Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Superman hovered silently in the shadows of Gotham's tallest skyscraper, his cape billowing gently in the night breeze. From his vantage point, he watched Batman patrol the rooftops below, the dark figure moving with practiced grace and purpose. Clark's heart raced with anticipation and nervousness as he rehearsed his plan one more time. All the money he had spent, all the groceries he'd gone without to afford this new apartment and the custom nursery pieces he'd commissioned. The frilly baby clothes specifically designed to fit Bruce's larger frame had cost a fortune, but it would all be worth it. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the scene he'd been dreaming of for years: Bruce sleeping peacefully in the oversized crib, dressed in a delicate frilly bonnet and thick diaper, slowly stirring awake before raising his arms in that adorable way Clark had imagined so many times, ready to be lifted into Daddy's embrace.

Meanwhile, Bruce stood motionless on another rooftop, his cape fluttering slightly in the breeze. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. Gotham had been... quiet. Unnaturally quiet. For weeks now, the criminal element had seemed to vanish, as if every thug, mobster, and supervillain had simultaneously decided to take an extended vacation. The absence of chaos should have been a relief, but instead it left Bruce feeling paranoid and exposed. His instincts screamed that this was the calm before the storm, but he couldn't pinpoint the source of his unease. Every shadow seemed to hold potential threats, every distant sound made him jump. His instincts screamed that something was coming, but he couldn't pinpoint what. That's when Clark decided to strike.

In a blur of motion too fast for Bruce to process, Superman descended upon him. Before Batman could react, Clark had grabbed him from behind, one strong arm wrapping around his chest while a gloved hand covered his eyes. Bruce thrashed violently, employing every escape technique he knew, but to his horror, none worked. It was like trying to break free from steel. Confusion clouded his mind as he struggled to understand why his usual methods were failing. Before he could muster a possible explanation, Clark pressed a chloroform-soaked tissue to Bruce's nose. Despite holding his breath for as long as possible, Bruce eventually had to inhale, and the world began to spin. His struggles weakened until finally, he passed out completely in Clark's arms, his body going limp. Clark held him securely for a moment longer, ensuring Bruce was fully unconscious before carefully lifting him and flying away from the rooftop.

Hours passed before Bruce began to regain consciousness. His eyes fluttered open slowly, his mind struggling to piece together what had happened. The first thing he registered was that this wasn't anywhere he recognized. The room was warm and cozy, decorated in muted tones that suggested expensive taste without screaming wealth—more like affordable luxury than the opulence Bruce was accustomed to. It appeared to be a normal living room, certainly not the grimy warehouse or abandoned building he would have expected to wake up in after being captured. As his senses sharpened, Bruce became aware of something much more alarming: he was completely naked and tied securely to a wooden chair. His suit—the armored tactical costume with its built-in security measures—was gone. How had someone removed it without triggering the electrical defenses? Who could possibly know how to bypass the sophisticated locking mechanisms of his utility belt? More importantly, who now knew his identity? Bruce's head throbbed as he tried to calculate how long he'd been unconscious. The apartment seemed sparsely furnished, as if someone had moved in recently or was deliberately keeping it minimal. He strained against the bonds, but they held fast. Whoever had taken him was thorough.

Before Bruce could formulate a plan, a familiar voice broke the silence. "Finally awake, are we? Feeling a bit hazy? Tired maybe? A little dizzy?" Bruce slowly turned his head, his eyes widening as he recognized the figure approaching him. It was Clark Kent—his friend, his ally—dressed casually in sweatpants and a simple t-shirt, a stark contrast to the Superman suit Bruce was used to seeing him in.

Relief washed over Bruce. "Thank god you're here," he said, his voice rough. "I think I was kidnapped and drugged while on patrol. I have no idea who could've done this."

Clark's expression was sympathetic as he drew closer. "Oh, that must have been horrible," he cooed, his voice taking on an unusually gentle tone. "Poor baby."

Bruce's eyebrow shot up at the nickname. "Don't call me that," he said sharply. "What time is it?"

"About two AM," Clark replied, his smile never wavering.

Bruce sighed. "My patrol was supposed to run until four. Do you have any idea who did this? Please, just untie me so I can go find them."

Clark's smile widened as he moved behind Bruce's chair, his hands coming to rest on Bruce's shoulders. The touch was gentle but possessive. "I know exactly who did this," he said softly, his fingers tracing the muscles of Bruce's upper back. "And don't you worry about patrol for a while. I've got everything in Gotham covered."

Bruce's relief quickly turned to confusion and annoyance. "I ordered you to stay out of Gotham," he said, twisting in the chair. "And why aren't you untying me?"

Clark moved around to face Bruce, leaning down until they were eye to eye. "I've locked every major villain in the Phantom Zone for now," he said calmly. "At least until I'm done with you."

Bruce stared at him, bewildered. "What do you mean, 'done with me'?"

Clark's eyes softened with affection. "You're just so perfect for this, Bruce. I've been holding back for years, but I just can't anymore. Having someone so precious right in front of me and not being able to experience you... it's just so unfair."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bruce demanded, trying to pull away but finding himself unable to move.

Clark reached out to gently stroke Bruce's cheek, his thumb brushing against the stubble. "You're just so, so pretty," he murmured. "Though we might have a bit of work to do first. You're a bit... grown up, but gorgeous. We could get rid of the hair..." His eyes traveled down Bruce's naked body, taking in every scar and muscle.

Bruce shivered at the intimate examination. "What are you talking about? We're friends, Clark. You shouldn't be saying this disgusting stuff. What are you plotting?"

Clark's hand moved to trace the scars on Bruce's torso. "Your beautiful body... I couldn't bear to see it get any more scarred." He looked up, his expression dreamy. "I've been thinking for so long about the perfect one to be my baby boy, and I've finally found him."

Bruce's face paled in horror. "What the fuck are you talking about? Untie me right now!"

Clark's smile was fond, almost romantic. "You're just perfect, Brucie. Your face is adorable, and you're the perfect size, smaller than me... you look so small compared to me." Bruce shivered as Clark continued to caress his body, the touches becoming more intimate. "You're made to be Daddy's baby."

Bruce was acutely aware of their height difference—Clark at his full two meters, Bruce at one eighty-five. Without his heeled boots, the difference seemed even more pronounced. "Please stop," Bruce said, his voice trembling slightly. "Just untie me. We can forget this ever happened."

"No," Clark said firmly. "My Brucie is perfect to play Daddy and Baby with me."

Bruce stared at him in disbelief. "I don't even know what that means! This 'Daddy' shit is weird, Clark. I don't have to do this. You can't force me."

Clark's smile never wavered. "Oh, I know you would never have agreed to this. That's why I had to kidnap you."

Bruce sighed, trying another approach. "Is this about sex? If you wanted to sleep with me, you could have just asked."

Clark laughed softly. "This isn't about sex at all, sweetheart."

Bruce looked at him, completely confused. "Then what do you want?"

"I just want to play," Clark said simply. "And for you to be good."

"Now, now," Clark said in a condescending tone. "Don't work yourself up. You'll give yourself a headache."
"Fuck you!" Bruce spat. "You son of a bitch! Untie me!"
Clark's smile widened as he moved to release the ropes. "As you wish, baby."
Clark smiled as if Bruce's outburst was adorable. With practiced movements, he untied the ropes binding Bruce to the chair. As soon as he was free, Bruce lunged forward, aiming a punch at Clark's face—but his legs gave out instantly, his arms feeling like lead weights. He collapsed to the floor with a thud, Clark stepping back with a knowing smile.

"What the hell did you do to me?" Bruce demanded, shaking as he tried to push himself up. "Why do I feel so weak?"

"Don't stress yourself," Clark said, crouching down. "It's not good for a baby like you. Oh, and you won't be able to walk for a while," Clark explained, his voice maddeningly cheerful. "I injected you with a special serum. Nothing permanent, of course. Just something to help you relax and accept your new role." He reached out and tilted Bruce's chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. "We're going to have so much fun together, and then we can forget all about this and go back to normal. But if you don't keep this to yourself..." Clark paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "Well, I'll just have to get rid of you and play it off as a tragic accident. Wouldn't we want that, would we, sweet boy?"

Bruce's blood ran cold at the casual threat. He looked up at Clark, truly seeing the dangerous obsession in his friend's eyes for the first time. "What... what do you want from me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Clark's expression softened instantly, the threat vanishing as if it had never been there. "I promise I just want to play, pumpkin. Help you relax a bit. I don't plan on assaulting you or anything of the sort. I just want to fulfill a fantasy I've been harboring for years."

"You're a sick bastard," Bruce spat, trying to scramble backward but finding his limbs uncooperative. "I never should have trusted you. If I'd known you were capable of this..."

"Now, now, don't be so mean," Clark cooed, reaching down to stroke Bruce's hair. "I considered this for a long time, and in the end, I'm willing to lose the friendship as long as I get to experience this with you."

Bruce stared at him, horrified. "Experience what? This 'Daddy and Baby' thing? You're insane."

Clark's smile widened. "Exactly that! Being Daddy and Baby. You'll see how wonderful it can be."

"You're a piece of shit," Bruce snarled. "A sick, twisted—"

Clark's hand shot out, gripping Bruce's jaw firmly but not painfully. "Such a potty mouth on my little angel," he said, his tone still gentle despite the harsh words. "I expected it, of course. Don't worry, I'll tame you one way or another."

Bruce's eyes widened at the sudden shift in Clark's demeanor. He tried to pull away, but Clark's grip was like iron. "Let go of me," he managed to say.

"Soon, baby boy," Clark promised, releasing his jaw but keeping his hand close. "But first, we need to get you ready for your new role. Let's get you cleaned up and dressed properly."

Before Bruce could protest, Clark scooped him up effortlessly, one arm behind his back and another under his knees. Bruce's head swam from the sudden movement, and he found himself pressed against Clark's chest, naked and helpless. "Put me down!" he demanded, but his voice came out weaker than he intended.

"Shh, shh, no need to fuss," Clark murmured as he carried Bruce toward a door at the far end of the living room. "Oh, look at you," Clark cooed, his voice thick with affection. "So cute, all squirmy and needy for Daddy's attention."

Bruce's curses were muffled against Clark's chest as he carried him toward the bathroom, each step deliberate and unhurried. Clark nudged the bathroom door open with his foot and gently laid Bruce down on a padded table that had been prepared in advance. Bruce immediately tried to scramble off, his muscles protesting with every movement as he cursed Clark out with renewed vigor. Clark simply smiled, grabbing his ankle with one hand and effortlessly pushing him back down. "Stay still now, little one. Daddy has work to do."

Bruce watched with growing horror as Clark took out soft cuffs attached to the table and secured his hands above his head. He lay there, trying to kick his legs around, unsure of what was happening as Clark turned on a waxing device, the small machine humming ominously in the quiet bathroom. "Clark, please," Bruce pleaded, his voice softer now, laced with desperation. "I really care about you. We've been friends for years. Please explain what's going on. Talk to me."

Clark just smiled, patting Bruce's cheek condescendingly. "Calm down, sweetheart. Everything's going to be just fine." After a moment, Bruce felt something warm on his leg. He turned his head and realized with dawning horror that it was wax. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, panic rising in his voice.

Clark shushed him gently. "Babies are supposed to be smooth everywhere. Now calm down or I'll have to gag you too." With practiced efficiency, Clark began applying strips and ripping them off, one after another. Bruce bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying not to cry out as each strip tore away his body hair. Clark worked methodically - his legs, chest, armpits, arms, removing every trace of hair until Bruce's skin was raw and red. When Clark reached his crotch, Bruce tensed, his entire body rigid with humiliation and pain as Clark removed every bit of hair from his dick, balls, and asshole until he was completely smooth. Bruce refused to scream or cry, knowing Clark would probably enjoy his suffering too much.

Clark then covered Bruce's entire body in soothing lotion, the cool cream providing some relief to his irritated skin. He carefully uncuffed Bruce's hands and sat him up, proceeding to shave his face until not a single hair remained except on his head. Bruce trembled uncontrollably. "Why me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

As Clark let the lotion absorb into Bruce's skin, Bruce asked again, "Why all of this?"

Clark's voice was sickeningly sweet as he replied, "Oh, you're just so adorable, all red like this. Don't cry, sweet pea. The wax is all over now." He spoke in that baby talk that made Bruce's skin crawl.

"Stop talking to me like that," Bruce snapped. "I'm not a child."

Clark chuckled, running his fingers through Bruce's hair. "You're so cute when you're fussy. I kinda dig it." He positioned himself between Bruce's legs, caressing his smooth body as Bruce squirmed in discomfort. "Daddy's just appreciating how beautiful you are." Clark gave Bruce's ass a firm squeeze, making him jump and curse again.

Clark then moved to the bathtub, which he had prepared with warm water and lavender-scented bubbles. He gently lifted Bruce and lowered him into the water, beginning to wash him methodically. Despite the horrific circumstances, Bruce found himself relaxing slightly as Clark massaged his scalp with shampoo, the repetitive motion almost soothing. He was exhausted from patrol - when was the last time he'd slept? He couldn't remember, but now he wished he had as he found himself drifting off, lulled by the normalcy of being bathed. Clark washed him everywhere, making sure Bruce smelled of lavender before carefully lifting him out and wrapping him in a fluffy towel. He dried Bruce's hair with a hair dryer on low heat, the warm air feeling strangely comforting.

"You were so good for Daddy," Clark praised, his voice soft. "I'll be real gentle with you, I promise."

"What is all this 'baby' talk?" Bruce asked, his voice thick with sleep. "Why do you keep talking to me like I'm a toddler?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Clark replied mysteriously.

Bruce clenched his jaw. "You're a weirdo."

Clark laid Bruce back down on the padded table. "Be good now, little one." Bruce wanted to fight him, but he felt so unbelievably weak he could barely move. Before he could start complaining again, he felt Clark lift his legs, and he gasped as his bum was raised in the air. Clark slid something soft underneath him - something that made a crinkling sound. All the talk about being his baby... the padded table... It all clicked at once. Realization dawned in horror. He leaned his head forward and saw it. A diaper.

Clark gently powdered Bruce's bottom. "Don't fuss now, pumpkin. You were so good earlier."

"No way in hell," Bruce said firmly. "I'm not doing this weird, humiliating shit."

Clark didn't close the diaper yet, instead pushing it between Bruce's legs, giving him a bit of a wedgie as he leaned forward until they were face to face. He smirked. "Brucie is so cute when he's so angry."

With whatever strength he could find, Bruce slapped Clark across the face, but the man of steel didn't even budge. Clark just smiled wider. "I'll make sure to get that brattiness out of you later."

“SOMEONE HELP ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!” Bruce scrambled off the table and started crawling around the bathroom, yelling for help, the diaper still between his legs. Clark watched with delight. "Such a cute crawler!" he cooed. "Does my baby want to play?"

"You're a sick bastard!" Bruce yelled. "I'm not a baby! Leave me alone!"

Clark walked over and grabbed Bruce's hands. "It's not playtime yet. And I think the serum might be wearing off. I'll have to give you a stronger dose." With no effort, he picked Bruce up and laid him back down on the table as Bruce squirmed and yelled.

"Be quiet," Clark said firmly, "or Daddy will have to punish you."

"I won't call you that ridiculous name! Let go of me! I'm not a baby!"

After a brief struggle, Clark forcibly fastened the diaper around Bruce's waist, patting it gently. "There now. you're all ready to be Daddy's baby." Bruce held back tears as he looked up at Clark, then down at the diaper humiliatingly fastened around his waist. He tried to rip it off, but Clark caught his hands. "If you take it off, Daddy will punish you. Diapers are expensive, so don't test me."

"Fuck off," Bruce spat. "You can't force me."

Clark just smiled in response, his grin predatory as Bruce trembled with fear and humiliation.

The fight had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally. Bruce's muscles ached with a deep weariness that had nothing to do with his recent injuries and everything to do with the sheer absurdity of his situation. Now he sat slumped against Clark's chest on the nursery couch, his wrists bound securely in front of him with soft but unyielding straps. The rhythmic rise and fall of Clark's breathing against his back was a constant, maddening reminder of his captivity. Bruce had spent the last hour promising Clark every form of retribution imaginable, detailing the precise ways he would make him pay for this violation, but Clark had merely listened with an infuriatingly patient smile, occasionally stroking Bruce's waist as if he were a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

"My little one is just so cute when he's angry," Clark murmured against Bruce's ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Bruce's entire body. "All that fire and spirit. Daddy loves it."

Bruce gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain still despite the overwhelming urge to headbutt the man behind him. Instead, he took in his surroundings with a critical eye. The nursery was, to his mortification, exactly to his taste. If he had ever lost his mind completely and decided to build a nursery for himself, it would look like this. Gothic elegance met practical baby furniture, with a color scheme of black and white punctuated by subtle bat-themed decorations—a mobile with tiny velvet bats, drawer pulls shaped like bat silhouettes. The attention to detail was both flattering and horrifying.

"How much did all of this cost you?" Bruce asked, his voice tight with controlled anger. "This isn't just something you threw together overnight."

Clark's chest vibrated with a soft chuckle. "I've been planning this for about a year now, pumpkin. Gathering items, having some things specially commissioned just for my special-sized baby." He tightened his arm around Bruce's waist possessively. "I knew you'd need custom pieces to accommodate that big, strong body of yours."

Bruce felt a wave of nausea at the casual admission. A year. Clark had been fantasizing about this, planning this, for an entire year while they worked together, fought side by side, shared meals and conversations as friends and allies. "Where are we?" he asked, changing tactics.

"Now, now, Brucie," Clark scolded gently. "I'm not going to tell you that, of course. But I will say we're high up. Very high up. High enough that even if you managed to get to a window, you wouldn't be able to escape."

Bruce's breath caught at the implication. The commitment, the sheer scale of Clark's obsession, was staggering. Before he could process this further, Clark shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket with one hand while maintaining his grip on Bruce's waist with the other. Bruce watched with growing dread as Clark produced a black object and removed its protective cap. It was a pacifier—bat-shaped, of course, with a black shield and nipple.

"No," Bruce said immediately, his voice firm. "Absolutely not. The diaper is already overstepping any conceivable boundary. I am not putting that in my mouth." He clamped his jaw shut and turned his head away, refusing to even look at the offending object.

Clark sighed, his breath warm against Bruce's neck. "Oh, my sweet angel, you're being so difficult," he cooed, his voice dropping into that sickeningly sweet, condescending tone that made Bruce's skin crawl. "Just open up for Daddy. Be a good boy and take your paci."

Bruce continued to resist, shaking his head from side to side, his muscles straining against the bonds. He felt Clark's free hand move to his face, fingers gently pinching his nostrils closed. Panic flared in Bruce's chest as his air supply was cut off. He tried to hold his breath, to fight the instinctual need to gasp for air, but his body betrayed him. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, his mouth opened with a desperate gasp—and Clark immediately seized the opportunity, pressing the pacifier between his lips.

Bruce's first instinct was to spit it out, which he did with a disgusted sound. The pacifier fell onto the couch between them. Clark merely smiled, picked it up, and calmly cleaned it with a wet wipe he produced from somewhere. Before Bruce could prepare himself, Clark grabbed his chin firmly and stuffed the pacifier back into his mouth, this time with enough force to make Bruce's jaw ache. The sudden aggression was terrifying—a glimpse of the power Clark had been keeping in check.

Bruce looked up at him with wide, tear-filled blue eyes, completely stunned by the shift in demeanor. Clark's expression immediately softened back to that fond, smile. "There we go," he cooed, adjusting the pacifier gently. "My baby boy looks even better than I imagined with his paci. Absolutely adorable."

Bruce was mortified, his face burning with humiliation. He couldn't believe this was happening—Batman, the terror of Gotham's criminal underworld, sitting here in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth, being cooed at by Superman.

Then, to Bruce's complete surprise, Clark shifted their positions, flipping Bruce sideways so he was lying across Clark's lap like an actual infant. The movement was so effortless, so casual, that it somehow made the violation even more profound. "This will all be over soon, sweet pea," Clark murmured, holding the pacifier in place with two fingers. "Just be good for Daddy and it won't hurt."

Bruce looked up at him, defiance warring with exhaustion in his eyes. "Fffggg ooo," he mumbled around the pacifier, the closest he could get to "fuck off."

Clark's smile widened. "Such a cute little baby, but with such a potty mouth," he said, his hand moving to Bruce's padded bottom. He delivered a gentle pat that made Bruce squirm with indignation. "We'll have to work on that, won't we?"

Bruce lay there, dumbfounded. How could Clark possibly see him this way? He was factually a large man—broad-shouldered, muscular, imposing. Even without his suit and boots, he stood one eighty centimeters and weighed over ninety kilograms of pure muscle and bone. How could anyone look at him and see an infant? The disconnect was staggering.

Then, to Bruce's absolute horror, Clark leaned down and pressed a soft kiss directly onto the pacifier shield, as close as he could get to kissing Bruce's mouth without actually touching his lips. The gesture was so intimate, so violating, that it brought tears to Bruce's eyes. He immediately reached up with his bound hands and pulled the pacifier from his mouth.

"Why?" Bruce asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Why all of this? Why me?"

Clark's expression was one of pure adoration. "Because you're the perfect baby for me, Brucie."

Bruce let out a bitter laugh. "I'm everything but baby-sized. Could you be more specific?"

Clark's eyes softened as he pulled Bruce closer. "You're just so pretty, angel. So ethereal. The kind of beauty that could stop traffic." He nuzzled Bruce's neck, inhaling deeply. "I wanted a baby like you for so long, but I didn't quite think of you until one day... out of curiosity... I peeked at you during the showers at the Watchtower. Saw your naked body for the first time."

Bruce stiffened at the admission, but Clark continued, lost in his memories. "Your body was just as pretty as I'd imagined, even with all the scars. Your waist so small and grabbable despite all the muscle..." His hand moved to demonstrate, wrapping around Bruce's torso. "And your hole... such a soft petal pink, just like your nipples. While I was waxing you earlier, I got to appreciate you even more. I wanted to kiss your entrance so badly, but I held myself back."

Bruce felt a blush creeping up his neck at the raw, intimate confession. Part of him was horrified, but another part—a part he'd long suppressed—couldn't help but acknowledge the truth in Clark's assessment. He had imagined Clark romantically before, even sexually. They were two sides of the same coin, both committed to protecting their world, both isolated by their secrets and responsibilities. But this... this perversion of what could have been...

"When I saw you that day in the shower," Clark continued, "I just knew you were the one. The one to be put in diapers and babied properly. Your feisty but somewhat shy and avoidant personality would make the perfect combination of bratty and shy. And someone like you... someone who carries so much responsibility... needed to finally be put down and babied, so you could heal."

Bruce's blush deepened. Despite himself, he could see the twisted logic in Clark's reasoning. He did carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable, to rest, to heal. But this? This wasn't healing; it was humiliation.

Clark seemed to sense his internal conflict. "I tried looking for someone else, pumpkin. I really did. But you're just so pretty, no one else could compare. No matter how hard I tried, I kept imagining you instead. I even had sessions with women, but frankly, they were boring. The more I'd be with them, the more I'd imagine you wearing the diaper and paci instead of them. So now... here we are."

Bruce absorbed this, his mind reeling. "Was kidnapping
me really necessary?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Clark's smile was immediate and unwavering. "Yes, of course it was, sweetheart. Bruce would have never agreed to this in a million years. You're too proud, too independent, too... Batman. This was the only way."

Bruce felt a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. This was the same man who had just waxed his entire body, who had forcibly put him in a diaper, who was openly admitting to kidnapping him because he knew Bruce would say no to this bizarre roleplay. And yet, despite everything, a small part of him still liked Clark. Still trusted him on some fundamental level. The realization made him feel even more violated than the physical captivity.

Clark held him closer, his embrace tightening slightly. "Before we talk more, my sweet boy, we need to make sure you can't cause any trouble." He gently maneuvered Bruce onto his stomach across his lap, the position making Bruce feel even more vulnerable and exposed. With practiced ease, Clark slid a syringe from where it had been tucked against the leg of Bruce's diaper. The cold metal against Bruce's bare skin made him shiver.

"This way, you can't slap me again or try to walk away," Clark explained calmly as he administered the injection. Bruce felt a strange warmth spread through his muscles, followed by an increasing sense of heaviness.

"Why?" Bruce asked, his voice muffled by the couch cushion. "You know I can't really hurt you even if I wanted to. You're stronger than me."

Clark chuckled as he disposed of the syringe. "Oh, my clever baby," he cooed, his voice dripping with condescending affection. "You're absolutely right. While I am invincible, the furniture is not. And I know for a fact that if you had your full strength, you would throw anything you could get your hands on. You'd try to break the windows—which I assure you are reinforced—and cause all sorts of mischief. Daddy can't have his little angel hurting himself, now can he?"

Bruce couldn't argue with that assessment. It was exactly what he would have done. Clark knew him too well—knew his tactics, his determination, his refusal to accept defeat under any circumstances.

"There we go," Clark said, pressing a soft kiss to the padding of Bruce's diaper. "All done. Such a good boy for Daddy."

Despite himself, Bruce felt a flicker of comfort at the words. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he hadn't experienced since he was a small child. No one praised him anymore, no one held him just for the sake of holding him, not since his parents died. Alfred cared for him, of course, but their relationship was built on respect and duty, not this kind of uncomplicated affection.

Clark gently turned Bruce back over and pressed the pacifier into his mouth again. This time, Bruce didn't fight it. He was too tired, too overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions coursing through him. Clark shifted them both so they were lying on the couch, Bruce cradled against his chest like a true infant. The strong arms around him felt both threatening and strangely comforting.

"You're doing so well, angel," Clark murmured against Bruce's hair. "Daddy's so proud of you. Just relax now. Let Daddy take care of everything."

Bruce should have been fighting. Should have been plotting his escape, analyzing the situation for weaknesses, looking for any opportunity to turn the tables. But instead, he found himself melting into the touch, his body betraying his mind as it sought the comfort it had been denied for so long. The pacifier felt strange in his mouth, but he found himself sucking on it instinctively, the rhythmic motion somehow soothing. The drugs, the exhaustion from his earlier struggles, the emotional turmoil—it all combined to pull him under. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and despite his best efforts to stay awake, to remain vigilant, Bruce drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Clark watched him with a soft smile, pressing a gentle kiss to Bruce's forehead. "Sleep now, my baby boy," he whispered. "Daddy will be right here when you wake up."

As Bruce slept, Clark continued to hold him, one hand stroking his hair while the other rested possessively on his padded bottom. He studied Bruce's sleeping face, the way his features softened in repose, the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep. This was perfect—exactly as he had imagined it for all those months. Bruce was finally his, completely dependent on him, unable to fight back or escape. The thought sent a thrill through Clark's body, a satisfaction so profound it almost overwhelmed him.

He knew Bruce would resist when he woke up. Knew there would be more arguments, more struggles, more attempts to assert his independence. But Clark was prepared. He had thought of everything, anticipated every possible reaction. And in the end, he was confident that Bruce would come to accept his new role. Maybe even enjoy it. After all, Clark had seen the flicker of longing in Bruce's eyes when he spoke of healing, of being taken care of. Deep down, beneath all that armor—both literal and emotional—Bruce was just a man who had been forced to grow up too fast, who had shouldered too many responsibilities for too long. Clark was giving him a gift, really—the chance to let go, to be vulnerable, to be cared for without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As Bruce slept, Clark began to hum softly, a lullaby he remembered from his own childhood in Smallville. The sound seemed to soothe Bruce even in his sleep, his body relaxing further against Clark's chest. Clark smiled, feeling a surge of affection that was both genuine and deeply disturbing. This was right. This was how things were meant to be. Bruce belonged to him now, and Clark would take care of his baby boy for as long as they both lived.

