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Clark hated clearing out supersoldier operations. Hated it. He hated the odds of specialized weapons hiding behind the next layer of security. He hated the cold, mercenary cruelty of the inevitable masterminds. He hated not knowing until after the fact whether he was knocking back true believers or kidnapped guinea pigs.
He particularly extra-hated when a facility hit some panic threshold and flooded the air with another dose of whatever it was this time, throwing the bodies around him into an adrenaline-fueled rage. He just had to sort them out, keep them from ripping themselves apart. There were just so many, and it was so frustrating, and he wanted to be done, and he still hadn’t gotten to the basement where there was probably a literal deathray. These seemed like deathray assholes.
A soldier broke her arm trying to punch him. She howled with fury and kept trying. He did not put her through a wall. He couldn’t . . . Stop. Think. What were they using?
He tasted the air. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t identify it, and he wanted more than anything to punch back as hard as he could. Four more soldiers swarmed him, snarling and howling. He could break all of them. One twitch, no one would even blame him . . .
No.
He flew up, shaking them off and punching through the roof, headed straight for safety. With a short detour to fetch Bruce.
When they touched down in the cave, procedure kicked in. By muscle memory, he clicked his comm. “Superman compromised, not captured, left the scene. Send backup.” He tried to be careful, turning off the comm, but it cracked. Why did everything have to be so flimsy? He crushed it in annoyance.
Bruce stared at him, then around at the cave, then at the phone in his hand. “Hey, something’s come up,” he told the phone. “Reschedule with my PA, and tell them to clear my schedule. Yes, I take this seriously. Bye.” He hung up. “What’s happening.”
Clark looked for words. “Collar. Need it now.” He went to his knees.
Bruce’s life signs jumped. “Okay. We can do that. Anything else you can tell me?”
“I know you don’t like . . . You can’t let me out. You can’t, I can’t . . . It’s not safe. Please. This is exactly what we trained for, what you trained me for.”
“Why isn’t it safe.”
“Don’t wanna hurt anyone. No strawberry jam people.”
Bruce let out a long breath. “Is there time for the collar? I have faster containment.”
”No.” His voice shook the cave. Bruce stood his ground, but his fear sounded like prey. “No league,” he snarled. “Collar.”
“Got it. Stay.” Bruce walked backwards at a brisk pace, never taking his eyes from Clark’s, staring him down. When he reached the side corridor that led to the safe, he couldn’t see Clark to keep eye contact. Clark could chase him, could follow him into the safe. He’d always wanted to see in the safe. He could just do it.
He put his forehead to the floor and held himself down by the hair so he couldn’t watch Bruce open the first layer of lead door. He clawed at the floor with his other hand, dragging up chunks of concrete. He had to stay. “Bruce said stay,” he said out loud to himself. “Bruce said stay.”
Pain, a sharp little stab in his shoulder. He pulled out a kryptonite dart and stared at it, numb. Bruce had lied, Bruce didn’t . . .
The collar clunked around his neck. As the pain dragged him down, he heard, “Sorry about that. You’re mine. You’re good. You just needed faster. You’re mine.”
Red light, good. Safe. Crate, bed in crate. Bruce held his arms behind his back as he kept trying to fight. “Beast,” he whined. “Beast. Sorry. Beast.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Bruce scritched his scalp. “Still mine. You’ll be okay. No strawberry jam. You’re safe here.”
Bruce considered the problem. Aggressive Superman with deteriorating language skills, squirming in a submission hold. Initial kryptonite dosage sufficient to allow red-spectrum containment without incapacitating. Global danger contained. Personal danger to Bruce reduced acceptably. Personal danger to Clark TBD.
“It’s okay,” he said automatically. “You’re good. You’re mine.” Responsive to voice and to gentle touch, that was a good start. Clark relaxed under his hands, more or less. “Are you in there, Clark?”
After a pause, Clark nodded. He squirmed toward contact instead of away.
“Great. Now. I’ll keep you safe. You’ll stay in the cave no matter what. But if you pull on the collar or try to open the crate door, I’ll open them. Understand?”
Clark whined. He shook his head. “Collar!”
Black and white thinking. Nuance was not helpful here. “Okay. Collar stays on. Okay?”
Clark nodded. Bruce slowly released the hold. It took a couple of tries, as Clark lunged and they had to start over. Impulsive, not aggressive, striving for more contact. When Bruce straddled his back, Clark settled, docile.
“Good. Good Clark.” Bruce put a hand in Clark’s hair to guard against sudden head movement and kissed the back of his neck, above the collar. “Good. Thank you.”
Clark went slack. Slowly, carefully, Bruce moved to sit beside him. His phone buzzed in his pocket in a continuous loop of annoyance. Clark reached into the pocket with curious fingers.
“Leave it.” Bruce held Clark’s wrist and retrieved the phone. The screen flashed red: someone had noticed his apparent kidnapping from the office, and Clark had tripped every cave alarm. Bruce confirmed the cave incident as identified and resolved, then hit the call button for his security check-in.
Clark went for the fly of Bruce’s slacks with his free hand. Coordination down, impulse control down, still fairly successful at manipulating zippers. Enough of that. Bruce wrapped Clark’s cape around his head, which bought some time as Clark scrabbled at it.
“Hi, I’m safe. Uh, hang on, it’s . . .” He put his arm around Clark’s head to muffle the affronted yelps. “Obsidian Mike Whiskey Phoenix. Right?”
