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dceu_kinkmeme2016-04-14 12:37 am
dceu_kinkmod) wrote in 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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Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 9/?
(Anonymous) 2017-10-25 03:32 am (UTC)(link)The images of Bruce losing his fucking mind and being summarily assaulted play on too many channels to count. Bruce makes it to three hundred before he has to bury his face in his hands and regroup. It takes him hours longer than it should. He needs to watch the attack, to be assured that he’d utilized every advantage afforded him, to examine the battlefield from every available angle, but the only angle that’s available is the one being used to victimize him. Consequently, Bruce finds it much more difficult than he’d expected to…
He can’t make it through the footage, not a tenth of it—not a minute of it. Not thirty seconds, not five.
It doesn’t surprise him to find that Clark has taken a leave of absence from the Daily Planet, citing personal reasons. He imagines what it must be like, to have to hear it over and over, and Bruce can only hope that Clark has taken a trip to that monstrous structure he hides in the Arctic, rather than sitting in his dingy west Metropolis apartment listening to Bruce’s pain.
The police are easy enough to brush off; they always have been, for Bruce. They ask their questions at the hospital, and Bruce’s attorneys answer while Bruce, behind a partition, prepares swabs for the Kit in grim silence. He doesn’t look at them, Gotham City’s finest—not one of them, when he walks stiffly past. He doesn’t speak to them. When he discovers who was on patrol duty the night before the cruise set sail, Bruce will let the Bat have his say.
Eventually of course, after, after Bruce’s name and proclivities have been dragged through more mud than half the Liberty, everyone steps up to denounce the “brazen act of terrorism”. There are speeches and parades and protests. There are city-wide petitions for increased budgetary allowances for the GCPD. There’s the Protect Our Own campaign. There’s the flood of inappropriate and vicious-spirited memes and all the uninspired glee the tank media takes in calling him the Wincing Prince until his people sue them for defamation of character and harassment. (He doesn’t ask them to do so, but his people are loyal; there’s some comfort to be had in that.)
There are marches and unauthorized television re-enactments. There are Walk for Wayne races. There are point-of-view eyewitness exclusives. There’s however many digital copies of the footage that Alfred was unable to catch in his frantic world-wide server-scrape of information (and let them come after Bruce and Wayne Industries for that—let them try to prove it). There is the upswell in stock prices and the outpouring of support and inspiration that Gotham City dedicates to the victims and by extension, Bruce.
However, Bruce doesn’t serve the duty that he does for thanks and he doesn’t need support; he makes do with what he has—he doesn’t require inspiration to perform his obligations.
He doesn’t allow himself to make the mistake of believing that what happened to him was the worst thing that happened aboard ship for the hour he and his fellow hostages were detained. He’s fine, he thinks.
Alfred is a wonder that Bruce doesn’t deserve. He takes over Bruce’s care once his physician is assured of his fitness to return home. He helps as he can; Bruce represses his flinch whenever his Guardian hovers too close. (Two steps.) Alfred has the furniture rearranged for Bruce’s comfort, he has all the chair backs turned to the walls and the doorways cleared.
Returning to his daily routine is imperative. It’s three hundred and nineteen strokes from one end of his swimming pool to the other; Bruce trims his time down to seventy-nine point seven-five seconds. He aims for seventy-five.
Bruce pretends not to notice the changes taking place in the manor; it’s best to allow Alfred his preferences. The west hallway is one hundred and two feet long, forty point eight steps; it takes approximately six point fifty-two seconds to get to the door of Bruce’s Study from end. Alfred announces himself before entering rooms in small ways which he never would have used before-a deliberate scuff of his shoe, the tap of meticulous fingernails on plaster, the slight catch of clearing his throat.
The study is ten steps across. If he’s quick, if he’s fast enough, Bruce can make it from one side to the other in under one point twenty eight seconds. There is no clear line of sight to the upper stairwell; he needs a mirror moved so he can properly see the bannister-head. He coats the mirror in a translucent nano-polymer to keep it from being shattered.
Alfred looks him in the eye, accedes to his many requests and carries on doing what is in Bruce’s best interests as he always has, without consulting Bruce about the details. Bruce finds stacks of invitations and puff-piece articles bound up with the newspapers in the bin. He reads every one, in the dimness of the large kitchen at night—the well-wishes and the slander both—then puts them all back in the trash where they belong.
Returning to his daily routine is imperative, and yet it lingers just out of his reach.
Alfred never lets him see a glimmer of pity; Bruce is pathetically grateful for this.
The scene becomes an iconic one: Superman, caught by camera in the midst of his battle against the elements, saving civilian survivors of a mudslide. The camera is shaky, the footage just clear enough to see the Man of Steel pause, head turning before continuing the rescue efforts for several minutes. His eyes glow. The crack of the sonic boom echoes and the footage goes to static.
Nine minutes, no—five hundred and fifty seconds. The news reports that Superman doesn’t return to the scene of disaster until half an hour later. Bruce counts it out again and again.