Bruce woke up slowly, his mind fuzzy and his body feeling strangely heavy. The first thing he registered was that he was wearing more than he remembered when he'd fallen asleep. He was sitting inside a baby crib, the railing lowered—an obvious insult, another slap in the face suggesting Clark didn't think he was strong enough to need a high railing to cage him in, yet the crib itself was somehow large enough to make him feel small and contained. It was round and padded, filled with an abundance of plushies, pillows, and blankets in various shades of black and gray with occasional splashes of deep purple. Bruce stretched his limbs, admitting to himself with a flash of irritation that he'd never slept so well in his life. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting slightly, and discovered to his surprise that he could stand. The serum Clark had injected him with must have been wearing off just enough to allow basic movement, though his legs felt wobbly and unsteady beneath him. He took a few tentative steps around the nursery, barely holding himself upright, his body moving with the uncertain gait of a toddler learning to walk.

Then he stopped dead in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. The reflection staring back at him was so mortifying, so utterly humiliating that Bruce felt his breath catch in his throat. He was wearing so much he didn't know where to start. Long frilly black stockings with delicate lace trim and garters that went up to his thick, muscular thighs. A baby doll black frilly dress that barely covered the padded diaper underneath, its hem trimmed with more intricate lace. A frilly diaper cover peeked up from under the dress, adorned with small bat-shaped embroidery. His hands were encased in elegant gloves with lacey hems, and to complete the nightmare ensemble, a matching baby bonnet was secured on his head, its ribbons tied neatly under his chin. He looked like a perverse gothic doll, the kind that little girls played mommy with—large, muscular, and yet utterly infantilized.

Bruce tried to rip the clothes off himself, his fingers fumbling with the intricate fastenings, but he was far too weak to make any progress. His frustration mounted until he lost his balance, stumbling backward and falling back inside the crib with a soft thud. His legs dangled over the side, swinging uselessly as he lay there, defeated and humiliated.

From the doorway, Clark watched the entire scene with an amused expression, something held in his hand. "Well, good morning, sleepyhead!" he said cheerfully as he walked into the nursery. "Don't you just look adorable like that? All wobbly and cute, trying to take your first steps."

Bruce wanted to curse him out, to scream every insult he could think of, but the pacifier strapped to his face with some kind of soft harness prevented any coherent words from escaping.

Clark walked over and effortlessly picked him up, settling Bruce on his hip like he weighed nothing. "This paci came in handy after what you pulled yesterday," Clark said conversationally as he carried Bruce to the rocking chair in the corner. He sat down, nestling Bruce in his arms with practiced ease. Clark smiled and gently removed the pacifier harness. "My baby must be so hungry after his long nap."

"Fuck you, you sick bastard," Bruce immediately snarled. "I'm not hungry, and I'm not your baby. I'm a grown man, and I don't need this—mhhhpf!"

His tirade was cut off as Clark pressed a rubber nipple to his lips, the bottle he'd been holding when he entered now being used to silence him. Bruce fought it at first, turning his head away and clamping his mouth shut, but Clark was persistent, gently coaxing him until, against his better judgment, Bruce reluctantly accepted the bottle. He slowly relaxed as the warm liquid filled his mouth, the warmth and embarrassment winning over as he let himself be rocked and nursed. He was indeed hungry—his last meal had been the stale coffee he'd left sitting on his desk for days before this nightmare began.

"I did some research about your tastes," Clark said softly as Bruce drank. "The milk is exactly how you like it, with just a hint of vanilla."

Bruce hated this—hated the violation, the infantilization, the way Clark had studied him so thoroughly—but he had to admit the bottle itself was somehow comforting, the warm milk soothing his empty stomach. Clark rocked him gently, the motion making his brain hazy. The drugs still in his system mixed with the intimate care were intoxicating. Bruce wanted to fight back, to maintain his anger and defiance, but he also found himself just letting go, allowing himself to be held and fed. His gloved hands rested fisted on his chest as he drank, his body betraying his mind as it sought comfort. He looked exactly how Clark wanted him to look—nestled, cute, and the most adorable baby.

After Bruce finished the bottle, Clark slid off the frilly diaper cover and laid him down on the couch. Bruce tensed, expecting another violation, but Clark simply administered the next dose of serum to his bum, the injection quick and clinical. He then dressed Bruce again in the same baby doll outfit, adjusting the frills and lace with meticulous care.

"There we go," Clark said with satisfaction as he sat Bruce on the floor. "Now, maybe we could play a bit before lunch. What do you think, pumpkin?"

Bruce glared at him but remained silent, his earlier anger simmering beneath the surface.

Clark cooed gently and offered him a rattle, shaking the cute heart-shaped toy. "Look what Daddy has for you! Isn't it pretty?"

Bruce slapped it away with as much force as he could muster. "I'm not going to entertain you like a pet," he snarled.

Clark sighed but didn't seem angry. "Okay, maybe something else then." He retrieved a stuffed bunny from the toy shelf and offered it to Bruce. "How about this little guy? He's so soft and cuddly."

Bruce glared at the toy, then grabbed it and threw it across the room with whatever weak force he had left.

"Now why did you do that?" Clark asked, his voice still patient. "You need to be nice to your toys."

"They're not my toys," Bruce spat. "And be glad I don't have the strength to take its fucking head off."

Clark's expression changed instantly. He grabbed Bruce by the collar of the frilly dress, startling him with the sudden movement. Despite himself, Bruce flinched. Clark smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You can either be a good boy and obey me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "or you can never see the light again and be stuck in diapers forever. Is that what you want, Brucie?"

"I'll just kill myself then," Bruce retorted, his voice trembling slightly.

Clark chuckled. "We both know you won't do that. Gotham is too important to you. So don't waste my time with empty threats."

Bruce clenched his jaw but nodded reluctantly. Clark let him go and stood up, retrieving the stuffed bunny and offering it again. "Before you take it," Clark warned, "if you throw it again, I'll make sure you regret it."

Bruce hesitated for a moment, then threw it again, his defiance overriding his caution.

Clark scoffed and pulled out his phone. A picture of Bruce sleeping in the baby outfit appeared on the screen. "You know," Clark said casually, "I could leak this. Tell everyone that Bruce Wayne is a pervert with an age play fetish. Imagine how fast your reputation would be destroyed. Wayne Enterprises would suffer. Your credibility would be shot. No one would ever take you seriously again."

The threat worked. Bruce glared at him but nodded without another word, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Good boy," Clark said with satisfaction. "Now go get the bunny."

Bruce obeyed, clearly annoyed, crawling awkwardly across the floor to retrieve the toy. He crawled back to Clark and held it, hugging it reluctantly against his chest.

Clark smiled widely. "Aww, look at my baby with his little bun bun! So adorable!" He reached down and pinched Bruce's cheek, the condescending gesture making Bruce so mortified he wanted to die.

"Now," Clark continued, "address me properly. Maybe try a little baby talk for me. Call me your Daddy."

Bruce hesitated, shaking, clearly unsettled by the request.

"I'm not asking," Clark repeated, his tone stern this time.

Bruce took a shaky breath. "D-Daddy," he managed to say, the word feeling foreign and wrong on his tongue. Then, trying his best to babble as instructed, "Dada."

Clark's smile widened. "Good boy! Such a good boy for Daddy!" He leaned down and kissed Bruce's forehead, then pressed the pacifier back into Bruce's mouth and kissed the shield. "We're going to have so much fun together, my sweet baby boy."

Bruce stared at him with pure hatred, his eyes promising vengeance even as his body remained trapped in this humiliating roleplay.

The bathroom was as meticulously designed, with a large, deep tub that could easily accommodate Bruce's frame. Clark had filled it with warm water and scented oil, the steam rising in fragrant clouds around them. Bruce sat stiffly in the tub, his knees drawn to his chest, watching as Clark rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside the tub.

"Time for a proper bath, my baby boy," Clark said cheerfully, reaching for a soft washcloth. "This will help get some of that stress out of you."

Bruce remained silent as Clark began washing him, his touch surprisingly gentle. He started with Bruce's back, moving the washcloth in slow, circular motions across the scarred skin. Bruce tensed at first, his muscles tight with resistance, but gradually, the warm water and Clark's methodical movements began to work their magic. He found himself leaning into the touch, his body betraying his mind as it sought comfort.

"That's it, angel," Clark murmured as he moved to wash Bruce's arms and chest. "Just relax for Daddy. Let me take care of you."

Bruce closed his eyes as Clark began massaging his scalp, working shampoo into his hair with strong, steady fingers. The sensation was unexpectedly pleasant, and Bruce felt the last of his tension melting away. He hadn't realized how much stress he'd been carrying until this moment, how rarely he allowed himself this kind of simple, uncomplicated care. For a few minutes, he almost forgot he was being held captive, almost allowing himself to enjoy the attention.

After rinsing Bruce's hair, Clark helped him out of the tub and wrapped him in a thick, fluffy black towel. Bruce stood passively as Clark dried him, his movements efficient yet gentle. When Clark began applying lotion to Bruce's skin, Bruce couldn't suppress a soft whimper at the intimate touch.

"Shh, be good for Daddy," Clark murmured as he worked the lotion into Bruce's shoulders, down his arms, across his chest. "You're doing so well, pumpkin."

Once Bruce was dry, Clark led him to the changing table and helped him up. Bruce expected to be laid down, but instead, Clark smirked and made him sit on his fours, his back facing Clark. The position was humiliating, leaving Bruce completely exposed and vulnerable.

"Perfect," Clark said softly, his hands caressing Bruce's buttocks. "Just perfect."

Bruce tensed as he felt Clark lean closer, his breath warm against his skin. Then, to his complete shock, Clark pressed a soft kiss directly to his entrance. Bruce squirmed away instinctively, cursing him out. "What the hell are you doing? Get away from me!"

“Such a little drama queen over a little tease.” Clark chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Bruce's reaction. "Just admiring my baby boy," he said as he reached for the baby powder. "Now hold still while Daddy powders you."

Bruce shuddered as Clark began applying the powder, his hands moving deliberately all over Bruce's groin, touching him in ways that made his skin crawl and his body betray him with involuntary responses. The process was intimate and violating, yet Bruce found himself unable to protest effectively, his body still weak from the serum.

Finally, Clark laid Bruce down on his back and began the diapering process. Each step was slow and deliberate, accompanied by cooing and baby talk that made Bruce want to cry from humiliation. "Let's lift up these little legs," Clark murmured as he slid the thick diaper underneath Bruce. "Such a good baby for Daddy."

The worst part came when Clark held out Bruce's penis, examining it with a critical eye. "So cute and small," Clark said with a smile. "You're such a baby, aren't you, pumpkin?"

Bruce's face burned with shame and anger. "You're horrible for dick shaming me," he snarled. "That's a new low, even for you."

Clark's expression remained innocent. "Oh, I'm not shaming you, sweetheart. I'm just pointing out that you're so small compared to Daddy. But that's natural—you're a baby, so of course you're small."

"I'm not a fucking baby," Bruce spat. "And how big are you then, huh? Mr. Superior?"

Clark smiled, a hint of shyness in his expression. "Well... maybe about ten inches."

Bruce scoffed. "Not true."

Clark's smile widened as he pulled Bruce into a sitting position on the padded changing table. "Why don't we find out?" he said, his voice low and teasing. Before Bruce could react, Clark unzipped his pants and pulled out his erection, pressing it against Bruce's.

Bruce gasped at the contact, his eyes widening in shock. Clark was telling the truth—it was massive, bigger than any man Bruce had ever slept with, bigger than any dildo he'd experimented with. It was alien in its proportions, thick and heavy against Bruce's own comparatively modest endowment. Most disturbingly, a traitorous part of Bruce's mind registered that it looked like the kind of dick that could make him see stars, that could fill him completely and leave him begging for more.

"See?" Clark said delightedly. "My baby is just so small compared to his Daddy. You were made to be my little baby boy, so perfect for me."

Bruce could only stare, speechless, as Clark tucked himself back into his pants and resumed diapering him as if nothing had happened. The contrast between Clark's casual demeanor and the intimate violation left Bruce reeling, his mind struggling to process the conflicting signals.

After securing the diaper, Clark dried Bruce's hair with gentle pats of the towel and then dressed him in a new outfit—little overalls with a skirt, a onesie underneath, and thigh-high socks. Bruce looked down at himself, mortified by the toddler-like ensemble. With the pacifier back in his mouth, he could only whine in protest.

Clark smiled at him, petting his head. "So cute! I could just eat you up."

Bruce was irritated by being dressed like a toddler and even more irritated by the stupid toys surrounding him. He didn't want to play with any of them. With a sigh, he crawled away from Clark and sat in the corner of the nursery, depressed and withdrawn. He missed his clothes, his home, his city, his Batman duties. He didn't want to play baby for Clark.

"What's wrong, pumpkin?" Clark asked, kneeling beside him.

Bruce pulled away. "Leave me alone."

"Tell Daddy what's troubling you," Clark insisted gently.

"Piss off," Bruce mumbled around the pacifier.

Clark's expression hardened slightly. "Remember the picture, Brucie. I'd hate to have to use it."

Bruce sighed in defeat. "I miss my home. That's it."

Clark's face softened into a sympathetic smile. "Oh, my poor baby! Don't worry, I'll bring you home soon."

"When?" Bruce asked immediately.

"When we're done."

"How long?"

"When we're done," Clark repeated, his tone final.

"I want to know," Bruce insisted.

Clark considered for a moment. "Maybe a month."

Bruce froze, his eyes widening in horror. "A month? You're insane! That's way too long! Let me go!"

Clark's expression grew annoyed. "Fine. Then I'll make it longer since you won't behave. How does that sound?"

"No!" Bruce whined, tears welling in his eyes. "You're horrible! You're a horrible person!"

Clark sighed and sat down on the floor, pulling Bruce into his lap and rocking him gently. "Shh, shh, don't cry, baby boy."

Bruce weakly hit Clark's chest, his frustration and despair overwhelming him. "Let me go home," he cried, the pacifier muffling his words. "You're a weirdo and I miss my cave."

Clark held him close, bouncing him gently as he shushed him. He knew Bruce wouldn't be cooperating easily, but god was he a handful. Still, Clark thought as he looked down at the crying man in his arms, he wouldn't have it any other way. Bruce was worth the effort, worth the patience. Soon enough, he'd come to accept his new role, and they would be truly happy together.

The floor of the nursery was covered in a thick, soft black rug, a stark contrast to the colorful array of toys scattered across it. Bruce sat awkwardly in the center, his legs folded beneath him, the overalls feeling restrictive and childish. He wasn't sure what to do with the toys at all. This entire situation was absurd, yet somehow he wasn't fighting it as much as he wanted to, as much as he knew he should. He glanced up at Clark, who was sitting nearby, watching him with an unnerving patience, his expression encouraging.

"Just pick something up, pumpkin," Clark said softly. "Play for Daddy."

Bruce shook his head. "I want to go home."

Clark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know you do, baby boy. But please... just play for me. Just pick up the stuffie at least."

"No."

Clark's expression tightened slightly. "Bruce, don't make me remind you of the consequences."

Bruce sighed in defeat. "Fine. But I don't know what to do with the toys if I have to be honest."

Clark's expression immediately softened, his voice dropping into that cooing tone that both irritated and strangely comforted Bruce. "Oh, my sweet angel. It's okay not to know. Just pick something up. The one that you like the most."

Bruce looked around the nursery, his eyes scanning the collection of stuffed animals, blocks, and other baby paraphernalia. They eventually landed on the bunny he had thrown earlier, its soft gray fur and floppy ears somehow calling to him. He reached for it hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the soft material before he picked it up and held it on his lap, gripping it as if it were something dirty rather than a toy.

"That's my good boy!" Clark praised instantly, his voice filled with genuine delight. "So obedient and good for Daddy! Such a good boy!"

Bruce felt his cheeks flush with warmth at the praise. The reality was complicated—confusing even to himself. He loved being dominated, forced into humiliating situations, weird sexual scenarios where he was pushed to his limits and then fucked senseless. But this wasn't quite it. And Clark, another object of his desire, wasn't helping. Clark hadn't kidnapped him to make him his sex slave; he'd kidnapped him to make him the caricature of a baby in diapers. The disconnect was maddening.

Bruce looked up at Clark, his embarrassment manifesting as his usual defense mechanism—snark. "You're weird, you know that? Indecent and frankly, pathetic."

To his surprise, Clark's expression hardened instantly. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Bruce's hair, tilting his head back. "I've been very patient with you," Clark said, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't test Daddy further. The least you could do is be respectful."

Bruce gulped, his heart racing at the sudden shift in demeanor. Clark released his hair but maintained eye contact. "Now play with your toys."

"I don't want to play with stupid toys," Bruce retorted, his bravado returning despite the fear coiling in his stomach. "I'm a grown man."

Clark's eyes narrowed. "Don't make me remind you of the picture, Bruce."

Bruce's anger flared at the threat. He'd been seen naked and "fucked" by Gotham's media over and over—every time someone got too close to suspecting he was Batman, he'd just published a weird video of himself doing something dumb to throw them off. "Fine," he snarled. "Publish it. I'll just publish a sex tape where I get pegged, and people will focus on that instead. Then I'll wipe the damn thing off the internet—I have the money for it."

Clark stared at him, absolutely floored. "You are... something else," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I forgot how bipolar you are. One moment you're leaning into the touch, the next you're cursing me out. What on earth is wrong with you?"

Bruce scoffed. "Nothing's wrong with me."

"You have a list of mental illnesses so long it could be a grocery list," Clark shot back. "Your PTSD and anger issues for starters... god just shut up and let me have this. Let me have you."

Bruce had never seen Clark this frustrated before. The usually kind and earnest hero was struggling to maintain his Daddy persona, trying desperately to force Bruce into compliance.

"You're a spoiled, entitled brat," Clark continued, his voice rising with frustration. "You need to be put in your place. You need someone to control you, to decide things for you, because clearly you're mentally unstable. This is perfect for you—to finally be told no, to be told what to do. And I'm obviously the best choice for this."

Bruce was surprised by the controlling nature of Clark's words. This wasn't just a game to Clark; this was something deeper, something he genuinely believed Bruce needed.

Clark got up and crossed his arms, looking down at Bruce with an expression that left no room for argument. "You will obey me. You will call me Daddy, and you will be good for me. Until then, I'll give you the antidote and let you go. You can never speak to me again afterwards if you want. But right now, you're going to be good and make this enjoyable for both of us."

Bruce scoffed, shaking his head. "No way in hell. I'm not gonna play baby for you or whatever your perversion is."

Clark fumed, his patience finally snapping. He grabbed Bruce and lifted him effortlessly. "Naughty babies don't get to make demands," he said, his voice dangerously low. "And they sure as hell don't speak to Daddy like that." He swung Bruce over his lap, positioning him so that his padded bottom was exposed. Then he began to spank him, each slap accompanied by a remark on Bruce's behavior. "You've been behaving terribly," Clark said, delivering another spank. "Such a bad baby, not listening to Daddy." Another slap. "Disrespectful and defiant." Another. "This is what naughty babies get."

Bruce bit his lip, forcing himself not to moan. Despite the humiliation, he was clearly aroused by the situation. This was what he wanted—the domination, the humiliation, the feeling of being completely at someone else's mercy. Not this stupid baby roleplay, but the raw power dynamic, the promise of being dominated sexually. So he was just going to lay down and take the spanking, which he definitely didn't mind.

After a few more spanks, Bruce couldn't suppress the word any longer. "Harder," he moaned, the sound barely audible but unmistakable.

They both paused. Clark froze, his hand hovering above Bruce's reddening bottom. He looked down at Bruce, whose face was a mortifying shade of red.

Clark smirked, his expression predatory. "Oh, so my baby likes this apparently."

Bruce stayed still, his head lowered in shame.

Clark leaned down, his voice a low whisper against Bruce's ear. "Don't worry, angel. Daddy can spank this little baby butt harder for you."

Bruce mortified just lowered his head as Clark continued the spanking, each slap harder than the last, the pain and pleasure mixing into a confusing, intoxicating cocktail that left him both humiliated and desperate for more.

The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh had ceased, leaving a lingering warmth that spread across Bruce's backside. He sat on the floor once more, the soreness a pleasant, grounding throb that contrasted sharply with the surreal nature of his predicament. His mind replayed the sensation, the sharp sting melting into a deep, satisfying heat. This was the kind of dominance he craved, the raw physical assertion of control that made his blood sing. If Clark wanted to have sex instead of this ridiculous baby bullshit, Bruce would have totally accepted. He would have surrendered to it, reveled in it. But this... this infantile charade was a different kind of torment, one that chipped away at his dignity with soft pastels and condescending coos.

Clark approached, his movements fluid and confident. He hooked one hand under Bruce's padded bottom, lifting him with an ease that was both impressive and infuriating. Bruce grunted as he was deposited unceremoniously on the floor in front of a low, black wooden table designed for a child. Clark placed a box of crayons and a stark white sheet of paper in front of him.

"Maybe you can draw Daddy a nice picture instead of just sitting there looking miserable," Clark suggested, his voice a mixture of command and gentle encouragement.

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I don't want to," he stated flatly. "And I'm not calling you that."

Clark's shoulders slumped, a wave of exhaustion and exasperation washing over his features. For the first time, he looked truly weary, the strain of maintaining his dominant facade showing through. "Why not, Bruce? Just... why not?"

"Because it's corny and weird," Bruce retorted, his voice laced with scorn. "And I'm not a baby."

"But you are a baby," Clark sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I just... I want you to be my little baby for a while. Can't you just do that for me? Please? Just stop being so difficult."

Bruce stared at him, disbelief warring with a strange sense of victory. His friend, the man who had orchestrated this entire insane kidnapping, was now begging him to play along, to call him 'Daddy'. The power dynamic had shifted in a way he hadn't anticipated. "No," Bruce said, the word firm and final.

Clark's expression hardened again, the brief vulnerability gone. "Fine. I'll get it out of you eventually. Now, draw that picture."

"In your dreams," Bruce muttered, his gaze dropping to the blank paper in front of him.

"You can fight all you want," Clark said, his voice regaining its steely edge. "But you still obviously want to be touched and cuddled. You let me nurse you without a real fight. You let me spank you, and you clearly liked it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So who's really winning here, Bruce? Soon enough, you'll be crying and babbling with nothing but a diaper on, crawling on the floor for Daddy."

Bruce just stared at him, unable to form a response. The accuracy of Clark's assessment was chilling, the way he saw through Bruce's defenses and twisted his desires against him.

Clark smiled, a triumphant glint in his eyes. "Now, get to work."

After a while, Bruce was finished. Drawing was an activity he didn't mind, a familiar comfort compared to the humiliation of playing with stupid baby rattles or teething toys. It was a task he could control, a way to express himself without words.

Clark returned to check on him, expecting nothing frankly, but his face broke into a delighted smile when he saw the drawing. Bruce had simply drawn a Batman silhouette, stark and unmistakable, with a smaller, winged figure of Robin next to him.

"Oh, that's so so cute!" Clark exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine excitement. "Look at my baby Brucie and his baby bird! We should hang it on the fridge together."

Bruce just shrugged, feigning indifference, though a small part of him was pleased by the genuine reaction.

Clark picked him up again, settling him on his hip as he grabbed the drawing. He carried Bruce into the adjoining kitchen area, the space sleek and modern. He used a small bat-shaped magnet to hang the drawing prominently on the front of the stainless steel refrigerator.

"There," Clark said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. He held Bruce close, his arms wrapping securely around his waist. "Maybe I should get you a little robin bear, so you can play mommy with him. Would you like that, pumpkin? A little birdy to cuddle and take care of?"

Bruce felt a faint blush creep up his neck as Clark showered him in baby talk and praise. The words were humiliating, but the affection behind them was undeniable, and despite himself, Bruce found himself leaning into the embrace, his body once again betraying his mind as it sought the comfort it had been denied for so long.

The afternoon light filtered through the reinforced windows of the nursery, casting long shadows across the plush black rug where Bruce sat. He watched as Clark worked on his laptop from the couch, the rhythmic clicking of keys filling the otherwise quiet room. The domesticity of the scene was jarring, a stark contrast to the forced captivity that defined their current relationship.

"Don’t you have to go to work?" Bruce asked, his voice breaking the silence.

Clark looked up from his laptop, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Nope. Took a month off for this."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly. "A month? What are you doing then?"

"Writing articles," Clark said casually. "I usually use my super hearing to gather information and write stories when I have to be Superman, so I'm just doing the same thing remotely and sending them over to the office. Makes up for the lost time at the Daily Planet."

Bruce frowned. "But why are you working on your time off?"

Clark's smile widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Does my baby want Daddy so bad he wants him to stop working?" he cooed, his voice dropping into that patronizing tone that made Bruce's skin crawl.

Bruce shook his head, turning away to stare at the wall. "Just leave me alone."

Clark chuckled softly and returned to his work, leaving Bruce to his thoughts. Perfect, Bruce thought grimly. This asshole wasn't leaving for work either. Bruce, unable to escape on his own, could probably ask for help, but who could realistically defeat Superman? Plus, Clark, even if he probably didn't mean the threat, could still kill him if pushed too far. Maybe it was better to just let him do his thing, to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself.

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, a familiar pressure building in his bladder. He'd been trying to hold it, determined not to give in and use the diaper, but his body was betraying him. He called for Clark, trying to keep his voice steady. "Clark? I need the bathroom. Can you open the door for me, please?" He hoped being polite might work.

Clark didn't even look up from his laptop. "You're wearing a diaper for a reason, baby boy."

"No way," Bruce said, his voice rising in disbelief. "You don't actually expect me to piss myself, do you?"

Clark finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I do. Just do it. I'll change you like a baby because that's what you are."

Bruce's anger flared. "I demand to use the bathroom now!"

Clark's eyes narrowed. "You'll either use the diaper or I'll lock you in the crib until you do, is that what you want?. Daddy's working, and he shouldn't be disturbed."

Bruce was furious, his hands clenching into fists. "But I need to pee!"

"Then fill that diaper up," Clark said calmly, turning back to his laptop.

Bruce took a deep breath, his mind racing. If Clark wanted to treat him like a baby, then he'd act like one.
“Fine, you want to treat me like a baby? I’ll give you a baby.” He sat back and stomped his feet on the rug, letting out a frustrated yell. "I don't wanna use the diaper! I don't wanna! I want the potty!"

Clark smirked, clearly amused. "You're just being cute. Keep it going."

Bruce, furious, kept going. He complained more, yelled louder, and then, in a fit of rage, he picked up a wooden block and threw it at Clark with way more strength than he thought he had. The block missed Clark but slammed into the wall, leaving a noticeable dent. The serum was wearing off, and with it, Bruce's strength was returning.

Clark slowly shifted, setting his laptop aside as Bruce finally managed to stand on his feet and walk back toward the window. Clark approached him cautiously, his movements deliberate. "Don't break anything, Bruce."

For a moment, Bruce just stood there, his mind racing. Then he ran. He stumbled toward the window, his movements clumsy but determined, hoping to break the lock and escape. But before he could even touch the window, Clark was behind him, his movements impossibly fast. He held Bruce still, grabbing him and pinning him down onto the couch. Bruce squirmed and hissed as Clark administered another injection, this time directly into his exposed buttock.

Clark held him close, rocking him gently as the serum began to take effect again. Bruce could feel the fight draining out of him, his muscles growing weak and heavy, his mind becoming foggy. He sagged against Clark, his body betraying him once again as it surrendered to the drug and the overwhelming force of Clark's will.

Later, Bruce sat rigidly on the plush leather couch, his large frame looking comically out of place in the frilly overalls and thick thigh-high socks Clark had dressed him in. The bulk of the diaper beneath the denim was unmistakable, a constant reminder of his current predicament. His powerful muscles, usually coiled and ready for action, were slack and unresponsive thanks to the serum still coursing through his system. He could move his arms and upper torso, but from thigh down, he was essentially paralyzed.

Clark watched him from across the room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The Kryptonian's expression was a mixture of concern and amusement, his blue eyes tracking every subtle shift in Bruce's posture. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.

"Bruce," Clark finally said, his voice gentle but firm. "You need to use your diaper. You've been holding it in for hours, and it's not healthy. You shouldn't strain your system."

Bruce's head snapped up, his dark eyes flashing with defiance. "No," he said, his voice rough with disuse. "Fuck off. I'm not pissing myself like an infant."