The security staffer’s voice was perfectly neutral and professional. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, you’re checked in as safe. You didn’t show up on exit cameras. Anything we should know?”
“No, it’s, uh, personal. Not a problem. Out for the day, though. Gotta go.” He hung up. Clark clawed at his arm. “Okay, you. I need to call the league now.” Clark thrashed and growled through the cape. Bruce’s sleeve tore. “You’re not going anywhere. Here.”
Bruce stripped off his torn jacket and pushed it onto Clark’s hands, tangling him further. After a confused moment, Clark made a satisfied little noise and started shredding the silk lining with his fingers.
“There you go. Good Clark. Batman to Watchtower. Superman’s contained. I’m handling it. Send full incident report to my terminal for analysis.”
“Green Lantern, copy that.” Hal’s voice from the comm made Clark growl, and Hal always got chatty in a crisis. Bruce hung up.
“There. All done. Just us. You’re mine.” Bruce gently untangled him and rotated the coat to get anything solid out of the pockets. “I need to go get some things. You’ll stay here.”
Clark ripped at the coat. He stuck out his jaw with the mulish expression he wore whenever Bruce advised him not to leap without looking. This could get tricky.
“Stay, Clark.” He got up slowly with no surprises. “Stay.”
He got as far as the door, but when he opened it, Clark lunged. Bruce barely got it closed in time. Clark slammed his body into the other side. Angry screams leaked past the sound muffling. Bruce went to the control panel.
“Clark. I’m right here. You can hear me. I’m right here.”
On the video monitor, Clark paused, staring up at the speaker.
“Right here. I can keep talking while I walk around.”
Clark threw himself at the door again. The supply run would have to wait.
“Okay. I’m coming back in. Can you go over to the sink for me? Go to the sink. Get some water.”
That shook him loose. As soon as he turned his back on the door, Bruce opened it silently and slipped in. He waited until Clark’s hand touched the faucet. “Good job,” he said softly. “Good Clark.”
Clark spun and ran full-force at Bruce, 105kg of muscle and enthusiasm. Bruce took the hit and they slammed back against the door together.
“Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.” Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark’s sudden impersonation of an octopus. “Okay. Good Clark.”
Attempts to extract himself from the hug were completely ineffective. Clark growled when he tried. Bruce took a mental inventory of tasks and worked out a logical sequence. Step one, get sentimental objects out of destructive range, then work on solutions.
“Let’s get your toy.” They shuffled over to the beanbag together. Clark tried to drag them down, but Bruce stopped halfway, snagged the Batman plush toy, and held it against the side of Clark’s head. He squeaked it once. “Argh!” yelled his recorded voice.
Clark tightened his arms and made a wary noise. He would not be tricked into letting go of the real Bruce for a surrogate. Good, that would avoid another tug-of-war later.
“We’re going into the cave now. We’ll walk together.”
Halfway down the corridor, Clark relaxed and cooperated better. Their movements shifted from awkward slow-dancing to something like coordinated walking, though Clark didn’t loosen his grip. They got to the Batcomputer console, where Bruce locked down the cave against anyone but himself. He placed the stuffed Batman by the keyboard, and they staggered onward to the rest of the checklist.
Clark’s agitation grew when Bruce stopped at his uniform station. “I’m staying. These are just to play with.” He pulled on a gauntlet and put his forearm against Clark’s lips to demonstrate.
Cautiously, Clark opened his mouth. When Bruce petted his hair and pushed in response, Clark nibbled, then chomped full force. It would bruise, but not injure. “That’s right. That’s right.” Bruce managed to get both gauntlets on, plus a pair of boots that hadn’t been loaded with tech yet. He slung a cape and cowl over Clark’s shoulders. “Just to play with. Let’s go look at the lab.”
With the gauntlet and cape involved, Clark seemed content with a single arm as insurance against Bruce escaping again. Bruce sat at the lab bench and got Clark in a friendly headlock. “Just playing.”
Clark laughed and grabbed him around the waist. He didn’t even seem to notice the quick blood draw. Bruce put the samples in the centrifuge and left them to run through the all-in-one. He headed for the Batmobile to grab a spare laptop without risking Clark remembering the stuffed toy, but Clark bit his arm and sat down on the floor.
“We’re staying in the cave.” He tried again. Clark just growled. “After this, we’re going to your crate.”
Clark was not going to be fooled again. He showed real distress when Bruce moved him, lashing out. They ended up on the concrete with Bruce on Clark’s back.
“Easy. Easy. We’re staying right here. Breathe with me, Clark.” Bruce took deep, exaggerated breaths until Clark matched him. “Good Clark. We’re staying in the cave. Let’s go look at the gear tunnel. I still need a computer.”
As soon as he was let up, Clark pulled in the direction of the Batcomputer. “Yes, that is also a computer.” Attempts to redirect were not successful. “Okay, yes. That’s the best computer, I’ll use that one.”
He needn’t have worried about the toy. As soon as they reached the chair, Clark crammed himself under the console with his thighs wrapped around Bruce’s ankles.
“You gonna be comfortable there?” Bruce turned sideways to give Clark’s head more clearance. Clark relaxed with his head on Bruce’s knees.
It made sense, really. The console was somewhere Bruce could be relied on to stay for hours, once he sat down. With Clark around his legs, he couldn’t sneak off. Reading on the big screens would be more efficient. Bruce settled down to comb the incident report and incoming data dumps from the black ops compound. He typed with one hand and petted Clark’s hair with the other.
