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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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FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-02 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)Diana woke up in the hotel with her skin aching, a trail of hair prickling down her arms in the cool night air. Her heart raced, expecting a blow to fall any minute, but dimly aware that the terror that chased her from her dreams was just that--a phantasm.
The sounds of shields and ringing bronze died away slowly as she shook off the sleep-image of Doomsday. It had been days since she had last dreamed of the Last Stand of Krypton.
(She named it that when she thought about writing about it to her sisters-in-arms.)
Invariably, the nightmare returned: they collided like bulls, she lost the grip on her lasso, and Kal died beneath Doomsday’s monstrous hands.
The simplicity of her grief was maddening. She had let down Man’s World, just when she had stepped up to embrace it. Her failure tasted like so much bitter gall.
(A flashburn image of Bruce’s hand, curling back from Kal’s hair.)
A whisper of fabric adjusting itself.
With a start, Diana realized that she was not alone. Cursing herself for abandoning the habit of sleeping in her bracelets, she peered into the darkness of her room. The layout had become familiar to her; she had stayed in a single suite since her hasty return to Metropolis. She didn’t want to make it difficult to be tracked down. If someone wanted to track her down...
A man sat in the chair across the room; the one cloaked in shadow of the wall between the windows and the french doors. A long swath of moonlight illuminated the bed and the space her interloper would have to cross to attack her, if violence was his intent. But try as she might, she could not see her interloper.
Diana assessed her options. Her bracelets in the armoire. The shield under the bed. The lasso, coiled and draped over the bedpost, closest to hand. Unarmed attack from the foot of the bed. She liked the odds of the lasso best, and she bent towards it.
“Don’t.” The voice choked out the word, unrecognizable.
Her hand stilled. Her senses told her the figure was mortal; it did not crackle with the energy of one touched by Olympus.
But then again, neither did Kal-El.
Was this figure friend or foe?
Her skin had natural resistance to most of Man’s weapons; unless she was very, very unlucky, even without bracelets, lasso, or shield, she was protected. She could try diplomacy; nothing would be lost by it if it were a god, or demiurge in disguise.
Her chin rose, and she called out in as warm English as she could manage while her thoughts raced through in her mother tongue:
“If you would kindly return in the morning, I would be happy to speak to you then.”
(She had almost said ‘have an audience with you,’ as though she were still the welcomed daughter of Hippolyta.)
A dark chuckle echoed through the room. “I’ll confess; I’m not much of a morning person.”
That voice. She knew that voice. Had it crept into the hotel from her dreams?
“...Bruce?” she said, oddly hesitant.
For six months, she had attended Gotham and Metropolis fund-raisers, charity soirees, Wayne Enterprises press conferences... no Bruce Wayne, not a glimpse of his designer suits, or his empty smile. It had proven impossible to track him back to his den. And yet the images of him (a smile as he leaned into her at the fundraiser, his hand curling away, a blank face in the crowd) rolled through her sleep, night after night.
A sharp intake of air answered her. He didn’t move from the shadow.
Diana wondered again: friend or foe? He had been an ally on the battlefield… what was he now?
It seemed that he had the same wary question, as the next words that emerged from the shadows were: "What do I call you?”
Names.
They had never even been formally introduced.
“Warrior? Queen? Goddess?” Bruce continued, after a pause. Diana shot him (or the probable direction of him) a withering glare at his cavalier tone. She knew the glibness to be fake, and let that show in her disapproval.
“I’m joking.”
There was an awkward clearing of a throat. If she could see him--would he glance down at his hands, suitably abashed? She’d like to imagine so.
“Sorry,” he said at last. He had the decency to sound abashed, at least.
“Call me Diana,” she said crisply. “None of my honorifics have meaning to this world.”
"What are you?"
“A warrior, a protector of Earth.
“Human.”
(In the ways that counted.)
She paused, because she wanted it too much not to say it: “Come out of the shadow, Bruce. I won’t speak to phantoms.”
The shadows relinquished Bruce grudgingly. Suddenly he was standing in the room, bathed in the moonlight. The light painted his cheekbones in a pale blue. He wore a four thousand dollar suit; so he came as Bruce Wayne, not Gotham’s protector, even though Diana only had a hazy understanding how the two were different
(except that she had seen genuine emotion on the Batman’s face; but Bruce Wayne’s expression was as shuttered as any stoic).
“Good,” she said, and spread her arm to invite him to sit.
Bruce’s face remained carefully blank, but his body spoke volumes. His hesitation to sit on the foot of her bed amused her, and she smiled as a thick, honey-like sensation tickled her memory.
Yes. Happier days; boys and their chivalry. Yes. She remembered this.
“Will I get more than the cliffnotes version?” Bruce prompted, when she said nothing else.
“Yes.”
“You don’t trust me,” he said, brows pulled together in thought.
“You don’t trust me!” Because it was true; she had made it quite obvious in the past six months that she had been looking for Bruce. If he had cared to look (and he probably did), he would have known…he would have come earlier... clearly, he had not wanted to be found until it suited his own comfort.
Diana immediately dismissed that thought as unworthy of her; despite what she wanted--
(Wanted? What did she want? Her desires remained frustratingly opaque to her.)
--she didn’t know Bruce’s truth. And couldn’t judge him even if she found it distasteful. He was here now.
“I suggest a mutual exchange of trust...Not tonight,” Bruce clarified. “I’ll need to prepare.”
An eyebrow flew up; she couldn’t help it. On Themyscira, a mutual exchange of trust meant physical intimacy. The incredulity must have showed on her face, because in the next moment, Bruce muttered a peevish: “what?”
