Chapter Text
“Clark,” Bruce says. “Are you watching?”
He swivels in his plush desk chair to stare straight out at the Gotham skyline. Bruce’s personal office at Wayne Enterprises is located on the top floor of the building. By pure coincidence, the large glass wall overlooking Gotham almost exactly faces the central Metropolis. Another five degrees east is the exact heading of the Daily Planet, although it’s impossible to make out at this distance. For him, at least.
He leans back in his chair, fingering his tie. “Even if you’re not, I know you can hear me. So I’ll tell you this: I’d like you to watch, if you can. I promise to make it worth your while.”
He loosens the tie then slips it off, letting it drop to the floor to join his jacket. He slowly unbuttons his waistcoat, then the buttons of his shirt. His fingers scrape across a nipple and he gasps, only partly for show.
“I can’t tell if you’re watching,” he says. “But I want you to see this. See me do this. See what you do to me.”
His hand slides lower to cup himself through his slacks. He’s already hard. His eyes want to flutter shut but he forces them open, stares out the window like he can see miles away through glass and stone and concrete.
“For you, Clark,” he says lowly. “This is for you.”
The first time really was an accident, was the thing. Bruce was tired and frustrated and weak in the wake of a particularly grueling patrol, and Alfred had sent him off to bed with that stern, sad expression that Bruce somehow hadn’t yet figured out how to combat. And when he gave up on fruitless tossing and turning and decided that jerking off would be a better use of his time – a pleasant distraction, at least, even if it didn’t help his insomnia – his thoughts had…meandered. Not entirely with his permission.
He let his eyes drift shut as he moved a slick hand over his cock in sure, efficient movements. He thought of the last time he’d had sex. He’d dated a socialite about a month ago, when things in Gotham had been quieter. She was petite, sweet-faced and freckled. Nice enough. He remembered how she’d moaned for him when he ate her out, the way her breasts quivered when he’d fucked her, and the memory of it was fond. But his mind was restless. Soon enough, the image of her in his head shifted to Selina: tall and lean, hard muscle beneath lush curves. The dark, eager look on her face as she rode him, long nails raking along his chest hard enough to break skin.
Then, frustratingly, inevitably, the image shifted to Clark. Even though it shouldn’t have, even though he shouldn’t have let it. But that was a fight he’d let himself lose long ago. Yes, Clark was there, embedded into his carefully crafted narrative, a bullet point in every outline, scribbled into the margins of his attention. But if Bruce chose not to put that to page, it was almost like it didn’t exist at all.
So he could allow himself to indulge in fantasy, every now and then, he told himself. As long as it was never anything more.
He didn’t have any memories of Clark like this. In all their years of friendship, they’d never shared any intimacy that wasn’t completely platonic: casual brushes of hands, a comradely clap on the shoulder, the occasional hug. But Bruce had spent most of those long years of friendship imagining this, all the ways he wanted Clark, which was every way possible. Beneath him or above him. Spooning him, gently rocking into him, murmuring sweet nothings against his throat; pressing his shoulders into the mattress and fucking him hard enough that he screamed. In Bruce’s bed, or Clark’s, in Metropolis or Smallville or the Fortress of Solitude; in the cave, spread over the hood of the Batmobile; in the Watchtower monitor room while their hands were idle; quick and dirty on a rooftop somewhere because they didn’t have the patience to find a room. Ripping Clark out of one his boxy suits, or his uniform, until all that gorgeous, golden skin was there for Bruce to touch. With his hands, his mouth, his ass, his thighs, his cock; limbs tangling, skin-to-skin, hand in hand, foreheads pressed together, saying anything, promising anything. Anything. As long as it was Clark.
That night, he imagined Clark kneeling over him, leisurely jerking off. He’d be naked, or so Bruce’s subconscious had decided, smooth, golden skin dusted with dark hair, a work of art made real. Broad, masculine bulk, but lean enough that Bruce could clearly see the tremor in his thighs and ripple of his stomach as he got closer to orgasm. Lips slick and parted, eyes lidded – and watching him, focused and hungry. His hand would speed up and his mouth would fall open, forehead creasing with pleasure. He’d shudder and groan Bruce’s name as he came – hot, pulsing over Bruce’s stomach, marking his skin—
Bruce’s orgasm took him by surprise. The tight pressure building within him released in a blissful rush and he worked himself through it. For a few peaceful seconds, his mind was soothingly blank.
He didn’t even realize he’d called Clark’s name until the star of his fantasies burst in through his balcony door.
After Clark had left, as abruptly as he’d arrived, Bruce lay in the dark in his room, staring blankly at his ceiling. There was ice in the pit of his stomach, even as a nauseous heat spread across his skin.
He was exhausted. And yet…
Damn it. He wanted to jerk off again.
He stayed like that, rigid and unsleeping and hopelessly conflicted, until well after the sun had risen.
In his office, Bruce has opened his slacks, knees parted in a lazy sprawl. His cock rests against his stomach, hard and flushed and aching to be touched. But he holds off, for now. He doesn’t want to take things too far before Clark gets here.
It’s hard to resist, though. The vibrator is still turned on low, nestled deep within him, slow waves of intensity cresting and falling. Enough to keep him feeling heated and distracted, but not enough to get him there by itself.