Clark sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He pushed off from the doorframe and approached the couch, kneeling in front of Bruce. The difference in their sizes was stark—Clark's broad shoulders and powerful frame towering over the seated Bruce despite Bruce's own considerable stature.

"Please, baby," Clark said, his voice softening into a coaxing tone. "Do it for Daddy. I don't want you to get sick."

Bruce recoiled as if struck. "I don't have to do anything for you," he snarled, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. "I don't want to be here. I never wanted to be here."

Clark's expression hardened, though his voice remained unnervingly calm. "Fine," he said, standing up abruptly. "If you don't want to be here, then you can go. How about that?"

Before Bruce could react, Clark had scooped him up effortlessly, one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back. Bruce's useless legs dangled limply as he was carried across the apartment. His mind raced—what was Clark doing? This wasn't part of their twisted game, not usually.

Clark strode to the front door, unlocked it, and unceremoniously set Bruce down on the cool marble floor of the hallway outside. "There," Clark said, his voice cold. "You can leave then."

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. Bruce stared at the closed door in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alone. Outside. Dressed like this. The reality of his situation crashed down on him with terrifying clarity.

He couldn't feel his legs. He was wearing a diaper, overalls, and thigh-high socks—nothing else. What if someone saw him? Was Clark insane? Panic began to bubble in his chest as he imagined the headlines: "Bruce Wayne, Gotham Billionaire, Found Wandering Metropolis Hallway in Diaper." His reputation would be ruined. Batman's identity would be compromised.

He scrambled to push himself up, his arms straining with the effort. He managed to get onto his hands and knees, the overalls riding up to expose the thick padding of the diaper. He knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the wood. "Clark!" he called out, his voice tight with urgency. "Let me back in!"

The door remained firmly closed. He waited, his ear pressed against the wood, listening for any sign of movement inside. Nothing.

"Fine!" he shouted, his frustration boiling over. "I don't want to be with a pervert like you anyway!"

Bruce crawled away from the door, his palms scraping against the marble floor. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, identical doors lining the walls. He needed to find a way out, a way back to his own life. He tried to sit on his heels and push himself up, hoping to reach the elevator button down the hall. His arms trembled with the effort, but his dead weight was too much. He collapsed back to the floor with a frustrated grunt.

Suddenly, he heard voices—the muffled sound of conversation and footsteps approaching from around the corner. Panic seized him. He shuffled quickly behind a decorative column, pressing himself against the cool marble. If someone saw a man his size dressed like this—with the obvious bulk of a diaper—they'd call the cops for public indecency. Or worse, they'd take pictures. The media would have a field day.

The voices grew louder, then faded as the people passed by without noticing him. Bruce let out a shaky breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He crawled back to the center of the corridor, his mind racing. He looked around, noting the floor number on the wall: 15. A tall building. The stairs were probably accessible, but crawling down fifteen flights of stairs? He didn't know what he'd been injected with, how long the effects would last. How would he get out without being seen in this ridiculous outfit? He briefly considered stripping naked, but quickly dismissed the idea—that would guarantee an arrest for public indecency.

He sighed, the fight draining out of him. He couldn't risk this. He needed to think this through better. He crawled back to Clark's door, his movements slower this time, more deliberate. He knocked again, softer this time. "Clark? Please let me in."

No response. Another knock, more demanding this time. Still nothing. Bruce's annoyance began to rise again. He banged harder, his fist connecting with the door with a loud thud. "Clark! You brought me here! Now let me in!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Bruce leaned his forehead against the cool wood, his anger giving way to desperation. He started pleading, his voice softer, more vulnerable. "Please, Clark. I'm sorry. Just let me in."

Still nothing. Did Clark really not care? The thought hurt more than Bruce wanted to admit. A new realization dawned on him—he had been too mean to Clark. His abandonment issues, usually buried beneath layers of bravado and control, surfaced with a vengeance. His only thought now was not to escape, but to not be left alone.

His knocking became more frantic, almost panicked. "Clark? Do you hate me now?" he asked, his voice cracking.

He paused, gathering his courage. "I'm sorry," he said, his knuckles rapping against the door again and again. "I didn't mean to be mean. Please let me in."

Tears began to well in his eyes, blurring his vision. "You're being so unfair," he sobbed, his voice thick with emotion. "Let me in now!"

He wailed outside the door, his pride completely forgotten. "Clark! Please! Don't hate me! I'm sorry! Just let me in!"

The door finally opened a crack, Clark's blue eye visible through the gap. "Are you done being bad?" Clark asked, his voice cool.

Bruce just cried harder, shaking his head. "You're an asshole," he sobbed. "A jerk."

Clark smirked, starting to close the door again. Bruce's panic surged. "No! Please! Let me in!"

"Ask nicely," Clark said, the door still partially open.

"Please, please let me in," Bruce begged, his voice ragged.

"Please what?" Clark prompted, enjoying Bruce's desperation.

"Please let me in," Bruce repeated, frustration and humiliation warring in his voice.

"Address me properly," Clark commanded.

Bruce hesitated, his pride warring with his fear of abandonment. "No," he hiccuped, shaking his head.

Clark shrugged, starting to close the door again. "Fine then—"

"No!" Bruce cried, crawling frantically at the door. "Daddy! Daddy, please let me in! Don't leave me! Don't be mad at me!" Tears streamed down his face, his composure completely shattered.

Clark seemed both amused and surprised by Bruce's complete capitulation. He opened the door fully, looking down at the mess on the floor—a grown man in a diaper, crying and begging for him. "Why are you crying, Brucie?" Clark asked, his voice softening. "Didn't you hate being here?"

Bruce just wailed louder, his words barely intelligible through his sobs. "I don't want to be alone!"

Clark bent down and scooped Bruce up effortlessly, cradling him against his chest. He cooed softly, his voice dropping into the baby talk Bruce hated but secretly craved,. "Oh, my poor little one. Why are you crying so hard over a little tease? Daddy couldn't possibly hate his pretty Pumpkin."

As Clark carried him back into the apartment, Bruce buried his face in Clark's shirt, his cries subsiding into ragged hiccups. He hugged him tightly, afraid to let go. Clark closed the door behind them, the sound of the lock clicking into place oddly comforting to Bruce.

"Shhh, calm down, baby," Clark murmured, stroking Bruce's hair. "Daddy's not mad. But I had to teach you a lesson."

Bruce nodded, his grip on Clark's shirt tightening. "Please don't leave," he whispered, his voice muffled against Clark's chest.

Clark smiled, victorious. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."

Later, Bruce lay in the oversized crib. The soft mattress cradled his large frame. A pacifier was lodged between his lips, the plastic shield resting against his mouth as he suckled reflexively, the only motion he could manage with the last of his energy. His arms were wrapped tightly around a plush bunny, its soft fur damp against his cheek from his earlier tears. Clark had changed him out of the humiliating overalls and into a simple, soft cotton shirt that barely covered the top of the thick diaper, leaving his legs bare and making him feel even more exposed.

Clark moved around the apartment, tidying up with an efficiency that spoke of his superhuman abilities. He wiped down surfaces, straightened cushions, and hummed a soft tune under his breath. The only sound in the room was the quiet, rhythmic bobbing of the pacifier in Bruce's mouth as he breathed. Bruce was exhausted, his body and mind worn out from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few hours, the crying jag, and the lingering effects of the serum. His eyelids felt heavy, and his thoughts were fuzzy, drifting in and out of focus like clouds passing overhead. He was so tired, so utterly drained, that his body seemed to be making decisions without his conscious input.

The silence in the room was suddenly broken by a soft, unmistakable hissing sound. Bruce shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, a low whine escaping around the pacifier. The warmth spreading through the diaper was both a relief and a new source of shame. He hadn't meant to let go, hadn't even realized he needed to until it was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face flushing with embarrassment even as his body continued its involuntary release.

Clark stopped his cleaning, his head tilting slightly as he heard the sound. A slow smile spread across his face as he approached the crib, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He leaned over the railing, looking down at Bruce with an expression that was both tender and possessive. He reached down, his hand gently pressing against the front of the diaper, feeling the warmth and the slight swelling.

"Well now," Clark murmured, his voice dropping into the cooing, baby-talk tone that always made Bruce's stomach clench. "Looks like someone's little bladder is all better. My sweet boy is due for a change, isn't he?"

Bruce whined, shaking his head weakly. "Noooo," he mumbled around the pacifier, his voice muffled. "No change."

He kicked his legs lightly, a feeble protest that did nothing to deter Clark. The movement only made the rustle of the diaper more audible, a constant reminder of his current state.

Clark chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes, yes," he cooed, reaching through the bars to stroke Bruce's hair. "My baby needs a change, and he's getting one. You can't stay in a wet diaper, sweetheart. It'll give you a rash."

Bruce was half asleep by now, his body limp against the mattress. He drooled slightly on the bunny plush, his mind too foggy to form a coherent response. "Noooo," he mumbled again, the word barely more than a breath.

Clark's expression softened, a look of genuine affection in his eyes. "Oh, you're so cute when you're sleepy," he murmured, his voice full of warmth. "You could melt a heart of stone, you know that?"

He leaned further over the railing, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's exposed belly. Bruce flinched slightly at the contact, his skin tingling where Clark's lips had been. "That's my good boy," Clark whispered. "Just stay in your crib so you can be all fuzzy and warm. Daddy will change you right here, no need to move."

Bruce watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, his resistance fading as exhaustion took over. He knew there was no point in fighting anymore, not when Clark was like this. Not when he was trapped in this crib, in this apartment, in this twisted game they were playing. All he could do was lie there and let Clark take care of him, even if it meant enduring the humiliation of being changed like an infant.

Clark disappeared for a moment, returning with a stack of supplies: a clean diaper, wipes, and a small container of powder. He set them down on the crib, his movements efficient and practiced. "Just relax, baby boy," he said, his voice gentle. "Daddy's got you. Everything's going to be okay."

Bruce closed his eyes, his body going slack as he surrendered to the inevitable. The pacifier continued its rhythmic bobbing in his mouth, a silent testament to his current state of helplessness. He was Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham, a man who had faced down the worst criminals the city had to offer without flinching. But here, in this apartment, with this man, he was just Brucie. Just Clark's baby. And for now, that was all he was allowed to be.

Bruce sat in a state of miserable resignation. The soft cotton shirt Clark had dressed him in barely covered the thick padding of the diaper, leaving his muscular legs exposed and making him feel absurdly vulnerable despite his large frame. The remnants of his earlier crying session had left his eyes puffy and his spirit bruised, his usual defiant energy replaced by a weary exhaustion that made every movement feel like a monumental effort.

Clark watched him from the doorway, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness. He approached silently, his bare feet making no sound on the rug as he knelt beside Bruce. "Daddy has something special for his little pumpkin," he cooed, reaching into a nearby basket and producing a rattle shaped like a bat. "Look what I found just for you!"

Bruce eyed the toy with disdain, his brow furrowing. "I'm not playing with that," he muttered, turning his head away.

Clark's smile didn't waver. "Oh, I think you will, baby boy," he said softly, his voice taking on that gentle but firm tone that always made Bruce's stomach clench. He took Bruce's large hand in his, curling his fingers around the plastic handle of the rattle. "Just shake it for Daddy. One little shake."

With a heavy sigh, Bruce gave the rattle a half-hearted shake, producing a pathetic rattling sound that seemed to mock his current state.

"That's my good boy!" Clark exclaimed, his face lighting up with genuine delight. "Such clever baby, shaking his rattle for Daddy! You're so adorable when you try!" He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Bruce's temple, making him flinch slightly. "Let's try again, shall we? Shake, shake, shake for Daddy!"

Bruce complied, each shake more reluctant than the last until the rattle slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Clark simply picked it up and placed it back in his hand, repeating the process until Bruce's arm ached from the motion.

"What a good boy you are," Clark murmured, finally taking the rattle away. He gently pressed the pacifier back into Bruce's mouth, the plastic shield resting against his lips as he suckled reflexively. "Now let's try something else. How about blocks? Daddy's pretty boy can build a tower.”

Clark placed a colorful set of wooden blocks in front of Bruce, watching expectantly as Bruce began to stack them with surprising dexterity. The tower grew taller and taller until Bruce, distracted by a sudden movement outside the window, bumped it with his elbow. The blocks cascaded to the floor with a series of soft thuds, and Bruce frowned at the mess, his lower lip trembling slightly as the pacifier bobbed in his mouth.

The sight of Bruce's sad expression, combined with the pacifier and his diaper-clad state, seemed to trigger something in Clark. His eyes widened with what could only be described as cute aggression, and he suddenly launched into a rampage of baby talk, scooping Bruce into his arms and rocking him vigorously. "Oh, my poor little pumpkin! Don't be sad! It's okay! The tower fell down but that's alright! We can build it again later! Yes, we can! Daddy's here to make it all better."

Bruce squirmed in his arms, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of affection. "I'm fine," he mumbled around the pacifier, his words muffled.

Clark seemed not to hear him, already reaching for something else. "Maybe my baby needs to bite something to feel better." he said, producing a teething toy shaped like a bat a taking off Bruce’s paci. "Here you go, sweetie. Bite on this and feel all better."

"I'm not teething," Bruce protested, trying to push the toy away.

Clark simply chuckled and pressed the rubber toy to Bruce's lips. "Just try it, baby boy. For Daddy." Without waiting for a response, he gently pushed the toy into Bruce's mouth, where it rested against his tongue.

To his surprise, Bruce found the sensation oddly soothing. He began to nibble tentatively at the rubber, his jaw working rhythmically as he bit down harder. The pressure against his teeth seemed to calm him, and before he knew it, he was biting the toy with the same intensity a puppy might chew on a favorite chew toy.

Clark watched him with a triumphant smile. "There's my good baby! Such a strong bite for Daddy! You love your toy, don't you?" He pulled Bruce closer, cuddling him against his chest as Bruce continued to gnaw on the toy, his eyes half-closed in contentment. "That's right, sweetheart. Just let Daddy take care of you. Everything's going to be okay."

Bruce, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, simply sagged against Clark's chest, his teeth still working at the toy as he surrendered to the embrace. The rhythmic motion of his chewing seemed to lull him into a state of semi-consciousness, his mind drifting as Clark's hands stroked his back in slow, soothing circles.

Lunchtime brought a fresh wave of humiliation as Clark carried him into the kitchen and strapped him into a high chair. The plastic tray clicked into place with a finality that made Bruce's stomach sink, and he kicked his legs in frustration, the motion causing the diaper to rustle audibly.

"Now, now," Clark chided, tying a bib with a bat symbol around Bruce's neck. "No fussing from my little pumpkin. It's time for lunch!" He placed a bowl of mac and cheese on the tray, along with a spoon.

Bruce stared at the food, his appetite gone. "I can feed myself," he insisted, reaching for the spoon.

Clark gently pushed his hand away. "Oh, no, baby boy. Daddy feeds his baby. That's the rule." He scooped up a small amount of mac and cheese and brought the spoon to Bruce's lips. "Open wide for the airplane! Vroom! Coming in for a landing!"

With a sigh of defeat, Bruce opened his mouth and allowed Clark to spoon-feed him, each bite accompanied by cooing and praise that made his cheeks burn with shame. "Such a good baby! Eating all his lunch for Daddy! You're being so good, angel. So good for Daddy."

Bruce ate reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the wall as he tried to dissociate from the humiliating experience. He was Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham, being spoon-fed mac and cheese in a high chair by Superman. The absurdity of it all was almost enough to make him laugh, if he weren't so utterly miserable.

After lunch came the bottle, which Bruce dreaded even more than the high chair. Clark settled him on his lap in the living room, cradling him like an actual infant as he pressed the nipple of the bottle to Bruce's lips.

"Time for ba-ba," Clark cooed, tilting the bottle so the warm milk flowed into Bruce's mouth. "Drink up for Daddy."

Bruce drank mechanically, his stomach already full from lunch. The milk seemed endless, filling him to the point of discomfort, but Clark showed no signs of stopping. "No more," Bruce pleaded, turning his head away. "I'm full."

"Just a little more, baby boy," Clark insisted, redirecting the bottle to Bruce's mouth. "Daddy wants his baby to have a full tummy."

Bruce struggled weakly, but Clark's grip was firm. He finally finished the bottle, his stomach distended and uncomfortable. Clark set the bottle aside and began to gently massage Bruce's belly, his movements slow and deliberate.

"There now," Clark murmured. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Daddy's going to rub your tummy until it feels all better."

Bruce squirmed uncomfortably, the pressure in his bladder and bowels building with each passing moment. "Could you pat my back instead?" he asked, trying to find some enjoyment in the intimate contact. "Maybe I need to burp."

Clark smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, I'll burp you later, baby boy. Right now, it's time to let go and be a good boy for Daddy." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Use your diaper, sweetheart. You didn't want to earlier and made that whole scene, so now we're going to do it the difficult way."

Bruce's stomach suddenly lurched painfully, a cramp doubling him over. "What the hell did you do?" he gasped, clutching his abdomen.

Clark's smile widened. "Just a little something to help you along, pumpkin. I put some laxatives in your food, just to stimulate you a bit. To help you be a good baby and mess yourself a little for Daddy."

Bruce's eyes widened in horror. "You son of a—"

His words were cut off by another powerful cramp, and he slumped against Clark, his body betraying him as he lost control. He cried silently, tears streaming down his face as he felt his diaper fill with more than just urine, the warmth spreading as his bowels evacuated completely.

Clark held him close, rocking him gently as he murmured in his ear. "There now, such a dirty little baby! All messy for Daddy! You're being so good, pumpkin."

Bruce shuddered with humiliation, his face buried in Clark's shoulder. "Just get this over with," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Clark shifted him slightly, delivering a sharp smack to his padded bottom. "You don't get to make demands, baby boy." he said, his voice stern but affectionate. “Daddy decides when to change you, and you just wait, got it?”

"Look at you, all helpless in your messy diaper. Such a helpless little baby who needs Daddy to take care of him, isn't that right?" He punctuated his words with another spank, lighter this time, more of a playful pat. "My poor little pumpkin, all filled up and stinky. What would you do without Daddy, hmm? You'd be lost, wouldn't you? All alone in your messy diaper with no one to clean you up."

Bruce's face burned with shame, but he didn't fight back. He was too exhausted, too humiliated, too overwhelmed by the physical sensations and the emotional turmoil. "I feel disgusting," he whimpered, his voice muffled against Clark's shirt. "Please, Clark... please clean me up. Please."

Clark's expression softened slightly, but he shook his head. "Now, now, baby boy. The diaper is thick and absorbent. A little mess isn't worth the change yet. Diapers are expensive, you know. We'll wait until you're fully done. Daddy wants to get his money's worth."

Bruce's shoulders sagged in defeat as he felt another wave of cramps hit him. He cried harder, his body trembling as he filled the padding even more, the mess spreading and the diaper growing heavy and warm against his skin. Clark continued to rock him, cooing softly in his ear.

"That's my good boy," Clark murmured, stroking Bruce's hair. "You're being so good for Daddy. Such a brave baby, letting it all out. Daddy's so proud of you."

Bruce could only sob in response, his face buried in Clark's chest as he endured the humiliation of his body's continued betrayal. When the diaper was finally full and heavy, Clark stood up, carrying him effortlessly to the bathroom.

He laid Bruce down on the changing table, his movements practiced and efficient. Bruce stared at the ceiling, his eyes closed as he tried to dissociate from the ordeal. He heard the rustle of the diaper being untaped, followed by the sound of it being dropped into the trash can.

"Time to clean up my messy baby," Clark cooed, his voice filled with affection. Bruce flinched as he felt the cool wipe against his skin, Clark's hands working methodically to clean him up. He slid the wet wipe between Bruce's buttocks, his touch intimate and thorough.

"You're being so embarrassing," Bruce muttered, his face turned away from Clark.

Clark chuckled softly. "Just let Daddy take care of you, sweetheart. That's what you're here for, isn't it? To let Daddy take care of all your needs." He continued the intimate cleanup, his movements gentle yet deliberate as he wiped away every trace of the mess.

Bruce blushed furiously, his cheeks burning with shame as Clark slid another wipe between his crack, his touch lingering longer than necessary. He felt exposed and vulnerable, his large frame spread out on the changing table like an actual infant.

Clark finally finished the cleanup and reached for a clean diaper. He lifted Bruce's legs with one hand, sliding the thick padding beneath his buttocks. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "So perfect for Daddy. Just the right size for your diapers."

He powdered Bruce generously, the white dust clouding around them as he spread it across Bruce's diaper area. "You look so cute like this, baby boy. All powdered and fresh for Daddy."

"Please just shut up," Bruce groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Clark smiled, securing the diaper tapes with a finality that made Bruce's stomach sink. "I can't help it, sweetheart. I just have to comment on how adorable my baby is. All clean and ready for more fun."

Evening brought a brief reprieve from the humiliation as Clark prepared simple sandwiches for dinner. Bruce ate in silence, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, the thick diaper rustling with every movement. Clark seemed content to let him eat without interference, for which Bruce was grateful.

After dinner, however, the games began again. Clark sat on the floor across from him, a wide grin on his face. "Time for peekaboo!" he exclaimed, covering his face with his hands. "Where's Daddy? Where did he go?"

Bruce stared at him blankly, his expression unchanging as Clark lowered his hands. "Peekaboo! I see you!" Clark exclaimed, his voice filled with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Bruce continued to stare, his face a mask of indifference.

Clark's smile faltered slightly. "Let's try again, shall we?" he said, covering his face once more. "Where's Daddy? Is he gone? No! Peekaboo!"

Bruce didn't even blink, his gaze fixed on Clark's face with unnerving intensity.

Clark's expression grew strained. "Bruce," he said, his voice losing its cheerful tone. "Play with me."

"No," Bruce stated flatly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Clark's eyes hardened, his patience finally wearing thin. "You'll play with me, baby boy, or I'll put you in the middle of the street next time. How many people do you think will stop to coo at the big baby before they take pictures of him and post him online and call the cops on him for public indecency?"

Bruce's defiance crumbled at the threat, his shoulders slumping as he considered the horrifying scenario. He began to whine, his voice taking on a petulant, toddler-like quality. "But I don't wanna play," he pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a convincing display of childish reluctance.

Clark seemed surprised by Bruce's sudden shift in behavior, his expression softening as he watched the grown man act like a petulant toddler. "Oh, my poor baby," he cooed, his voice filled with affection. "You're so cute when you act like this. Don't be sad, pumpkin. Daddy just wants to play with his sweet boy."

Bruce recognized the shift in Clark's demeanor and realized that acting like a baby who didn't want to do things was more effective than outright defiance. It was a small victory, but one he could use to his advantage.

"Come on, sweetheart," Clark urged, showering him with embarrassing baby talk. "Play with Daddy. Just one little game of peekaboo for your favorite Daddy."

Bruce sighed dramatically, then forced a wide-eyed expression of surprise as Clark covered his face again. “Where did Daddy Go? Here he is! Peakaboo!” When Clark lowered his hands, Bruce let out a fake gasp and clapped his hands together, his movements exaggerated and clumsy.

Clark's face lit up with delight. "There's my good boy! You played peekaboo with Daddy! You're so cute, baby boy!" He pulled Bruce into a tight hug, pressing kisses to his cheeks. "You finally played with Daddy! I'm so proud of you!"

Bruce endured the embrace, his body stiff with discomfort but his mind already calculating his next move. He had found a way to navigate this twisted game, to give Clark what he wanted without completely sacrificing his dignity.

Clark released him and began offering different toys, his enthusiasm undiminished by Bruce's earlier reluctance. "How about the bunny? Or maybe the bear? How about some rings? Daddy's baby can stack the rings!"

Bruce sighed and grabbed the rattle, shaking it weakly before setting it aside. He played with the rings for a few moments, stacking them without interest before knocking them over.

Clark's smile faded slightly, his expression tinged with disappointment. "You don't seem to like any of these toys, baby boy," he observed softly. "Is there something specific you'd rather play with? Just name it, sweetheart. Anything for my pumpkin."

Bruce saw an opportunity and decided to take a chance. "I want my Batmobile," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

To his surprise, Clark's face lit up with delight. "I knew you'd say that!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Daddy came prepared!" He crossed the room and retrieved a medium-sized box from the closet, placing it in front of Bruce with a flourish. "Go on, sweetheart. Open your present from Daddy."

Bruce eyed the box suspiciously, his curiosity piqued despite himself. He opened it hesitally, his breath catching in his throat as he saw what was inside. It was a miniature model of the Batmobile, the detailed kind made out of metal, with working doors and tiny, intricate details that perfectly replicated the real vehicle.

He gasped in delight, his fingers tracing the sleek lines of the car as he gently lifted it from the box. It was heavier than he expected, the metal cool against his skin as he admired the craftsmanship.

"I made that for you," Clark said softly, his voice filled with pride. "I thought maybe a piece of Batman could cheer you up in here. Something that's just yours, something that connects to who you really are." He knelt beside Bruce, his expression earnest. "It's all yours, Bruce. To keep."

Bruce looked up at Clark, a genuine smile gracing his lips for the first time since this ordeal began. The sight seemed to startle Clark, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the handsome billionaire. Bruce was so pretty when he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his face lighting up with an inner joy that Clark rarely saw.

Clark smiled back, a triumphant warmth spreading through his chest. He had won this one. He had found the key to making Bruce happy, to making him accept this new reality without a fight. "I'm glad you like it, baby boy," he said softly, settling back on his heels to watch Bruce play with the car.

Bruce was completely engrossed in the toy, his fingers exploring every detail as he rolled it across the rug. Clark sighed fondly, watching him with a tender expression. He reached out and began to pet Bruce's hair, his fingers stroking the dark strands gently. To his delight, Bruce didn't flinch at the touch, too absorbed in his new treasure to notice.

"It's getting late, sweetheart," Clark said softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. "We've had a long day, and it's almost time for bed."

Bruce just nodded, his eyes fixed on the Batmobile as he examined the tiny, detailed wheels.

Clark smiled, his heart swelling with affection. "Would you like Daddy to read you a story before bed? A special story just for my brave little boy?"

Bruce, too engrossed in the toy to really process the question, nodded mindlessly, his attention completely captured by the miniature vehicle. It was the only positive thing in this entire experience, a small piece of his real life that he could hold onto, a tangible connection to the world outside this nursery.

Clark's smile widened at the automatic agreement. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Bruce's temple, making him grunt in surprise but not pull away. "That's my good boy," Clark murmured, pulling Bruce into his lap. "You can run the car on Daddy's arms, maybe? Would you like that, pumpkin?"

Bruce just nodded again, his mind barely registering the words as he began to roll the Batmobile along Clark's muscular forearm, the smooth metal gliding over the skin. He was completely absorbed in his play, the world shrinking to just him, the car, and the strong arms beneath him.

Bruce's consciousness returned slowly, a gradual emergence from a deep, drugged slumber. The first thing he registered was the unfamiliar comfort of his surroundings. He was clean, nestled in a soft crib with plush blankets and a collection of stuffed animals that seemed to watch over him with vacant eyes. A pacifier was lodged in his mouth, its rubber nipple a familiar weight on his tongue, and he instinctively suckled on it, finding a strange solace in the repetitive motion. He was dressed in a soft t-shirt, the familiar bat symbol stretched across his chest, a mocking reminder of the man he used to be.

He blinked his eyes open, the room coming into focus gradually. It was the nursery, of course, with its dark walls and baby bat-themed decor. For a moment, a disorienting wave of confusion washed over him. He felt like an actual baby, waking up with no recollection of how he got there, his mind a blank slate of innocence. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the crib, the toys scattered on the floor, the changing table in the corner. There was no sign of Clark. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand, its red numbers glowing in the dim light. 10:00 AM. He had slept more in these two days than he had in ten years of his life as Batman.

Clark was probably at work, he reasoned. The thought brought a flicker of relief, but it was quickly extinguished by the realization of his physical state. His legs felt heavy, weak, and unresponsive. Clark must have given him another dose of whatever drug he was using while he was asleep, ensuring his continued helplessness. He tried to move his legs, but they refused to cooperate, the muscles slack and useless.