“I am sorry, Bruce. There is a colloquial phrase. When you translate it from English to what you’d call Ancient Ionic Greek. An exchange of trust is… sex.”
The utter blankness returns to Bruce’s face, slowly, like blinds being drawn.
“Sex,” he repeated, and the color seemed to drain from his face.
“Coitus,” she said, because she wondered--how pale, exactly, could the Prince of Gotham become? “Non-penetrative sex between both partners, shared within a bond of--”
“Yes, good--” Bruce loosened his collar with his finger. “I mean, no, that’s not what I’m proposing. I. Wanted to show you something. Somewhere. A gathering place.--Just how old are you, exactly?” He finished hotly.
“What measure of time would have meaning for you?”
“You’re joking,”
She didn’t disagree with him, and Bruce relaxed a fraction taking silence for truth. An easiness suffused his body, and he tipped his head back into the light, as if it were a physical touch that ran across his throat.
As she watched Bruce become a person at the edge of the bed--relaxing the stranglehold of control he’d had over his body, Diana found clarity within her desire.
She wanted something very much from this man; she wanted to see the terrifying blankness eased from his face. And when that desire made itself known, a cascade swept her, as the answer to one question opened a hundred tiny doors. She wanted to bury the afterimages of grief that played in her dreams. She wanted to mourn their loss, her and Bruce, together, and be less broken for it. She wanted to enter the fray again with comrades at her side, to fight, and to not be alone when she clenched her teeth in a victory cry.
The vaguest impression of a plan began to coalesce in her mind.
“I will engage in your ritual of exchanging trust, for a promise.”
Bruce gritted his teeth.
“Promise that if I propose a ritual… that you will consider participation as well?”
This in itself was a test; and Diana saw the exact moment that trust won out over suspicion.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he said, in a way that meant yes.
“Then yes.”
“Good. I’ll contact you when it’s ready.”
Bruce didn’t move from the foot of the bed. He still looked relaxed, even if the previous ease wasn’t entirely there; even if his eyes darted over to Diana several times, only to slide off her body to the wall behind her, or to the bedposts, to the lasso that hung within arm’s reach.
Diana pulled her legs up underneath her in what she knew would be an oddly vulnerable position for even a warrior of her merit. But she did not feel like a warrior right now; she was just Diana.
Her chin found her shoulder, and she looked behind her at the man who unconsciously angled his body towards the shadow, as though he could return to them just by the force of wishing it.
“In the spirit of sharing,” she began, then stopped. Small talk didn’t seem fitting. Neither did her question--Man's World no longer believed in visions, or the power of revealed wisdom.
Bruce’s gaze sharpened on her. His gaze had weight and intent that felt like Teucer before he nocked an arrow behind Ajax’s shield.
“I don't bite, Diana,” Bruce said softly.
His words found their target, and her heart moved oddly in her chest.
“What did you see on the battlefield before Doomsday died?”
“Purity. Genocide. Power. Control. Nothing I haven't turned my back on before,” he said at last, with a particularly vicious upturn of his mouth that could not--by any stretch of the imagination, in Diana’s experience with the many cultures of Man’s World--be considered a smile. “What did you see?”
“That we must stand against injustice until it breaks us,” she said directly. “We must not be unprepared again.”
“Men are still good,” Bruce whispered, wonderingly.
“Men are still good,” Diana agreed. “We must do this together. The price of doing this alone is…” The remembered weight of consequence filled her, as she laid it--him--silently on that rubble-strewn battlefield, “is too great.”
“I was thinking something along those lines myself, Princess.” The solemn expression on his face promised that he had been doing something about that these past six months.
“What, don’t like Princess?” Cheekily.
“It is...not inaccurate,” she said finally.
The afterimage of his smile burned in her mind.
Bruce Wayne slipped out of the room via the balcony (was he scaling buildings in a four thousand dollar suit? Boys, she thought in fond disbelief.)
The memory of that small smile remained. She found it achingly beautiful.
Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-03 02:20 am (UTC)(link)The shadows relinquished Bruce grudgingly. Suddenly he was standing in the room, bathed in the moonlight. The light painted his cheekbones in a pale blue. He wore a four thousand dollar suit; so he came as Bruce Wayne, not Gotham’s protector, even though Diana only had a hazy understanding how the two were different
(except that she had seen genuine emotion on the Batman’s face; but Bruce Wayne’s expression was as shuttered as any stoic).
(Also, I'll admit that as someone who mostly ships Bruce/Clark, that little detail of Bruce almost touching Clark's hair broke my heart. But I am really looking forward to how this continues. Great work so far.)
Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-03 03:48 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-04 03:03 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-04 02:13 pm (UTC)(link)Beautiful line- though my first thought was that he tried and that Superman's hair was just invulverable. This is a great fill, and Diana's voice is very poetic. Thanks for writing!
Re: FILL: Votive Garments (2/???) -- Bruce/Diana - bondage and pegging
(Anonymous) 2016-07-09 10:33 pm (UTC)(link)Your writing is gorgeous, and I love all the classical references. Diana's voice is so poetic, and it's perfect for her. She's so perceptive, and so compassionate. Another thing that stands out to me is how lonely she and Bruce both are, and how they respect each other, even if they don't quite trust each other yet. They're wary, but there's also the beginnings of a connection there.
I love your characterization for both of them, and the hints of Bruce's feelings. I think it might be that it's slightly easier for him to express emotion as Batman than it is for him to do so as Bruce Wayne, what with the way he reached out to touch Superman's hair and then pulled back.
This is a lovely and intriguing start, and I'll be eager to see where it goes. Thank you again!