Initial results didn’t give him much. They hadn’t cracked the encryption on the research databases, and that wasn’t counting the servers that had exploded when tampered with. The entire base force had been scrambled when the league hit it, and therefore dosed with the frenzy juice, so they didn’t have a baseline enhanced soldier to compare against. The scientists weren’t talking; Diana was an hour out.
Everyone except Clark had gotten a respirator on or otherwise avoided inhalation, so they also didn’t have another league member’s baseline to compare against, and they weren’t going to gamble on exposing anyone after the fact. Barry’s offer to test it on himself and chart the full metabolic curve in under ten seconds had been vetoed without Bruce’s intervention.
The juiced soldiers hadn’t come down yet, and half had been sedated to prevent self-harm. It had been about thirty minutes since exposure. They’d just have to wait for more data. Bruce reported that a calm environment and simple distractions were moderating Clark’s violent instincts, though his case thankfully did not seem as severe. He suggested locating family members.
Clark was rocking, which was probably fine. Bruce rubbed his neck and made soothing noises. Clark grunted low in his throat.
Bruce paused and gave the behavior more attention. Clark had his weight pressed against the upper and ankle of one boot, grinding methodically. Both their capes pooled around him on the floor. He still rested his head on Bruce’s knee.
The idea of Superman rubbing off against his boot in full costume in the middle of his cave had a shamefully powerful effect on Bruce’s libido. He took a slow breath. “Hey, Clark. Let’s go back to your crate, huh?”
Clark wanted to walk behind him, arms wrapped around to fumble with Bruce’s belt buckle, grinding hard against Bruce’s ass through his slacks. Bruce had reservations about Clark’s teeth so near his neck, but sucking on gauntleted fingers seemed like a safe enough diversion.
“You want to be naked?” Bruce asked as soon as the door was safely closed. Clark confirmed he was still recognizing language by pulling Bruce’s shirt open. A button pinged off the glass observation wall.
“Yeah, let’s get you naked.” When Bruce touched the neckline of Clark’s suit, Clark started yanking at it. Together, without too much confusion, they got him undressed.
Clark tried to undress Bruce too, but Bruce thought keeping a protective layer of fabric between his skin and impulsive fingernails seemed wise. They grappled instead, stumbling and rolling on the blankets that covered the floor. He blocked Clark’s teeth with his forearm. “Just play. Good Clark.”
Pushing Clark down into the beanbag was easy and reduced his leverage. Bruce pulled off his tie and ran it across Clark’s wrists. Clark grabbed it with both hands and bucked up against Bruce’s body.
Bruce reached for his cowl. “I want to suck your cock,” he said. “You want my mouth on your cock?”
Clark groaned and shoved Bruce down by the shoulders. Bruce pulled his cowl on, protecting his head and neck from excessive enthusiasm. Clark scrabbled at the helmet, then laughed and grabbed him by the back of the neck and a pointed ear.
Bruce let himself be tugged to show his face and mask, framed between Clark’s thighs. Clark stared at him in wonder. Bruce licked his lips. Clark made demanding noises, almost words. He mashed Bruce’s face into his crotch.
Bruce knew aphrodisiac response; this wasn’t it. Clark’s erection against his face was pale, barely flushed at the head. Body language was aggressive but not desperate. He wrapped his mouth around the glans and sank down, flicking his tongue.
He meant to go slowly; lazy sex should be less provocative for Clark’s condition. Clark was having none of it. He jammed Bruce down and thrust up, bruising the back of Bruce’s throat.
Bruce groaned. This kind of rough greed was rarely in Clark’s vocabulary, and no one dared manhandle Bruce Wayne with real force. He ran his gauntlets across thighs and hips, and he let Clark fuck his face until he drooled.
Clark sped up, thrusting and grunting. He got to what seemed like full force and stayed there. Through a haze of sex and slight oxygen deprivation, Bruce thought he sounded frustrated.
Bruce teased his ass, rubbed his balls, stroked his nipples. He took the hammering in his throat, giddy with the intensity. Clark whined. His legs shook, but he wasn’t getting there.
Playing a hunch, Bruce slapped the sides of Clark’s thighs hard enough to slam them against the cowl. Clark’s hips jolted. Pain, adrenaline, force. This neurological cocktail was primed for combat, not cuddling. Bruce spanked Clark’s legs and dug his thumbs into trigger points on his hips.
Clark punched him in the cowl, snarling, and came. He kept thrusting into Bruce’s mouth, whimpering with overstimulation. Bruce hummed to him, swallowing slowly and petting him until he settled.
“That’s right,” Bruce rasped. He cleared his aching throat. “You’re so good.” He took off his cowl and lay with Clark on the beanbag, putting some weight on him and stroking his skin.
Clark looked at him with wide, dazed eyes. Then he touched Bruce’s lip and his face crumpled with concern. He made a cautious little noise. Bruce licked his bruised lips and tasted blood; he hadn’t quite protected his lower lip against his own teeth. Clark’s entire forehead creased. He looked like he might cry.
“It’s okay, Clark. You’re good. My good Clark. I had fun. It felt good to go hard. Did you have fun?”
Clark brightened, still cautious. He ran his hand across Bruce’s face. He had a split knuckle where he’d punched the cowl.