Despite the weakness in his limbs, Bruce managed to slide down from the crib, landing on the floor with a soft thud. The carpet was plush and thick, cushioning his fall. He found himself on his hands and knees, the pacifier still in his mouth as he crawled around the room. The movement felt natural, almost comfortable, and he sucked on the pacifier with a growing sense of enjoyment, the rhythmic motion calming his frayed nerves.

He crawled towards the door, his hope rising with each movement. He reached for the handle, his fingers closing around the cold metal. It was locked, of course. Bruce sighed, the sound muffled by the pacifier. He shouldn't have expected anything less.

He crawled towards the balcony, his movements slow and deliberate. The glass doors were locked too, the curtains drawn, blocking out the morning sun. Bruce's frustration mounted, his mind racing with possibilities. He wanted to smash the window, to shatter the glass and escape, but Clark's words echoed in his mind. The windows were reinforced, designed to withstand even his strength. And even if he could break them, they were on the fifteenth floor. Without his gadgets, without his strength, how was he supposed to get down?

The thought of escape was tempting, but the reality of his situation was a cold, hard truth. Even if he managed to get out of the apartment, where would he go? He didn't even know where he was, though he was fairly certain they were in Metropolis. Which area, though? And what if Clark found him? What would he do to him if he ran away?

The possibilities were terrifying. What if Clark wasn't at work? What if he was somewhere else, waiting for Bruce to make a mistake? What if he was hovering outside the building, his super senses tuned to Bruce's every move, just waiting for him to slip? With his super powers, he could find Bruce wherever he went, and he could do whatever he wanted to him, whenever he wanted. He had already kidnapped him, drugged him, and subjected him to humiliating acts with little to no effort. What if he decided to hurt him? What if he decided to keep him caged in this nursery forever, treating him like a baby until he grew tired of him?

The thought sent a shiver down Bruce's spine. He pictured himself sitting in Clark's lap, dressed in frilly baby clothes as Clark baby-talked to him, offering him a bottle. He imagined himself drinking from it mindlessly, his eyes glazed over as Clark checked his diaper, cooing that his baby had a little incident. He then imagined Clark changing him, his hands gentle but firm as he cleaned him and powdered him, the intimacy of the act a violation of his very being.

The image shifted, and now Clark was dressing him in something girly and frilly, a perverse baby version of lingerie. He could hear Clark's voice, calling him his cute little baby girl, so pretty as he snapped pictures of Bruce in just his diaper and the skimpy, frilly lingerie. The realization of the extent of the baby stuff Clark could make him do hit him like a physical blow. He looked around the room, his eyes wide with horror. The baby toys, the crawling mat with its swinging stars and planets, the bottles, the diapers, the pacifiers, the bibs, the baby bonnets. This was his own personal nursery-shaped hell.

He remembered Clark's words, his threat to make him crawl on the floor with a diaper and drool for him like a baby. And now, here he was, on all fours, with a pacifier in his mouth and a diaper around his waist. The irony was not lost on him.

With a sense of growing dread, he slowly removed the pacifier from his mouth, placing it on the floor beside him. He crawled to the middle of the room, his movements slow and deliberate, and then he just sat there, his body trembling with a terror he hadn't felt since he was a child. He was completely helpless, at Clark's mercy, and Clark could do whatever he wanted to him.

For the first time in his life, he didn't know how to control things, how to manipulate the situation to his advantage. He was just a man, weak and vulnerable, at the mercy of a god. And so, he did the only thing he could do. He cried, like a baby, helpless and alone, his tears streaming down his face as he sobbed silently, his body wracked with tremors.

Just then, he heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by the rustle of grocery bags and the familiar sound of Clark's voice. "Baby boy! I'm home! Can you come help me with the groceries?" Clark called out, his voice cheerful and oblivious to Bruce's turmoil.

"No way in hell," Bruce muttered, his voice thick with tears as he continued to sob silently.

"I'm not asking, Bruce. Get your little butt in here," Clark said, his tone firm but not unkind.

Bruce scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. "I can't walk," he called back, his voice cracking.

He heard Clark's footsteps approaching the nursery, his heart pounding in his chest. The door opened, and Clark stood there, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. "Bruce, you're being a rude little thing," he said, his voice softening as he took in Bruce's tear-streaked face. "Why are you crying?"

"This is all your doing," Bruce spat, his voice trembling with rage and despair. "So you can suck it. I hate you, and I feel so stupid."

Clark sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You have such a naughty mouth, baby boy. But please, tell me why you're crying. And you're not stupid."

Bruce threw a tantrum, his fists clenched at his sides as he glared at Clark. "You're a weirdo! A sick, twisted weirdo!"

Clark didn't get angry. Instead, he simply reached down and picked Bruce up, his strength effortless as he lifted him into his arms. Now that they were face to face, Bruce's wailing subsided, his cries quieting to soft hiccups as he stared into Clark's eyes.

Clark soothed him, bouncing him lightly in his arms. "Daddy's here, baby boy. Stop crying, okay? Daddy's here for you. Everything's going to be alright."

Bruce seemed to calm down, his body relaxing in Clark's arms as he stared at him, his tears still clinging to his lashes. Clark carried him into the kitchen, his voice a gentle murmur of reassurance. "No more crying, sweetheart. Daddy's here for you. Daddy's always here for you."

Bruce just nodded, his mind a blank as he let himself be held, his body limp in Clark's arms.

Clark placed him on the kitchen counter, his movements gentle as he settled him on the cool surface. "Now, help Daddy with the groceries, okay?" he said, his voice cheerful.

Bruce stared at the bags of groceries, his mind racing. How could he annoy Clark enough to get back at him without getting punished or making him angry? He wanted to push Clark's buttons, to test the limits of his patience, to prove to himself that he wasn't just the helpless baby on the floor.

As Clark started unpacking the bags, Bruce spoke, his voice sullen. "What do you want me to do?"

Clark corrected him, his tone gentle but firm. "It's Daddy, not Clark. And you can just empty the bags. I'll sort out the groceries."

Bruce scoffed, his defiance rising. "Why should I help? You wanted a baby. I don't remember babies sorting out groceries."

Clark didn't respond, his back still turned as he continued to unpack the bags. Bruce smirked, an idea forming in his mind. Clark wanted a baby? He'll give him a baby.

He picked up a jar of peanut butter, his fingers tightening around the glass. He opened the lid, the scent of the peanuts filling the air. "Daddy," he whined, the word feeling foreign and cloying on his tongue, but he pushed through, "I'm hungry, Daddy." He punctuated the whine with a pathetic little whimper, the perfect imitation of a fussy toddler.

A smirk touched Clark's lips, though he didn't turn around. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. "My baby finally called me Daddy. See? That wasn't so hard, was it, sweetheart? Daddy will make you brunch in a minute."

Bruce's smirk faltered slightly, annoyed that his attempt at rebellion had been so easily co-opted as a victory for Clark. He needed to escalate. He dipped his fingers into the open jar of peanut butter, scooping out a large glob, and began to smear it messily across his own chest, over the bat symbol on his shirt. He then brought his sticky fingers to his mouth, eating the peanut butter directly from his hand, making loud, exaggerated smacking sounds.

Clark still hadn't turned. Frustration bubbled within Bruce. He needed a bigger reaction. His eyes landed on a bag of fresh produce on the counter beside him. He grabbed a ripe, red tomato, its skin smooth and firm. With a sudden, sharp movement, he smashed it against the counter. The tomato exploded with a wet splat, seeds and juice spraying across the countertop, his shirt, and his face. He grabbed another, then another, creating a chaotic mess of red pulp and green stems. He swung his legs, clapping his hands together with a wet, sticky smack, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction as the tomato pulp dripped down his arms.

"Whoa! What in the—" Clark finally turned around, his words cutting off as he took in the scene. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide as he surveyed the carnage. The counter, once clean, was now a canvas of red ruin, and Bruce, sitting in the middle of it, looked like a miniature, tomato-covered warlord.

Bruce stared back, his heart pounding. This was it. The explosion he'd been waiting for. Yelling, threats, punishment. He braced himself, a defiant glint in his eyes.

"What did you do?" Clark asked, his voice eerily calm, almost amused. "What's this mess, baby boy?"

Bruce puffed out his chest, ignoring the sticky tomato juice that soaked his shirt. "You wanted a baby," he declared, his voice loud and clear. "So I'm acting like one." He swung his legs again, clapping his tomato-covered hands together for emphasis, sending more splatters flying.

A slow smile spread across Clark's face. "That's very cute, sweetheart," he said, his voice filled with a warmth that completely disarmed Bruce. "My messy little angel." He grabbed a roll of paper towels from the holder and moved towards Bruce, intending to wipe him down.

Bruce saw his opening. He recoiled violently as Clark reached for him. "No!" he shrieked, kicking his legs and flailing his arms. He snatched the paper towel from Clark's hand and, instead of allowing himself to be cleaned, smeared the tomato pulp even further. He wiped it across the counter, spread it on his own legs, and then, in a final act of defiance, reached out and slapped a tomato-stained hand directly onto the front of Clark's pristine white shirt.

Clark froze for a second, looking down at the bright red handprint blooming on his chest. He looked back at Bruce, who was now panting from his exertion, his face a mask of defiance. And then, Clark started to laugh. It wasn't a mocking or cruel laugh, but a deep, genuine sound of amusement.

"You little monster!" he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned in and kissed Bruce's tomato-smeared cheeks, his lips warm against Bruce's cool, sticky skin. "Such a cute, messy little thing. Look at you!" He laughed again, a full, hearty sound that echoed in the kitchen. "Oh, you absolutely need a bath. You're such a little baby, you can't even do a simple task without making a huge mess. I should have known better than to ask you to help me. My baby boy should be on the floor with his bottle while Daddy handles everything."

Bruce's shoulders slumped in defeat. His grand rebellion, his attempt to provoke a reaction backfired, and had been absorbed and transformed into another episode of 'cute baby antics.' He hadn't proved he wasn't a baby; he had only reinforced it.

Clark sighed, though his smile remained. He scooped the tomato-covered Bruce up into his arms, holding him away from his body slightly to avoid getting more mess on his clothes. "Alright, you little troublemaker. Time for a bath."

"Noooo," Bruce whined, his voice weak and petulant. "Put me down."

"Yes," Clark countered, his voice firm but still affectionate as he carried him towards the bathroom. "My messy baby definitely needs a bath."

After the chaotic tomato incident, Clark had carried Bruce to the bathroom, the water in the tub already running warm. Bruce had sat stiffly on the closed toilet lid as Clark efficiently stripped him of his soiled shirt and sodden diaper, his movements practiced and devoid of any awkwardness. The bath itself had been a strange, liminal space. Bruce, usually so guarded and self-reliant, had been washed and scrubbed, his powerful body treated with a gentleness that was both disarming and deeply unsettling. Clark had used soft, lavender-scented soap, his hands lingering on Bruce's chest and shoulders, his voice a constant stream of soft, affectionate murmurs. "My messy little pumpkin," he'd cooed, rinsing the soap from Bruce's hair.

"All clean now. Daddy's got you." Bruce had closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the water and the steady rhythm of Clark's hands, trying to disconnect from the reality of the situation. He was being bathed like a child, yet the hands on his skin were strong and capable, the voice in his ear belonging to a man he had trusted implicitly for years. The contradiction was a knot in his stomach, tightening with every gentle touch.

Now, clean and changed into a fresh, thick diaper, Bruce sat perched on Clark's powerful thigh. The new outfit was another exercise in humiliation: a black, legless onesie made of a soft, stretchy cotton that snapped snugly at his crotch, leaving his thickly padded bottom and muscular legs out. On his feet were a pair of thigh-high socks, a ridiculous confection of soft grey material with embroidered black kittens playing with balls of yarn. The pacifier was back in his mouth, its rubber nipple a familiar weight against his tongue, and he found himself suckling on it reflexively, the rhythmic motion a strange comfort in the midst of his discomfort. His large frame was awkwardly positioned, his legs spread wide to straddle Clark's thigh, his palms pressed flat against the couch cushion on either side of him to steady his balance. The television was on, but the show was some mind-numbing program about sustainable farming practices, the narrator's droning voice a monotonous backdrop to the rhythmic bounce of Clark's leg beneath him.

"Brucie?" Clark's voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating through Bruce's body where they were connected. "Is my little angel comfortable?"

Bruce grunted around the pacifier, not trusting himself to speak. The friction of Clark's thigh moving against the thick padding of his diaper was a maddening, teasing pressure, a constant reminder of his vulnerability and Clark's absolute control over his body. He hated it, but a treacherous part of him responded to the stimulation, a warmth blooming low in his belly that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of holding himself up. He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that was less stimulating, but only succeeded in increasing the friction.

Clark chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration that made Bruce's skin tingle. "I think someone's getting fussy," he murmured, his hand coming to rest on Bruce's back, stroking him gently through the soft cotton of the onesie. "Don't worry, baby boy. Daddy’s here."

Bruce couldn't take it anymore. He reached up with a trembling hand and pulled the pacifier from his mouth, the string of saliva connecting it to his lips a testament to how intently he'd been sucking on it. "Can we watch something else?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. "Something good. Like Law and Order."

Clark looked down at him, his expression a mixture of amusement and mild surprise. "Law and Order?" he repeated, a smile playing on his lips. "Oh, sweetheart, that's not for babies. All that yelling and scary talk. We don't want my little pumpkin getting nightmares, do we?"

Bruce scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. "I'm not going to get nightmares from a TV show, Clark," he retorted, his pride stinging. "I've seen worse things before breakfast."

"I know you have, my brave little man," Clark cooed, his voice dropping into that patronizing, baby-talk tone that made Bruce's skin crawl. "But Daddy's baby doesn't need to think about all those icky things right now. Daddy wants his baby to be happy and relaxed." He gently nudged the pacifier back towards Bruce's lips. "Now, be a good boy and put your paci back in. The farming show is almost over, and then we can play with your new car again."

Bruce stared at him, his jaw tight. He knew arguing was pointless. Clark had an answer for everything, a reason why Bruce, the grown man who had faced down the Joker and Bane, couldn't handle a simple crime drama. It was all part of the game, part of the carefully constructed reality Clark had built around him. With a heavy sigh of defeat, Bruce slipped the pacifier back into his mouth, the rubber nipple a bitter surrender as he began to suck on it again. He turned his gaze back to the television, his expression a mask of sullen resignation as he watched a farmer explain the intricacies of crop rotation.

This was actual hell, he thought grimly. Being treated like an infant, dressed in ridiculous clothes, denied even the simple pleasure of watching a decent television show. All to please his so-called "friend" and the object of his years-long, unrequited crush. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow. He remembered the Batmobile, the one bright spot in this entire ordeal. Clark had made it for him, a tangible piece of his real life, a connection to the man he was supposed to be. And Clark had been nice, genuinely nice, when Bruce cooperated. The praise, the gentle touches, the look of pure, unadulterated affection in his eyes. It was a potent combination, one that Bruce found himself craving despite his best efforts to resist.

Maybe if Clark had approached this differently, he mused, his mind drifting. A nice dinner, some wine, a conversation that didn't involve baby talk or diapers. Maybe if he'd seduced him, used his charm and his undeniable good looks to manipulate him into this situation, Bruce might have even gone along with it willingly. After all, he'd do almost anything for Clark Kent. He always had. A nice dinner, some mind-blowing sex, a little emotional manipulation to make him feel attached and needed, and bam, he'd probably be in that crib willingly, eager to please. Clark just approached it all wrong. He'd skipped the seduction and gone straight to the kidnapping.

Bruce paused, disgusted with himself. Was he really thinking about how he could have been coerced into this willingly? Was he actually analyzing the failed seduction techniques of his kidnapper? Had he already gone crazy? The thought was so jarring that he almost bit down on his pacifier in alarm.

"What's on that pretty little mind of yours, baby boy?" Clark's voice pulled him from his disturbing thoughts. "You're being awfully quiet over there. Does my little pumpkin want something? Maybe another baba? A nice, warm bottle of milk for my sweet angel?"

Bruce pulled the pacifier out of his mouth again, shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice quiet. "I'm fine." He put the pacifier back in, the action becoming more automatic with each repetition.

"You're thinking about something," Clark pressed, his hand still stroking Bruce's back in a slow, soothing rhythm. "Tell Daddy what it is. You can tell me anything, sweetheart."

Bruce sighed, the sound muffled by the pacifier. He pulled it out again, deciding to answer honestly, if only to see Clark's reaction. "I was just questioning my taste in men again," he said, his voice laced with self-deprecating humor. "That's all."

Clark's laughter was a deep, booming sound that filled the room, his body shaking with mirth beneath Bruce. "Oh, Brucie," he chuckled, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye. "You're just too cute for words. Does my baby have a little crush on Daddy? Is that what this is all about?"

Bruce felt a hot blush creep up his neck, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Stop it," he mumbled, turning his head away to avoid Clark's gaze. "And no, I don't."

Clark's smile softened, his expression turning tender. "It's okay if you do, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. "Daddy likes you too, you know. A lot. Why else would he have chosen you to be his special little one? Out of all the people in the world, I chose you, Bruce. Because you're perfect for me."

Bruce's heart skipped a beat at the unexpected confession, a confusing mix of pleasure and alarm coursing through him. "You're a jerk," he whined, the words lacking their usual venom, sounding more like a petulant child's complaint than an insult from the Dark Knight.

Clark just smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched Bruce's diapered bottom bounce on his thigh with each gentle movement. Bruce's palms were still pressed against the couch, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain his balance, the friction of Clark's leg against his diaper a maddening, persistent tease. "Such a sight," Clark murmured, his voice thick with an emotion Bruce couldn't quite identify. He placed a hand on Bruce's waist, his fingers tracing the snap closures of the onesie, his touch both possessive and gentle.

"You're just so pretty, baby boy. All dressed up for Daddy."

Bruce let out a long, shaky sigh, the fight draining out of him completely. He leaned into Clark's touch, his body going slack as he surrendered to the rhythmic bouncing and the gentle caress. He watched the farming show with bored, half-lidded eyes, the images on the screen blurring into a meaningless kaleidoscope of green fields and tractors. The exhaustion was a physical weight, settling deep in his bones, and he found himself leaning more heavily against Clark, his head resting on the Kryptonian's broad shoulder. A yawn escaped him, wide and uncontrollable, nearly dislodging the pacifier from his mouth.

Clark chuckled, the sound a low, affectionate rumble. "I think someone's getting tired," he cooed, his hand moving from Bruce's waist to his hair, stroking the dark strands gently. "It's been a long, busy day for my little pumpkin, hasn't it? All that playing and making messes. It's no wonder you're sleepy."

Bruce nodded, just wanting the day to be over. He was glad, at least, that time was passing. Each hour that brought him closer to morning was an hour closer to... well, he didn't know what, but it was something.

Clark smiled, his heart swelling with a tenderness that surprised even him. He scooped Bruce up effortlessly, cradling him against his chest like a real infant. Bruce was large, a grown man of solid muscle, but in Clark's arms, he felt weightless, fragile. "That's my good boy," Clark murmured, his voice a soft whisper against Bruce's ear. "Daddy's got you. Time for bed for my sweet angel." He carried him to the oversized crib, his movements slow and deliberate. He laid Bruce down on the soft mattress, his touch gentle as he pulled the plush blanket up to his chin. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's forehead, his lips warm against his cool skin. "Sweet dreams, my baby boy," he whispered. "Daddy loves you."

Bruce stared at the ceiling as Clark turned off the lights and left the room, the click of the door echoing in the sudden silence. He thought about Clark's last words, about the strange mix of affection and possession in his voice. He wondered when this would all be over, and more disturbingly, how he would feel about Clark afterwards. Would he hate him? Or would he miss this? The thought was so terrifying that he pushed it away, focusing on the rhythmic sound of his own breathing until he finally drifted off to sleep.

In the middle of the night, Bruce woke up gasping, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The nightmare was the same one it always was: the alley, the pearls scattering like tiny, white stars across the grimy pavement, the sharp crack of gunfire, his parents' bodies crumpling to the ground. He was covered in a cold sweat, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps as he trembled uncontrollably. He clutched the sheets, his knuckles white, his eyes wide with terror as he looked around the darkened room. He was crying, silent, hot tears streaming down his face, his body wracked with violent hiccups. This was a common occurrence, a ghost from his past that visited him regularly. He'd wake up alone in his room at Wayne Manor, terrified and sobbing, the cries of his younger self echoing in the empty halls. But this time, he wasn't alone.

The lights flicked on, and Clark was there, at his side in an instant, his expression a mixture of concern and alarm. "Bruce? Baby, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "Did you have a bad dream? Shhh, calm down, sweetheart. Daddy's here."

Clark reached into the crib and picked him up, holding him close against his chest. Bruce was rigid with terror, his body trembling violently, but Clark's embrace was strong and steady, a warm, solid presence in the midst of his fear. Clark began to rock him gently, his movements slow and rhythmic, a soothing counterpoint to Bruce's frantic heartbeat. "It's okay, my sweet boy," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "It was just a dream. It wasn't real. Daddy's got you now. You're safe with Daddy. Nothing can hurt you here. Shhh, just breathe, baby. That's it. In and out. Daddy's right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Bruce whimpered, his face buried in Clark's chest, his hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline. He felt weirdly comforted, the nightmare still clouding his senses, but Clark's presence a warm, reassuring anchor in the storm of his fear. He let himself be held and rocked, his body slowly relaxing against Clark's as the tremors subsided.

"Did you have a nightmare, angel?" Clark asked, his voice soft.

Bruce nodded against his chest, his cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of Clark's shirt.

Clark cooed, his arms tightening around Bruce. "Oh, my poor little pumpkin. It's okay. Daddy's here for you. Daddy will always be here for you. No more scary dreams tonight. Daddy will protect you."

Bruce whimpered again, his helplessness a stark contrast to his usual persona of the Dark Knight. Clark snuggled him closer, his chin resting on top of Bruce's head as he continued to rock him. After a few minutes, Clark shifted slightly, reaching for something on the nightstand. "Here, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice gentle. "Drink this. It will help you feel better."

He offered Bruce a bottle, the nipple already warm to the touch. Bruce stared at it for a long moment, his mind a fog of fear and confusion. He looked up at Clark, his eyes wide and vulnerable, as if asking for permission. And then, to his own surprise and Clark's evident delight, he opened his mouth and accepted the nipple. He began to suck, the warm milk a comforting, familiar taste, a connection to a simpler time he could barely remember. He drank willingly, his body relaxing even more as Clark continued to rock him, one hand patting his diapered bottom in a slow, steady rhythm. Bruce whimpered softly at the intimate touch, but he didn't pull away, his focus entirely on the soothing warmth of the milk and the steady beat of Clark's heart beneath his ear.

After he had drunk about half the bottle, his eyes grew heavy, the milk and the gentle rocking lulling him back into a deep, dreamless sleep. Clark smiled, a look of pure, unadulterated affection on his face as he watched Bruce's peaceful expression. He carefully took the bottle from his slack mouth and laid him back in the crib, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Bruce's forehead. "I love you, my baby boy," he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that was both genuine and deeply possessive.

In the morning, Bruce woke up slowly, a gradual emergence from a deep, restful slumber he hadn't experienced in years. The first thing he registered was the feeling of wetness between his legs, the diaper having done its job during the night. The pacifier was back in his mouth, its rubber nipple a familiar weight on his tongue, and he suckled on it instinctively, finding a strange solace in the repetitive motion. He was well-rested, his mind clear and calm for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

He remembered the nightmare, the terror, and the comfort that had followed. He remembered Clark's soft coos and comforting words, the feeling of being held and rocked until he was safe again. He had never had anyone do this for him. He remembered the nights he'd cried relentlessly as a child, alone in his room at Wayne Manor, his calls for his parents going unanswered in the vast, empty house. But this time, someone had answered. And it was Clark, the man he loved, the man who had kidnapped him, humiliated him, and forced him into this bizarre, twisted roleplay. Clark had waxed him, dressed him in ridiculous clothes, and treated him like an infant, but he had also washed him, massaged him, changed him, cuddled him, and kept him entertained. He had held him through his nightmares and made him feel safe.

Maybe he didn't mind this that much, he thought, a surprising sense of acceptance washing over him. He could enjoy it for a while, he reasoned. He might as well, since he was forced to be here anyway. It was a strange, unsettling thought, but it brought with it a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time.

Just then, the door to the nursery opened, and Clark walked in, his face lit up with a wide, genuine smile. "Good morning, my sweet boy!" he chirped, his voice filled with an infectious energy. "Did you sleep well?"

Bruce blushed, his cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something he wasn't ready to name. He pulled the pacifier out of his mouth and grunted in response, not trusting himself to speak.

Clark's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He practically ran to the crib, his movements so eager that he almost stumbled over his own feet. "I have so many fun plans for us today!" he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with excitement. He reached into the crib and picked Bruce up, holding him, Bruce just nodding mindlessly into his shoulder.

"Did Daddy's little boy sleep well? No more bad dreams?" He reached down and gently stroked Bruce's hair, his touch feather-light and possessive. Bruce just grunted in response, his eyes still half-closed. Clark chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Not a morning person, are we, pumpkin? That's okay. Daddy will wake you up gently." He lifted Bruce effortlessly from the crib, cradling him against his chest as he carried him to the large rocking chair in the corner. He settled Bruce on his lap, positioning him so that his head rested on Clark's shoulder, his large frame a surprising, comfortable weight. "Time for your morning baba, sweetheart," Clark murmured, pressing a warm bottle to Bruce's lips.

Bruce drank mechanically, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. The milk was warm and sweet, and the rhythmic sucking on the bottle's nipple, combined with the gentle rocking motion and Clark's steady heartbeat beneath his ear, was a potent combination. He felt himself relaxing, his body going limp against Clark's as the last vestiges of sleep faded away. Clark held him close, one hand supporting the bottle, the other stroking his back in slow, soothing circles. "That's my good boy," he murmured, his voice a constant, comforting presence. "Drink it all up for Daddy. Such a hungry baby this morning." After the bottle was empty, Clark didn't put him down right away. Instead, he continued to hold him, rocking him gently in the quiet morning light. "The bad nightmare is all gone now, isn't it, baby boy?" he cooed, his lips brushing against Bruce's temple. "Daddy's here to protect you. Nothing will ever hurt you while you're with me." Bruce just nodded, his face buried in Clark's shoulder, a strange sense of peace settling over him. He was still a prisoner, still being forced into this humiliating roleplay, but for a moment, he allowed himself to just be held, to be comforted, to be cared for.

After a few more minutes of cuddling, Clark finally stood up, carrying Bruce to the center of the room and setting him down on the large, crawling mat. "Alright, my sweet boy," he said, his voice cheerful. "Daddy has some chores to do, but you can play here for a little while. Be a good boy for Daddy, okay?" He ruffled Bruce's hair, his touch affectionate, before turning and heading towards the kitchen.

Bruce sat on the mat, the sheer size of it making him feel smaller than he already did. He was still dressed in the black legless onesie and the ridiculous thigh-high kitty socks, the soft fabric of the onesie stretched tight across his broad chest. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the toys scattered on the mat. His eyes landed on the pacifier lying next to him, the one Clark had removed after his morning bottle. He hesitated. Clark usually put it in his mouth, and he would just suck on it mindlessly, an excuse for not having to talk, a shield against the humiliation of his situation. He stared at it for a long moment, the plastic a stark reminder of his current reality. He didn't pick it up. Instead, he crawled away, his movements slow and deliberate, telling himself he would come back to it when he had the strength for it, when he needed it.

He played with the dangling stars in the overhead arch, his large hands batting at the soft, colorful stars. He crawled over to the pile of blocks, stacking them into a wobbly tower before knocking them down with a sense of satisfaction. But his mind kept drifting back to the pacifier. He came back to it a second later, conflicted. He wasn't a baby. He was Bruce Wayne, Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham. He didn't need the stupid pacifier. He turned away again, his jaw tight with defiance, and picked up the Batmobile, the one piece of his real life in this nursery-shaped hell. He rolled it across the mat, his fingers tracing the intricate details of the model, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Meanwhile, Clark had finished his chores in the kitchen and was now tidying up the room. He glanced over at Bruce, a fond smile on his face as he watched him play with the car. His eyes then fell on the abandoned pacifier on the mat. He walked over and picked it up, his brow furrowing slightly. It had been on the floor, after all. He couldn't have his baby putting something dirty in his mouth. He took it to the kitchen sink and washed it thoroughly with warm, soapy water, his actions a strange mix of domesticity and obsession.

