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.
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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: Vogue Le Magazine (1/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation

[(Anonymous)]

Tagging for public spectacle, dirty talk, humiliation, Bruce Wayne's incredibly unhealthy compartmentalizing. Title is taken from a very delightful Marc Lavoine song about

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SHAME OF THE HOUSE OF WAYNE: BRUCE BEARS ALL TO THE HALF-CARAT CROWD
June 18

We can't actually get over the latest news from Gotham's celebrity scene.

Just when we thought it was safe to prowl the Diamond District, Bruce Wayne landed himself in the worst kind of trouble on Thursday.

The 45-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune swung through the party scene in the DD--known to our long-time readers as the Half-Carat Quarter, the highest of the high end sex clubs--for a night of drunken debauchery [Check out the scandalous pics on our instagram @gothamttlr]. Following a dramatic confrontation with his once-upon-a-time ward Dick Grayson, rumor had it that Bruce was reforming his playboy ways.

But Wayne’s intentions are as short-lived as the playboy's attention span. We're talking minuscule. We reported Brucie's reform LAST WEEK, and this week he tastelessly throws himself over every warm moving body in the Seven Diamonds Club.

That kind of behavior might cut it for the plebes, but the ultra-riche have another idea of decorum. Ideas like 'asking for permission', not Brucie's 'don't touch the goods unless you pay for it' attitude. Brucie flashes his checkbook like it's actually an erotic part of his body (and we at GT wouldn’t actually disagree), but if you're at the DD, who needs the money? Eyes on the scene report that Bruce Wayne tried to buy a young man in the club's grope box (that's for people who get off on sexual objectification in public), only to be violently repulsed by the man's partner. Fists flew, and Bruce has the shiner to prove that a man of his size can still go down like a wet fish.

Bruce's manservant escorted Bruce from the Seven Diamonds club, draped in a long Burberry coat. The camera does NOT lie. Several hopefuls snapped pics, Bruce clearly naked and ashamed under the black wool cloak of non-invisibility.

Between the groping, the fist-fight, and the propositioning, where did Bruce Wayne find the time to lose his clothing??

But let’s take a minute to appreciate these Bruce Wayne semi-naked pics. How is it that we've gone twenty years without a Wayne scandal this juicy? The Old Prince of Gotham is back, and he's making us cry.

This kind of behavior is best suited for the people that can appreciate, Brucie baby. Why don't you come play with the rest of Gotham?

Is this Brucie's most disgraceful stunt yet? Hit us up with your letters, plebes, and let us know!!

XOXO
Gotham Tattle
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For the amount of time that Bruce Wayne’s face (and other body parts) graced the cover of the gossip rags in Gotham newsstands by his own calculated performance of a dissolute wastrel, Bruce couldn’t stand the trashy celeb-watching industry. Salvaging the detritus of another person’s life seemed so degrading. Early in his career, he’d made a decision not to keep close tabs on his tabloid image. Instead, he gleaned the filtered version of Bruce Wayne’s notoriety from the rumors that bubbled up into the reputable papers. The Gotham Gazette. The Daily Star. The Gotham Free Press. Real newspapers.

So, he really couldn’t be blamed for not knowing. It had been twenty years since he’d even set eyes on a Bruce Wayne tabloid cover, let alone read one. And it had been the purest coincidence that he’d bought the issue, rather than just read the article on its trashy pink website.

He’d bought this particular issue of Gotham Tattle because it had become necessary to end the tabloid embargo.

Bruce had set up a textcrawler to scan any and all publications for reference to his stakeout-gone-hideously wrong to see if anyone had suspected why Bruce Wayne did the catwalk-of-shame, and just what six-figure suit Bruce had been wearing before his sudden naked exit from the Seven Diamonds Club. Tattle garnered the most hits.

The entire issue turned out to be a Prince of Gotham special edition. 32 of its 40 pages were devoted to Bruce Wayne gossip, historical retrospectives, and a truly awkward photo spread of the most popular candids that had been taken of him in the past twenty years. Bruce felt his color come up. He wanted to fling the rag across the room, shove it into the trash compactor. He should sticky-note it, a sweep for security leaks or speculation and leave it to Alfred.

Instead, he thumbed to the Seven Diamonds Club spread.

Somewhere in the middle of the article--if you could even call this journalism--his breath had shortened.

On ‘naked and ashamed,’ he could feel his thighs grow tacky. He lifted his hips slightly, and let his legs spread open just a fraction wider.

He licked his lips, and flicked to the centerfold. The tri-fold tumbled out into his waiting hand. An incredibly crisp black-and-white image that could have been a fashion photographer’s idea of a wet dream. Bruce’s hair was tousled from the quick-change behind the concierge, the shadow falling across his body in one massive black chevron, only exposing him above his pecs and below his calves.

The shadows covered his scars, but they might just as easily not have. How could the playboy have explained the jagged-tooth scar that ran across his stomach in the perfect shape of a crocodile’s mouth? Bruce Wayne had come so close to absolute exposure on the red carpet.

He was harder than he’d been in twenty years.

The sights and sounds from the evening hit him like a steel belt to his solar plexus. The flash of the papos cameras, the tight fit of Alfred’s wool coat across his shoulders, the weird mixture of effervescence and dread bubbling through his veins. At the time, Bruce had dealt with the situation with a detached curiosity that allowed him to walk to the door of the limousine that Alfred held open, but now that he was in his own private space he could allow the double-consciousness take over, of how he wanted to feel on the red carpet. He felt--he felt--

The glossy gossip rag slipped out of his hand, unheeded. Bruce closed his eyes with a groan and tipped his head back.

A faint whisper of air brushed across his throat like a lover’s caress. A door closed on the mezzanine. Bruce slowly dragged his eyes open, and picked up the magazine from where it fell at his workbench. The tremor in his hands was barely perceptible.

The cover of Gotham Tattle glinted in the light of the computer banks in the workshop. The soft gloss caressed the promise of dark secrets inside.

Bruce was achingly hard.

He wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing about it.

But what harm could there be in saving the magazine, transferring it to his bedroom, where it could wait for one of those long, bitter nights when the thought of touching himself out of desire instead of rough necessity was a luxury he could afford.

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