been exactly right: the parademons, following whatever vague swarming instincts are left to them without their master, have made their way to the only place on Earth that's at all familiar to them. Bruce should have guessed sooner. Looking down at it all from above, the vast central structure where they'd fought Steppenwolf and the curves and arcs of those vinelike arms reaching away, the resemblance is unmistakable. The tower the parademons had been building in Saskatchewan, and the crude piles they'd added around it in Iceland—they'd been trying to reconstruct this landscape, trying to make themselves feel at home.

The observation gives Clark a little pang, and Bruce glances toward him and raises an eyebrow. Just—funny, Clark decides, looking back at him. What is it about Earth, anyway, that every new batch of aliens that comes along seems to want to remake it in their image? Clark likes it just the way it is, dammit. It doesn't need to make itself better for him; and Bruce can't miss the undertone to that thought, narrows his eyes, as Clark adopts a blandly innocent expression and looks away.

And it's—it's like that the whole time. The Fox swoops into position under Victor's easy guidance, and even as Bruce drops from the bay, considering possible tactics, Clark's still with him. Clark's listening, watching—understanding why Bruce wanted to come in so close to the main structure, to give himself something to grapple onto, and silently offering to throw Bruce into the air if that would help—

Clark's mental image of the results makes Bruce grin, even as he slews sideways to duck a parademon's blow and whirls to deal one of his own. And then a blast from Clark's eyes zaps another parademon that was winging toward Bruce's back before Bruce can even ask. It's—it's easy, it makes everything easy. Clark can see and hear so much, can react so quickly; and they're joined so completely, now that they're both allowing it, that Bruce can—can almost leave himself, let his own body settle in place unattended for an instant to call Clark's attention to the pair of parademons about to drop onto Arthur from above, to help him decide what to do about it and how, and still get back behind his own eyes in time to watch the blur of Clark slinging himself through the air.

It's almost enough to distract Bruce from their actual purpose here.

Until, of course, there's a sudden flare of light, and then Victor shouts, "It's here!"

The box. Bruce turns his own head, unthinking, but looks through Clark's eyes; Clark is already scanning for it with his vision, and yes, there it is. In the central structure, where Steppenwolf had once insisted they all be brought—and perhaps some remnant of that instruction is lingering, in the parademons. A perfect cube, strangely unassuming in size: definitely the box.

Victor's reaching out, armor limned with light—forming a remote connection. Barry looks at him, sizes up the approximate direction he's oriented in, and then flickers away. There's probably a little trial-and-error involved, but when Bruce uses his own eyes, it's a fraction of a second before he's back, the mother box clutched carefully in his hands. "Man," he says, "these are not as heavy as they look. Uh—it's okay that I'm holding this, right? I'm not going to make Superman's head explode, or—"

"You're not going to make Superman's head explode," Victor agrees blandly, dimming a little.

"Great! Because I really don't want to be the guy who made Superman's head explode," Barry confesses. "Although, I mean, I guess we've got the box now, so maybe we could still put him back together. Again. But—"

"We should take it back to the Cave," Bruce hears himself say. It's only reasonable. The box is glimmering in a familiar way, but the sides are closed, inert; do they need to return it to the state it was in when the bond formed? Or turn it off? Or will a different procedure entirely be required to deconstruct what it built?

Barry hesitates for a second, and then looks at him. Bruce doesn't reach for the box.

"Sure, boss-man," Barry says, ducking his head, and then is gone, faint smell of ozone in his wake.

Clark is still standing there. Bruce doesn't look at him before turning back toward the Fox.

(Not that it matters one way or the other. Clark is, inevitably, right there with him anyway.)