Heroes of the Squared Circle 28: Submission Holds

[mithen]

Title: Submission Holds
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Wonder Woman, Pamela Isley
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: R
Word Count 3400
Summary: Bruce is finally back, and soon he and Clark are getting sweaty and grappling with each other. After all, that clawhold needs work, and they have to practice that armbar...



Understand, for starters, that wrestling sex is to real sex what wrestling violence is to real violence. Just as the most effective punch is the pulled variety, the best fuck is the mind kind. --David Caron

"I wanted to surprise you," Bruce said. He was sitting next to Clark on one of the locker room benches as the other wrestlers milled around in the post-show chaos, nodding at the people who were coming around to give him high-fives or slaps on the back, but his attention seemed fixed mainly on Clark.

"Well, you succeeded!" Clark couldn't seem to stop smiling. He kept sneaking little looks at Bruce's face. Bruce was smiling too--a small smile, but a genuine one.

"We got the call a couple of weeks ago--the Zucco case is finally going to trial."

"They delayed it long enough," Clark grumbled, and Bruce nodded.

"But Gordon persisted, and the trial starts soon. Dick and I will be called as witnesses, so it was time to come home." He bounced slightly on the bench. "And here I am."

"How's Dick been doing?"

Bruce's small smile flashed into a grin for an instant. "Clark, it's amazing. He's grown so much as a wrestler, it's been a joy to mentor him." He shook his head. "And speaking of mentoring, it looks like you've become quite the locker-room leader."

Startled, Clark laughed out loud, but Bruce's face was serious. "What?"

A rueful half-smile. "You didn't even notice, did you? The other wrestlers look up to you. They trust you to get them over, they like you." He said it as if it were some kind of awe-inspiring aerial move he'd never quite been able to pull off. "I was texting Harvey about his latest storyline a while ago, lobbing some ideas around, and he said he'd run them past you and see if you thought they'd fly."

Clark frowned, remembering. "Well, sure, Harvey told me what he was thinking about and asked my opinion, but--I mean, I was just listening. And--hey, wait, you were texting Harvey regularly? You hardly said boo to me the whole time you were gone!"

"Didn't know you wanted me to say boo to you," Bruce said, and went to sock Clark in the shoulder. Clark caught his fist in his right hand and feinted as if to punch him in the jaw with his left, scowling thunderously. Bruce grabbed his left hand and for a moment they pushed at each other, hands clasped, growling slightly, grinning. Then Bruce's arms went abruptly lax and Clark almost fell forward into him.

"I didn't know what to say," Bruce said. Their hands were still clasped, Clark's arms almost around him. "Nothing seemed good enough to say."

They stared at each other for a moment and Clark swallowed, suddenly aware that they were still in a crowded locker room. "So," he said slowly, "Would you like to--"

"--go out to dinner?" said Bruce at the same moment Clark said "--plan some new moves?"

They looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time, causing a few wrestlers to stop and stare at them before shrugging and moving on.

Clark grinned sheepishly. "It's just--I've had to completely change my move set since turning heel, and I've got so many ideas for some interesting variations that would take a lot of teamwork--it's not that Miguel or Jean-Paul or any of the others aren't up to it, but I was--" He stopped and felt himself reddening under Bruce's gaze. "I was--kind of saving some of the more difficult ones for when you and I were in a match together again." He cleared his throat. "Do you think we'll be able to convince the bookers to put us in an angle again sometime?"

"Oh," said Bruce, a half-smile on his face. "I'm sure of it."

There was a pounding on his hotel door; Clark sat up abruptly and Bruce made a sleepy sound of protest, grabbing at his hand before giving up and letting him stand up and head toward the door.

"Morning!" Dick Grayson was in the hallway, looking chipper. He'd put on a few inches and pounds while in Japan; he might never be a heavyweight, but he was finally coming into his own physically. "When Bruce didn't come back to our room last night I had a feeling he might be here." His smile widened as he took in Clark's mussed hair and sleepy eyes. "You guys have a nice night?"

"It wasn't like that," Clark said, trying to sound nonchalant. "We just got dinner and then came back and talked about wrestling until we fell asleep." Dick gave him a narrow look, and he shrugged. "We had a lot to talk about."