Clark can hear that too. Bruce is sure of it.
He hisses sharply as he finally touches himself – just a single finger trailing slowly up the underside of his cock. Then his thumb strokes across the head and he shivers; lets himself groan freely knowing that his office is private enough that only Clark will be able to hear him.
“You know, I used to try not to think of you when I was doing this,” Bruce says. He’s barely touched himself, but already his voice sounds dark and breathless to his own ears. He wraps his hand around himself fully at last and starts moving, in long, teasing strokes. “But now, I let myself think about you every time. I picture that it’s your hand around my cock. Your fingers stretching me open. You have gorgeous hands, Clark. Did you know that?”
His hand moves just a fraction faster, tighter, sliding smooth and slick over his heated skin. His breath stutters on a sigh. “Do you hear that too? How wet I am, just thinking about your hands on me? I bet I wouldn’t even need lube to fuck you like this. I could just slide right in.”
His free hand is trailing teasingly across his chest. Clark likes to trace the outline of the scars on his chest while they’re fucking, so Bruce does the same.
“It’s already five, but I’m guessing you’re still at work right now,” he says. “But I know you like hearing me. Then keep listening, until you can leave.” He smiles. “I’ll be waiting.”
Their next encounter after that first night was predictably awkward. Thankfully, Clark was kind enough not to bring it up when Bruce made every effort to leave the incident unacknowledged. Acknowledging matters meant confrontation, and confrontation led to fallout, and fallout was something Bruce was never sure how to recover from. Or even if he could recover from it. No, it was better for both of them to leave that conversation unwritten. After all, they’d both transgressed that night, in different ways and for different reasons – Clark by walking in on him, Bruce by letting his internal world of hopeless fantasy slip into reality. The kind of transgressions that could end a friendship if brought to light.
Yet despite this tacit agreement, Clark clearly felt awkward about the whole thing. That in itself was unsurprising. Clark wasn’t exactly a prude, but he was certainly less comfortable with these things than Bruce was himself. And clearly, Bruce’s attraction to him was…undesirable.
It was unfair of Bruce to resent Clark’s discomfort, but he did. Bruce had kept his own feelings hidden this whole time to prevent exactly this from happening, but having his apprehensions confirmed turned out to be deeply unpleasant. Granted, it was not unnatural to feel awkward around a friend who'd demonstrated an unwanted sexual interest. But this was him, and Clark; the two of them, their friendship, the World’s Finest. Surely the same rules shouldn’t apply to them, when there was no ugly part of each other left unrevealed, save for this? Surely, when Bruce would gladly accept every uncomfortable hidden truth about Clark, Clark should be willing to do the same for him?
The emotion was completely irrational. Bruce knew that. He resented that too.
Only later did he consider that perhaps Clark’s distraction was founded in something other than distaste, the first time in a week that he’d succumbed to the urge to masturbate. And this time, when his thoughts turned helplessly to Clark once more, he was greeted not by the well-worn tread of his imagination but the oft-ignored little voice in the back of his mind saying: What if he’s not disgusted? What if he liked it?
And somehow, the idea of that alone was powerful enough to make Bruce’s pulse stutter.
The thoughts someone had while erect were usually best discarded as baseless fantasy, but something about this one stuck out to Bruce. Perhaps he’d been too hasty assuming that Clark’s behavior sprang from somewhere negative. What if he had liked it? What if the awkwardness, the distraction, wasn’t borne of disgust but desire?
What if he was listening now?
“Fuck,” Bruce hissed, hand tightening around the base of his cock as sudden, blazing desire rocketed through him. Clark really could be listening, was the thing. God, he could even be doing the same thing Bruce was – and what a vision he’d be, hand fisted around his hard, flushed cock, hard from listening to Bruce touch himself. Hearing the ragged breathing and bitten-off noises he could no longer fully suppress, the sound of his hand moving over himself. Fuck, Clark could see him, if he really wanted to. What if he was watching?
Bruce felt his thighs fall apart, back arching off the bed, almost like he was presenting his body for Clark’s inspection. Would Clark like what he saw? Bruce’s bruised, battered body, littered with scars and imperfections? The idea that it could bring Clark that kind of pleasure was dizzying. As was the thought of his eyes searing into him from a city away, seeing everything, every part of Bruce shamefully, ironically exposed in the privacy of his bedroom.
He said it on reckless impulse, barely louder than a whisper. “Clark.” And shit, Clark would…he would have heard that. No matter what, he would have heard that – and now he almost certainly could hear what Bruce was doing, knew that Bruce was thinking about him again—
He thrust into his tight fist with uncommon desperation, frantic in a way he never usually got from just using his hand. His orgasm swept over him within seconds. He drifted for a while in the hazy aftermath, then, tiredly, pressed a clean hand over his eyes.
Jesus.
Evidently, you’re never too old to learn something new about yourself.