After about ten minutes, Bruce found himself wanting the pacifier. It was mortifying to admit, even to himself, but it was soothing. He remembered his brief, ill-fated smoking habit in his youth, and how he'd used to suck his thumb or fingers to curb the cravings, a habit Alfred had quickly put a stop to, citing hygiene. The pacifier was like that, but better. Cleaner. More acceptable, in this twisted context. He realized, with a jolt of alarm, that he was actually becoming addicted to the comforting sensation of sucking on it. He turned around, expecting to see it lying on the mat, but to his surprise, it was gone.

He searched for it, his movements growing more frantic with each passing second. He looked under the blocks, behind the stuffed animals, his hands patting the mat in a desperate search. He didn't want to make a mess, not again, but the need was becoming overwhelming. Finally, he slumped, his shoulders sagging in defeat as a frustrated noise escaped his throat. It was a pathetic, whiny sound, the kind of sound a real baby would make, and it made his cheeks burn with shame.

Just then, Clark came back into the room, the clean pacifier in his hand. He saw Bruce's dejected posture and frowned. "What's all this fuss about, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice gentle. "What are you looking for?"

Bruce just stared blankly at the pacifier in Clark's hand, his heart sinking. He'd taken it. Of course, he'd taken it.

Clark's expression softened as he realized what was going on. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Oh," he cooed, crouching down in front of Bruce. "Is my pretty pumpkin looking for his binky? Does my baby want his paci?"

Bruce shook his head, his pride warring with his desire. "No way," he said, his voice tight with defiance. "I'm not a baby."

Clark's smile widened, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, but you look like a baby, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, persuasive purr. "You crawl like one, and you use your diaper like one. It's okay to want your paci. It's okay to need it. Daddy thinks you're so cute when you use it."

Bruce scoffed, turning away from him. "No," he said, his voice firm. "I don't want it." He crawled away, his movements stiff with rejection, his back ramrod straight.

Clark watched him go, a smirk playing on his lips as he stared at Bruce's diapered bottom, the thick padding a clear testament to his control. He couldn't resist. He crawled over to Bruce and gently poked his bottom, the soft padding yielding under his touch. "So cute," he murmured, his voice laced with affection.

Bruce blushed furiously, his face burning with a mixture of shame and anger. "Stop it," he snapped, his voice sharp. "Now."

Clark just chuckled and poked him again, his touch playful and provocative. Bruce had had enough. He sat down on his diapered butt with a soft thud and crossed his arms over his chest, his back turned to Clark in a gesture of silent, childish defiance.

Clark's smile didn't falter. "Daddy will give it to you," he said, his voice a soft, teasing whisper. "But only if his baby asks for it. And you have to be nice about it. Im going to keep it on me until you do."

Bruce froze. He wanted it. He wanted it badly. The need was a physical ache, a craving that gnawed at him. He turned around and gave Clark a look of pure, unadulterated betrayal. How could he do this? How could he use his weakness against him like this?

He let out a frustrated grunt. "Fine," he bit out, his voice tight with resentment. "I want it."

Clark's smile only widened. "Be nice, sweetheart," he cooed, his voice a soft, singsong taunt. "Ask Daddy nicely, and you'll get it."

Bruce clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening with the effort of holding back his anger. "Give it to me," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Clark just shook his head, his expression a mask of patient disappointment. "That's not asking nicely, baby boy. Try again. Use your words."

Bruce let out a frustrated sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew he wouldn't win this. Clark had all the power, and he had all the need. "Daddy, Can I... can I please have it?" he asked, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.

Clark's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That's better, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. "But it's still a little too grown-up, don't you think? Daddy doesn't remember his baby talking like that. You need to sound more like... well, more like a baby."

Bruce's frustration boiled over. "That's not fair!" he cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're being unfair!"

Clark's expression softened slightly, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's forehead. "Shhh, don't get angry, my sweet angel," he murmured, his voice gentle. "You'll give yourself a headache. Just try again. For Daddy."

Bruce was on the verge of tears. He could feel them pricking at the back of his eyes, a hot, humiliating sting. He just wanted the pacifier. He held them back, his body trembling with the effort. "Daddy," he whispered, the word a broken, desperate sound. "I want my paci now." The words "Daddy" and "paci" felt like sandpaper on his tongue, a violation of everything he stood for.

Clark's face lit up with delight, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph in his eyes. "There's my good boy!" he cooed, his voice filled with praise. "That's what Daddy expected to hear! But it wasn't very nice, was it, sweetheart? You need to be nice to Daddy if you want your binky."

Bruce was about to break. He could feel the tears welling up, his control slipping. He held them back, his body trembling with the effort, and then he let out a pathetic, whining sound, the last vestiges of his pride crumbling to dust. "Daddy," he whined, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I want my paci, please Daddy."

Clark's smirk was victorious, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face. "That's my good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He held out the pacifier, but instead of just handing it to Bruce, he gently placed it between Bruce's lips, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. He then leaned in and kissed the plastic shield, right in front of Bruce's mouth, a gesture of ownership that was both intimate and infuriating.

Bruce sucked on the pacifier, the familiar, soothing sensation a welcome relief, but his anger still simmered just beneath the surface. He turned his back on Clark again, his shoulders hunched in a gesture of sullen defiance.

Clark just chuckled, his hand coming down in a playful smack on Bruce's diapered bottom. "Such a baby," he murmured, his voice filled with affection.

Bruce sat there for a moment, his mind racing. He was angry, humiliated, and frustrated, but a new idea was forming, a way to turn the tables, to reclaim a small piece of his power. He turned around, his expression a mask of calculated innocence. He took the pacifier out of his mouth, the string of saliva a testament to his need for it. "Can I have a real kiss?" he asked, his voice soft and pleading. "It would make me feel better after all of this."

Clark's expression faltered, his surprise evident. "A real kiss?" he repeated, his voice tight. "Oh, sweetheart, no. Kisses like that are... inappropriate. You're Daddy's little pumpkin, his cute little Princess. You shouldn't be thinking about such grown-up business."

Bruce sighed, his plan solidifying in his mind. If Clark could violate him, so could he. He reached out and grabbed Clark, using whatever strength he had left to pull him closer. He crushed his lips against Clark's, his kiss demanding and aggressive. He slid his tongue into Clark's mouth, a bold, invasive act that was meant to shock, to dominate.

Clark was surprised, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he kissed Bruce back, his response a mix of surprise and reluctant arousal. For a moment, they were locked in a battle of wills, a kiss that was as much about power as it was about pleasure. Then, Clark began to struggle, trying to free himself from Bruce's surprisingly strong grip. Bruce, however, wasn't ready to let go. He bit Clark's lower lip, a sharp, possessive nip that was meant to leave a mark, a reminder. Then he let him go, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Clark stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth. He was obviously untouched, but his face was flushed, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else, something darker. "You are so feisty," he breathed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Such a bad boy. You'll have to be punished for that."

Bruce just smirked, his confidence soaring. "Punish me then, Daddy," he challenged, his voice a low, seductive purr. He put the pacifier back in his mouth, his eyes locked on Clark's, a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction on his face.

Clark blushed furiously, his composure finally cracking. He fumbled his words, his usual charm and confidence replaced by a flustered, awkward stammer. "You... you're in so much trouble," he managed to say, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and arousal.

Bruce just smiled, the pacifier bobbing in his mouth. He had won this round. And he knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified him, that this was only the beginning.

Bruce sat cross-legged on the soft, plush rug, his muscular frame looking comically out of place amidst the baby-themed decor. He hunched over a Halloween-themed coloring book, his large hand awkwardly gripping a chunky crayon as he filled in the outlines of pumpkins and ghosts with methodical strokes. The rhythmic scratching of crayon against paper was the only sound in the room, broken occasionally by the soft sucking sounds as Bruce drank from the baby bottle Clark had left him.

Bruce's mind wandered as he colored, the mundane activity doing little to engage his brilliant intellect. He had been trapped in this nursery for what felt like an eternity—though Clark had mentioned it would only be a couple of weeks. The days blurred together in a haze of forced regression and humiliating dependency. He despised the baby toys scattered around the room, finding them beneath his dignity unless Clark was playing with him, which brought its own complicated mix of shame and satisfaction. Bruce would never admit it, but a small part of him craved the praise Clark lavished upon him for simple accomplishments, like when he successfully colored within the lines or finished his bottle without spilling.

As he continued to sip from his bottle, Bruce felt an uncomfortable pressure building in his bladder. He shifted uncomfortably, knowing he was trapped in this predicament. Clark had made it clear that he was to use the diapers provided, and attempts to reach the bathroom had been thwarted by locked doors and Clark's watchful presence. With a resigned sigh, Bruce relaxed his muscles, feeling the warmth spread through the thick padding of his diaper as he filled it. The sensation was both humiliating and strangely comforting in its familiarity. He had long since given up fighting this particular battle, accepting that Clark would change him when he returned from whatever Superman business had called him away.

Hours passed in this manner—coloring, drinking, and occasionally wetting himself. The diaper grew increasingly uncomfortable, the padding heavy and sodden against his skin. Bruce removed the pacifier from his mouth, setting it aside as he assessed his situation. He tentatively pressed against the front of his diaper, feeling how saturated it had become. To his dismay, he realized he still needed to go again, his bladder protesting from the continuous intake of fluids. Just as he was contemplating his limited options, the door to the nursery swung open, and Clark entered with a cheerful smile that made Bruce's stomach clench.

"Hello, my sweet baby boy!" Clark cooed, his voice dripping with affection as he gracefully removed his cape and boots. "Did you miss Daddy while I was gone?"

Bruce merely hummed in response, not looking up from his coloring book as he continued to fill in the orange of a jack-o'-lantern.

Clark approached, kneeling beside Bruce to peer over his shoulder. "Did my little artist color Daddy a nice picture today?" he asked, his tone gentle and encouraging.

Bruce scoffed, finally setting down the crayon. "Yes, I colored the pumpkin. It's not exactly the Mona Lisa, but it's done."

Clark's eyes lit up with genuine delight. "You did such a good job, baby! So creative and clever. You're just the cutest little artist in the whole world."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, the wet diaper pressing against him. "Whatever. I'm wet and uncomfortable, Clark."

Clark's smile widened as he reached for Bruce, effortlessly lifting the larger man into his arms. "Don't you worry, Princess. Daddy will change you right up." He carried Bruce across the room to the changing table, laying him down with surprising gentleness despite Bruce's muscular build. As Clark reached for the stack of diapers, his expression shifted to one of mild surprise. "Well now, it seems my baby has used up all the diapers already!" Clark chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "What a potty princess we have! Daddy will need to buy more."

Bruce's face flushed with embarrassment. "That's because you didn't buy enough in the first place," he argued, his voice tight with indignation.

Clark merely smiled, undeterred by Bruce's protest. "I'll be right back, sweetheart. I did buy more diapers, but they're in a storage room. I'll bring up a couple of packs for you." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "Which prints would you like, baby? This pack was the only one with plain white diapers, and the rest have cute animal prints on them."

Bruce sighed in resignation. "What options are there?"

Clark beamed, pleased that Bruce wasn't fighting him on this. "I have bears, lions, bats, and kittens. Which would my little princess like?"

"Bats and Kittens," Bruce muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"Anything for my princess," Clark replied warmly, turning to leave. "You stay right there, okay? Don't move from that table."

As Clark reached the door, Bruce called out, "Wait! I need to use the toilet. I have to pee."

Clark paused at the doorway, his expression softening. "Hold it in until Daddy gets back, Brucie. Be a good boy for me."

Bruce's frustration mounted. "I can't, Clark. I've been peeing all day because I kept drinking from that bottle you left me."

Clark's smile was infuriatingly understanding. "That's so cute, baby. Drinking from your baba all day like a thirsty little thing." He stepped back into the room, approaching the changing table. "Daddy will have to potty train his baby then, won't he?"

Bruce's face burned with humiliation. "I don't need to be trained because I'm a grown man! Just let me use the toilet!"

Clark simply chuckled, lifting Bruce from the changing table and setting him gently on the rug. "I'll be right back, sweetheart. If you can hold it until I return, Daddy will let you use the toilet like a big boy. How's that?"

Bruce scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine. But this is ridiculous."

With a final wink, Clark exited the room, and Bruce heard the distinct click of the lock engaging. Alone once more, Bruce lay back on the rug, his bladder protesting insistently. He tried to distract himself, crawling around the room to examine the toys more closely, but nothing held his interest. The car that had briefly amused him earlier now seemed dull and repetitive. He picked up a stuffed bear, hugging it to his chest as he paced the room, his discomfort growing with each passing minute.

"Damn you, Clark," he muttered under his breath, his frustration mounting. He popped the pacifier back into his mouth, sucking on it irritably as he surveyed the room again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing of interest to a man of his intellect and experience. Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in, and Bruce curled up on the floor, using the stuffed bear as a pillow. His bladder still ached with urgency, but sleep claimed him regardless, his body finally succumbing to the day's emotional and physical toll.

---

Bruce woke with a start, his eyes fluttering open to the familiar sight of the nursery ceiling above him. He yawned widely, stretching his arms above his head before realizing he was in his crib, not on the floor where he had fallen asleep. He removed the pacifier from his mouth, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he took stock of his situation. To his surprise, his bladder felt empty, and he was wearing a fresh, clean diaper. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

"CLARK!" Bruce yelled, his voice echoing in the nursery.

Moments later, Clark appeared at the crib, his expression cheerful and unconcerned. "What does my little princess need? Did you have a nice nap?"

Bruce sat up, his face twisted in anger. "You didn't respect your promise! You changed me in my sleep instead of waking me up like you said you would!"

Clark's smile remained gentle as he reached through the crib bars to stroke Bruce's hair. "Oh, baby, Daddy didn't change you when he got home. You looked so peaceful sleeping there on your bear that I didn't have the heart to wake you up." He paused, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But I did set my phone down to record you while you slept. Would you like to see?"

Before Bruce could protest, Clark pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, turning it to face Bruce. The video showed Bruce curled up on the floor, sound asleep on the stuffed bear. At first, nothing happened, but then a soft hissing sound emanated from the phone's speakers as Bruce watched in horror as his sleeping self began to wet the diaper, the padding growing visibly fuller until it looked nearly ready to leak.

"No," Bruce whispered, his face pale with shock. "No way I pissed myself in my sleep."

Clark's voice was gentle but firm as he spoke. "Actually, baby, you've peed yourself almost every time you've napped since we started this. Daddy just changed you while you were asleep so you probably didn't notice."

Bruce's mortification gave way to fury. He began to thrash in the crib, throwing a full-blown tantrum. "That's not true! You're lying! You should have woken me up!"

Clark reached into the crib, pulling Bruce into his arms despite the smaller man's struggles. "Shh, shh, it's okay, sweetheart. It's okay to be Daddy's potty Princess. Maybe we'll train you to use the potty like people do with little babies. Or maybe," he added with a teasing glint in his eye, "Daddy should get you some puppy pads to pee on instead. Would you
like that better, little one? We could even get them with cute little paw prints to match your new diapers."

Bruce's face turned a shade of red that Clark hadn't seen before, a combination of pure rage and utter humiliation. "You are horrible," he seethed, his voice trembling with fury. "Absolutely horrible for saying that! I don't need potty training! I'm a grown man, Clark! A grown man!"

Clark simply held him closer, rocking him gently as Bruce struggled in his arms. "I know, baby, I know. But you're Daddy's special little man, aren't you? And Daddy's special baby boy needs his diapers until he learns to hold his pee-pee like a big boy." He pressed a soft kiss to Bruce's cheek, his stubble scratching against Bruce's smooth skin. "Now stop being so fussy, even if it is cute. Lunch is ready, and I made your favorite."

Bruce stood before the full-length mirror, a picture of profound misery. The outfit Clark had selected for him was a masterclass in infantilizing humiliation: a crisp white sleeveless dress that hugged every defined muscle of his torso and arms, its navy sailor-style collar and bow sitting starkly against his throat. The hem was trimmed with navy stripes, matching the lace knee socks that climbed his powerful calves. To complete the ensemble, a pearl headband with black ribbon bows was nestled in his dark hair, making him look like a grotesque parody of a little girl.

Bruce's reflection stared back at him, a stranger in his own body. The fabric of the dress was unforgiving, accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular frame in a way that made the babyish attire even more absurd. He could see the clear outline of his chest and arms, the masculine form at complete odds with the feminine, childish costume. A mortified sigh escaped his lips as he turned slightly, the skirt swishing around his thighs. He felt exposed, ridiculous, and utterly powerless.

Clark appeared behind him, his reflection joining Bruce's in the mirror. A wide, predatory smile spread across the Kryptonian's face as he wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist, pulling him back against his chest. "My goodness," Clark cooed, his voice thick with delight. "You look so cute it should be criminal. I should just lock you up and keep you all to myself forever."

Bruce's response was a dry, sarcastic scoff. "You already did."

The humor in Clark's eyes only intensified as he hugged Bruce tighter, nuzzling the side of his neck. "My pretty pumpkin," he murmured, his breath warm against Bruce's skin. "All dressed up just for Daddy."

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of himself like this. Clark was into things he would have never possibly imagined in their years of friendship and rivalry. He had always assumed, if it ever came to this, that he would be the one in control, the one topping. But the memory of the bathroom incident flooded his mind with humiliating clarity—Clark's casual dismissal of his dick size, followed by the reveal of his own monstrous endowment. It was painfully obvious now which of them was on the receiving end, and the realization made his stomach churn.

Bruce shook his head, a fresh wave of defiance rising within him. "This is stupid," he began, his voice trembling with the onset of a toddler tantrum. "This is not fair!" He stomped his foot, the lace sock doing little to muffle the sound against the wooden floor.

Clark's expression remained infuriatingly calm, almost amused. "Why are you fussing, sweetheart?"

"I hate this stupid dress!" Bruce cried, his voice rising in pitch. "Take it off now!"

"No," Clark said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Daddy decides what his baby wears."

Bruce's body began to tremble with a mixture of rage and helplessness. He continued to complain, his words dissolving into childish whines and cries. "I don't like it! Take it off! Please, take it off!" Tears welled in his eyes, hot and shameful, as he sank to the floor in a heap of frilly white and navy.

Clark knelt beside him, his voice shifting into the infuriatingly condescending baby talk that made Bruce's skin crawl. "Is my little one so feisty because he needs a change? Or maybe a bottle? Are you wet, sweetpea? Or just hungry? Or maybe," he added, reaching out to play with one of the ribbon bows on Bruce's headband, "you're just being a cute little fusspot for Daddy's attention?"

That was the breaking point. Bruce exploded, his face flushing with anger. "You're a jerk!" he screamed, slumping forward in defeat. He knew, even with his strength and training, that he couldn't win against Clark without preparation and strategy. Right now, he was just a man in a dress, and Clark was an unstoppable force.

Clark sighed, a sound of patient resignation. "Maybe my little one needs a bottle and a change then," he mused, still toying with the bows. "My baby sure does love attention so much."

Bruce frowned, pushing himself up to sit properly. "I don't want attention," he insisted, his voice sullen but firm. "I want to pick my own clothes." He knew from experience that the stubborn toddler act was the only one that seemed to work with Clark, the only approach that sometimes yielded results.

Clark regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You need to ask nicely."

Bruce's pride screamed in protest, but he knew he couldn't let it get in the way of a potential victory. He took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of acting ability he possessed. He fluttered his eyelashes, forcing his expression into one of sweet, innocent pleading. "Please, Daddy," he said, his voice soft and sugary, "let me pick my clothes."

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Clark's face lit up with an expression Bruce could only describe as "cute aggression." He let out a delighted squeal and assaulted Bruce with kisses, peppering his face and neck with enthusiastic smacks. "Yes! Of course, my pumpkin can! Anything for my sweet boy!" he exclaimed between kisses. "But only under a couple of conditions."

Bruce pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Which?"

Clark's smile was triumphant. "Daddy will only allow shorts, onesies, and skirts. No long pants. And if you don't wear a skirt, you need to pair a cute accessory with it, like special socks or a bow. And," he added, his eyes twinkling, "Daddy still gets to dress you sometimes too."

Bruce weighed his options. It was a compromise, but it was better than nothing. He either wore a dress or wore a bow—he could decide which humiliation to endure on any given day. "Fine," he sighed. "I agree."

"Good boy," Clark praised, ruffling his hair.

"Now take this dress off," Bruce demanded, his momentary cooperation giving way to his underlying frustration.

Clark just smiled, shaking his head. "No."

Later that afternoon, Bruce was on the floor, his attention finally captured by the only toy in the nursery that didn't make his brain cells commit suicide: a detailed model of the Batmobile. He was meticulously examining the turbine engine, his fingers tracing the familiar lines of a vehicle he knew better than his own soul. This small piece of his real life, his identity, was a lifeline in the sea of babyish nonsense.

Clark moved quietly around the room, and Bruce heard the soft thud of something being attached to the wall. He glanced up to see Clark hanging a large velcro board, its surface divided into sections and decorated with colorful cutouts.

"What's that?" Bruce asked, his voice flat with disinterest.

Clark stepped back to admire his handiwork. "It's a little reward system," he explained cheerfully. "I was hoping this might motivate you to obey Daddy."

Bruce scoffed, turning his attention back to the Batmobile. "It's stupid."

"At least hear me out," Clark pleaded.

Bruce didn't even look up. "I don't have a choice anyways, so go on, explain the stupid chart."

Clark cleared his throat, undeterred. "You can earn rewards if you behave, Bruce. See?" He pointed to a section of the board. "You can earn stars for good behavior."

"Can I have pants?" Bruce asked deadpan.

"No. Just listen," Clark said, his patience wearing thin.

Bruce set down the Batmobile, turning to face the board with a look of utter boredom. "The board is stupid and I don't care."

That was it. Clark's smile finally faded, replaced by a look of stern disappointment. He reached down, grabbing Bruce by the arm and hauling him to his feet, then positioning him directly in front of the velcro chart. "You will listen," Clark said, his voice low and firm. "You will earn stars with good behavior." He pointed to a separate section on the side of the board where a pile of felt stars were waiting. "By calling me Daddy and being polite. By using your diaper and asking nicely for changes. For just being a good boy. If you do those things, you can get toys or treats or even special cuddles from your Daddy."

Bruce was already zoning out, his eyes glazing over. When Clark paused, he offered a sarcastic, "Wow, such great rewards. Too bad I'm not a toddler, so they don't motivate me."

Clark's jaw tightened, but he pressed on. "Then there are the hearts." He pointed to a row of red felt hearts pinned to the main section of the board. "Whenever you misbehave, Daddy will take away a heart, which represents a privilege. Just like I'm doing now." He reached out and deliberately removed one of the hearts, placing it in the empty section on the side. "If you want to earn a star and a reward, you have to get back all your hearts first."

Before Bruce could process this, Clark swooped down and snatched the Batmobile from the floor. Bruce's face crumbled. The only toy he liked, the only piece of himself he had in this room—gone.

"What did I do?" Bruce asked, his voice small and choked.

"You were rude to Daddy just now," Clark said, his tone uncompromising as he placed the Batmobile inside a small, transparent safe that had been sitting in the corner. He turned the key with the click of the safe's lock echoed in the sudden silence of the nursery, a final, damning sound that sealed Bruce's fate. He stared at the transparent box, the sleek, dark lines of the Batmobile mocking him from within. It was the only piece of his real life that had penetrated this suffocating bubble of regression, and now it was gone, locked away like a forbidden treasure. The fight drained out of him completely, leaving a hollow, aching void in its place. His shoulders slumped, the frilly white dress suddenly feeling heavier than any armor he had ever worn.

Clark watched him, his expression softening from stern disappointment to a calculated sympathy. He knelt down, opening his arms. "Come here, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice gentle now. "Daddy's got you."

Bruce didn't resist. He let Clark pull him into a strong embrace, his head resting limply against the Kryptonian's shoulder. The anger was still there, a hot coal in his gut, but it was smothered by a wave of crushing defeat. What was the point? Every rebellion, every act of defiance, was met with a swift, humiliating countermeasure that left him feeling smaller and more powerless than before. He had no allies, no resources, no escape. The only path forward, he realized with a sickening lurch, was the one Clark had laid out for him. All he could do was behave.

"That's my good boy," Clark cooed, rocking him slowly. He reached for a nearby bottle, already prepared with warm milk, and gently guided the nipple to Bruce's lips. "Just drink your baba, Brucie. Everything will be better soon."

Bruce closed his eyes and drank, the sweet, bland liquid filling his mouth as he tried to empty his mind. He focused on the rhythmic sucking, the gentle rocking motion, anything to distract himself from the image of his car, trapped and alone. He was so lost in this forced tranquility that he almost didn't hear it.

Ping! Pong!

The sharp, digital chime cut through the quiet, coming from the small laptop on the dresser. Bruce's eyes snapped open, a flicker of his old alertness returning. Clark's head turned towards the sound, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, well," he said, his voice laced with an unsettling cheerfulness. "Looks like we have a visitor."

Bruce froze, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He watched, horrified, as Clark carefully disentangled himself, stood up, and walked over to the laptop. He picked it up, his movements deliberate, and then turned back to face Bruce. Clark put his glasses on, the familiar frames a stark contrast to his current role, and then clicked to accept the call.

A cheerful, feminine face filled the screen. "Clark! There you are, you big goof. I was starting to think you'd fallen off the face of the— oh my god!" The woman, Lucy, gasped, her eyes widening as she took in the scene on the screen. "Who is this adorable little one? He's absolutely precious!"

Mortification washed over Bruce in a cold, paralyzing wave. This was worse than the dress, worse than the diapers, worse than anything Clark had done so far. This was exposure. This was his humiliation being broadcast to an outsider. He reacted on pure, animal instinct. His hands flew to the bib around his neck, fumbling with the snap as he tried to rip it off. He scrambled backward, trying to crawl away from the damning view of the laptop's camera, to hide himself from this stranger's amused gaze.

A firm but gentle hand landed on the padded seat of his diaper, stopping his retreat instantly. "Whoa, there, feisty one," Clark's voice was calm, almost amused. He easily held Bruce in place with one hand while he adjusted the laptop with the other, ensuring both of them were perfectly framed. "This baby boy is Bruce," Clark said, his tone light and conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "And he's being a little bit fussy right now."

Clark effortlessly scooped Bruce up, settling him on his lap so that his face was clearly visible to the woman on the screen. Bruce froze, terrified, his entire body rigid. He was trapped, a doll being presented for inspection. He could feel Clark's chin resting on his shoulder, could hear his soft breaths next to his ear.

"Don't be scared, angel," Clark whispered, just for him. Then, louder, for their audience, he said, "Now, don't be rude to Mommy Lucy. Say hi."

Lucy waved at the screen, her smile warm and genuine. "Hi there, sweetpea. It's so lovely to meet you."

Bruce buried his face in Clark's chest, his cheeks burning with a fire that threatened to consume him. He could feel the fabric of Clark's shirt against his skin, smell his clean, familiar scent. He wanted to disappear. "Hi," he mumbled, the word barely audible, muffled by the fabric and his own shame.

"That's my boy," Clark praised, tightening his hold. He adjusted the bib Bruce had tried to remove, smoothing it down carefully. Then he picked up the discarded bottle and pressed it back to Bruce's lips. "Open up, baby boy. Time for your ba-ba."

Bruce closed his eyes, a silent tear of pure humiliation escaping and tracing a path down his temple. He gave in, sucking mechanically on the bottle, his fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of Clark's shirt. He tried to block it all out—the voice on the laptop, the feeling of being held, the taste of the milk, the overwhelming sense of being a spectacle. He just drank, focusing on the simple, mindless action.