He knew he looked embarrassed, and he was--but the fact was he was mostly embarrassed that it was totally true. They'd gone out for burgers and spent the whole meal arguing about backstory for the Kryptonian. When Clark admitted he hadn't given any thought to whether Krypton had two moons or three, Bruce had thrown up his hands in disgust and accused him of lacking commitment to his gimmick, and Clark had started laughing so hard that the other diners had glared at them.

By the time they got back to Clark's hotel room, they'd been embroiled in a discussion of Clark's proposed variation on a diving double-foot stomp he wanted to call the "Rocket Crash." "Throw in a moonsault in the middle and you might have something," Bruce said. "I'd say a double rotation moonsault but I think Dick's the only wrestler I know with the agility to pull that one off. But the point is--" He said, tapping Clark's nose with his finger, "The point is, you really need to be working more on your submission holds. Country Clark was all aerial moves, the Kryptonian gimmick needs more focus on making lesser mortals submit to him."

Clark batted Bruce's hand away, feeling somewhat nettled on being lectured about his own gimmick's psychology, and dropped onto the bed. "I've got that sleeper hold, the Alien Death Grip one."

Bruce tilted his head to the side. "Ehh, the name's good but it's not very dramatic. Have you thought about a clawhold? Get the right partner who'll sell it and you'll give the audience nightmares. I saw someone do a version once that--hold on, I'll show you."

And they had practiced that clawhold and argued about possible names for it until they were both yawning, goofy with exhaustion. At some point Clark had been showing him a version of the Steel Bar armbar, using the bed as an impromptu mat, and--well, apparently they had fallen asleep mid-grapple.

Clark thought about explaining all of this to Dick, who was currently looking at Bruce still asleep on his bed, but decided Dick would probably never believe him. "Wake up," he said instead, and nudged Bruce's hand as it dangled off the bed. "Dick's here."

"Tell Clark," mumbled Bruce, blinking blearily at Dick. "Tell him that armbar would be better from a front mount than from the back."

Dick shook his head. "He talked to you about wrestling techniques until you fell asleep. Typical Bruce."

Okay, maybe Dick would believe him after all. "It wasn't just him."

"Yeah, I could hardly get a word in edgewise," Bruce said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Then he seemed to remember something and scrambled to his feet. "Let's show him that clawhold. Look at this, Dick."

He grabbed Clark's hand and put it on his face; Clark splayed his fingers so his palm covered Bruce's face, his fingertips forming a circle of tension points. "So he'll do this, and then his opponent grabs his wrist, like he's trying to break free--" Bruce seized Clark's wrist as if he were frantically struggling against the hold, and Clark felt his grip tighten in preparation. Clark lifted his arm slightly and Bruce hoisted himself by his grip on Clark's wrist, his face contorting as if Clark were yanking him up by the fingers clamped on his face. "If it goes well," he said calmly, his face still apparently locked in a claw hold, swinging from Clark's wrist, "he can toss them across the ring from there."

Dick whistled appreciatively. "That'll be great if it's sold well."

"If the other guy's too heavy he can do a submission hold version where he crushes the will from them," said Bruce. "That is why," he said, jabbing Clark in the ribs with his free hand and dropping onto the bed, "It should be called the Will Crusher."

Clark shook his head. "Psionic Claw."

They looked at Dick, who crossed his arms and considered. "Clark is right," he said at last.

Bruce groaned, falling backwards in despair. "Betrayed!" he said. "Betrayed by my own apprentice." He sat back up. "Let's get some breakfast. Then we can go to the arena and see if we can get some practice time in on the ring there before the show tonight. I still have to prove to you that you're doing the armbar wrong."

Clark grabbed his coat. "I want to see how much air time we can get with the Psionic Claw--the Psionic Claw," he repeated firmly as Bruce opened his mouth to correct him. "If I can shoot you onto the ropes with it, just think what I could do with a smaller wrestler like Miguel, it would look awesome."

Dick looked from Bruce to Clark incredulously, then shrugged. "I should be used to you guys being monomaniacs by now," he said, and followed them out the door.

"Hail, Bruce," called Diana Prince from the seats as Bruce and Clark climbed into the ring. "It is a pleasure to see you once again." She was dressed in a white jumpsuit, her hair in a high ponytail, white go-go boots propped on the seat in front of her, and reading a well-worn copy of Judith Butler's Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity.

"You look great, Princess," said Bruce. "Very 70s, very retro."

