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.
• 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.
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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: Regroup (11a/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex

[(Anonymous)]

Chapter Four, cont'd.

---

* (B) *

The first thing he saw was Alfred standing over him, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

“If you were out on the street, you’d be dead by now,” Alfred said, holding out a hand. The fact that it was true didn’t take the sting out of it.

Bruce ignored the outstretched hand, and staggered to his feet, shaking off the daze of that last punch. It had cracked across his jaw faster than he’d expected.

“Microgaps in my attention,” Bruce said shortly. “They’ll improve with time, or I’ll learn to compensate.”

Alfred had traded the coverall for sparring gear, which marginally improved his speed, whereas Bruce had thrown on sweatpants and shirt (to temper the fun Alfred was having at his expense) which slowed him fractionally. Not enough to explain why Bruce failed to counter Alfred’s attacks. For every punch, kick, or block he threw, the air fought him. His attacks landed too late; his blocks intercepted Alfred’s punches only after they’d already landed.

Bruce sank down into a defensive stance. He had convinced Alfred that testing his reflexes would be an acceptable alternative to patrol. So far, all points were in favor of Alfred’s assertion, you aren’t ready, Master Wayne. Bruce had said, so catch me up, like three months of life lived in his city could be covered with a simple debrief. No amount of recounted shareholder meetings or failed LexCorp takeover bids would close that chasm.

Breathing in deeply, Bruce reached for his center. His feet connected to the sparring mats and lifted, shifting his weight forward as Alfred backed off to circle him.

He allowed Alfred to fall into his blind spot. He wouldn’t be able to resist the easy hit. “Tell me about Gotham.”

Alfred sprang at him. Bruce allowed gravity to pull his body backward, as he dodged the flying jab. He rolled under Alfred’s arm span, and retreated.

“It’s not sporting if you don’t throw any punches back.” Alfred began another slow, wide circle around Bruce.

“Every battle is won or lost before it’s ever fought,” Bruce countered. He lowered his center of balance, his hands up--alert but deceptively limp--in the open-handed stance of the Southern Praying Mantis.

Alfred snorted. “Pull the other one. Your Praying Mantis is worse than your Tiger.”

Bruce smirked. “Tell me that when you’ve lost.”

* (B) *

Alfred tossed him, rolled him, knocked him flat on his ass more times that he could count. Each time he fell, he felt the hard smack of concrete beneath the sparring mats. He should have stopped an hour ago if he wanted to be in red carpet condition tomorrow. His bruises would have bruises by now.

But--all he felt was the slide of the smoother-than-glass fabric against his ribs as he flipped backwards into a low crouch. He rolled his shoulders, and reset his sparring space. The fabric whispered over his skin, flexed with him. He gritted his teeth. How could Kal stand this slow torture?

More importantly, how was he going to end the match without yielding?

“You’re not telling me something,” Bruce said, shifting his weight onto his back leg, raising his arms into a guard position. His shoulders came up, as did his lead foot. He tapped it a few times, teasing a kick at Alfred, who skirted it, widening his circle.

“How artfully vague, sir,” Alfred countered. “But you won’t beat me with your Tiger.”

“We’ll see,” Bruce said.

* (B) *

He didn’t beat Alfred with his Tiger.

Despite the chilly damp of the cave, Bruce felt charged up by the practice. Sweat (and a little blood, Alfred had landed two good hits to his nose) should have been pouring down his brow, but he felt like he’d barely warmed up. Nevertheless, Bruce knew when to throw in the towel. “I’m beat,” he announced. “Calling it.”

Bruce turned toward the lockers at the back of the room, careful not to move too quickly. The easy surrender didn’t arouse Alfred’s suspicion. He was rewarded with a sweep to the ankles. Bruce caught himself as he toppled, and pivoted on his palm, arching his body in his own roundhouse sweep. The grunt that Alfred made as he fell to the mats sounded as sweet as victory.

“At least you fight as dirty as you ever do,” Alfred groused, pulling himself up into a loose cross-legged position. He rubbed at his shoulder blades. “Going to feel that one for a week.”