Clark held him close, his hand rubbing Bruce's back in slow, soothing circles as he rocked and bounced him gently on his lap. "He's just a little clingy today," Clark explained to Lucy, his voice a low rumble against Bruce's ear.

"I can see that," Lucy chuckled. "But he seems like a sweetheart. Clingy is good. It means he feels safe with his Daddy."

"Oh, he feels safe, alright," Clark laughed, the vibration traveling through Bruce's entire body. "Safe enough to be the most feisty, bratty little thing you've ever seen. It's a real challenge, but I enjoy it."

Bruce couldn't help it. A low growl of pure frustration rumbled in his chest.

The sound made both Clark and Lucy burst out laughing. "Oh, I heard that!" Lucy exclaimed delightedly. "He's got spirit! I love it."

"So, what's up, Lucy?" Clark asked, shifting the conversation. "Besides checking up on me."

"Just the usual," she said. "But I was wondering... if you were free for a session sometime this week? I could really use a good little boy to take care of."

Clark's smile was visible in his voice. "You know I love you, Lucy, but I think I've discovered I much prefer the caregiver role."

"Aww, really?" Lucy pouted theatrically. "That's a shame. You were so cute in diapers, Clarkie."

Bruce's eyes flew open at that. He stared at the screen, then craned his neck to look at Clark's profile. Clark, the baby?

Clark just smiled, his hand stroking Bruce's hair. "I prefer my baby being in diapers," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "He fills them out much better."

They chatted for a few more minutes, their conversation a blur of inside jokes and community gossip that Bruce couldn't follow and didn't care to. He just kept drinking, trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Finally, they said their goodbyes, and Clark ended the call.

The moment the screen went dark, Bruce exploded. He shoved the bottle away, scrambling off Clark's lap. "You absolute son of a bitch!" he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You exposed me! To another person! How could you?"

Clark sighed, leaning back on his hands. "Be good, Bruce. Lucy isn't going to judge you. She's a mommy herself. She understands."

Bruce stopped his pacing, the words catching in his throat. He turned back to face Clark, a new kind of horror dawning on him. He referenced the conversation he'd just been forced to endure. "So... what she said... about you... in diapers," he began, his voice hesitant. "Was that true? Were you the baby at some point in this... this weird fetish dynamic you have going on?"

Clark's expression was unguarded for a moment, a flicker of something complex—nostalgia, maybe, or vulnerability. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual calm confidence. "Yes," he admitted simply. "But I prefer being the Daddy. Being the baby... it's too risky for me."

"Risky?" Bruce scoffed, though his mind was racing. "What's so risky about it?"

Clark tapped the side of his glasses. "These," he said quietly. "They have to stay on. Being a baby means letting go completely. I can't do that. I can't risk... slipping up. It's safer for me to be the one in control."

Bruce stood there, processing this new information. Clark, the all-powerful Superman, had a vulnerability. A weakness. It was a small thing, almost insignificant in the face of his current predicament, but it was something. "Whatever," he muttered, turning away. He walked back to the discarded bottle and picked it up, draining the last of the milk.

The pale morning light filtered through the curtains of the nursery, painting stripes of gold and white across the floor. Bruce woke slowly, a soft groan escaping his lips as he stretched, his body arching like a cat's in the confines of the crib. He was dressed in the usual frilly nightmare—a legless onesie with delicate lace trim at the hems, white stockings, and a ridiculous bonnet tied under his chin. The familiar rubber pacifier was in his mouth, and the thick padding of a wet diaper was snug around his hips. He wasn't even sure how many days had passed anymore; they were blurring into a haze of forced regression and unsettling comfort.

He blinked, his mind fuzzy and hazy. The explosive tantrum from the previous day felt like a distant memory, the sharp edges of his anger and humiliation worn smooth by a profound, drug-induced relaxation. He remembered being held and cuddled for the entire day, and to his eternal shame, it had been... great. The long, warm baths where Clark washed him with gentle, thorough care; the strong hands massaging the tension from his shoulders; the endless cuddles on the couch, where for once, he wasn't the one providing comfort but receiving it. He had melted into the embrace, enjoying the feeling of gentle hands patting his diapered bottom, rubbing his back, stroking his head. The infinite litany of praise, being called a "good boy" and "pretty," the baby-talk that once made his skin crawl now felt like a soothing balm. He was being looked after. He didn't have to make a single decision, lift a single finger for himself. His mind, usually a whirlwind of strategy and paranoia, was blissfully quiet. He didn't even have to get up to use the bathroom. He was spoon-fed delicious food and spent his time watching cartoons and playing with stupid, colorful toys. He knew Clark was drugging him, but at this point, Bruce had given up fighting it. The surrender was its own kind of peace.

As he yawned, the nursery door burst open and Clark was there, his face bright with a smile that was both genuine and possessive. "Good morning, my sleepy angel!" he chirped, his voice already slipping into the cooing, baby-talk tone that had become the soundtrack to Bruce's captivity. "Did my baby have a good sleep?"

Bruce didn't respond with words. He simply reached up, his arms opening in an unambiguous gesture. He wanted to be held.

Clark's smile widened as he leaned over the crib railing, scooping Bruce up with effortless grace. "Oh, my sweet boy," he murmured, cradling Bruce close to his chest. Bruce melted instantly, his head finding its familiar spot on Clark's shoulder as he breathed in his clean, comforting scent. Clark's hand slid down Bruce's back, patting him gently before moving lower to check his diaper. "Somebody's a little wet," Clark announced softly. "My little one needs a change."

Bruce was quiet. He didn't trust himself to speak, afraid of breaking the fragile peace he was currently enjoying. As Clark carried him to the changing table, Bruce finally removed the pacifier from his mouth, his voice a low murmur. "If I lose another heart," he asked, his tone carefully neutral, "what would you take away?"

Clark's smile was warm, but his eyes held a glint of calculation. "Probably your after-bottle bouncing time in Daddy's arms," he said, his voice casual.

Bruce froze. The bouncing. The cuddling. It was, factually, the most enjoyable part of this entire twisted ordeal. It was the one thing he genuinely looked forward to, the one moment where the humiliation was completely overshadowed by the simple, profound pleasure of being held and safe. A low whine escaped his throat. "No..."

"Then behave, sweetheart," Clark said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Bruce squirmed on the changing table. "You're making this worse for me," he complained, his voice trembling slightly. "Stop being mean."

Clark sighed, a fond, exasperated sound. He finished fastening the clean diaper around Bruce's hips and gently placed him back on the rug. "You're being so good right now, my love," he praised, his voice softening again. "Keep it up, and you'll get your heart back in no time."

Suddenly, Clark's head tilted, his expression sharpening as he listened to something only he could hear. His eyes widened slightly. "A bridge is falling," he said, his voice all business now. In a blur of motion, he was out of his civilian clothes and into the Superman suit. He knelt down, pressing a quick kiss to Bruce's forehead. "Be good, baby. I'll be right back."

And then he was gone, a red and blue streak shooting out the window.

Bruce scoffed, sitting back on the rug. "Whatever," he muttered to the empty room. "I didn't want you here anyway." He yawned again, a wave of petulance washing over him. Clark hadn't even made him a bottle before he left. What a terrible Daddy, he thought with a bitter smirk. He looked around the room. What could he do? Color? Try to pry the safe open and get his Batmobile back? Clark would definitely scold him for that, probably take away another heart. His gaze swept the room, and then it landed on the door.

It was open.

Clark, in his haste to save the world, had forgotten to lock it.

Bruce's breath hitched in his throat. His heart began to pound, a frantic drum against his ribs. He started hyperventilating, his mind racing. What would Clark do to him if he caught him? The punishments would be severe. But then another thought, stronger and more defiant, pushed its way to the surface. Screw Clark. He was Batman. All he had to do was get to the cave, get the kryptonite, and this whole nightmare would be over. He stared at the open door for a full minute, a war raging inside him. Then, his training took over. Autopilot. He moved with a sudden, frantic purpose. He ripped the diaper off, ignoring the frilly clothes, and started crawling on all fours towards Clark's room. He needed clothes. He found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, which were a bit big but would have to do. He scrambled into them, his movements clumsy and desperate. He then crawled to the front door, his hand hesitating on the knob for only a second before he turned it and slipped out.

He crawled through the corridor, his bare knees silent on the carpet. He reached the elevator and, with all his strength, managed to stretch up and press the button. The doors opened, and he crawled inside, his heart hammering. When the doors opened on the ground floor, he crawled out into the lobby and then pushed himself to his feet, stumbling out into the bright light of the street. He wobbled, his legs unsteady after so much time crawling. People stared. A man in ill-fitting clothes, disheveled and wild-eyed. Panic seized him. He didn't recognize this area at all. He clutched at the arm of a passerby, a man in a business suit. "Help me," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please, I was kidnapped. I don't know where I am. Help me get home."

The man tried to shake him off. "Fuck off, man. Get a grip."

"I'll give you any amount of money you want!" Bruce pleaded desperately. "I'm Bruce Wayne. Please, just help me get home. Don't let him find me."

The man stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked Bruce up and down. He was a familiar face, the frantic, genuine terror in his eyes. "Fine," he grunted, pushing Bruce off him. Bruce stumbled and fell onto the pavement. "Get off me. How much are we talking about?"

And then, a shadow fell over them. They both looked up. Hovering above them, silhouetted against the sun, was the figure of Superman, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of profound disappointment.

The man's face lit up. "Superman! Thank god!"

Superman smiled, a warm, public-relations-perfect smile. "I'll help this distressed man," he said, his voice calm and reassuring to the small crowd that was starting to gather. "Don't worry, everyone. I've got this." He slowly descended, his red boots touching down softly on the pavement. He looked down at Bruce, who was frozen on the ground, utterly terrified, unable to form a single word. "Mr. Wayne," Clark said, his voice laced with concern. "What are you doing here? You seem so distressed."

Bruce just stared, his mouth agape, a silent scream trapped in his throat.

Clark knelt, his smile never wavering as he gently picked Bruce up, cradling him in his arms as if he were a child. "It's alright," he told the onlookers. "I'll handle this." And then he shot into the sky, Bruce practically paralyzed in his arms.

They flew higher and higher, up through the clouds until the city was just a patchwork below them. The world was silent, just the whistle of the wind. Clark looked at him fondly, his expression soft as they soared through the fluffy white clouds. For a single, foolish second, Bruce relaxed. He thought Clark wasn't mad. He leaned into the touch, let himself be cuddled, believing the worst was over.

Then, out of nowhere, Clark's hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar of the t shirt. In one fluid, terrifying motion, he held Bruce up, dangling him thousands of feet in the air. Bruce gasped, his eyes widening in shock and pure, primal fear. He looked down, and the world spun beneath him—a dizzying, terrifying expanse of nothingness. The wind whipped at him, tearing at his clothes and his hair. Panic, cold and absolute, seized him.

"Please!" he begged instantly, his voice a high, desperate shriek that was swallowed by the wind. "Don't drop me! Clark, please! We're friends! You... you love me, don't you?"

Clark's face was a mask of cold disappointment, a stark contrast to the warmth from moments before. "You've been a very, very bad boy, Bruce," he said, his voice dangerously calm.

"Please, don't do things you'll regret!" Bruce pleaded, his body trembling violently as he dangled. "I didn't mean it! I swear, I didn't mean it! Please!"

"I could drop you right now," Clark said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "No one would ever know it wasn't an accident. Just another tragic fall for Gotham's prince."

Bruce's blood ran cold. He stared into Clark's eyes, searching for any hint of the man he thought he knew, and found only a chilling stranger. "Why?" Bruce choked out, tears streaming from his eyes and flying away into the sky.

“Why would you do this? Why did you run away?" Clark coldly asked.

"It was instinct! It was the Batman part of me, I swear! I promise, I'll never do it again. I'll never even think about it again."

Clark's gaze was piercing, analytical. "Are you scared of me, Bruce?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than Bruce himself. Was he? The thought was a bitter pill. Batman, scared? Of anyone? It was an admission of failure, a crack in the foundation of his very identity. But the answer was yes. The raw, undisguised power Clark was displaying, the casual threat of his own demise, the psychological torture he had been enduring—it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming truth. The Batman, for the first time in his adult life, was terrified. But he would never, ever admit it. Not like this.

"Answer me," Clark commanded, his grip tightening slightly on Bruce's collar.

Bruce's mind raced, scrambling for a lie, for a way out. He saw the flicker of doubt in Clark's eyes and knew denial was a dead end. He had to switch tactics. He forced the terror down, replacing it with a desperate, calculated performance. He stopped struggling, letting his body go limp.

He looked up at Clark, his eyes wide and wet, and fluttered his eyelashes. "No," he whispered, his voice thick with false adoration. "Of course not. I love you, Clark. I'll go home with you. I'll be your baby if you want. Just... Please, don't let go. Hold me. Please, just hold me."

Clark's expression didn't soften. If anything, it grew colder. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid, Bruce. I could drop you right now and pass it off as a suicide. A tragic end for a troubled billionaire. No one would question it."

"That's unrealistic," Bruce shot back, his voice trembling despite his attempt at bravado. "People would investigate. They'd find out."

A slow, cruel smirk spread across Clark's face. "Would they? Bruce Wayne has attempted before, hasn't he? Multiple times, if I recall correctly."

Bruce froze. Bitterness flooded his mouth, sharp and acidic. He had. During his lowest points, in the depths of his grief and despair, he had. It was his most closely guarded shame, a vulnerability he had never shared with another soul. And Clark knew. Of course, he knew. "Fine," he bit out, the words tasting like ash. "I did. But... but please, Clark. Think about it. This isn't you."

"Why shouldn't I?" Clark asked, his voice dangerously low. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't end this right now."

"Because I'll be good!" Bruce cried, the promise tearing from his throat. "I promise! I'll be your baby boy. I'll cooperate. I'll be a good boy, and I'll let you take care of me. I won't fight anymore. Just please, take me home."

Clark stared at him, his eyes searching, unconvinced. He wasn't buying the desperate promises. Bruce knew he had to give him something more, something tangible.

He took a shaky breath, the performance of a lifetime. "I'll wear the diapers," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll use them. No more holding it in, no more asking for the toilet. I'll play along. I'll do whatever you want."

Clark's gaze narrowed, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "Will you be Daddy's potty Princess?"

The words were like poison on his tongue. Every fiber of his being screamed in revolt. He looked down, at the clouds swirling thousands of feet below, then back up at Clark's impassive face. There was no choice. "Yes," he breathed, the word full of bitter defeat.

"Say it," Clark commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal.

Bruce paused, his pride making one last, futile stand. Then, he surrendered. He looked Clark straight in the eye, forcing himself to meet that cold, demanding gaze. "I'm Daddy's... Potty Princess."

A low, fond laugh escaped Clark's lips. The tension broke. He pulled Bruce close, crushing him against his chest in a grip that was both possessive and strangely comforting. "Yes, you are," he murmured, his voice finally softening. "You really are." He held Bruce for a long moment, rocking him gently as they flew. "What do you want now, sweetheart?" he asked, his tone almost gentle again. "Tell Daddy what his baby needs."

Bruce was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. He just stared blankly for a moment, the adrenaline crash leaving him hollow. Then, he remembered his earlier petulance. "A bottle," he mumbled against Clark's chest. "You didn't leave me one when you left."

A faint smile touched Clark's lips. "I'll get you one," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Right after I punish you properly for being a very, very bad boy."

Bruce sighed, the fight completely went out of him. "Okay," he whispered, closing his eyes and surrendering to the inevitable.

The moment they were back inside the sanctuary of Clark's home, the gentle handling ceased. Clark's arms, which had just been cradling him through the clouds, became like steel bands around Bruce's torso. He carried Bruce towards the nursery, the plush carpet a stark contrast to the cold dread coiling in Bruce's gut. He expected the worst. Chains, maybe, or some other Kryptonian-designed restraint. He braced himself for something humiliating, something that would strip away the last vestiges of his dignity.

Instead, Clark set him down on his feet, his grip still firm on Bruce's upper arms. "Take off your clothes," Clark commanded, his voice flat, devoid of the gentle cooing Bruce was becoming accustomed to. He was still in the full Superman suit, the red and blue a vibrant, intimidating splash of color in the muted tones of the apartment.

Bruce's hands trembled as he fumbled with the hem of the oversized t-shirt he'd stolen. He pulled it over his head, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on his skin. He hesitated at the sweatpants, his pride making one last, futile stand. Clark just raised an eyebrow, a silent, impatient order. Bruce shucked them off, standing completely naked and exposed in the middle of the room.

Clark sat down on the edge of the plush sofa, the fabric dipping under his weight. He patted his own thigh, the gesture simple, yet loaded with terrifying implication. "Over my lap, Bruce. Now."

Bruce's heart hammered against his ribs. He stumbled forward, his movements awkward, and draped himself over Clark's powerful thighs. The position was utterly demeaning, his bare ass thrust up in the air, his torso and head hanging down towards the floor. He could feel the texture of the Superman suit against his stomach and chest, the fabric smooth and cool against his flushed skin. He braced himself, his hands gripping the thick carpet fibers.

Then it began. The first slap was sharp, a stinging crack of flesh on flesh that echoed in the silent room. Bruce jolted, a gasp torn from his throat. "You were a very, very bad boy," Clark's voice rumbled above him, a low, dangerous timbre that vibrated right through Bruce's bones. Another slap, this one on the other cheek, just as hard. "Disobedient. Rude." Smack. "I can't leave you alone for thirty minutes." Smack. "Not even thirty minutes."

The spanking was relentless. Clark's hand was a blur of motion, a rhythmic, punishing cadence that fell again and again on Bruce's bare skin. The initial sharp stings quickly melded into a single, throbbing blaze of agony. Bruce didn't even bother trying to hold back the tears. They came silently at first, hot tracks tracing paths down his temples and dripping onto the carpet. He squeezed his eyes shut, his world narrowing to the searing pain in his ass and the steady, damning litany of Clark's voice.

"Did you think I wouldn't find you? Did you think you could just run away from Daddy?" Smack. Smack. Smack. "You put yourself in danger, Bruce." A particularly hard slap made Bruce cry out, a choked, broken moan of pain and humiliation.

But then, something horrifying began to happen. Amidst the burning agony, a different kind of heat started to build. A traitorous warmth spread from his groin, a pulsing, undeniable arousal. He was getting hard. The pain, the submission, the sheer overwhelming dominance of the man holding him down. The worst part wasn't just the physical betrayal of his own body; it was the sickening realization that this was his longtime crush, the man he had secretly admired and desired for years, currently spanking him like a misbehaving child. The thought was so twisted, so perverse, that it only fueled his arousal.

He couldn't stop it. He began to move, a subtle, helpless rocking of his hips. He ground his hardening cock against Clark's thigh, the friction a desperate, shameful search for release. Each slap from Clark's hand sent a jolt through him, a confusing mix of pain and pleasure that made his head spin. He was a mess of contradictions: crying from the agony of the spanking while humping Clark's leg like an animal in heat.

Finally, the spanking stopped. Bruce lay limply over Clark's lap, his body trembling, his ass a throbbing, fiery mass of pain. He felt a wet warmth spread against his own skin and Clark's suit, and he realized with fresh horror that he had come, the orgasm a shuddering, humiliating release that left him feeling empty and broken.

Clark was silent for a long moment, his breathing a little heavier than usual. Then, he effortlessly lifted Bruce, his movements impersonal again, and laid him on the floor. Bruce watched through a haze of pain and endorphins as Clark retrieved a thick, clean diaper. His ass was so red he couldn't even feel it anymore, just a deep, boneless ache. Clark worked efficiently, his hands impersonal as he wiped Bruce clean and fastened the soft padding around his hips. Bruce was now in nothing but the diaper, his entire body feeling overly sensitive.

Clark's gaze drifted to the reward chart on the wall. "You see that, Bruce?" he asked, his voice cold. "No hearts. Nothing. You're starting from zero. You were a very, very bad boy, and you need to earn everything back with good behavior." He laid out the new terms, each one a fresh blow. "No clothes that aren't baby-like. That means no shirts, only dresses and onesies. No toy car, no stuffies, no coloring. Only sensory baby toys. No cuddles after your bottle. Earlier bedtime. No cartoons. No treats. And no coos or compliments from Daddy. Not until you have at least some hearts back."

Bruce's face crumpled. The punishment wasn't the spanking; it was this. The removal of every small comfort, every scrap of affection he had secretly started to crave. "Okay," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. He shivered, the cold air raising goosebumps on his bare skin, and let out a small sneeze.

Clark sighed, the sound a mix of exasperation and something softer. He scooped Bruce up again, settling him on his lap as he grabbed a legless onesie. He began to dress him, his movements gentle despite his stern demeanor. Bruce's head fell against Clark's chest, the steady thrum of his heart a confusing comfort against his ear. He felt Clark's fingers work at the snaps between his legs, the proximity so intimate it made his breath catch. He looked up at Clark's profile, at the set of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes. He was handsome, so impossibly hot when he was stern and in control. Bruce nuzzled closer, his lips brushing against Clark's cheek in a tentative, hopeful kiss.

Clark grabbed his face, his grip firm but not painful. "Being cute now is not going to make you avoid punishment, Bruce," he warned, his voice low.

"I've already been punished," Bruce protested, his voice small.

"Oh, have you?" Clark's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Don't think I haven't noticed that you got hard from your spanking. Don't think I didn't feel you grinding on me like a horny puppy. So no, your punishment isn't over. I'm just changing methods."

"My ass hurts," Bruce whined, gesturing vaguely. "Even if I got hard, I still have hand prints on it. They burn."

"Yeah," Clark agreed, his gaze dropping to Bruce's diapered bottom. "And those hand prints are the same reason you came all over my uniform, and now I have to wash my thighs. Go sit in the corner and think about what you've done."

"But—" Bruce started to protest.

"Corner. Now," Clark commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The fight drained out of Bruce. He complied, sliding off Clark's lap and crawling to the designated corner of the room. He curled up there, his back to the room, a fresh wave of misery washing over him. Clark was mad at him. No more kisses, no more cuddles. He shouldn't have tried to escape. Now Daddy wouldn't want him anymore. The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. He instantly slapped himself mentally. What the fuck? Screw this guy. He had to do it, he had to try for freedom. He was a prisoner, he hated it here, obviously. But... the diaper felt so comfy and soft between his legs now. And he liked the morning bottles. And the afternoon ones. And the evening ones where he got rocked until he fell asleep as Clark called him his little princess and his pretty pumpkin. He grabbed his hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands. He was so conflicted. What did he want? Did he want to go home to the cold, lonely fight, or stay here and let Clark baby him, ridicule him, and turn him into a six-foot toddler? A loud, frustrated whine escaped his lips. He didn't know! He wanted to scream and curse Clark out, and then he wanted Clark to hold him and call him his good boy. He didn't want to behave, but what choice did he have?

"What are you whining for?" Clark's voice cut through the silence from the couch, sharp and impatient. "Be quiet."

Bruce flinched at the tone. He knew this game. The sad, lost toddler act was his only weapon, the one thing that could sometimes pierce Clark's stern facade. He took a shaky breath, forcing his voice into a small, pathetic whimper. "I... I missed you," he mumbled, hoping it sounded convincing. "That's all."

A low, humorless chuckle came from the couch. "Wow," Clark said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're so good at lying, it's actually impressive."

"I'm not lying!" Bruce insisted, the whine in his voice becoming more genuine now, tinged with real frustration. He pressed his face against his knees, letting out a longer, more miserable sound.

"Cut it out, Bruce," Clark sighed, the sound weary. "You have five more minutes in the corner. And I mean it."

Bruce scoffed quietly to himself. Clark saw right through him. He was always one step ahead. Defeated, he tried a different tactic, a genuine question born of his confusion. "Why are you so mean to me?"

The question hung in the air. For a moment, there was only silence. Then Clark spoke, his voice losing some of its edge, replaced by a weary seriousness. "Why should I be nice? You almost ran away, Bruce. You could have gotten yourself killed, or worse."

"What was I supposed to do?" Bruce snapped, his head whipping around to glare at Clark from his spot on the floor. "Just stay here and take it? Let you do whatever you wanted to me?"

"I don't care that you ran away!" Clark's voice rose, a flash of genuine anger breaking through. "I care that you did it while you were completely immobilized! You're drugged, Bruce! You have no strength to defend yourself! Someone else could have taken advantage of you! You're Bruce Wayne, not just some random person! What if someone had grabbed you? Threatened you for money? Done something... something horrible and disgusting to you?"

"Who cares?" Bruce shot back, his voice trembling with a mixture of defiance and despair. "You took me! I'm here against my will anyway! What's the difference?"

The words hung between them, ugly and raw. Clark's face hardened, his expression shifting from anger to something colder, more wounded. "The difference," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "is that I love you. I'm not here to hurt you. That's the difference. Now, face the corner."

The force of those words, the quiet admission, hit Bruce like a punch to the gut. He felt his composure crumble. He turned back to the wall, his shoulders shaking as he began to cry in earnest, silent, gut-wrenching sobs that he couldn't control.

Clark sighed, the sound heavy with regret. "Be good, Bruce," he said, his voice softer now. "From now on, I'm going to have to listen to you 24/7. And when I'm not home, you will be locked in the crib."

"That's not fair!" Bruce cried, twisting around again, his face streaked with tears. "I'll get bored! I'll go crazy in there!"

"You know what's not fair?" Clark's voice was like steel. "Having to drag civilians thirty seconds away from a bridge collapse because I heard you, who is drugged and without the strength to defend himself, leave the apartment. I could have hurt someone badly. So boohoo, you'll get bored in the crib alone. You should have thought about that before you tried to run away."

The logic was inescapable. Bruce's anger deflated, replaced by a hollow ache of guilt. He slumped against the wall, his fight completely gone. "I'm... I'm sorry for worrying you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Fine. I'll stay here."

"Oh yes, you will," Clark agreed, his tone firm.

"I won't leave," Bruce said, trying one last time to negotiate. "But I'm not gonna get locked inside a crib. I like coloring when I'm waiting for you to come back."

"You're clearly not capable of behaving," Clark stated flatly. "You've lost your coloring privileges. You will be in the crib, and that's final. Now, back facing the corner."

Bruce frowned, a fresh wave of helplessness washing over him. He didn't want to piss Clark off further. He obeyed, turning back to the wall and curling into a tighter ball. He had never felt so powerless in his entire life. He felt exactly like what he was pretending to be: a baby who had done something very bad and was now being punished. He sniffled, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Clark sighed from the couch, the sound full of a weary affection that made Bruce's heart ache. He hated seeing Bruce so sad. "I'll be nice to you again," Clark said, his voice a bit less stern, a bit softer. "I'll give you back a heart, as long as you're good for me."

Bruce just nodded, his face still pressed against his knees.

Another sigh from Clark. "Do you want the bottle I promised you earlier?"

A whimper escaped Bruce's lips before he could stop it. "Yes," he whispered.

"Alright," Clark said, the sound of him getting up from the couch. "I'll go make it. You better not move from that corner. And Daddy will feed it to you, but no pats on the bum. You've lost that privilege."

Bruce nodded again, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. He wanted the comfort, the warmth of the bottle, but the idea of it without the gentle, rhythmic patting on his diapered bottom was devastating. "I... I want diapee pats," he said, his voice small and hesitant. "I like them with the bottle."

The words hung in the air. Diapee Pats. From the couch, Bruce could almost hear Clark short-circuiting. He wanted to explode from the cuteness overload, but he was trying so hard to remain stern. He stumbled over his words, his composure cracking for just a second. "You... you will get pats because your bum is red and that's the only reason," he managed to say, his voice strained. "And now... now you sit in the corner while I make the bottle."

A faint, triumphant smile touched Bruce's lips as he whispered, "Yes, Daddy."

Later, the warm, savory aroma of tomato soup and the buttery scent of grilling cheese filled the apartment. Bruce watched from the shadows of the corridor, his large frame curled into itself on the floor. He was still nursing a grudge from their earlier confrontation, the memory of Clark's cold anger leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But the bottle had come, and with it, the gentle pats on his bottom. That was all the confirmation he needed. Clark still liked him. The punishment was a performance, a necessary evil, but the affection was real.