“We went pretty hard. Look, you’re bleeding too. Let’s get that patched up.” Bruce kissed Clark’s face and escaped the halfhearted attempt to keep him in the beanbag.
He pulled the crisis supply chest from under the sink. The latches were at the edge of Clark’s current dexterity, which was a point to consider for redesign. Bruce dug past pajamas and shelf-stable comfort foods to find the small first aid kit. He cleaned Clark’s knuckle with a swab and applied a Superman bandaid. Clark studied the emblem on it, then nodded and grabbed Bruce for a crushing hug.
“Yeah. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”
Bruce combed Clark’s hair with his fingers and thought about next steps. Clark was relaxed and calm, but it wouldn’t last. The blood tests should finish soon . . . Bruce had forgotten a laptop. He’d have to leave the crate again. Preferably before Clark got too energetic.
He got up. Clark stared up at him, still drowsy. Bruce picked up a large pillow. “I’m opening the door now. Door stays open.” He wedged the door open with the pillow. “I’m going to get some toys. You can follow or stay. You can choose.”
He put a hand on Clark’s forehead. “Your choice. You can come with me, or you can relax here in your crate. Your choice. I’m just walking around for a couple of minutes.”
Clark had worry lines all over his face, but he didn’t get up or cling to Bruce’s offered arm. He reached around and grabbed a pillow, which he hugged to his chest.
“You feel safer here? Okay.” Bruce handed him a larger pillow with the Bat logo on it and tucked him into the beanbag with his favorite red blanket. “I’ll be right back. Door stays open.”
As soon as he was out of line of sight, he sprinted for the central cave. Laptop. Tablet, in case a second screen for Clark proved helpful. Packing materials for destructive play: cardboard, bubble wrap, duct tape. Back to the crate tunnel. He grabbed two bins of toys and came to the doorway, arms full.
White stuffing, chunks of memory foam, and polystyrene beads covered the floor. The bat-pillow had been gutted, and the beanbag hung open with beads spilling from a gaping wound. Amid the mess, Clark looked at him, startled, and scrambled to hide behind the blanket-draped toilet, snarling with fear.
Bruce set his acquisitions on the bed. “Hey, Clark. It’s okay. Good Clark.” He knelt, an arm’s length away, and reached out a gauntlet. “I should take you with me when I walk around. I understand.”
Clark didn’t move. His body shook.
“You’re good. This is your place, your pillows. You can rip them up. I’ll get you more. Everything you do in here is right. My good Clark. You’re mine. Can you touch my hand?”
Slowly, Clark lifted a hand to touch the gauntlet. Bruce drew him out and gathered him in, sitting on the floor together in a squeaking heap of foam beads. Clark’s entire body trembled in Bruce’s arms. They rocked together.
“Good Clark. You’re safe. It’s okay.”
Clark calmed, though his body didn’t entirely relax. He scuffed at the mess with his foot.
“I can clean this up. Will you come with me for the broom?”
Talking softly, he went through the motions of cleanup, getting most of the stuffing heaped into the dead beanbag and carrying it out into the hallway along with the bead-encrusted blankets. He got replacement bedding, along with the last bin of toys he hadn’t been able to carry on the first trip. The room would need a thorough cleaning later, but it no longer looked like a crime scene. Clark curled up on the bed with a new pillow.
“Let’s go to the gym. Burn off some energy. We’ll bring that pillow.”
Playing follow-the-leader, Bruce ran Clark through a few exercises. Pull-ups were a winner. Clark kept doing them after Bruce dropped from the bar.
Bruce put a strawberry Pop-Tart into a cardboard box just large enough for it to rattle inside. Tape, a layer of bubble wrap, a lot more tape, another box.
That was more than enough pull-ups. Bruce talked Clark down from the bar and got him on the treadmill. He sent the league an update on useful enrichment activities, then returned to his packaging project. He broke a chocolate bar into eight squares and layered them between the box and the next layer of bubble wrap. Two more layers, then he retrieved a sweaty, panting Kryptonian from the treadmill. The gym fridge had ready protein and fruit; that should round out their meal assortment. He gave Clark the pillow and some apples to carry back to the crate.
Lunch went pretty smoothly. Clark had good muscle memory for water bottles, and he managed cheese and hard-boiled eggs without too much mess, as long as he could mirror Bruce. He tried to eat an orange without peeling it, which got sticky, but they worked it out eventually. Jerky was a hit; Clark shredded and worried it happily.
Bruce handed Clark a Pop-Tart, one of his favorite horrible overprocessed foods. When it was gone, he said, “You want another one? It’s in here.”
He shook the box once and handed it over. Clark regarded it suspiciously.
“You tear it open. Like unwrapping a present. The Pop-Tart’s in the middle. There’s chocolate, too.”
Clark gave Bruce an odd look, eyebrows raised and mouth turning up at one corner in amusement. Bruce hoped he hadn’t been too condescending. Then Clark waged war on the box.
Teeth, fingernails, garbled noises and tearing tape and cardboard. Bruce should be using the distraction time to check for status reports, but watching Clark was too much fun. It should really be a supervised activity, anyway. A cacophony of bubble wrap, then Clark ripped off another strip of duct tape with his teeth.
Clark passed the chocolate layer without noticing, utterly focused on destruction. Bruce didn’t interrupt.