“No comment yet,” the glossy News Anchor relays, “on why Superman left an evacuation zone to assist with a relatively minor hostage situation on the Atlantic basin—”
Bruce turns the sound off.
Four hundred and eighty-six seconds. Two thousand, one hundred and eighteen point two seconds. Six hundred and ten seconds. He knows it’s there, but he can’t find the seam in his memory where the time was lost.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
(Anonymous) 2017-10-25 03:34 am (UTC)(link)Clark is courteous enough to call instead of invading his space; Bruce finds reasons not to answer his calls. It isn’t vanity. It isn’t. What he and Clark had been headed towards had no place in this; Bruce can’t allow the two situations to hold the same territory in his mind. He can endure a lot, but the thought of Clark’s pity is the blade that cuts deepest.
Bruce listens to his messages—short and quiet requests to see Bruce, to know what he can bring, what he can do. If he can come stand at Bruce’s side in this.
Courtesy will only hold Clark back for so long, though, he thinks. He holds Clark to a different standard, because Clark is the best man he knows, but Clark is still a man and Bruce is tired of being disappointed by his own body’s reactions.
Bruce attends the funeral parade for the crew of the ship and makes a generous and more importantly, anonymous private donation to the families of those lost at sea and those injured.
The pain from his injuries is a constant reminder in the weeks afterward of what Bruce has survived. It isn’t until the aches and abrasions fade, and the stitches dissolve that Bruce realizes that his actual injuries are far beyond what he’d assumed.
He’s never liked having people at his back; he has tolerated it over the years out of necessity and social value, but early experience has taught Bruce that people who approach him from a blind spot generally don’t have his best interests at heart. It’s an impulse that he’s disciplined himself for years not to respond to unless in a combat situation. It’s an impulse that crashes back in with a vengeance.
He comes to himself, back pressed into the corner of his own dining room, prickling with sweat and the sour bite of adrenal response. He’s threatening someone; no words, just a low grating verbal warning. He sounds like an animal.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is carefully neutral. “Bruce. It’s just me.”
The sound of the sea, endless and merciless. The sway of the boat-deck underfoot.
Bruce is… He’s…
“Bruce; listen to me, my boy. I intend to stay right here. You’re home.”
Bruce is… Standing on level ground. Breathing too fast.
Brandishing a steak knife at his surrogate father while using a cloche from the table as some kind of ersatz shield… Ready to attack. Bruce blinks, vision wavering.
There is no sea. There is no damned boat.
Christ. What is he doing? It’s been almost two decades since Bruce has lost control this way.
“I…” Bruce lowers the knife and distantly notes the tremor running through his hand. “Alfred...” He clears his throat and sets the knife down then stares at the cloche in his hand until Alfred steps forward and gently removes it.
“Come now, Master B, there we are. Good lad.” Somehow Alfred gets him moving.
Bruce isn’t surprised in the least to see Clark floating, hand touching the glass, outside his double-paned second story window. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger wearily before crossing the room to lift the latch and throw the window open.
“For fucks sake, come in, Clark. Someone will see you.” He hears Clark’s hesitation, how he breathes in a bit at Bruce’s profanity. Not that Clark is the paragon of all that is pure, despite Superman’s own P.R. rap, but Bruce doesn’t usually allow himself to curse this way. He doesn’t allow himself to be heard cursing this way.
Bypassing the usual seems to be on trend for the month. Bruce backs into his seat when Clark steps inside the room. He hovers, his face uncertain.
Jesus. Bruce counts the steps to the door from the chair. Two point eight. Zero point four seconds. Has to close his eyes briefly when he hears the familiar tread of Clark’s slow pacing; that solid, reliable rhythm that he knows so well. Bruce relaxes muscles he hadn’t intended to tense. The magnitude of Clark’s kindness always surprises him, even now.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
(Anonymous) 2017-10-29 11:46 am (UTC)(link)O.O Poor Bruce.
Can't wait to read how he recovers from this (with the alien bae's help, of course) and will the mad fighting skills expose his identity as Batman? How will he bounce back from that as well? As if he didn't have more than enough issues already. He's dealing with shit from all sides, it's truly amazing he hasn't curled up into a ball in his room and swore to never come out again. But you've captured his trauma so well and just what exactly's going on in his head. I love how you show such an iron-willed character reach his breaking point. Please don't leave us hanging! Will rush to reread the whole thing on AO3 once it's up there too.
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
(Anonymous) 2017-11-07 06:00 pm (UTC)(link)Wow, thank you so much! It was difficult to write.
I've gotten side-tackled by NaNoWriMo, but I am still working on this story.
Sorry for the WIP-iness of it all. :)
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
(Anonymous) 2018-02-27 06:51 am (UTC)(link)I suck at giving feedback, as you can see, but just know that I'm suffering along with Bruce here, and I'm loving it. Thank you for writing this!
Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 10/?
(Anonymous) 2018-05-29 02:34 am (UTC)(link)Im sorry for the late reply. It's so good that you're feeling it! <3
Your comment has made my day