It’s still a strange, heady thought, Clark abusing his powers this way. Clark has always been so virtuous and principled, so terrified of overstepping the bounds of his adopted humanity. And yet, apparently his unshakeable principles could be shaken. Bruce could shake them, just by letting Clark glimpse the bottomless well of desire that lay at the very core of him. And it’s a powerful kind of powerlessness, knowing that Clark is watching, listening, even against his better judgment. Even knowing there is very little Bruce can do to stop him. Bruce can call for him, summon Clark’s attention, but for all Bruce’s skill and knowledge and surveillance, he doesn’t know whether Clark has been watching all along.
When he shifts, the plug moves inside him and he hisses out a sharp breath.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asks softly. It’s an effort to keep the movement of his hand slow, to keep himself from approaching the edge, but he manages it. “I hope you are. I still think about what you told me before, that you jerked off in the office while you were watching me.” In fact, he’s picturing it right now. Clark always looks gorgeous when he’s turned on, but there’s something thrilling about the idea of him like that, desperate enough from watching Bruce that he can’t wait until he makes it somewhere private. Clark, breaking his own sense of propriety out of lust.
It’s early evening now. He imagines Clark in Metropolis, stealing away from his cubicle to find somewhere private – a bathroom or an empty office perhaps – so he could watch him. Those magnetic eyes fixed on him, trailing down along the exposed skin of his chest to his cock.
The groan he lets out at the thought is almost involuntary. Almost.
A lot of bad ideas could seem like good ones when one was seconds away from orgasm. This was a lesson Bruce possibly should have learned already at this age. And yet, here he was, painfully aware that Clark now almost certainly knew that Bruce had been thinking of him while touching himself, for at least the second time. And therefore Clark would know that, considering how it had gone the last time, Bruce was either exceptionally lacking in self-control or doing it on purpose. Bruce was fairly sure he knew which of those Clark would assume to be true.
But still, the die was cast. There was little Bruce could do about it now except observe the result of his impromptu experiment.
Fortunately, the next time the League were scheduled to meet was only a few days after that, so the incident was still relatively fresh. Bruce settled into his usual chair five minutes early, studiously ignoring the chatter around him. Clark rushed in a minute before the meeting started, all windswept hair and apologetic smiles. His near-tardiness also wasn’t uncommon – Superman was often kept fairly busy, after all. But Bruce had been keeping himself abreast of major global incidents for the past few days and, as far as Bruce was aware, there wasn’t anything happening just then that might demand Superman’s attention. Had he been late on purpose then? Was Clark avoiding him, after last time?
Nothing was conclusive yet. He still needed more data.
Diana was chairing that day, so Bruce could for the most part sit back and only chime in with the appropriate commentary when necessary.
He didn’t dare to look at Clark properly until halfway through the meeting. But when he did, Clark was already looking at him… No. That wasn’t quite right. Clark wasn’t looking at him. He was looking through him, clearly not focused on the meeting.
He snapped out of it a second later and caught Bruce’s gaze. And for a split second, something shockingly hungry flashed through those unearthly blue eyes, lips parting—
—before the expression was wiped clean. Clark tore his eyes away, face carefully and artificially neutral in a way no-one but Bruce, in that moment, would have picked up on. But it was there, clear as day, when Bruce knew what he was looking for: the twitch of his eyebrow, the minute twist at the corner of his mouth, the subtle pinkness of his cheeks. Not just discomfort. Guilt.
As the meeting wrapped up, he watched Clark again, fidgeting in his seat as if he had somewhere else he’d rather be. His shoulders loosened in relief as Diana called the meeting to a close, and he stood with a smile.
“Superman,” Bruce said.
The smile froze, then shifted into something neutral and polite. Not too wide or too small, perfectly symmetrical, the barest sheepish tilt to his brows to make it seem genuine rather than practiced.
“Batman,” Clark greeted him smoothly, easily. “Sorry, I’m a little busy right now. Did you need something?”
And Bruce was sure of it then.
Clark didn’t smile at him like that, not anymore. That was the smile he wore around strangers or acquaintances, people who he feared would otherwise be terrified of what an alien with Superman’s powers could do. I’m safe, that smile said. I’m not intimidating, not to you. I’m friendly, but not too friendly; easily digestible; perfectly, interminably palatable. I would never hurt you.
Such pretenses were unnecessary between them. After all, what pretense of benign perfection would fool Bruce, who held the privilege of having seen Clark at his lowest, broken and battered (but never, never defeated, not for good); who’d seen him cry in pain, seen him scream with rage; but also seen him wince, tease, laugh so hard he cried? What pretense would be necessary when he already held Bruce’s bloody, beating heart in his invulnerable fist?
No. There was only one reason Clark would look at him like that. And that’s if he thought he’d wronged him.
Bruce didn’t believe in coincidences.
Seconds passed, and the smile wavered. “Um. Batman?” Clark prompted.
“No,” he said finally, carefully tucking the information away to examine later. “It’s not urgent. It can wait.”
Later turned out to be a few days. After letting his newly acquired knowledge sit in the back of his mind, percolating, he’d come to a simple conclusion. He could consider the last time a pilot test. This would be the real deal.
This time, he decided he’d make a show of it.
He usually kept things pretty straightforward when he was getting himself off. He was a busy man, after all, and masturbation was a luxury of time and energy he couldn’t often afford. Most of the time, he took care of the urge quickly and efficiently, as he would deal with any other bodily function.
