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.
• 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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Comments

Re: Bruce/Clark (gang rape, hurt comfort)

[(Anonymous)]

I would like to see a fill for this that really focuses on the aftermath of this.

No Justice (But What We Make) 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

The situation is under control. These men (and they are all men) are professionals; they’ll blow the safe, take the jewels, maybe amuse themselves knocking Bruce around before they get paid just because he’s the mouthy one. He’s done this before—he can keep their focus on him, as long as it takes. What he can’t do is start an all-out war in a room designed for tourism with civilians under fire. He’ll get them all killed.

The choice is clear: Bruce can fight these men, save the day and have his secrets outed to the world or he can wait to find out who these men work for, he can let them have their petty way and he can save an exponentially greater amount of days for an exponentially greater amount of people.

There isn’t a choice.

The men are professionals; he’s worth more undamaged. Bruce is experienced at being kidnapped, he knows the ropes. He’s worth more calm. Which is why it’s worrying that the first thing they do is truss his hands with cut-off bits of computer cable. Bruce is prepared for a threat display; the usual scenario is public shaming and a bit of low-level psychological torture. It’s immediately clear that this is not the usual scenario.

They’re not interested in a show—they’re making a point. He’s made himself a threat and now he’s going to be a lesson. They slap him around for a while in front of the others, talk trash about how they’re going to violate him out loud for the benefit of the others. The only fellow prisoner that meets Bruce’s eyes is the Dumas kid.

They work him over. Then like the savages they are, they decide to play with their food. They make a game out of cutting his clothing off and their only concession is not cutting him too deeply. By the time his button-down and undershirt are gone, Bruce is covered in a ragged lattice of thin red beaded lines. He grits his teeth. He isn’t wearing a silicone smoother, wasn’t wearing anything between his skin and his clothes.

A low whistle. “Well look at this guy. I think our friend here likes it rough, fellas.” They stare at him; they all do. Of course they do—the ones who want to hurt him in the here and now and the ones who’ll cut him later with their careless words. Bruce raises his chin and stares back at them.

“How much is your finder’s fee?” He makes himself ask it coolly. His skin tightens where the cold air of the below-deck cabin strikes him. “I’ll triple it.” It’s the standard response expected of him. He can afford it. They find his question more amusing than it is. The hair on his nape rises, tingling. He’s made the wrong assumption. It’s bad; this is very bad. Bruce skips disbelief and goes straight to all-encompassing rage.

He’s has to change gears; they’re going to notice if their victim is too calm, so Bruce lets enough control go. He forces himself to hyperventilate, opens his eyes wide. He lets his heart race; he lets his muscles tremble and he lets the tears pressing at his eyes from the pressure on his scalp well up. When they drop their guard as people do, when they mistake anger for fear, Bruce moves. It’s three point five seconds to the door, seven steps to freedom.

He spins out from under the grip of the man holding him, leaving a tuft of hair behind. He rolls into the legs of two more, dropping them, then puts them down with brutal elbows. There’s a flurry of pieces drawn and hands swiping at him. Bruce drives his shoulder into a stomach and up, compresses a sternum, propelling one man into the door and the waiting coat-hook, then in quick succession to the floor, holding his head. He rolls into the corner, hooks one desk chair with his ankle and throws it at two heads.  One good impact. The idiots are more likely to shoot each other than Bruce in these conditions. Bruce ducks and weaves, still in motion and drops down into a crouch, sweeping the other chair on rickety wheels towards one of the last three men. They run right into it trying to get to him. It’s inelegant, inefficient. Dirty.

“Don’t shoot him! I want that bitch alive!” The Talker. Bruce bares his teeth at that—it isn’t a compliment. He dodges clumsy hands, plucks the ballpoint pen from the pocket of a man coming at him with the back end of a .32 and takes an eye for his troubles. Screams and bloodshed all around him; this is what Bruce knows best. Another stab, another set of screams and the pen bursts blue all over his hand. Red, where he grips the jagged plastic before he buries it in a target’s leg. He’s past caring what anyone sees, what they’ll say, what they think. He can take all these clowns, no question.

One nimble, half-assed-seeming hop atop the table, a step— lift.  A sharp pivot off the wall and Bruce is launched upward, knee-first into the chin of target number ten. Bruce hits the floor and rolls, stays low, keeps moving. His path is blocked; he slides and puts his back to the wall, yanking desperately at his bound wrists. Duck, sidestep, throw, keep moving. One of the men Bruce tripped with the chair tries to stand and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to kick him right in face. The man drops. Target eleven. Sweat breaks over Bruce, all over him. It isn’t going to be over and done now, a terror tactic to keep the masses quiet, not by a long shot. Now it’ll be personal. A snarl of frustration wells up when the door opens.

All he needs is a grapple hook, a stick, a board. Any weapon; a nail, a damned necktie. He should have worn a necktie. None of them are.

How many of them are there? He’d estimated twelve, maybe fifteen hijackers in all, but he’s obviously mistaken. It’s no good— he’d put up a good distraction, but there are more pushing into the room, and there’s nowhere left to go. He has to stand his ground.

Fine. He’s had worse odds. Bruce lifts his tied fists.  “Let’s get crazy.”

MOD Re: No Justice (But What We Make) 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

AA.

MODS pls delete this - it's in the wrong place. (apologies!)