With the pacifier bobbing between his lips, Bruce began to crawl. The thick padding of the diaper and the thin fabric of the legless onesie were his only attire. He moved silently, a large, powerful man reduced to an infantile mode of transport, until he reached the kitchen. He sat up beside Clark's leg, his broad shoulders and muscular torso a stark contrast to the babyish costume. He waited, his heart thrumming with expectation. A pat on the head. A quick cuddle. A whispered nickname. It was his due.

Clark didn't even look down. He focused on the pan in front of him, expertly flipping a golden-brown sandwich, the cheese oozing out the sides in a perfect, molten line.

Annoyance prickled at Bruce. How dare he? How dare Clark just ignore him like that? He owed him attention. He was the one who had brought him here, who had upended his entire life. And before today's disaster, Clark had fawned over him constantly, a relentless stream of compliments and pet names. He had to still feel the same. Besides, Bruce reasoned, he'd barely gotten a cuddle all day. He was due.

Bruce nudged his head against Clark's thigh, a deliberate, cat-like gesture meant to demand attention. "What do you want, Bruce?" Clark asked, his voice flat, his eyes still on the stove.

“Clark.”Bruce pulled the pacifier from his mouth. "I wanna cuddle," he said, his voice petulant.

"I'm making dinner," Clark replied, not missing a beat. "And it's Daddy, not Clark."

Bruce's jaw tightened. He was not in the mood for this game. "Clark," he said again, more deliberately this time. "I'm hungry." He pressed his face against the solid warmth of Clark's leg, wrapping his arms around it in a clumsy hug from the floor.

Clark sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "I'm going to warn you one last time. If you don't refer to me as Daddy from now on, I will just stop responding. I'm tired of it, and you don't get to be a brat after what you pulled today."

"Don't be so harsh," Bruce whined, looking up at him. "I'm being good now. That has to mean something, no?"

Clark ignored him, his attention returning to the soup he was stirring.

"Clark?" Bruce tried again, a little louder this time.

Nothing. The only response was the clink of the spoon against the pot.

Bruce nudged him again, harder this time. "Clark!"

Silence. Clark just kept cooking, his profile a mask of infuriating indifference. Bruce repeated himself, his voice rising with frustration. "Respond to me!"

A small smirk touched the corner of Clark's mouth. It was barely there, but Bruce saw it. It was the spark that lit the fuse. He began to whine in earnest, a low, persistent sound of need and annoyance. Clark simply took a step to the side, reaching for a plate, and the movement was so casual and effortless that it made Bruce lose his balance, forcing him back onto all fours with a soft thud.

Fury and determination warred within him. He was not going to be defeated. He crawled after him, his movements clumsy with anger, and latched onto his leg again. "Clark!" he whined, his voice thick with impending tears. "Clark, pick me up! I want to be held! I want cuddles!"

Clark continued to ignore him, moving around the kitchen as if Bruce were nothing more than a piece of furniture. Bruce's whines turned to full-blown cries, tears of frustration and humiliation streaming down his face. "Hold me! Please, Clark, hold me!" he sobbed, his voice cracking.

"Stop crying, Bruce," Clark said, his voice finally breaking the silence, but it was cold and clinical. "It's not working."

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" Bruce hiccuped, his body shaking with sobs. "I'm just upset!" He looked up at Clark, his face a mess of tears and snot, and in a moment of pure, desperate instinct, he whimpered, "Clark... coo coos?"

Clark froze. His entire body went rigid for a fraction of a second. God, he was so cute. It was an involuntary thought, a crack in the stern facade he was trying so hard to maintain. He cleared his throat, a rough, awkward sound. "From now on," he said, his voice strained, "if you want anything, including comforting, you will have to behave. I am done being a loving Daddy just to get verbally abused in response. And being called Daddy is not optional."

Bruce hiccupped again, his tears subsiding slightly as he saw a flicker of hope. He made grabby hands, a gesture he knew Clark found irresistible. "Please pick me up?"

Clark sighed, the sound of a man negotiating with a terrorist. "What's the magic word?"

"Please pick me up?" Bruce tried, his voice hopeful.

"You know what I want," Clark said, his gaze unwavering. "Who am I?"

Bruce let out a long, defeated sigh. He gave up. "...Daddy."

"And how does my baby boy ask Daddy for things?"

"You're annoying," Bruce muttered.

"Repeat that?" Clark's voice was dangerously low.

Bruce flinched. "I... I ask things nicely."

"Good boy," Clark praised, and just like that, the storm in Bruce's chest began to calm. He stopped crying, looking up at Clark with wide, watery eyes. Clark crouched down, bringing himself to Bruce's level. "Ask me nicely."

Bruce sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "Please, Daddy... pick me up."

"Good try," Clark said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But that was too grown-up, don't you think?"

"C'mon, please!" Bruce cried, his frustration boiling over again.

"Fine," Clark said, standing up straight. "Then I can finish making dinner and keep ignoring this bratty little thing on the floor."

Panic seized Bruce. He saw Clark turning away, and it was too much. "Please, Daddy!" he cried out, the words bursting from him in a desperate rush. "I want uppies!"

Clark paused. He turned back slowly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He stared down at Bruce, who was looking up at him with a mixture of terror and hope. Uppies? The word was so absurd, so perfectly infantile coming from this powerful, six-foot man. It was so cute. A wide, genuine smile broke across Clark's face, melting away all the sternness. He reached down and finally, finally, scooped Bruce up into his arms.

Relief flooded Bruce so completely it made him dizzy. He hugged Clark back, burying his face in the crook of his neck and whimpering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Clark held him close, rocking him gently. "Aw, my baby is so bad," he cooed, his voice thick with affection. "But so, so cute. It's just so hard to stay mad at you." He patted Bruce's diapered bottom, a familiar, comforting rhythm. "My baby boy just earned back a heart for being just so adorable."

Bruce sighed in relief against Clark's shoulder. "What privilege did I get back?"

"You get back coos," Clark said, nuzzling his hair. "And Daddy gets to call you his sweet little Princess that can do no wrong. Frankly, I was getting stressed not saying it. You're just so darn cute. Especially in the corner, all sad, saying you missed me."

Bruce scoffed, but there was no heat in it. "Fine, I'm sooo cute. Now, I'm hungry. I skipped lunch."

Clark laughed, a warm, genuine sound that vibrated through Bruce's entire body. He sat Bruce down in the high chair, the plastic a familiar, humiliating comfort. "I thought Batman didn't have time for food."

"Now I have nothing to do but sit around and look pretty," Bruce quipped, "so I might as well eat."

Clark laughed again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And you excel at the job, my pretty pumpkin." He picked up a bowl of soup and a spoon. "Now, Daddy's gonna feed his baby." He leaned in, pinching Bruce's cheeks gently. "Yes, he is! Open up for the airplane!" he cooed, bringing the spoon to Bruce's lips.

The crib felt less like a prison and more like a waiting room. Bruce kicked his legs against the mattress, the rhythmic thud a dull counterpoint to his thoughts. Clark had been firm about the locking, a consequence of his escape attempt, and frankly, Bruce was past caring about the confinement itself. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the day before. The memory of Clark's voice, low and dangerous, the sharp sting of his hand, the terrifying height of the sky below him—it all coalesced into a potent, intoxicating cocktail. The stern, unforgiving Daddy did wonders for him. It turned him on like crazy.

He spent what felt like an hour just kicking his legs, the frilly onesie riding up his thighs. He thought about the spanking, the way Clark had held him down so easily, the utter helplessness. God, when Clark had told him to be quiet in that corner, his voice like steel, Bruce had nearly come on the spot just thinking about it. Perhaps he just liked being treated poorly. It must be the daddy issues he refused to address, the deep-seated need for a dominant figure that had nothing to do with Batman and everything to do with the lonely boy who lost his parents.

A new objective crystallized in his mind, sharp and clear. Play along. Be Clark's baby. It was no longer just about survival or biding his time. It was a strategy. This role, this humiliating, infantile performance, was his ticket to getting into Clark's pants. He wanted to be fucked by that monster cock, maybe while getting spanked, his hair pulled, by a stern, hot, ripped Daddy.

Bruce smirked to himself, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He looked down at the thick padding of the diaper. A faint blush crept up his neck, but it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of determination. His fingers, with practiced ease, found the snaps at the crotch of the onesie. One, two, three. The fabric fell open, exposing the white plastic. He slid his hand inside, his fingers curling around his already hardening cock. What else was he supposed to do? Clark had locked him in here with nothing but a bottle and his own thoughts. Of course he was going to jerk off.

He closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow. The fantasy played out behind his eyelids: Clark's disappointed face, the heat of his hand, the threat in his voice. "You've been a very, very bad boy, Bruce." He moaned into the fabric, the sound muffled. "Clark," he breathed, his hand moving faster. The name wasn't right. It lacked the weight, the authority. He bit his lip, the slight pain sharpening his focus. "Daddy," he whimpered, the word feeling both alien and perfect.

His other hand drifted up, finding his nipples through the thin cotton of the onesie. He pinched and rolled them, his back arching. His eyes fluttered open, landing on the pacifier lying beside him. Even he was weirded out by his own actions, but the impulse was too strong to ignore. He picked it up and, with a sense of detached curiosity, popped it into his mouth. He sucked on it, the plastic a strange, comforting weight on his tongue as he continued to touch himself. "Daddy," he moaned around the pacifier, the sound garbled and pathetic. It was this, the final degradation, that sent him over the edge. He came with a shudder, spilling into the diaper.

A wave of shame washed over him as he lay panting. But it was fleeting. He was a grown man in a diaper, not an actual infant. He was used to getting what he wanted, what he needed, and this was no different. Just a means to an end.

Then, he heard it. The soft whoosh of the window, the familiar thud of boots on the floor. Clark was back. Bruce's eyes snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pulled the pacifier from his mouth and tucked it under the pillow, his face flushing.

Clark appeared by the crib, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He set it on the couch, his movements a little stiff, and then turned to Bruce with a wide, happy smile. There was a faint flush on his cheeks, Bruce noted with a flicker of satisfaction. "Daddy's home, sweetheart!" he chirped, his voice already slipping into that cooing tone.

Bruce gave a small, shy wave, his face still hot.

Clark's smile widened as he lowered the crib railing. "Did my baby miss me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low growl that made Bruce's skin prickle.

Bruce could only nod, his blush deepening.

"I'm sure you did," Clark said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm sure you missed me a lot, since you were in here moaning and touching yourself like a baby who just discovered his jewels for the first time."

Bruce froze, mortified. His blood ran cold. He had been so lost in his fantasy he hadn't even considered that Clark might hear. He stared, speechless, his mouth agape.

Clark leaned in closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Next time, if you're going to do something you're not allowed to do," he said, his tone mock-serious, "you should at least try not to moan my name. And maybe keep your onesie snapped. It's a dead giveaway."

Bruce looked down at his hands, unable to meet Clark's gaze. The shame was suffocating.

"But," Clark continued, his voice softening, "you get a pass this time. Because you moaned for Daddy. That's great progress, Brucie. You finally called me Daddy on your own."

A small, pathetic whine escaped Bruce's lips. "My... my diaper felt tight," he mumbled, desperate to find an excuse.

Clark shushed him, his finger gently pressing against Bruce's lips. "Be good, baby boy. Now Daddy has to change you. I'm pretty sure someone did his cummies in his diapey."

Bruce flinched at the word, so infantilizing, so humiliating. But he nodded, his blush now a permanent fixture. "I did…I'm sorry," he whispered.

Clark's expression softened. He cupped Bruce's cheek, his thumb stroking his skin. "It's okay, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "If you want... if you're ever feeling like a cute little horny puppy again... you just have to ask. Daddy can touch you. Only with his baby's permission, of course."

Bruce's breath hitched. Clark's smile widened, seeing the effect his words had. "But," Clark added, his voice dropping back to a stern warning, "you stop touching what belongs to Daddy."

Bruce paused. Yes. That was exactly what he wanted. He looked up, his eyes wide and desperate, and nodded frantically. "I want... I want Daddy to touch me now," he breathed.

Clark's smirk was slow and predatory. "No," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Not now. You were a bad boy today. Bad boys don't get rewarded. Maybe... maybe Daddy will touch you when you finally earn that star you called so stupid some time ago."

Bruce's head snapped towards the reward chart on the wall. He only had one heart back. The thought of earning the rest, of working towards that specific reward, sent a fresh jolt of motivation through him. He turned back to Clark, his expression earnest. "Yes, Daddy."

Clark's smile was triumphant. "That's my good boy," he praised, pinching Bruce's cheeks gently. "Now, let's get that diapey changed."

As Clark worked, Bruce's gaze fell on the bag on the couch. He pointed with a free hand. "What's in the bag?"

Clark glanced over. "Oh, yeah. I brought some more felt. Different colors, like blues and purples. You called the chart ugly, so I thought we could remake it together. You can even gain a little heart by doing some arts and crafts with Daddy."

Bruce was genuinely delighted. That actually sounded fun. He liked making things, planning and creating. "Daddy?" he said, his voice soft.

Clark looked up, his expression melting. "Yes, pumpkin?"

"Instead of stars," Bruce began, a shy smile playing on his lips, "could we do bats?"

Clark's face lit up, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he slipped fully into baby-talk. "Of course we can! Bats for my little baby!"

Bruce, feeling a surge of affection he didn't bother to analyze, got on all fours and leaned over, pressing a soft, giggly kiss to Clark's cheek.

Clark froze, his hands stilling on the diaper tape. He was so unbelievably happy, so overwhelmed by Bruce finally being nice and cuddly, he felt like he might explode.

Bruce pulled back, a sly glint in his eye. "I thought of a reward," he said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "For when I have all my hearts back. Besides... well, being touched."

Clark smiled, intrigued. "What does my baby want?"

"A Robin bear," Bruce said, his voice clear. "Like you teased me with, about playing house with my birdy. But... maybe it should be a kitty instead? A black one, with a little Robin costume."

Clark was stunned by the specific, thoughtful request. A wave of pure, unadulterated cuteness aggression
washed over him. His eyes went wide, and a grin so wide it looked painful split his face. "A... a kitty?" he breathed, his voice choked with emotion. "A little black kitty with a Robin costume? Oh, my sweet little pumpkin, that is the most precious thing I have ever heard!" He looked like he was about to cry with joy. "Of course! Anything you want! Daddy will get you anything your heart desires!"

Bruce smiled, a genuine, warm smile this time. "Thank you, Daddy."

Clark, trying to regain some semblance of composure, finished taping the clean diaper. He scooped Bruce up, holding him so close that Bruce could feel the frantic, happy thrum of his heart against his own chest. "You are just too cute for your own good," Clark murmured, burying his face in Bruce's hair. "Too, too cute."

Bruce hugged him back, his arms wrapping around Clark's neck. He rested his chin on Clark's shoulder, a triumphant smirk hidden from view. He was getting that dick. 100%.

The cool air of the apartment felt different on Bruce's skin after the change. The fresh, thick padding of the new diaper was snug and secure, a constant, humiliating reminder of his place. Clark, having finished his task, scooped Bruce up with effortless ease, his strong arms a familiar cage. He didn't carry him to the couch or the rug, but to the center of the living room floor, settling them both down on the soft, plush carpet. The canvas bag was nearby, and Clark upended it, sending a colorful cascade of supplies onto the floor.

"Look at all this, my little artist," Clark cooed, his voice a warm, rumbling baritone that vibrated through Bruce's back where he was leaning against his chest. He spread out the materials with a flourish. "We have blue felt, and purple, and even this lovely dark green." He held up a square of deep violet fabric. "And look! Glitter! We have silver and gold. We have straps to hang it, and scissors, and..." he picked up the hot glue gun, holding it carefully, " You have to be very, very careful with this, sweetheart. It gets very hot."

Bruce nodded, his eyes scanning the array of colors. His artistic eye, usually reserved for designing gadgets and crime-fighting gear, was already assessing the possibilities. He reached out, his large hand dwarfing the square of purple felt. "This one," he said, his voice firm. "For the background."

"An excellent choice, my baby bat," Clark praised, already cutting the large rectangle with a pair of sharp scissors. "What color for the sections?"

"Black," Bruce said immediately.

They worked in a comfortable silence for a while. Clark's movements were efficient and precise, cutting the black felt into neat, even sections to create the grid. Bruce took the smaller scissors and a piece of black felt, his brow furrowed in concentration. He meticulously cut out the shape of a bat, his movements surprisingly delicate for a man of his size and strength. One by one, he created five identical shapes, each one a perfect miniature of the emblem on his own chest.

"They're so perfect, Brucie," Clark murmured, watching him. "Now for the fun part."

Bruce picked up the shaker of silver glitter, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. He carefully applied a thin line of glue along the edges of one of the bats and then shook the glitter over it. The silver sparkled under the lamplight, catching the light like stars. He did this for all five, his focus absolute. When he was done, he held one up, admiring his work. "Look," he said, his voice filled with a quiet pride. "The wings are angled. It looks like a batarang."

Clark beamed, his heart swelling with a fondness so potent it was almost painful. "My baby bat is so clever," he cooed, his voice thick with affection. "So, so cute."

The nickname hit Bruce like a physical blow. Baby Bat. It wasn't just another infantile pet name; it was a twisted fusion of his two identities, a claim on both the man and the mask. It burned through him, a hot, possessive fire that made his breath catch. He turned to Clark, his eyes wide and intense. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice a low, urgent whisper.

Clark blinked, momentarily taken aback by the force in Bruce's tone. "Say what, sweetheart?"

"Baby Bat," Bruce repeated, his gaze unwavering.

Clark's confusion melted into a slow, knowing smirk. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Baby Bat," he purred, the words a warm caress against Bruce's ear.

A deep blush spread across Bruce's face, the heat creeping up his neck. He liked that. He liked that far too much. He ducked his head, a small, almost shy nod his only response.

"Does my pumpkin like his new nickname?" Clark asked, his tone teasing, his fingers gently stroking Bruce's hair.

Bruce nodded again, more fervently this time, hoping, praying, to hear it just one more time.

Clark chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Alright, my Baby Bat," he said, savoring the way Bruce shivered at the words. "What are we going to name this beautiful new chart?"

Bruce blushed, his mind going blank for a second before the most obvious, most Bruce-like answer presented itself. He didn't even have to think about it. "Bat Chart," he said, as if it were the most natural name in the world.

Clark threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the room. "Of course," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Of course. Bat Chart it is."

Together, they carefully cut out large, blocky letters from black felt and outlined them with silver glitter. Bruce worked with a meticulous intensity, while Clark watched him with an expression of pure adoration. Once the letters were dry, Clark stood and removed the old, "ugly" chart from the wall. He replaced it with their new creation, the purple and black a stark, dramatic improvement. He then took the three small, red felt hearts they had earned back and carefully pinned them to the top row of the grid.

"There we go," Clark said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. "My baby earned his cartoon and coloring privileges back. But you still have a long way to go to get all your bats, pumpkin."

Bruce nodded, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. "This chart is way better than that eyesore," he said, gesturing to where the old chart used to be.

Clark sighed, his smile fading slightly. "Be nice, Bruce."

Bruce just shrugged, a petulant frown on his face. "Fine. It's okay at best."

"Alright, that's enough," Clark said, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "You can clean up this mess we just made. Daddy has laundry to do."

Bruce's frown deepened, but he knew better than to push it. "Fine," he muttered, turning to gather the scraps of felt and glitter.

Later, the apartment was quiet save for the soft hum of the washing machine from the other room. Bruce was sitting on the floor, methodically organizing the crayons in their box, his mind calm and focused. He looked up, his gaze finding Clark on the couch, absorbed in a book. The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the gentle strength in his hands as he held the pages. Bruce just stared, his crush on him stronger than ever, a powerful, overwhelming current that mesmerized him. He was so handsome. So good. It was maddening.

Clark must have felt the weight of his stare, because he looked up from his book, a small smile touching his lips. "What is it, my pretty pumpkin?" he asked, his voice soft. "You're staring."

Bruce blinked, pulling himself from his reverie. He crawled over to the couch, resting his arms on Clark's knees. "I have three hearts now," he said, his voice hopeful. "I want to earn a fourth."

Clark's smile widened, but he remained in character, the stern but loving Daddy. "Oh, you do, do you? Well, Daddy decides when you earn rewards, baby boy. So, what did you do to earn one?"

"I cleaned up all the art supplies," Bruce said, ticking the items off on his fingers. "And I put all my toys away. And... and I drew Daddy a nice picture." He reached behind him and picked up a piece of paper from the floor, holding it out with a shy pride.

Clark took it, his amusement turning to genuine curiosity. "What a good boy," he praised. "Let Daddy see what you drew for him." He looked down at the paper, and his breath caught in his throat. It was a drawing of him, of Superman, floating amidst a breathtakingly detailed cloudscape. The lines were confident and sure, the shading was masterful, capturing the play of light on the suit and the heroic set of his shoulders. It wasn't the crude drawing of a child; it was the work of a skilled artist.

"Bruce... this is... this is beautiful," Clark said, his voice filled with awe. He looked from the drawing to Bruce's face, his expression one of pure disbelief. "My goodness, what a good boy! I had no idea you could draw like this. This is incredible. This belongs on the fridge. Right now."

A happy blush colored Bruce's cheeks. "I drew a lot when I was a teenager," he explained, his voice quiet. "And when I was traveling, training... I found it calming. I kind of put it aside when I got back to Gotham. There wasn't much time for it." He looked down at his hands. "I just wanted to do something nice for Daddy. For taking care of me."

Clark's heart melted. He set the book aside and leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Bruce's forehead. "You are so cute," he murmured against his skin. "And I love it. And I love you. Of course you can have a fourth heart."

"Daddy?" Bruce whispered, looking up at him from under his lashes.

"Yes, my sweetheart?"

"I... I did something else," Bruce began, his voice hesitant. "But you have to promise not to be mad at me, okay?"

Bruce's eyes were wide, a perfect imitation of a child who knew they were about to confess to breaking a vase. He shifted on his knees, the diaper crinkling softly. "Can I... can I have a kiss first?" he asked, his voice a small, hopeful thing. "Before I tell you. This time... on the lips."

He looked up at Clark, his gaze a masterful blend of innocence and calculated desire. It was a look that could bring nations to their knees, and Clark was only one man.

A slow grin spread across Clark's face. He was completely captivated, utterly charmed by this bold, six-foot man in a diaper who was negotiating for a kiss like it was precious. "What the hell," Clark chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sure." He leaned down, his movements deliberate, and pressed his lips to Bruce's.

It wasn't a chaste peck. It was soft, warm, and lingered for a moment too long. Bruce's lips parted slightly, a silent invitation that made Clark's heart hammer in his chest. When he pulled back, Bruce looked dazed, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

He held out his pinky, his expression turning serious again. "Promise," he said, his voice firm. "Pinky promise you won't be mad."

Clark was absolutely melting. The gesture was so childish, so sincere coming from this man, that it bypassed all his logical defenses. He hooked his own much larger pinky around Bruce's, the contrast stark and endearing. "I promise," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Now, what did you do, my sweet boy?"

Bruce took a deep breath, steeling himself. "While Daddy was doing laundry," he began, his gaze fixed on their linked fingers, "you left your laptop open."

Clark's eyes narrowed instantly. The warm, fuzzy feeling vanished, replaced by a sharp, cold prickle of suspicion. "Go on," he said, his voice losing its soft edge.

"I couldn't help but look," Bruce rushed out, the words tumbling over each other. "I saw your bank app. It was just... there."

"What about it?" Clark asked, his tone guarded. He could feel a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. His finances were a source of deep, private shame.

Bruce finally looked up at him, his own expression soft with sympathy. "I couldn't help but notice... you have a lot of debt."

Clark recoiled as if struck. The shame was immediate and visceral, a hot flush climbing his neck. He was a god, an icon, and he was drowning in student loans and a mortgage. He looked away, unable to meet Bruce's knowing gaze. "Yes," he admitted, his voice tight. "I do. College... my parents couldn't afford it. And this apartment... it's not exactly cheap."

Bruce's blush deepened, but his voice was steady. "I paid it off for you."

The world seemed to stop. Clark froze, his entire body going rigid. He slowly turned his head back to Bruce, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"

"You're mad," Bruce said, his face crumbling. "You pinky promised."

"I'm not... I'm not mad," Clark stammered, his mind struggling to process the information. "I just... why? Bruce, that's... that's an unreasonable amount of money."

"I didn't want Daddy to be in debt," Bruce said quietly, his shoulders slumping. "I have money. So I wanted to help. I'm sorry if I upset you."

"No, no, baby, don't cry," Clark said instantly, his protective instincts kicking in as he saw Bruce's eyes begin to well up. "You're not upsetting me. I'm just... surprised. How much money do you have, Bruce?"

Bruce thought about it for a moment, as if calculating a simple grocery list. "Well, the dividends and investments from Wayne Enterprises... I make around thirty or so billion a year. So, your debts were... well, they were pennies to me, honestly."

Clark froze again. The number echoed in his head, a meaningless string of digits that his brain refused to compute. Thirty... billion? He repeated it out loud, his voice a hollow whisper. "What?! You're that rich? I mean, yes, I knew you were rich. Bruce Wayne. But not... not that rich."

"I just wanted to help Daddy," Bruce whispered again, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. "I didn't mean to make you upset."

"No, baby, no, don't cry," Clark pleaded, his heart aching. "You're breaking Daddy's heart. I'm not upset, I promise. I'm just... so, so thankful. My baby took care of me. Thank you, my sweet, sweet boy." His voice slipping into a stream of baby talk meant to soothe. "Daddy's not mad at his pretty pumpkin. Not at all. You're such a good, generous baby."

Bruce sniffled, nuzzling into Clark's thighs. "Can I... can I have uppies now?" he asked, his voice small and muffled against the fabric of Clark's pants.

Clark was flabbergasted. Here Bruce had just casually erased three hundred thousand dollars of his debt, and his first thought was to be held. He was overwhelmed. "Yes," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Yes, my baby can have uppies. Come here." He scooped Bruce up, pulling him onto his lap and holding him tight.

He adjusted his grip, holding Bruce securely as the large man clung to his shirt. Bruce babbled quietly, a happy, repetitive stream of "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," against his chest. Clark held him, one hand rubbing his back, his mind racing. Thirty billion dollars. He was holding thirty billion dollars in a diaper on his lap. And all he could think about was how much he loved the weight of him, and how he was going to kill him with cuddles for this.

The evening had settled into a comfortable, domestic rhythm. After a dinner of grilled salmon and steamed vegetables that Bruce had found insultingly healthy, they were curled up on the couch. The glow of the television cast flickering colors across the room, illuminating the vibrant antics of a cartoon rabbit. Clark held Bruce close, his arms a secure, warm band around his torso. Bruce's head rested on his shoulder, his body lax and heavy. But his mind was a million miles away from the animated characters on screen.

It kept drifting back to that morning. To Clark's low voice in his ear, the promise he had made. I'll touch you... when you earn that star. The memory of Clark's words, of the possessive claim in his tone, sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with the cartoon's slapstick humor. Stop touching what belongs to Daddy. It was so damn hot, so primal, that Bruce found himself biting his lip hard, the faint pain a welcome anchor to reality. He couldn't stand it. He needed to know. He needed the fuel for the fire.

He shifted, turning his face into the warm skin of Clark's neck. "Daddy?" he murmured, his voice a low, hesitant vibration against Clark's pulse.

Clark's hand paused its gentle stroking on his arm. "Yes, my pumpkin?" he rumbled, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

Bruce took a breath, steeling himself. "When... when I get my bat on the chart," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "And you give me my reward... what will it be like?"

Clark turned his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Well, it'll be soft and fuzzy, of course. It's a cat plushie, after all. We'll have to find a little Robin costume for it."

Bruce huffed in frustration, pulling back just enough to glare at him. "No," he said, his voice a little more forceful. "I meant the other reward."

Clark's smile widened. He knew exactly what Bruce was asking. "Oh," he said, drawing the sound out with feigned innocence. "Well now, why does my little pumpkin need to know about that right now? Isn't the surprise part of the fun?"