But. If Clark would be watching…
He stretched out on his front and took his time fingering himself open. Let himself sink into fantasy.
Clark would take his time. Clark was always so cautious of his strength, so worried about hurting others, that Bruce knew he’d be careful at the start, even knowing that Bruce would take all that Clark was willing to give him. Maybe especially then. He imagined Clark leaning over him, chest against his back, lips moving against his neck; the gentle weight and pressure of him, his heated skin against Bruce’s own. Imagined that it was Clark’s fingers instead of his own plunging into him, Clark fucking him, slow and deep. God, that would be—
“Clark, you feel so good,” Bruce moaned – and fuck, fuck, if Clark hadn’t been watching already, now he would be. Now he’d know just what Bruce wanted Clark to do to him. How willingly Bruce would bend over for him, how eagerly and easily he’d take him. Maybe Clark would tell him that, murmured into his ear. “You take my cock so well, Bruce,” he’d say, low and breathy. “Like you were made for it. Made for me.”
Bruce heard himself groan as his hips bucked back against his fingers. Would it turn him on, seeing Bruce like this? Hearing the eager noises Bruce usually kept buried? Fuck, Bruce could picture him now, watching Bruce expose himself to that burning gaze, arching into his own touch, desperate and wanton. Clark would know what that meant to Bruce, better than anyone. Clark knew how hard Bruce had worked to master himself, and how much he prided himself on that. But now Clark would see the creature beneath the mask, flawed and hungry for everything he shouldn’t let himself want – at least not with such ferocity. The Dark Knight of Gotham, shedding his careful control with every moan and gasp, laying their tattered remains at Clark’s feet. Willingly, shamelessly. All for him. All for—
“Clark,” Bruce gasped out as he came across his fist, across his sheets, fingers still buried deep in his ass. The pleasure thundered over him, so intense – too intense, considering what he’d just done. But the thought of Clark watching him through it left his mind feeling pleasantly cottony, his swirling thoughts slipping away, unable to take purchase.
God. Fuck.
It was telling that, in the days following that experience, Clark didn’t once tell him to stop, as would be well within his rights. But technically, Bruce reasoned idly, an absence of data could not be counted as evidence.
It was just as well any good experiment demanded replication.
“So I’m sure you’ve noticed the vibrator by now,” Bruce says lightly.
He’s only loosely gripping the base of his cock now, rolling his hips slow and languid to feel the plug shift inside of him. It’s not shaped quite right to feel truly satisfying like this, too short and narrow and straight, but it’s still pleasantly stimulating.
“I’ve had it in since you left this morning,” Bruce says, low and rough. “I stretched myself open and slipped it in before I got dressed. I almost called for you then, so I could show you, but I wanted it to be a surprise for when you got off work. I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He grips his cock fully then, gives himself a few long, luxurious strokes, and groans. “All day. I’ve been…fuck, so turned on all day, thinking about this.”
He feels himself getting close again and releases himself with a sigh. Shifts his hand lower to press the plug in deeper through his slacks. Shivers.
“I’ve been here like this all afternoon, in my office. Having to pretend everything was normal. My three o’clock even asked me if I was feeling alright,” he tells Clark with a smile. “They didn’t know, of course – you know I wouldn’t give anything like that away. But I could feel it whenever I moved. And I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like if it was your cock and not a toy. Fucking me in front of all those people.
“Would you like that, Clark?”
Bruce found himself slipping into a routine, after that: getting himself off a couple of times a week, letting himself imagine that Clark was watching or listening to him. Presenting himself for Clark’s voyeuristic entertainment. But after some time, toys or his own hands didn’t feel like enough anymore. After daydreaming about fucking Clark for weeks, Bruce needed…not the real thing, but the closest thing he could get to it.
Bruce picked the man up at a bar. He was a little taller than Bruce, thickly muscled, with the cocky grin of someone unused to holding himself back. Ideal for Bruce’s purposes.
It was loud in the bar, and Bruce hadn’t quite caught his name, so he decided to call him Aaron. He didn’t feel bad about not knowing his name. After all, Aaron only knew Bruce’s name because Bruce was just recognizably famous enough for Aaron to want to fuck him.
He took Aaron back to a nearby penthouse and wasted no time dragging him into the bedroom and ripping his clothes off. Aaron didn’t object, helping Bruce out of his neatly pressed suit, and thankfully he didn’t question Bruce any further when he murmured a vague, “Skiing accident,” at the reveal of his scarred body. Bruce’s hand on his cock as he walked them to the bed might have something to do with that.
Aaron was surprisingly a gentleman, sucking Bruce’s cock as he fingered him open. Bruce moaned eagerly, gripped his hair and maybe felt a little bad that his thoughts were a city away from where Aaron probably wanted them – but not bad enough to stop. Was Clark watching already? He might notice the sound of Bruce’s elevated heartbeat if he were listening for it, which he seemed to do fairly regularly. And if so, then he’d know Bruce was with someone else.
What would Clark think, seeing him like this?
Bruce shivered and sighed. Aaron pulled off him with an obscene, wet pop and grinned up at him from between his spread thighs. “Enjoying yourself?”