Finally, the prize emerged in four pieces and a shower of crumbs. Bruce waited until the largest pieces had been devoured, then put a hand on Clark’s back and pointed out the chocolate. When all the chocolate was accounted for and every single pocket of air in the bubble wrap had been flattened, Clark curled up with his head on Bruce’s leg, his fingers clinging to the pocket of Bruce's slacks, and his nose buried in the crease of Bruce’s hip. He inhaled, then sighed happily.
Bruce had research to catch up on.
Very few substances found easily on Earth could get Clark drunk; any that they’d found would drop a human dead on inhalation. A few intoxicants from other planets. Magic. Fucking magic.
They had checked for magic first. The frenzy juice was not magic. One down.
It did partially match an intoxicant in the Lantern Corps database, but catalyzing the necessary compounds was unlikely with Earth technology. Something didn’t fit.
They had additional data on the soldiers’ reactions. More violent than Clark, and more focused. They would run until they dropped, fight without acknowledging pain. Most had at least a few words, enough to bark monosyllabic orders at each other. Enough focus and discipline that they’d be useful for a suicide mission without wandering off or refusing their orders. They were also sobering up faster than Clark seemed to be.
Unclear how much of the difference was Clark’s environment and conditioning; retreating into animal mannerisms and impulsivity was a place of safety and calm for him. His energy came in bursts, though, while the truly nonverbal soldiers were the most agitated, fighting themselves into exhaustion and refusing food or rest.
New data from Diana: The scientists were obsessive biochemists who only cared about the science. There was a secret ingredient; they’d been provided with less than ten kilograms of it in fine powder form without source or explanation. It was metallic, and it facilitated the chemical reaction. All they knew about it was that it had some interesting spectrographic and psychoactive properties, and it glowed violet.
Glowed violet. Pieces fit together in Bruce’s mind faster than he could track them.
“Kryptonite,” he said out loud without thinking. Clark startled. Bruce tried to soothe him, but that word wouldn’t be soothed away without explanation.
“It’s okay, I figured it out, that’s all. So we can fix it.”
Not helpful. Clark sat up and watched him with impatient intensity, waiting for the detailed report.
Bruce would do his best. Slowly, calmly, he said, “Some LexCorp scientists lost their jobs last winter, probably because their research didn’t work, probably because it wasted a lot of resources. I think it wasted a batch of synthetic kryptonite. I think the modified kryptonite was in what you breathed today. And that means we can find it, and we can fix it.”
Clark breathed out hard, making himself cough. If he didn’t stop, he’d hyperventilate.
“We’ll get it out, but not like that. Breathe with me, Clark. Come on.”
He squeezed Clark tightly and gave him steady breaths to follow. “I’m here,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
I will have Lucius personally interrogate every one of the scientists I snapped up in February, he didn’t say. I will use all the research and consideration I have already invested in the treatment of aerosol kryptonite inhalation, which I will never explain because it would mean explaining the research and consideration I have invested in the delivery of aerosol kryptonite inhalation.
He kept rocking Clark, who was starting to complain and squirm.
I will end Lex Luthor in the stock market and the courts and the press. I will learn what equipment is required to turn kryptonite red, blue, black, and apparently violet with polka dots, and I will have that equipment melted down for scrap, damn the other applications. “I’ll fix it. You’re safe.” I will figure out why you are so uniquely and eccentrically susceptible to even the byproduct slag of synthetic reproductions of your homeworld, and if there is a responsible party, I will punch them in the face.
Clark bit Bruce’s bicep through his shirt sleeve, almost hard enough to draw blood. Bruce relaxed his too-tight grip. “Sorry. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Clark pushed him away and stood up from the bed. He paced the room, gesturing angrily, then punched the glass of the observation wall, once, twice.
“Clark! Clark, c’mere.” If Bruce could divert him without violence, that would be preferable. He got up and loudly opened the lid of a toy bin. “Let’s pick some toys.”
Clark flexed his hands and glared.
“I’ll work on it. I’m taking care of it. That’s my job. Your job is picking something to focus on, something you’ll enjoy. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Bruce pulled a hairbrush from the bin, then a chew toy.
Clark crossed the room in two steps and knocked over the other bins, spilling their contents all over the floor. Bruce took a breath and a mental inventory. Nothing fragile in the bins, and nothing sharp. A few items were heavy, and if Clark found and opened the lube, there would be another non-toxic mess to clean up. Acceptable. “Pick whatever you want.” He backed away and returned to his laptop.
Bruce typed his hypothesis into the incident war room without looking, so others could follow up. He watched Clark sullenly kick his toys around, then sit down on the floor and bite things that were not intended for chewing, staring directly at Bruce.
“Whatever works,” Bruce said. “They’re your toys.”
Clark growled and threw one of his padded leather mitts at Bruce’s head with moderately good aim. Bruce caught it and set it beside himself, then its mate in another moment. This wasn’t conducive to research focus, but the league was on it, and Clark should wear himself out soon. Clark found the heavy titanium plug, stomped on the box it came in, and threw it at the observation wall. The wall rang with the impact.
“Clark. C’mere.”
He snarled and ripped a blanket in half.
“Do you want to go back to the gym? We could run. Lift weights. Wrestle? The mats in the gym are better for wrestling.”
Clark lifted both hands to his throat and deliberately yanked at the collar. The first time seemed intentional, then he was stuck in the motion, frantically pulling and whining. The metal dug against the back of his neck.
Bruce felt sick. He moved to the floor and got Clark in a hold, stopping him from hurting himself. “Okay. Clark?”