"You're looking good yourself," said Diana. Clark had to admit she was right: Bruce was fighting bare-chested, and his abdominal muscles looked even more chiseled than Clark remembered--though maybe he'd just tried not to notice them too much before. He was wearing tight black spandex pants and the luchador-style mask that covered his whole head, leaving only his lower face visible. The small black ears jutted up above the mask, giving him an appearance that was simultaneously spooky and jaunty.

Clark, of course, was wearing his ridiculous full-body black outfit with the white ruffles. He thought he had resigned himself to it, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Okay, let's start with that clawhold," said Bruce. "How much air can we get?"

It turned out they could get Bruce all the way to the ropes if Clark basically threw him backwards. He staggered back, clutching at his head as though his brain was about to start leaking out his eyes. There was a smattering of applause from the wrestlers and roadies hanging out in the stands and watching them practice with half their attention. "That's pretty great," Bruce said as he ricocheted off the ropes and back to a standing position. "You can give a big dramatic monologue about draining their psychic energy--"

"--Well, Milton can," said Clark, and Bruce grimaced.

"That's right, you're a silent monster. Such a shame, you're awesome on the mic. But I love the direction you took that." He clapped his hands together. "I think you can get that to work. Now show me that armbar so I can tell you you're doing it wrong."

Ignoring Clark's snort, he sat down on the mat, legs out in front of him. "Start with the back approach you like," he said. "Go through it slowly first."

Clark sat down behind him, hooking his legs around his waist, and wrapped his arms around Bruce's torso, grabbing his arms. "Okay, it starts like this after a throw," he said. Pulling Bruce's arms over his head, he shifted to a right angle so his legs were pinning Bruce down across his chest and neck. He trapped Bruce's arm between his legs and grabbed the wrist, stretching it away from the body. He pulled down and felt Bruce's body shift underneath him, adjusting to the tension in the stretch. "Then I can wrench the arm like this--"

"--and it looks like you're about to break their elbow, nice," finished Bruce, still lying on the mat with Clark's legs draped over him. "Good heel move. I can't believe you were saving that move for a face persona, it looks vicious."

"Well, I would only have used it on really bad heels," protested Clark.

Bruce shrugged slightly, and the motion made Clark suddenly aware that his legs were practically clamped around Bruce's arm. "Still better as a heel move," he said as Clark released his hand and scrambled to his feet. "But like I was telling Dick, I think from the back is the wrong approach. Not enough dominance, and the Kryptonian is all about dominance, right?"

"Uh, right," said Clark, glancing uneasily out at the seats. Scott Free and Darkseid were chatting near the back, Diana still reading, Pamela was doing some embroidery and talking with a bored Selina as they sat on the ramp.

"So start off by getting on top of your opponent after a throw." Bruce lay down on his back again. "Ready?"

Clark straddled him and looked down. Bruce was beneath him, his bare chest sheened very lightly with sweat, his eyes bright under the cowl. "Ready."

"Now put me in a cobra clutch," said Bruce, raising himself slightly off the mat.

Clark could feel his thigh muscles bunching under him as he sat up and took a deep breath. Right. The clutch. Putting his hand under Bruce's head, Clark pushed Bruce's arm down until he could grab the wrist, in effect wrapping Bruce's own arm around his neck and pinning it to the mat.

"Okay," Bruce said. His voice was slightly strained--the cobra clutch wasn't a comfortable position even if it was kayfabe. "Now flip me over onto my side and roll into the armbar from there."

Clark leaned close, pushed Bruce onto his side, then flipped his legs over Bruce's body again, pinning him and stretching his arm out into the hold as Bruce fell onto his back once more.

"Fantastic," said Bruce. "It's a complex, smart move that still looks brutal as hell. Let's do it again and see if we can do it faster."

Clark got back on top of Bruce and they went back through the motions--lean down and grab Bruce's arm, wrap it around his throat, flip him sideways and pin him, pulling on the arm.

"Mph," said Bruce as Clark rolled into the hold. "That definitely gets a good stretch on. I think you might have an alternative career as a chiropractor if you wash out as a monster."

Clark growled and tugged Bruce's arm, pulling it harder against him.

"Argh," said Bruce. "Unhand me, you brute, or I shall be forced to tap out and admit yours is the superior strength!"