He hummed in answer, tightening his grip on Aaron’s hair. It was dark and slightly curly, just long enough that Bruce could tug on it if he so chose. He so chose, and Aaron’s eyelids fluttered. “I’m ready,” he informed him in a low rumble. “I can’t wait any longer. I need your cock in me.”
“Oh shit,” Aaron groaned, “I love how fucking slutty you are. Tell me how you want it.”
Impatient, Bruce didn’t tell him with words. He flipped onto his front and urged Aaron closer until he was kneeling behind him, pressing back against the firmness of his cock until it was sliding home. God, it had been way too long since he’d done this. A real cock felt so much better than a toy, a scorching pressure within him, filling him up perfectly.
Bruce moaned encouragingly and rocked back against the intrusion. Aaron took the hint and started to thrust, slowly at first and then faster as Bruce eagerly met him thrust for thrust, urging him on. Large, strong hands wrapped around his waist, and god, it felt so—
“Fuck, you’re so tight. You like my cock in you?”
It was Aaron’s voice, Bruce knew. But what if it were Clark’s instead? Lower, smoother, kinder; achingly familiar – but not like this, not when it was rough and breathless with lust.
“I’m watching you,” Bruce heard in Clark’s voice. “Letting another man fuck you, even when I’m the one you really want. So desperate to be fucked that you can’t wait for me. So shameless.” Another hard thrust, at just the right angle, and Bruce shuddered, cock drooling onto the bed sheets.
“Tell him,” Clark was saying. “Tell him you love getting fucked.”
“Mm, yeah,” Bruce groaned out, “I love it, baby. Don’t stop.”
The thrusts increased in intensity, and Bruce groaned long and low into the pillow.
“Hmm. But that’s not quite true, is it?” Clark whispered. “It’s not what he’s doing that’s getting you off. You love imagining that he’s me. You love thinking about me watching you like this. You love the idea that I can see you, all of you, even the parts of yourself you keep buried.”
Bruce moaned again; pressed a palm against the headboard, eager for leverage so he could push back, feel it harder, deeper; imagined that it was Clark’s broad hands on him, fucking greedy noises out of him.
“Don’t you see, Bruce? No matter who you spread your legs for, how much you cling to your precious sense of control, we both know who holds the cards here. You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Bruce’s limbs were shaking with need. The Clark he knew wouldn’t say those things. But that didn’t matter when Bruce was the author of his own mind, when the thought of him saying it was a direct line to his cock, when Bruce could barely think past the need for more and harder.
“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” not-Clark whispered, full of promise.
So, “Fuck me,” Bruce said, even though it was a poor substitute for the truth – that Bruce was so, so greedy when it came to Clark, wanting everything. Whatever Clark would give him. He groaned out Clark’s name, muffled into the pillow. And that was enough for him these days, just saying Clark’s name, summoning his attention from a city away. As he pictured those all-seeing eyes on him, he came hard enough that his elbows went out from under him, shuddering and groaning, knowing that Clark could hear him.
Seconds later, the body above him convulsed and moaned. Aaron pulled out with a soft curse and collapsed onto the bed beside him. “Jesus,” he said. “That was…wow. You good?”
Bruce let his eyes drift shut and stretched his pleasantly sore muscles as the lingering image of Clark faded from his mind. “Yes. That was perfect.”
Minutes later, Bruce hears a sudden rush of air. He smiles. “You’re here.”
He swivels his chair. There’s Clark on the other end of his long office, somewhere halfway between Superman and Clark Kent: ill-fitting suit, tousled hair, slipping his glasses into his breast pocket, lit in hues of orange-gold from the encroaching sunset. Beautiful. Always beautiful, no matter what mask he’s wearing. And especially so when Bruce has spent the whole day thinking about him, about his hands and his body and his face and his eyes, waiting to see him again.
“It’s about time,” Bruce goes on. “I was starting to wonder when you’d finally show up.”
Clark folds his arms. The baggy suit can’t quite disguise the swell of his biceps or the breadth of the chest beneath. “Bruce,” he says, somewhere between fond exasperation and genuine irritation. “I was at work.”
“So am I,” Bruce says, leaning back, knees parting in clear invitation. For a second, Clark looks torn between rolling his eyes and letting his gaze drag down to where Bruce wants it. In the end, he chooses both.
“Some of us do actual work at work,” Clark notes, slowly walking closer. “I had to stay late. Perry wanted a meeting.”
“Mm. Did I distract you?”
“You know the answer to that question,” Clark says dryly.
He comes to a stop in front of him, standing between Bruce’s legs. Bruce looks up at him with a smile he knows Clark will take as a challenge. Raises his hands to grip Clark’s thighs and urge him closer. God, his thighs. If Bruce were inclined to poetry, he could write sonnets about them. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it,” he counters.
Clark’s jaw clenches. “Okay. Fine.”
In a movement too fast for Bruce to perceive, he’s leaning forward, one hand braced on the arm of the chair and one wrapped around Bruce’s cock. Bruce jolts and lets out a strangled groan.
“I’ve been watching you ever since you said my name, listening to all the filth you’ve been spewing,” he murmurs into Bruce’s ear. His hand slips from Bruce’s cock to trail lower, to feel the hard base of the plug between his thighs. “Yes, I was distracted. Perry let me go early because he could tell I wasn’t focused. I kept looking over his shoulder.”