Clark whined.
“You’re good. You’re so good. And you asked, earlier, my good Clark, you asked me to keep you in the collar. Collar stays on. You asked. Remember?” A low, frustrated grumble. “It looks like you’re trying to make trouble right now. To see if you can upset me. But you can’t scare me off, Clark. I’m here, and I’ll take care of you, and I’ll take care of this.”
Clark breathed hard.
“No matter what. And because you asked, because you specifically asked, for today, the collar stays on. No matter what. You’re mine, and you’re safe.”
Clark’s breath heaved. He made a noise somewhere between howling and sobbing, but he stopped fighting.
“It’s okay. You’re good. I’ve got you.” Bruce got Clark to sitting, still contained. “And now we’re going to pick toys.”
Clark didn’t move at first, then hesitantly leaned forward. Bruce released him, and he crawled into the strewn objects. He headed directly for the box containing the muzzle, which he picked up and then climbed onto the bed. Bruce sat beside him. Clark put the box on his lap.
“You know you’re not in trouble, right? I can keep you safe without this.”
He just patted the box.
“The muzzle is only for feeling safe. Will it feel safe?”
Clark picked up both of the mitts that he had thrown earlier and set them on the box, pushing on all of them hard with his hands.
“If you’re sure.” Bruce lifted the hand-welded steel and leather from its box. He put it over Clark’s face, sliding the rubber bite guard into his open, offered mouth. Every strap and buckle, one by one, he tightened around Clark’s head.
Eyes closed and breath steady, Clark sat on his knees. Calm. Mouth caged safely behind a black steel bat. Bruce slipped the soft mitts onto his still, unresisting hands and strapped them closed.
Clark shuddered and curled up with as much of himself as possible on Bruce’s lap. He did his best to stick his face in Bruce’s armpit. Bruce brushed his hair, tidying the sweat-matted curls around the straps of the muzzle.
“That’s easier, isn’t it.” He rubbed Clark’s neck. “You were working hard not to bite.”
Clark nodded emphatically.
“Safe now.”
He whacked his face against Bruce’s chest hard enough to bruise, making Bruce work to contain him.
“Shhh, you’ll hurt your face. I’ve got you.”
Bruce rolled around gently on the bed, following Clark’s lead. The storm had passed, leaving a clingy and vulnerable Clark trying to sniff him all over.
The muzzle and mitts did simplify things. Bruce didn’t have to guard against the risk of impulsive bites or gouging, so he could allow more range of touch. He stripped off his boots and the remains of his office clothes. He kept the gauntlets; if Clark needed the muzzle off quickly, hunting for them would be unacceptable lost time.
Clark snuffled happily at him. While Bruce was careful never to use dog words for Clark out loud, ‘crotch hound’ was an accurate description when he got scent-focused. He unabashedly rubbed his muzzle against Bruce’s thighs and abs, letting Bruce roll him away but then coming right back.
Bruce’s erection had sprung up while he pinned Clark on the floor, and it hadn’t truly subsided since. He’d tried not to think about it. Clark did not have a safeword for the day. Clark had actively demonstrated that he didn’t want a safeword for the day. That was a necessity of the situation, not a reason for Bruce to indulge in a power trip. He was even more responsible than usual for Clark’s safety and care; that was all it meant.
His cock and the tightening low in his gut did not share this view. Clark’s blatant interest was not helping.
He moved Clark away with a little more force. They could turn this into a wrestling match easily enough. Clark hung his torso over the edge of the bed and reached an arm out, making a demanding noise.
Bruce looked. Clark’s mitt pointed unerringly at a lube bottle. Fine, they were both into it. No need to be ascetic about it.
“Yeah?” Bruce pulled another bottle from the cache behind the mattress. “We could do that.”
Clark growled low in his throat and tried with mitted hands on Bruce’s hips to flip him over. The size of the bed and his lack of leverage made this unlikely without cooperation. He kept trying.
Bruce petted his head and shoulders, drawing fingernails across his skin hard enough to raise pink lines. He rubbed the grill of the muzzle, enjoying the slide of Clark’s saliva on the smooth cage and the little whimpers as Clark tried to reach his hand. Clark humped his leg, completely unashamed.
“Yeah.” Bruce maneuvered his legs to one side, allowing Clark to turn him halfway. “You want to be on top? Mount me? Show me how wild you are? How hard you can give it to me?”
Clark scrabbled at him, whimpering and yelping in a stream of pleading dirty talk.
There were things Bruce was not allowed to want, or at least not allowed to focus on wanting. Wires he could not afford to cross, if he wanted to stay trustworthy when he went out at night. He could not eroticize assaulting a prisoner, hurting or violating someone who had no option of escape, even in fantasy. The line in his mind was ironclad.
Clark was whining for it.
Clark was not a prisoner. Clark had signaled unequivocally that he wanted the reassurance of fighting and being brought down. Clark had chosen, it was different, he . . . Bruce knew himself well enough to recognize that it was far more dangerous to rationalize bending the line than it was to consciously step over it. Rationalization had brought him to the brink of disaster. It wasn’t about Clark. It was about him.
Bruce let Clark roll him and used the momentum to flip them both, landing Clark on his belly on the bed. “I think,” he said in Clark’s ear, “you want me to show you that it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter how wild you are. How hard you fight.”
Clark snarled, pawing and kicking uselessly at full strength.