"That's--" Clark started laughing. "You sound like a swashbuckler, not a wrestler."

Bruce's fingers scrabbled feebly at the fabric of Clark's suit. "My strength...failing. Kryptonian...you have...bested me." His hand went limp. Then he sat up and Clark released his arm. "Again, all in one motion. Like you're asserting your dominance over me, putting me in my place. You're the superior being and you're going to break me if I don't acknowledge it."

Clark's mouth was dry; he nodded and adjusted his position on top of Bruce, resting one hand briefly on Bruce's bare chest as he shifted. "Okay," he said, relieved that his voice sounded relatively normal. "Let's try it again."

This time something went wrong, and when Clark went for the cobra clutch he couldn't get Bruce's arm around his neck smoothly; they stalled out with Clark trying to get a better grip on Bruce's arm.

"Needs work," said Bruce.

"Needs work," agreed Clark. His face was about two inches from Bruce's, and he could feel Bruce's chest rising and falling underneath him.

"I'm...I'm going to need a second," Bruce said, and there was a different kind of strain in his voice this time.

Clark blinked, then started to laugh again; shifting his legs he settled himself more firmly on top of Bruce's body. "So have we established that I'm the dominant one?" he murmured, letting his weight press against the distinct hardness beneath him.

"Oh, like hell," breathed Bruce, and tried to throw Clark off. But Clark had weight and leverage on his side; he pinned Bruce's arms and clamped his knees tight. Bruce bucked his hips up against him as if to throw him off, then did it again with an added shimmy thrown in, and the smile on his face was so wicked it made Clark feel dizzy.

Clark leaned forward, adjusting his pin, until his lips were right next to Bruce's ear. "Is this wrestling or foreplay?" he whispered.

He felt Bruce's laugh resonate in his own body. "Is there a difference?" Bruce retorted. He tried to throw Clark off again; this time he managed to toss him to the side. A flurry of moves ensued--block, feint, lunge, feint--and Clark found himself on his stomach on the mat with Bruce straddling him, arms wrapped around his neck. They were both breathing heavily, and Clark took advantage of the new position to slide forward as if he were trying to break free, letting his spandex suit rake along Bruce's erection.

Bruce groaned and Clark felt him grind down slightly as if he couldn't help himself. "God, you are so good," he said under his breath, leaning close enough that his ragged breaths shuddered directly in Clark's ear. His arms tightened around Clark's neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to make giddy sparks dance in front of his eyes. "We are going back to your hotel room after this and I am going to fuck you all--night--long."

"Not--if I fuck you first," Clark gasped. Bruce's bare arm across his throat was slick with sweat; pretending to struggle against it he bent his head, brought his mouth to Bruce's forearm, and sucked hard at the flesh there, nibbling, licking, tasting salt.

Bruce made an agonized sound and released him abruptly, rolling away and onto his own stomach next to him. They laid there side by side, sides heaving.

"I'm going to make you beg for mercy," Bruce growled. "Just you wait. I'm going to make you scream."

"You're just mad I beat you," Clark shot back.

"Beat me?" Bruce sounded incredulous. "May I remind you I was the one who had you in the facelock?"

"It was obvious you couldn't take any more. You were just about to break, right there in the ring. I win."

"Guys?" Pamela Isley looked up from her embroidery and flipped her hair back. "I don't want to interrupt your tender reunion, but Selina and I have the ring reserved from, oh…"

Selina lifted her bare wrist and stared at it in elaborate pantomime. "About ten minutes ago," she said.

"Okay, okay. Just let us, uh, cool down a little," said Clark.

They lay there on their stomachs, breathing heavily. "Baseball statistics," said Clark. "Starting lineups of the Kansas City Royals for the last ten years."

"I conjugate Arabic verbs," said Bruce.

"You--" Clark broke off. "You know what? Never mind."

Bruce dropped his head onto his hands and Clark realized his shoulders were shaking with laughter. "You were right," he said, his voice pitched to not carry outside the ring.

"About what?"

"I could not have taken one more minute of that without-- Yeah. You win."

"I'll give you a rematch in my hotel room in a few hours," Clark murmured. "We'll see who'll submit when it really matters."

Bruce didn't respond. After a moment, Clark realized he was muttering something under his breath.

It sounded like Arabic.

---

( Chapter 29: The Dark Knight Descends)