Bruce lets his eyes drift closed. “Ahh. I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m not,” Bruce agrees, “since I know you enjoy it.”
“That’s not the point,” says Clark, which notably isn’t a no. He shifts back so he can see Bruce’s expression and presses his fingers against the base of the plug through his pants. Bruce jerks and hisses as a flash of heat flickers through him.
“Jesus,” says Clark, eyes dragging over his skin, and his voice is a little darker around the edges now than it was before. “Have you really had that in all day?”
“I had to turn the vibration off during meetings, so people wouldn’t hear,” Bruce tells him, “but yes. All day.”
Clark makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and tugs at his belt loop with a finger. “Take them off. I want to see.”
Obligingly, Bruce stands on legs that feel significantly less sturdy than usual and fumbles with his belt buckle. Once that’s done, he pulls his pants and underwear down in one go, not bothering to make it a show. “Everything. All the way,” Clark prompts, and so Bruce does, kicks off his shoes and socks and shrugs off his open shirt and vest. When he’s fully nude, Clark presses a hand to his back and guides him to bend over his desk; then keeps pressing, further and further, nudging his feet apart until Bruce’s forehead is almost pressed to its surface.
A warm hand trails along the curve of Bruce’s spine, then grips one ass cheek and squeezes. Bruce hears a soft snort. “A Superman toy? Really?”
“It felt appropriate,” Bruce says. He’s aiming for dry and breezy, but Clark’s casual regard of his body, spread out for him like this, is making his voice strained and breathless. Clark’s fingers trail further, tracing around the stretch of his rim around the plug. Bruce tries to arch back, but an immovable hand on his hip stops him. The fingers continue to tease, soft and light. Until—
“Fuck,” Bruce hisses, cock jerking between his legs, because without warning Clark is grinding the toy directly against his prostate. He shudders all over, involuntary and uncontrollable. As the vibration intensifies it’s almost too much and his mouth is opening on a silent scream.
Then the pressure eases and Bruce lets out a soft groan of relief. “Gee, you’re pretty keyed up, huh?” Clark notes.
“Was some part of ‘all day’ unclear to you?”
In lieu of replying, Clark presses on the base again just so, and Bruce’s muscles quiver helplessly, hand twitching towards his cock. In an instant, his hands are being held firmly behind his back. “Not yet, B. You can wait a little longer, can’t you?”
Bruce makes a punched-out noise and squeezes his eyes shut, helpless but to ride it out. Clark works the toy inside him as he holds Bruce still, a gentle tease until all of a sudden Bruce feels another intense wave of pleasure-almost-pain as Clark holds the toy right where he’s most sensitive. His cock bobs uselessly between his thighs as he jerks and moans through it.
After what feels like an eternity, the pressure eases again. Clark slips the toy out of him with an obscene squelch and Bruce sags against the desk, muscles he didn’t even notice were tense relaxing all at once.
“God,” Clark says, low and reverent. Bruce’s breath stutters when Clark’s thumb slips into his loose, twitching hole before falling away entirely. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
Bruce does, actually. And that’s exactly why he arches back towards Clark’s absent touch, unambiguously encouraging. “Come on, Clark,” he breathes, “you don’t have to hold back. Fuck me already.”
Clark remains silent for a long moment, long enough that Bruce starts to get impatient. Then he hums consideringly.
“Maybe I should just take you like this. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Bruce would roll his eyes if his eyelids weren’t so heavy. “I would’ve thought that was obvious by now.”
“Right,” Clark says. “Then I guess I’m not going to do that.”
Bruce tenses. “What? Clark—”
All at once, a gentle, inexorable hand is levering him upright, and in a disorienting rush he’s standing in front of the window, Clark still gripping his wrists behind his back. He only barely catches his balance without stumbling.
“Clark,” he growls out in warning.
“Yes?” Clark says innocently. He pushes Bruce forward so his forehead is resting against the glass, and—
Bruce draws in a small, sharp breath. He can see down to the street below like this. The small, distant shapes of busy people striding along the sidewalk; a bus stop, full of impatient commuters; the slow grind of Gotham traffic. Clark presses in close against his back and whispers into his ear: “You wanted me to watch you, right? Well now, everyone else can watch too.”
Bruce shivers. Jesus. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, not as dismissively as he’d like, “no-one can see us from down there.”
“Maybe not,” Clark accepts easily. “But I’ll bet it feels like they could. What do you suppose they’d think of you if they could see you like this?”
Bruce actually gasps at that. Another nudge and Bruce’s chest is pressed against the window, almost painfully cool against his overheated skin. Clark’s hand slides around to his stomach, tantalizingly close to the base of his cock. He can feel the generous bulge of Clark’s erection through his slacks, the fabric rough against the bare skin of his ass, but Clark is holding him so firm that he can’t even press back against it.
“Look at you, B,” he breathes. “I wish you could see what I’m seeing right now. Gorgeous.”