“You’re mine. My beast.” Bruce gripped his ribcage with bruising force, amping up the combat response. “The collar stays on, no matter what you try. The door stays closed. You stay where I put you, and I put you where I want you, because you’re mine.” He forced Clark’s legs apart. “And you’ll be so good for me.”
He had the most powerful man in the world pinned to a prison bunk, unable to scratch or bite or form words, probably not even able to modulate drugged instincts enough to signal anything but struggle. On a mattress in a cell he’d built to cage a god and then trained that god to walk into, as trusting as a puppy, and beg for Bruce’s collar.
He poured lube down the crack of Clark’s ass and followed it with his hand. Clark gnawed at his mouthguard and thrashed. The unpredictable pain responses would make fingering tricky; Clark could not be trusted to hold still enough to protect his own body, even in a joint lock.
Fuck it. Penetration wasn’t everything, and this was not a moment for subtlety. Bruce squeezed Clark’s legs together between his own, poured more lube, and pushed his cock down into the tight cleft, rubbing himself against Clark’s balls. “So good. Right where I want you. My good Clark.”
More kicking and snarling. Clark moved his entire body, trying to throw Bruce off. Bruce rode the motion and groaned. “Yeah.” He bit Clark’s shoulder blade. “Mine.”
More whines mixed in with the growling. Clark bucked up harder. His motions flickered between struggle and rut.
“You were expecting something else? Mm. You can try.”
Clark tried. Quick little jerks of his hips, trying to catch the head of Bruce’s cock as it rubbed past his hole. Bruce encouraged it, leaving just a little more slack and holding still so Clark could do the work. “That’s right. So good.”
His attempts grew frantic. The rub around Bruce’s shaft was perfect, textures and movements just varied enough to keep him firmly aware of the illicit circumstances. Clark found a good angle and stayed with it, grinding against the head, trying to scratch his itch.
Amazingly, he seemed to be getting somewhere. Bruce let him, let the head catch and stay in the slightly deeper divot. Muscles flexed on him as Clark tried to get farther. Bruce breathed the sweat on Clark’s back and murmured encouragement. The words didn’t matter. Clark frantically screwing himself onto Bruce’s cock, in his collar, in his cage, was all that mattered.
The head popped in unexpectedly, tight, almost too tight. Bruce gasped. Clark yelped, but didn’t stop working at it. Soon, alarmingly soon, he’d backed his ass up all the way to Bruce’s balls. His legs and breath shook. He whined and wiggled. His body pulsed hot around Bruce’s cock.
“Good. You’re so good. I’m going to give that a little more lube.” Bruce lifted his weight to pull back, and Clark followed with an insistent rise of his hips, impaling himself again. Bruce held him down and pulled all the way out to check for any signs of damage. “I said,” he said over Clark’s muffled complaint, “I’m adding more lube.”
When he’d greased his cock more thoroughly, he let Clark shimmy onto it again, then thrust forward, ploughing him into the bed. “Right where you belong.”
Clark’s answering moan was pure pleasure.
“Think you can come for me, Clark? I bet you can.”
It didn’t take long. They were both high on adrenaline and struggle and impatience. Bruce came first, then stayed in and hung on while Clark humped himself to a howling orgasm against the sheets, teased along by Bruce’s teeth on his skin.
“There. That’s better.”
“Nnnnh.” Clark lay drooling on the bed while Bruce got up to wash his gauntlets.
Clark would need more cleaning than a wet washcloth could manage. Bruce sat by his head. “How’s your mouth doing?” He tapped the muzzle. “Want a break?”
Clark hid his head under his mitts with a low grumble.
“Okay.” Bruce settled a gauntlet on his neck and grabbed the laptop to check for updates.
He’d left it open to the war room chat. 243 new messages, which would be less efficient than the incident update summary. He went to switch screens, but the first reply caught his eye.
Flash: Oh man. And what’s left in his lungs is still knocking him for a loop? I’m not telling you your business but did you really really really check his hair? Because before I got my speed there was a Glitter Incident and glitter is forever, man, one shower won’t do it
Flash: I was finding rainbow sparkles for months, okay, I’ll shut up now
Flash: But if you need high-speed help grooming him for glitter nits, I’m here, okay?
His hair. Bruce had been working from the assumption of an inhaled chemical agent. Full decontamination would have been the correct course, but he’d had his hands full, and the risks of bathing a slippery, panicking beast had seemed like they could wait until the situation stabilized. And then he’d just plain forgotten. Damn.
The bright suit lay crumpled in the corner of the cell. The cape must be saturated with the stuff. Clark had pulled at his own hair, rubbed his hands and head and suit all over Bruce and the cave, spreading mind-altering particulates wherever he went.
It would take more than one shower. But it would definitely start with a shower. “Bathtime. C’mon.”
Bruce put a comm in his ear so he could read the rest of the updates by voice. Data streamed past him as he got Clark over to the decontamination shower. The caution had been warranted; when Clark saw the spartan enclosure instead of a cozy tub, he balked.
“It’s okay. I’m washing too. And after the shower, we can have a real bath.”
Clark dug in his heels and held out his arms to make himself difficult. He was too recently fucked to offer real resistance, but Bruce would rather not resort to force.
“Clark,” he said quietly. “In. Now.”
Clark sat down on the floor, shoulders hunched.