"It would... it would really motivate me," Bruce insisted, his voice dropping back to that persuasive, needy tone. He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss to the line of Clark's jaw. "Please, Daddy?"

Clark let out a long, dramatic sigh, but his eyes were glinting with amusement and desire. He shifted, turning Bruce so they were face-to-face, his hands resting on Bruce's hips. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Bruce's ear, his voice dropping to that low, intimate Daddy-growl that made Bruce's whole body tense with anticipation.

"Well," he began, his voice a hot caress. "First, Daddy will carry his baby to the big bed. The one you're not allowed on." He let that hang in the air for a moment, a reminder of the rule Bruce would be breaking by earning his reward. "And then, he'll lay you down right in the middle of it. And Daddy will slide his hands slowly, so slowly, down your chest... to the little snaps of your onesie."

As he spoke, Clark's hand mirrored his words, sliding up from Bruce's hip to rest flat on his chest, directly over his heart. Bruce could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric. Clark leaned in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of Bruce's neck. Bruce's breath hitched, and Clark felt the frantic thrum of his heartbeat against his hand.

"Then," Clark continued, his voice a husky murmur against his skin, "I’ll take the onesie off completely. Leaving you in nothing but your little diapey." His fingers traced the hem of the onesie, teasing. "And Daddy will touch the padding, feel how warm you are. And then he'll tell you to roll over, onto your tummy."

Bruce nodded, his movements jerky, his eyes wide and fixed on Clark's lips. He snuggled closer, his legs shifting restlessly, pressing together in a desperate search for friction.

Clark smiled, seeing the effect he was having. "And then," he purred, "Daddy will lay down on top of you. Not with all his weight, of course. Just enough. And he'll press his hand on the small of your back, holding you down. Teasing you for a little bit. Caressing your soft little baby bum through the padding."

Bruce let out a choked whimper, his face buried in Clark's shoulder. The mental image was overwhelming.

"Then," Clark's voice dropped even lower, becoming a raw, intimate confession."Then I'll press my own cock right against my baby's diaper. Right there. And I’ll hump you, nice and slow, making sure you feel everything. Making sure you get that sweet, sweet friction on your own little cock, all through the padding. And while I do that, I’ll kiss all over your back. Your shoulders. Your neck. Everywhere."

As if to demonstrate, Clark's hands moved, one grabbing Bruce's leg, hooking behind his knee. The other slid between his thighs, his fingers finding the snaps of the onesie and teasing them open. The cool air hit Bruce's skin, a stark contrast to the heat blooming inside him.

Clark smirked, his eyes dark with lust and affection. "The rest," he whispered, his fingers gently caressing the front of the now-exposed diaper, "you'll have to find out when you earn it." He leaned in, nuzzling Bruce's cheek. "But I hope my baby is motivated now."

Bruce bit his lip so hard he tasted copper. He could only nod, his mind a complete blank, filled with nothing but the vivid, electrifying promise Clark had just laid out for him. God, was he motivated. He'd get all ten bats by morning if he could.

The rhythmic scratch of the crayon against the paper was a comforting, almost meditative sound. Bruce was lost in it, his large hand carefully guiding the bright orange wax within the lines of a majestic lion's mane. He was on the floor, a thick coloring book spread out before him, happily sucking on the pacifier and kicking his legs in a steady, contented rhythm. He had missed this more than he expected to admit. The simple, mindless focus was a balm to his constantly whirring brain.

Then, he paused. The crayon stilled. He looked down at himself. The thick padding of the diaper encircling his hips. The thin, childish fabric of the onesie stretched across his broad chest. The pacifier bobbing between his lips. He was coloring. In a diaper. Like a baby. Like some infant.

What the fuck was he doing?

He was a grown man. A genius, a warrior, the goddamn Batman. Had Clark manipulated him this well? To the point where he was doing this willingly? Pissing himself in a padded prison and letting someone else clean him up. Letting himself be spoon-fed like an invalid. Playing with stupid, plastic toys. A cold wave of self-disgust washed over him. He unsnapped the crotch of the onesie, the small plastic pops loud in the quiet room. He pulled the fabric back, revealing the pristine white diaper beneath. He reached behind, his fingers stroking the soft, crinkly material of the back panel. It felt good. The memory of Clark's words from the previous night flooded his mind, hot and potent.

"Then I'll press my own cock right against my baby's diaper. Right there. And I'll hump you, nice and slow, making sure you feel everything. Making sure you get that sweet, sweet friction on your own little cock, all through the padding. And while I do that, I'll kiss all over your back. Your shoulders. Your neck. Everywhere."

A shiver ran down his spine, chasing away the disgust. The conflict was a physical ache in his chest.

"And who's ready for his baba?" Clark's voice, warm and cheerful, cut through his turmoil. He entered the nursery, a bottle in hand, his smile genuine.

Bruce's internal battle vanished, replaced by the overwhelming need to please, to be good. He turned around, the pacifier still in his mouth, and crawled towards Clark, his movements fluid and eager. "Me Daddy, me!" he garbled around the plastic, his voice a desperate, happy whine.

Clark's smile widened as he saw Bruce on all fours, a picture of perfect babyhood. But as Bruce drew closer, Clark's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression shifting. He saw the unsnapped onesie, the lingering trace of doubt in Bruce's eyes. He crouched down, and instead of a gentle greeting, he reached out, plucked the pacifier from Bruce's mouth, and shoved the bottle nipple between his lips with a surprising, aggressive force.

Bruce flinched, his eyes widening in shock as the warm milk flooded his mouth.

"What were you thinking about just now?" Clark asked, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. It was flat, cold.

Bruce froze, the bottle dangling from his lips. He whimpered, shaking his head.

A bitter, humorless smile twisted Clark's lips. "This is exactly what I told you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "When you were still angry and defiant. 'I'm a grown man, I'm not a baby.' And now look at you. On your fours in your diaper, calling for Daddy."

Bruce pulled the bottle from his mouth, completely confused. "Why... why is Daddy being mean to me?" he whined, his voice trembling. "Stop it."

Clark's expression softened into a parody of gentleness. He reached out, his fingers stroking Bruce's cheek, and Bruce couldn't help but lean into the familiar, comforting touch. Then, with a sudden, vicious movement, Clark's hand shot up, tangling in Bruce's hair and yanking his head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. The grip was painful, absolute.

"I own you now," Clark snarled, his face inches from Bruce's, his eyes like flint. "Understand?"

"Ow! Why is Daddy being so mean?" Bruce cried out, tears springing to his eyes from the pain and shock.

"I saw that flicker of defiance back in your eyes," Clark hissed, ignoring his question. "Don't you think for a second that I'll let you play me again. Acting all cute and sweet, and then the first chance you get, you run away. Got it?"

"I promised! I promised to be good!" Bruce sobbed, his scalp throbbing. "Please let go, it hurts!"

Clark released him as if he'd been burned. "In the crib," he commanded, his voice like steel. "Now. I'm leaving to run errands."

"No! Please, Daddy, just let me stay in the room!" Bruce begged, scrambling backwards on the floor. "I get bored in the crib! I'll be good, I promise!"

Clark didn't listen. He grabbed Bruce under the arms, hauling him up and practically throwing him into the crib. Bruce landed with a soft thud, his breath knocked out of him. The railing was slammed shut, the lock clicking into place with a terrifying finality. Clark didn't even look back. He just turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Bruce stared at the empty doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs. Why? Why was Clark so mean out of nowhere? He pulled his hair, his mind replaying the painful grip. What if he had doubts? It was normal, wasn't it? A surge of white-hot anger filled him, burning away the fear and confusion. What the hell? He wasn't going to be locked up like a prisoner. Not by this weirdo who got his kicks from putting him in diapers.

He scrambled to the front of the crib, his fingers fumbling with the lock. He tried to pick it, using a loose thread from the mattress seam, but his hands were shaking too much. Then he stopped. He flexed his fingers. He felt... stronger. The familiar fog that clouded his mind and weighed down his limbs was gone. Clark hadn't drugged him today.

A grim smile touched Bruce's lips. He didn't need finesse. He wrapped his hands around the locking mechanism, the plastic groaning under his grip. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he smashed it. The lock snapped, pieces of plastic clattering to the floor. He was free. He pushed the railing up, his movements a bit wobbly as he stood on his feet for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He grabbed the broken lock, a tangible piece of his rebellion, and walked out of the nursery.

He explored the apartment, a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation coursing through him. He ended up in the kitchen, his stomach growling. He opened the cookie jar and grabbed one, munching on it defiantly. The sugar was a welcome jolt. And then, the reality of his actions crashed down on him.

Clark was going to be furious. He was going to punish him. He was going to be mean again. He was going to lose all four of his hearts. What had he done? The lock was shattered in his hand. He looked around the apartment, which now felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage he had just willingly walked back into. He sighed, the anger deflating, replaced by a hollow, sick dread. He walked back to the nursery door and sat down in front of it, the broken lock clutched in his hand. And then he started to cry. He cried until his body shook, until the tears turned to a warm, uncontrollable flood, and he let go, soaking the diaper he had just moments ago despised.

When Clark returned, his arms laden with grocery bags, he was ready to greet his baby with a cheerful, "Daddy's home!" Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Bruce, a sobbing, miserable wreck on the floor, clutching the remains of the crib lock.

Bruce looked up, his face a mess of tears and snot, and the dam broke. He wailed, a parade of excuses tumbling out of him. "I didn't mean to break it! I just got upset! You were being mean to me and I got so mad and I'm so sorry, Daddy, I didn't mean it, please don't punish me! I don't like staying alone in the crib! I don't like being alone at all! I miss you when you leave and I got scared and I... I need a diaper change because I wet myself—"

Clark stood frozen for a moment, his mind processing the chaos. Then, he carefully set the bags down. He didn't look angry. He looked... relieved. He walked over and pulled Bruce into his arms, holding him tight against his chest.

"Shhh, shhh," Clark murmured, his voice gentle. "Calm down, baby boy. Daddy's not mad at you. Quite the opposite."

He slowly picked Bruce up, holding him close to his chest. He carried him to the nursery and sat down in the rocking chair, cradling him like a real infant. "Just calm down, my sweet boy. It's okay."

He held out his hand. "Give me the lock, Bruce."

Bruce trembled, placing the broken plastic into Clark's palm.

"Why did you do it, sweetheart?" Clark asked, his voice soft.

"You... you were mean," Bruce whispered, his voice muffled against Clark's shoulder. "It upset me."

"Don't lie to me," Clark said, his voice losing its soft edge, becoming firm and clear. "You know I can tell when you're lying, Brucie. So don't, the full truth now."

Bruce froze in his arms, his entire body going rigid. The gentle rocking stopped. He pulled his head back just enough to look at Clark, his eyes wide with a new kind of fear. He saw it then, the absolute certainty in Clark's gaze, the unshakable confidence that he knew Bruce's every tell. The lie died on his tongue.

"I... I got angry," Bruce admitted, his voice cracking. "Because you locked me in the crib. I felt like a prisoner."

A warm, genuine smile spread across Clark's face, so at odds with the tension of the moment that it was disorienting. "Good boy," he praised, his thumb stroking Bruce's cheek. "That's my honest boy. And how did you break the lock, my strong baby?"

"The serum," Bruce said, his confusion growing. "It must have run out. I... I had the strength to."

"I know," Clark said, his smile widening. "I didn't drug you on purpose, sweetheart. I did it to see if you would run away again. I had to know." He shifted Bruce in his arms, his expression turning serious but kind. "It's okay to be mad at Daddy for being mean. I was a very mean Daddy, wasn't I? But what's important, what's so, so important to me, is that you got angry, and you broke out... but you didn't run away. You sat right by the door and you waited. You apologized. You passed the test, my baby bat. You passed with flying colors."

Bruce stared at him, his mind struggling to keep up. "A... a test?"

"Yes," Clark cooed, his voice dropping back into that syrupy, babying tone. "It was a test. And my brave, smart baby just earned back two hearts for being such a good boy and not leaving Daddy."

Bruce's face crumpled, a fresh wave of tears welling up, but this time they were born of sheer bewilderment. "But... but I broke the lock! I left the crib!"

"I expected you to," Clark said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not worried about a little broken lock. I can buy a hundred locks. All I care about is that my baby didn't leave the apartment. He didn't try to go back to Gotham and almost get himself hurt again. That's all that matters."

Bruce sniffled, his anger and fear slowly being replaced by a profound sense of being manipulated. "But you were so mean to me," he whimpered. "You pulled my hair. It hurt."

"Oh, my sweet angel," Clark murmured, his voice full of remorse. "I am so, so sorry. But I had to provoke you, baby. I had to be extra mean to give you a good reason to want to leave. I had to see what you would do."

The logic was so twisted, so convoluted, that it broke something in Bruce. He started to cry again, not from fear or anger, but from a deep, soul-weary sadness. "You were so mean for a test," he sobbed, his body shaking with the force of his hiccups. "Daddy was so mean to me."

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," Clark soothed, rocking him again, his hand rubbing his back in wide, comforting circles. "It's over now. Daddy is here for you. It's all over." He shifted Bruce in his arms, his hand moving down to rest on the front of the diaper, which was now noticeably swollen and heavy. He gave it a gentle pat. "And it looks like someone needs a change," he said, his voice a soft, matter-of-fact murmur. "Let's get my sweet boy all clean and dry, and then we can put those new hearts on your chart."

The first rays of morning sun filtered through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the nursery floor. Bruce was still deeply asleep, his large frame curled into a surprisingly tight ball beneath the thin blanket, the rhythmic sound of his breathing the only sound in the room. He felt the gentle touch before he was fully conscious, a warm hand stroking his hair, so light it was almost like a whisper. The touch trailed down his temple, across his cheekbone, and over the stubble on his jaw. It was accompanied by a soft, continuous murmur, a stream of praise so low it was barely more than a vibration against his skin.

"Good morning, my sweet angel," Clark's voice rumbled, a deep, resonant baritone that was usually reserved for stern commands or playful teasing. This was different. This was pure, unadulterated affection. "Daddy's best boy. You're so beautiful when you sleep, Brucie. So peaceful. My baby boy."

Bruce's eyes fluttered open, his mind slow to process the scene. Clark was leaning over the crib, his face illuminated by the soft morning light, his expression one of utter tenderness. He was still in his sleep clothes, a simple t-shirt and sweats, his hair slightly mussed. But his eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were soft, almost hazy with emotion. He leaned down, his lips finding Bruce's forehead, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was gentle, lingering, a stark contrast to the demanding, possessive kisses Bruce had grown accustomed to. Bruce was utterly confused. This level of gentle, worshipful cuddling was new. Even for Clark, who was prone to bouts of intense affection, this felt different, more deliberate, more intimate.

"Daddy?" Bruce mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "What's...?"

"Shhh, shhh," Clark soothed, his hand moving down to caress Bruce's chest through the thin fabric of his onesie. "It's alright, my sweetheart. Just let Daddy take care of you." His hand continued its journey, sliding down Bruce's torso, over his stomach, until it came to rest between his legs, cupping the thick padding of the diaper. Clark's smile widened. "And it looks like my baby boy is all wet. Someone needs a fresh, clean diapey to start his day."

Bruce whined, a low, protesting sound from the back of his throat. He shifted, the dampness of the diaper a familiar, unwelcome sensation. "What's up?" he grumbled, trying to pull away from the overwhelming affection. "Why are you being so... mushy?"

Clark just chuckled, a warm, happy sound. "Nothing for my baby to worry about," he said, his voice slipping into that easy, cooing tone. "Daddy's just happy. Now, let's get you changed." With an effortless grace that still managed to take Bruce's breath away, Clark lowered the crib railing and scooped him up, one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees. He carried him to the changing table, settling him down on the padded mat with surprising gentleness.

Bruce watched, his confusion mounting, as Clark methodically unsnapped the crotch of his onesie. The cool air hit his skin as Clark pulled the fabric aside. But then, instead of just removing the wet diaper, Clark's hands went to his shoulders, pushing the onesie down his arms and off completely. Then his thumbs hooked into the waistband of the diaper, and that too was removed, leaving Bruce completely naked and exposed on the table. A flicker of unease ran through him.

"Daddy?" Bruce asked, his voice hesitant. "What's happening? Why am I...?"

"Be good for me, my baby boy," Clark said, his voice still soft, but with an undercurrent of something firm, something that brooked no argument. He turned away for a moment, rummaging in a drawer. When he turned back, he was holding a small device, a professional-grade wax warmer. "It'll be over before you know it," he promised, his smile reassuring.

The sight of the device sent a jolt of pure panic through Bruce. He remembered the last time. The sharp, stinging pain. The utter humiliation. His eyes widened, and he scrambled to sit up, to get off the table, his muscles tensing to flee. "No! Clark, no!"

Clark's hands were on him in an instant, pinning him down with an irresistible strength. One hand pressed firmly against his chest, holding him flat, while the other gripped his hip, stilling his thrashing legs. "Bruce," Clark's voice was no longer soft. It was low, a dangerous growl that vibrated through Bruce's very bones. "Stop. Now. You will not make this difficult. If you can't be good, I will have to cuff you to this table. Do you understand me?"

The threat was absolute. Bruce could feel the unyielding pressure of Clark's grip, the undeniable power in his hands. He knew there was no escape. Defeated, he squeezed his eyes shut, his body going rigid with anticipation. He felt the warm, sticky wax being applied to his chest, his arms, his legs. He braced himself, and then the first strip was ripped away. A sharp, searing pain. He gritted his teeth, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. Clark worked methodically, stripping away every trace of hair from his body, leaving his skin smooth, red, and hypersensitive. When he got to Bruce's groin, he showed no mercy. He was thorough, efficient, and utterly without pity as he removed every hair, leaving Bruce's most intimate area completely bare and throbbing with a stinging, residual pain.

Bruce couldn't hold back the loud, guttural moan that tore from his throat as the last strip was pulled away. He was panting, his body slick with a sheen of sweat.

"See?" Clark murmured, his voice returning to its usual, affectionate tone as if nothing had happened. He ran a hand over Bruce's now-smooth thigh. "All smooth. Maybe I should just get you laser, hmm? Then you'd be Daddy's perfect, hairless baby boy forever. No more waxing."

The suggestion sent a shiver down Bruce's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. It was creepy, a permanent mark of this strange, twisted ownership. But he was too exhausted, too overwhelmed to argue. He said nothing, just lay there, trying to catch his breath.

Then he felt a touch so gentle it was almost a tickle. Clark's lips, pressing a soft kiss against his most private entrance. Bruce's entire body jolted as if he'd been shocked. A soft whine escaped him, his hips shifting involuntarily. "Daddy," he moaned, the word a desperate plea.

He heard Clark's soft, triumphant smirk. Then the pressure increased, and Clark's tongue pressed inside, hot and insistent. Bruce cried out, his hands fisting in the table beneath him as Clark ate him out with a practiced, relentless expertise. The combination of the lingering sting from the waxing and the overwhelming pleasure was too much. Clark's tongue swirled and probed, his hands holding Bruce's hips steady, and after only a few moments of this intense stimulation, Bruce's body tensed, his back arching off the table as he came with a strangled cry, spilling himself across his own stomach.

Clark pulled back, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. "My goodness," he cooed, his voice thick with amusement. "What a sensitive baby. Doing his cummies just from his pretty hole being played with. You're such a baby, Brucie."

A deep, furious blush spread across Bruce's face, the heat of it a stark contrast to the cool air on his skin. He had never been so humiliated, so completely undone in his life.

Clark ignored his embarrassment, reaching for the baby powder. He sprinkled it liberally over Bruce's red, irritated skin, the soft powder a soothing balm. "There we go," he murmured, patting it gently. "All better. Now be good, the wax is all over, baby."

Bruce smelled of powder and lotion, his skin smooth and soft as a baby's to the touch. Clark then produced a new diaper, but this one was different. It was noticeably thicker, more bulky. He fastened it securely around Bruce's hips, and Bruce immediately felt the difference. The padding between his legs was so thick that it forced his thighs apart, making his legs feel awkward and splayed. He sat up, feeling clumsy and exposed.

"Why?" Bruce asked, his voice still hoarse. "Why is it so big?"

"Because," Clark said, his eyes gleaming with delight as he stood back to admire his handiwork. "Daddy wants his baby to look small and cute in his big diapey. Makes you look extra little."

He then turned to the closet, pulling out the day's outfit. It was a tight, long-sleeved shirt that clung to Bruce's muscular torso. Next came a pair of thigh-high socks, decorated with cute, little red strawberries. And finally, the pièce de résistance: a short, pleated denim skirt, also adorned with the same strawberry pattern.

Bruce's blush returned with a vengeance as Clark dressed him. He looked down at himself, at the masculine expanse of his chest and arms contrasted with the frilly, feminine skirt and socks. It was absurd. "Why can't I have a boyish outfit?" he grumbled,
his voice a low grumble of protest as Clark adjusted the hem of the ridiculous skirt.

Clark simply chuckled, a warm, indulgent sound that did little to soothe Bruce's frayed nerves. He took a step back, his hands on his hips, and looked Bruce up and down as if he were a masterpiece he had just completed. "Because," he said, his voice dropping into that syrupy, cooing tone that Bruce was beginning to both crave and despise, "Brucie is Daddy's little Princess. And my Princess wears whatever Daddy picks out for her. Isn't that right?"

Bruce scoffed, the sound sharp and ugly in the soft, morning light. He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that felt both defiant and slightly ridiculous given his attire. "This outfit looks stupid," he stated, his voice flat and uncompromising. He looked down at the pleated denim and the frilly socks, a wave of self-disgust washing over him. He was Batman. He was a fortress of discipline and control. And he was sitting here in a skirt.

Clark's smile vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, the warmth in them replaced by a familiar, stern disappointment. "That's a bad word, baby," he said, his voice losing its soft edge and becoming firm, unyielding. "And such a potty mouth. We don't say things are 'stupid.' That's not nice." He took a step closer, his shadow falling over Bruce, making him feel small and trapped. "You be nice to Daddy, or you'll regret it."

Bruce's bravado crumbled. He dropped his gaze, his cheeks burning with shame. He loved when Clark got like this, when he used that quiet, disappointed tone. It was far more effective than any shout.

Seeing Bruce's submission, Clark's expression softened again, a triumphant glint in his eyes. "There now," he cooed, reaching out to stroke Bruce's hair. "All that fuss, and you were such a good girl during your wax. You barely cried at all. I think my baby girl deserves a special treat for being so brave. How about a nice bottle for my good little girl?"

"Stop with that," Bruce snapped, his head snapping up. "I'm not a girl. I'm not." The words were out before he could stop them, a desperate, masculine plea.

Clark's response was not one of anger, but of overwhelming, saccharine affection. It was almost worse. He set the bottle down, his eyes wide with a manufactured, theatrical adoration. "Oh, but look at you!" he gushed, his hands coming up to frame Bruce's face. "You're just the prettiest little thing. Daddy wishes you had longer hair, so he could put it in little pigtails, maybe with some cute ribbons to match your skirt." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're the cutest baby girl Daddy has ever seen. Just perfect."

Bruce felt a surge of frustration so potent it was almost nauseating. "You're being ridiculous," he choked out, his voice trembling with the effort of not shouting. "I have a dick and balls, Clark! I'm a man! Stop being so mean to me. Daddy's being mean."

Clark just smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made Bruce's blood run cold. He stood up, and in one fluid motion, he scooped Bruce from the changing table, settling him securely on his hip. Bruce's legs, forced apart by the thick diaper, wrapped awkwardly around Clark's waist. He held on, his face pressed against Clark's shoulder, feeling utterly defeated. "Oh, my sweet, silly baby," Clark murmured, his voice a low, possessive rumble against Bruce's ear. He began to walk slowly around the nursery, rocking him gently. "Daddy's not being mean. Daddy's just so happy. So happy that he has such a cute, special baby all to himself. My very own Princess."

Bruce closed his eyes, the fight draining out of him. The steady, rhythmic rocking, the warmth of Clark's body, the low murmur of his voice in his ear... it was a potent cocktail. He was exhausted, humiliated, and strangely, undeniably comforted. He leaned into the touch, letting his head rest more heavily on Clark's shoulder, and for a moment, he just let himself be babied.

The morning melted into a quiet, domestic afternoon. After the bottle, which Bruce drank with a resigned, sullen obedience, Clark set him down on the plush rug in the living room. A collection of colorful, plastic toys were scattered around him—blocks, a squeaky hammer, and a set of soft, weighted rings. Bruce, with nothing better to do, began to play. He stacked the blocks, his movements methodical and precise, the same focus he applied to disarming a bomb now directed at creating a wobbly tower. He found a strange, mindless comfort in it, the simple task a welcome distraction from the absurdity of his outfit and the lingering ache of the waxing.

For lunch, Clark made him a simple sandwich, which he cut into the shape of a star. Bruce ate it on the floor, his skirt pooled around him, feeling a strange mix of degradation and contentment. Clark watched him the entire time, his expression a constant, warm stream of affection.

Once the plate was cleared, Clark crouched down in front of him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You've been such a good boy this morning, my sweet pumpkin," he began, his voice a low, persuasive purr. "Playing with your toys, eating all your lunch... Daddy was wondering if his little baby wanted to do something extra special to spoil Daddy a little bit."

Bruce looked up, his curiosity piqued. "Spoil you?" he asked, his voice hesitant.

"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed, his smile widening. "How about a little dress up? You know how much Daddy loves to play dress up with his baby doll."

Bruce considered it. How bad could it be? he thought. Clark already had him in a skirt and thigh-highs. What was one more ridiculous outfit? And he had to admit, he liked the attention. He didn't mind being Clark's little doll if it meant he was the center of Clark's universe, if it meant those hands were on him, that voice was directed at him. "Okay," he said, with a small, resigned shrug. "Dress up."

And doll he was. Clark's eyes lit up with pure, unadulterated glee. He disappeared into the nursery and returned with an armful of clothes, each item more humiliating than the last. There was a frilly pink dress with layers of tulle, a pair of matching booties with little bunny ears on them, and a bib that read "Daddy's Little Mess." Clark dressed him in each one, his movements careful and reverent. With every new outfit, he cooed and praised, flooding Bruce with a relentless torrent of compliments.

"Oh, look at you! The prettiest little bunny in the whole wide world!" "What a good baby, letting Daddy dress you up. You're so good for me." "This dress is just made for you, my angel. You look absolutely divine."

Bruce sat on the floor, a plastic ring clutched in his hand, feeling his face burn with a permanent, deep-red blush. Each outfit was more embarrassing and girly than the last. He felt like a mannequin, a plaything for Clark's amusement, and yet, a part of him preened under the attention, under the absolute worship in Clark's eyes.

Finally, Clark settled on the final ensemble. It was a complete baby set in a soft, pastel yellow. The top was a frilly, short-sleeved shirt that buttoned up the back. The shorts were puffy and adorned with delicate white lace trim. To complete the look, Clark tied a matching yellow bonnet under Bruce's chin, the ribbon a perfect bow. He stepped back, his hands clasped together in delight.

"Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely, one hundred percent perfect."

He then scooped Bruce up again, settling him on his lap on the couch. He grabbed another bottle and held it to Bruce's lips. "Open up for Daddy," he cooed. "Time for your ba-ba."

Bruce was so embarrassed by the outfit, by the frilly lace and the ridiculous bonnet, by the act of being nursed on Clark's lap like an actual infant, that he began to question everything. Why am I doing this again? he wondered, his mind screaming in protest. This is frankly embarrassing. I'm the goddamn Batman. He felt a wave of nausea, the urge to push Clark away, to rip off the clothes and storm out.

But then, he opened his eyes.

He looked up, and his gaze met Clark's. The look on Clark's face was so tender, so full of a deep, unwavering affection, that it made Bruce's breath catch. It wasn't the look of a man playing a game, or a dom enjoying his sub. It was the look of a man utterly, hopelessly in love. In that moment, seeing the raw emotion in Clark's eyes, all the embarrassment, all the self-doubt, all the humiliation just... melted away. It was forgotten.