“Stop teasing,” he growls. Thankfully, he hears the clink of Clark undoing his belt and the distinctive sound of a zipper, and then finally, finally Clark is pressing against him and sliding in—
“Clark,” Bruce moans, the sound reverberating through his chest. Bruce is already loose, but Clark is still thick enough that he can really feel it, the stretch and the burn and the indescribable feeling of fullness that always makes him feel mindless and gloriously desperate. Clark doesn’t give him time to adjust, fucking him with hard, punishing thrusts, and Bruce can’t do anything but take what he’s given. And god, god, it’s so good, just what he wanted. Clark’s hands are pressing his own against the window now, boxing him in; but that means he has just enough leverage to rock back into the thrusts. The head of his cock kisses the cool glass with every rock of his hips, leaving obscene smears on the pane.
“Look at the mess you’re making,” Clark says. “So eager. Is it because I’m fucking you? Or because you like showing everyone out there how you get for me?”
Every word from Clark’s lips suffuses him with liquid heat. Bruce chokes out a breathless curse on a particularly pointed thrust. There’s that glorious pressure building within him, muscles tense with it, balls tight – and finally, he lets himself feel it. “Fuck, Clark—c’mon, I’m close—”
And then Clark pulls out.
“No,” he says.
It takes Bruce’s swirling mind a moment to catch up with what’s happening. “What?”
“I said no,” Clark says. “I figure maybe this time, for once, we’ll play by my rules. Not yours.”
Bruce chuckles darkly. “I see. You’re actually mad, aren't you?”
“A little,” Clark replies easily. He slides two fingers inside him and presses, and Bruce chokes on a gasp. “But that’s what you were going for, isn’t it? That's why you decided to spring this on me. You wanted to rile me up. That’s all part of your plan. Isn’t that right?”
“Clark—”
“But it’s my turn to write the script, Bruce,” Clark says, smooth and soft and full of promise. “I’ll give you what you want. But it’ll be on my terms.”
The fingers disappear and he slides back into Bruce in one smooth thrust. But instead of fucking him, he tugs Bruce against his chest and holds him fast, wrists held beside his shoulders. This far from the window, the sky is just dark enough to show their reflections together: Bruce, breathing hard, naked and flushed; Clark behind him, still fully clothed, a startling juxtaposition, and the sight of it is—
Christ.
“Fine then,” Bruce rasps. “Tell me your terms.” There’s an edge to Clark’s voice that tells him he’s not quite as unaffected as he’s pretending to be. So Bruce lets his eyelids droop lower and looks at Clark’s reflection through his eyelashes. “What do you want me to do for you, Clark? I can fuck you first, if you’d like, or ride you until you scream. Or do you want me on my knees so you can fuck my throat? Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”
Clark lowers his head to press a wet kiss to Bruce’s skin, on the base of his neck where it meets his shoulder. “Hm. Tempting. But not quite. I want you to look me in the eyes,” Clark says, “and apologize.”
Bruce blinks.
“What,” he says flatly, all hints of flirtation vanished.
“Just what I said. I want you to apologize – sincerely – for jerking me around.”
Something clicks in Bruce’s mind then.
“Oh. This isn’t about today, is it,” he says, biting. “This is about before we got together.” His mouth twists. “I thought I made that up to you already.” Extensively. Acrobatically, even.
Clark chuckles, almost wistful. “Oh, you definitely did. And I appreciate that, I really do. But even so, you never actually apologized.”
“What does that matter—”
Clark effectively shuts up his complaint with a sharp thrust of his hips, and Bruce’s argument peters out into a groan. He rocks into him a few more times, grinding in deep, until Bruce’s breath is coming in harsh pants again—
—and then he stops, and all at once Bruce feels bereft.
Bruce growls in frustration. This isn’t something he’s accounted for. “Clark,” he tries, gruff, “be reasonable.”
“That’s my line, don’t you think? I’m not the one who’s been edging myself all day. You need this a lot more than I do.” He brings Bruce’s wrists up to cross above his head and holds them there with one hand, the other raking down across his chest, tweaking at a nipple. “And besides, the longer you put it off, the longer I get to watch you like this.” He lets out a soft, pleased sigh. “I mean god, Bruce, look at yourself. You make a hell of a sight like this.”
Bruce looks. And fuck, Clark is right. Even in the indistinct reflection he’s a total mess, flushed down to his chest, his usual placidity contorted with lust. Clark rolls his hips forward and grips his cock, stroking roughly, and Bruce’s mouth falls open on a gasp. God, with his hands held up like this, on display, he looks—
Obscene. Easy. Desperate.
“Damn it,” Bruce gasps out, watching his cock leak another glob of precum. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I sure am,” Clark says, low and faintly amused. “Is it working?”
It is. Damn him, it is. Like this, he can watch the eager twitch of his muscles as Clark fucks into him again. Watch his head tip back as he groans, the jerk of his hips as he tries to meet that maddening friction, and it’s not enough but it’s good, so good after so long, almost exactly what he’s craving. But soon enough, Clark stops again, and Bruce can’t quite choke down a sob of frustration. “Clark, come on, just—”
“That,” Clark says, punctuating the word with another thrust, “is not an apology.” He tugs at Bruce’s earlobe with his teeth. “It’s not very nice to play around with people, Bruce. I know you’re desperate for me to fuck you, but that’s no excuse. Aren’t you embarrassed, being so greedy?”
