They've played some games reminiscent of this, in these respective roles. Delicate string looped around his wrists, his ankles, the clear instruction, the consequence of what happens if it's not followed. It's bondage of another kind, and that had been exciting.

This is different, of course. Tangible, non-negotiable. It's just his wrists but Clark subtly flexes them to feel the lack of give where ribbon winds through the cuffs. If there was no red sun lamp, he would hear the sound of silky fibres snapping, stitches in leather popping free, metal bending and creaking. None of that happens, and his arms are pushed up.

And it occurs to him to feel silly, maybe, between the capture itself and the clothespins sticking off his body, except his dick is hard and the clips in his skin hurt and each jostle, like this latest one, seems to spark heat up through his nerves and then also into his dick (see: fig. 1) and when he imagines Bruce in this same position, it doesn't seem silly at all. His arms stretch, fingers brushing the headboard, and his less abused thigh brushes against Bruce's hip.

"No," he says, very normally.