“Okay.” Bruce paused the readout and crouched beside him. “We’re keeping people safe. And we’re keeping you safe. That means no kryptonite in the water supply, no kryptonite down the drain, no kryptonite in the bathtub that you want to use again later. This is a separate system, to wash it off and keep it locked up. Kryptonite off first. Then bath.” That was omitting several intermediate steps, but hopefully Clark would get enough higher reasoning back to deal with that as it came.
Clark cowered, but crawled in. Bruce hesitated before turning on the spray. It was optimized for maximum exfoliation with minimum water use; even he found it uncomfortable. He filled a bucket from the lower tap instead, then lathered and scrubbed Clark by hand. Once everything seemed stable, he gently removed the muzzle to wash Clark’s head.
“There you go. So good for me.” He rinsed off the first round of suds. “Are you ready for me to get the mitts?”
Clark nodded and held out his hands. As soon as one hand was free, he squirted soap into it from the pump bottle and rubbed it on Bruce’s head.
“Yeah, it’s on me, too. I’ll get there.”
“Help,” Clark whispered.
Bruce tapped his comm off. He held Clark’s hand, watching him. “Help?”
“Want to help.” Clark’s eyes were enormous. He barely breathed the words.
“Thank you. Would you wash my hair?” Bruce leaned close.
“Thank.” Clark carefully, and fairly competently, lathered his hair.
“I’m turning on the spray now. It’ll feel sharp.”
Clark nodded and covered his head. After sixty seconds, in which Bruce gave himself a complete initial scrub and rinse, Clark stood up. “More soap,” he said. His expression seemed sharper.
Bruce watched carefully as Clark washed his face and hair twice, then scrubbed under his fingernails, then head to toe, hard enough that Bruce considered intervening. He started on his hair again.
“Hey,” Bruce said. “How are you doing now?”
Clark paused, wiping his face and sluicing water from his hair. “Not sure. Not . . . I’m slow. Words.”
“How’s your impulse control? Could you do something unpleasant?”
His forehead creased. “Hurt? Or mean?”
“Hurt and feel sick. We need to get it out of your lungs, and possibly stomach.”
“Yes.” Despite the bedraggled hair and halting speech, he looked like Superman. “Can hurt. Get it out.”
An awful twenty minutes later, during which Bruce repeatedly assured him that he was the best Clark in the entire world, Clark could form complete sentences and didn’t show any significant spikes on a handheld kryptometer. Cautious testing with a sunlamp suggested that a burst of energy wouldn’t trigger more aggression.
“What do you think?” Bruce asked. “Ready to try outside?”
“I . . .” Clark stared at the floor of the medical bay. “I’ll have to eventually.”
“I’ll be with you. There’s at least thirty seconds before you’re strong enough to pull the collar off.”
“I wouldn’t — ” He looked shocked, then his expression twisted to dismay. “I didn’t — God. Bruce, I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . .”
Bruce put a hand on his back. “You asked me to keep you safe, and I did. Thank you for trusting me. We should add some more contingencies to our agreement, when you’re sober.”
“Yeah.” The litany of self-recrimination was writing itself across Clark’s face. It needed interrupting.
“How’s the excess energy?”
Clark flexed his hands. “Still antsy.”
“Race you to the surface? I owe you a bath.”
“We, uh. Shouldn’t we check in with the league?”
“We should. Eventually. I let them know you’re detoxing and it might be a while. But Clark?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not getting out of that collar until you’re fully charged and we agree that you’re stable. And as long as you’re in my collar?”
“Not my problem.” Clark bit his lip. “Thanks.”
Cleaning the cave floor, Batcomputer, crate, suits, gym, and every toy too precious to simply replace was also not Clark’s problem. Neither was patching the section of floor he had clawed, or smoothing things over with the Secretary of the Interior.
Going over every square centimeter of the cave with the kryptometer for stray flecks probably should have been Bruce’s problem, but he saved that one and delegated it to Tim for taking unnecessary risks in the field. “Yes, including the dinosaur.”
“This is inhumane,” Tim declared, staring around the cave.
“This is traditional. Be grateful I don’t have a mossy dojo roof available. In November. Although, the south wing . . .”
“Dinosaur. Got it.”
Clark looked at the envelope Bruce had handed him over the breakfast table. Heavy stock, probably an expensive greeting card.
“It’s a present,” Bruce said. His expression stayed neutral and pleasant, therefore nervous. “An option, anyway. Just an option.”
He opened the envelope properly and slid out the contents instead of peeking. Bruce’s idea of appropriate gifts could be anything from a single rose to a house deed.
Several photographs emerged: an object on a dark background. He had to flip through them all to understand it in three dimensions. A flat circular fob dangling from a large metal clasp, so it could clip to something else. The fob appeared to be glass, sparkling with pale lavender flecks. One shot, presumably taken in darkness, didn’t show more than a glint of metal; the fob glowed with a faint violet light.
“I’m certain that the initial surge of aggression was situational or due to chemical additives,” Bruce said. “That wasn’t you, and that wasn’t K. The part that lasted was just . . . taking off the brakes. It seemed like an option you might like to have available.”
Clark stared at the pictures, and he remembered the strange, wordless blur of that day. Consequences hazy, control absent. The joy of tearing a cardboard box to smithereens without feeling shy about it. He imagined the sound of the fob clipping to his collar, Bruce’s hand on his neck as an absolute assurance.
“Yeah,” he said. “We should, uh. It would be good to talk about that option.”