That rips a noise from Bruce’s throat, small and shocked. “Fucking—Christ, Clark.”
“You should be embarrassed, I think,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want to apologize to me? For acting so shamelessly?”
God. Bruce is shaking. “Jesus, I’m sorry, okay?”
“You don’t sound very sincere. Come on, I know you can do better than that.”
Bruce sucks in a ragged breath—and feels himself let go.
“Fine,” he hisses. “I’m sorry for distracting you at work.”
Another thrust, and his eyelids flutter. “And?”
“And I’m—fuck. I’m sorry for…for before too. And for being—” He hisses out a breath, ears burning. “Shameless. And greedy.”
“Good,” Clark says, dark and pleased. “I forgive you. Now ask nicely for what you want.”
Bruce doesn’t hesitate. “Please, please fuck me, please let me come, please—”
Clark groans, and then Bruce is being slammed into the window again, hands curling into fists against the glass as Clark pounds into him, hands gripping his hips just tight enough to hurt a little in the best way.
“Fuck, you sound so good when you beg,” Clark tells him, and with the calm veneer finally stripped away he sounds wrecked. “Is this what you wanted?”
Bruce is so on edge now he can’t do much more than let out a strangled sob, can’t think, can barely breathe. His world narrows down to Clark. His strong body crowding him against the window, the rasp of his suit against Bruce’s back, the thick weight of his cock splitting him open, the hand sliding down from Bruce’s hip to strip his cock in time with those punishing thrusts. The sound of him groaning into Bruce’s ear—fuck, even the smell of him.
It couldn’t be anyone but Clark. No-one else could do this to him. No-one else could make him want it like this.
He’s been so close for so long that it doesn’t take long before Bruce is coming on a high, desperate groan, all over the glass in great, knee-wracking spurts. Clark fucks him through it, drawing it out until Bruce’s eyes are rolling back with every thrust. Just when Bruce is convinced he can’t take any more, Clark pulls out and presses him against the dirtied glass with one broad hand on the middle of his back. Seconds later, he’s groaning out a tortured, “Fuck, Bruce,” and splattering hot over Bruce’s lower back.
Bruce sags against the window, legs shaking. Carefully, Clark picks up his limp body, carries him to the couch and sets him down. He gently wipes his back off with a tissue, then settles down beside him with a satisfied sigh. “You okay, B?”
“Peachy,” Bruce manages, hoarse. God, he feels fantastic, floaty and tingly, all his usual aches and pains for once taking a backseat. “So, are we even now?”
Clark hums. “Sure, I guess we can wipe the slate clean after that.”
“Good,” Bruce says. He tips his head to press a sweet, chaste kiss to Clark’s lips, and pulls away with a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Clark.”
Clark smiles back, wry. “Thank you. But you know, most couples would probably lean towards flowers and chocolates rather than, you know…this.”
“We’re not most couples,” Bruce points out. “What, you didn’t like your present?”
Clark shifts. “I didn’t say that,” he says, and Bruce snorts. “It's very…hm. Very you.”
Bruce shrugs. “It’s what you signed up for. If you’re having regrets…”
“Definitely not,” Clark says, beaming. “I don’t think I could ever regret you.”
Bruce smiles. “Same to you,” he says. I love you, he doesn’t say, but Clark probably hears it anyway.
Maybe one day he’ll say it outright. Maybe one day, Clark will say it back.
Bruce leans against his shoulder. “You surprised me, though. I honestly didn’t know you had that in you.”
Clark’s cheeks are pink. “Yeah, well. Your plan to rile me up worked, I guess.”
“Very little of that was according to my plan,” Bruce says dryly. He picks up Clark’s hand and slides his thumb over smooth knuckles. “Your plan was better,” he admits.
Clark grins, teasing. “Oh, wow. Can I get that in writing?”
“No. You’ve already had your present,” he murmurs and presses close again. This time when he kisses Clark, it’s slow and lingering and goes on maybe a little longer than it should. By the time Clark pulls back, Bruce feels heated and breathless again.
Clark licks his lower lip, eyes hazy. “We should clean up.”
Bruce tracks the movement hungrily and leans in again. “Hn. I have staff for that.”
“Bruce, no,” Clark says with a laugh, gently pushing him back. “I will not let you traumatize your cleaner. Just give me a second.”
Bruce grunts weakly in protest, but Clark is already pushing himself to his feet. Notably faster than a human would manage the same feat, all traces of their activities are removed from the office. A neat pile of damp tissues appears in the trash can, and Bruce’s clothes are placed neatly beside him on the couch.
“Get dressed when you’re ready?” Clark says. “We should head out soon.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You have plans.”
“We have plans,” Clark corrects. He tips his head and grins. “They’re a little bit more traditional than your surprise, though.”
“Hm. Let me guess: a romantic dinner? A dozen red roses?”
“I mean, it’s a classic for a reason.” He tugs Bruce to his feet and gives him a quick, affectionate peck. “I’ve been planning it out for a while, I’ll have you know. I’m making your favorite. I even asked Alfred for a wine you’d like with it. How does that sound?”
Bruce smiles, warm and pleased. “Sounds like a plan.”