Bruce offered him a hand up. That was met with suspicion. “We’re done for the night,” he said warmly. Alfred took the hand, and Bruce pulled him to his feet with a light tug.

“Good to see that you haven’t lost your strength,” Alfred said, with some surprise.

Bruce gave him a noncommittal shrug. Alfred surprised him by turning it into a fierce hug--a blink and then it was gone out-pouring of raw affection and heartbreak from his guardian. “Let an old man be sentimental for a moment, Master Wayne,” he said roughly.

When Alfred pulled back, Bruce let him. Alfred had seemed more than willing to answer his questions in the living room, with Clark Kent to buffer their interactions. But something had turned Alfred reticent. They hadn’t talked about Kal, the suit, anything to do with his injury. The persistent gulf between the present and the past remained between them.

Bruce leveled a cool gaze at him, and Alfred hesitated.

“I trust I’ve proved that you aren’t fit to suit up,” he said carefully.

“Alfred.” The word was a whole sentence: whatever it was Bruce needed to know, it was best that it came out sooner rather than later.

Traces of Alfred’s service in the SAS still lingered in his posture and bearing: whenever he had bad news, he’d straighten his back, hands to his sides, as if he were delivering a military debrief to his commander. That was why Bruce started forward when Alfred’s shoulders sagged--he mistook it for fatigue.

Alfred waved him away.

“Gotham licked her wounds after Doomsday, but that was only the beginning. The world turned its scrutiny onto Gotham and saw how corrupt she had become. The GCPD has been hopelessly compromised for years--willing to turn a blind eye to violence in the name of justice--which had more often than not worked out in our favor. When Batman’s death--” Bruce snorted. “--became a matter of public record, in their desperation to retain control, the GCPD lashed out.”

“Jesus.” This wasn’t even on the scale of bad for Gotham before this evening. Bruce had seen flashes of the footage on the new feeds. Police raids. Brutality. Riots. It hadn’t seemed possible they were all his city. “What’s the status of--” Bruce reached for the memory of the cases he had been working prior to the Superman issue. “The Odessa crew? The Sabatino family? The Costa Nostra?”

Alfred’s laugh was mirthless. “We don’t have reliable information on any of them. The gangs pushed back, the mob pushed back harder, and each are swallowing up territory that even the police raids aren’t willing to enter.”

“Sounds like a job for Superman,” Bruce said flatly. “Gotham’s hurting, and he’s off plucking the occasional flood victim from their roof?”

Alfred grimaced. “Gotham’s ahead of the curve in one respect. Officially, Superman is persona non grata in the city. Unofficially, he’s been--busy with a personal matter.”

“Personal matter,” Bruce deadpanned.

“Review the mission logs if you like, or talk to the man--honestly, sir, I don’t care which you do,” Alfred said hotly. “The National Guard are mobilizing, Gotham PD is digging in, and the gangs control the East End. None of this is Superman’s fault. It was on us, sir. We maintained an uneasy peace, but it was peace, as much as this city’s ever known. With the Batman gone, there was no stop-gap against the coming wave.” Alfred trailed off. “What I need to know... do you trust me, Bruce?”

Bruce’s knee-jerk reaction was to reply with an honest no. Alfred had flagrantly violated his trust. Kryptonian technology in the house, god knows what done to the cave. Surveillance compromised, video logs purged. In the matter of planetary survival, Bruce had to keep his own counsel; and the decisions that Alfred had made had left a lingering doubt in his mind.

The way Alfred had tensed up, Bruce could tell that he was expecting to be told off.

“Yes,” he said. Because as deep in his bones as the need to protect Gotham, he trusted Alfred with his life. Nothing had changed that.

“Then trust me. Batman can’t save Gotham, not right now. But maybe Bruce Wayne can.”

“Bruce Wayne?” he repeated. The words stung his mouth. Bruce Wayne’s grasp of politics was about as nuanced as his broad, uncomplicated face, and his leverage amongst the power brokers had dwindled as they realized his wild youth was not a phase. “How can Bruce Wayne save Gotham?”

Alfred patted his cheek tenderly. “My dear boy… show up tomorrow night with a reporter on your arm and find out.”