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It was the first time he'd seen Bruce Wayne in public since Lex Luthor's party months ago – another charity event in Metropolis that Clark had been sent to cover in place of a colleague who'd come down with the flu. Clark had done some reading on Bruce after everything that had happened, about his wilder youth when he'd been at a different high society party every night, but for the past few years Bruce Wayne had been more withdrawn, and Clark wondered if Bruce was here to snoop around for some information the Batman needed or simply to write a thick check and convince other people to do the same. Good cause or not, Clark found the whole thing somewhat distasteful – rich people in designer clothes and priceless jewels standing around in an extravagant villa, sipping champagne and making themselves feel good about their absurd wealth by giving the tiniest fraction of it away. As if the money spent on this party alone couldn't have gone to people who needed it more, but then Clark wasn't here to judge.
He watched Bruce more than anyone else that night, barely had the presence of mind to scratch together enough information for the article he'd have to write in the morning. Knowing who Bruce really was, what he did at night, made it fascinating to observe him now. The slightly absent-minded look in his eyes when Clark was sure that Bruce was aware of everything that went on in the room, the way he seemed to flirt just enough to keep his playboy reputation alive, in the lazy, languid way of a man who knew that he didn't have to do much to get women to come home with him, the way he always had a glass in his hand, the way his eyes grew half-lidded and his smile softer over the course of the evening even though Clark had absolutely no doubt that Bruce would never let himself get drunk in public. He looked distractingly good in a tailored, charcoal-grey suit that clung in all the right ways to his shoulders, but he even moved differently than Batman did. There was still obvious strength in his frame – a man of his height and build would never be inconspicuous – but also a kind of careless relaxation, none of the tightly controlled grace Clark had come to expect from him.
It was intriguing, and a little unsettling. Not even like watching someone wear a mask and play a part – even though he realised more and more that that was exactly what Bruce was doing – but more like seeing a strange doppelgänger, as if a completely different person had slipped into Bruce's body. It was uncanny, but it also made it far easier to indulge in thoughts he'd tried very hard to suppress. Clark had thought a lot, far more than he cared to admit, about kissing the grim, thin line of Batman's, of Bruce's lips, but it was far less daunting to imagine kissing that lazy smile; he'd jerked off while wearing leather gloves, imagining they were someone else's, but now his eyes kept straying again and again to Bruce's long fingers on the stem of a champagne flute. He focused on Bruce's voice through the murmurs of the crowd, inconsequential small talk that Clark had no interest in, but he was intrigued by the sound of it. He'd heard Bruce's normal voice, some nights after they'd fought together, just like he'd seen him without the cowl a few times, but it still felt almost intimate to hear it now.
That was it. Intimate. Seeing Batman without the cowl, without the gloves and the armour, without the voice modulator. So did everyone else in the room, of course, but everyone else didn't know what it was they were seeing. In a way, seeing Bruce's face, his hands, his throat was seeing him undressed. Clark felt flushed, and certainly not from the alcohol that had no effect on his system.
He was relieved to find the nearest bathroom empty – tried not to scoff at the expensive marble, though his heightened senses certainly appreciated the cleanliness. He splashed some water on his face, decided to give himself a minute or two to calm down, then go back out, talk to a few people to get some printable quotes, and go home. Even if Bruce was here for information, it was none of Clark's business. It wasn't that they trusted each other exactly, more that they didn't mistrust each other so much anymore that they felt the need to keep tabs on each other's every move. At least Clark didn't. Bruce probably knew what Clark had had for breakfast that morning.
Only half a minute had passed when the door was pushed open and in came, of all people, Bruce Wayne. The heavy-lidded, tipsy look was gone from his eyes, his entire demeanour had changed back to the Bruce Clark knew; a quick glance at the stalls confirmed that they were alone and Bruce's next steps were downright predatory, all coiled grace and raw strength. A broad hand grabbed Clark by the elbow and dragged him along to the closest bathroom stall, shoved him into it before stepping in behind him. Clark could have stopped him, of course, could have just refused to come along, but he was too caught off guard. Or maybe just too curious.
“What the hell?” he asked anyway, looked back over his shoulder – or tried before strong fingers grabbed his hair roughly.
“You aren't sticking your nose into anything you shouldn't, are you, Mr Kent?” Bruce's voice was a low growl, something like what Clark imagined Batman would sound like if he didn't have the voice modulator, but still recognisably Bruce. The sarcasm was thick on Clark's name, and Clark didn't mind playing along, didn't mind pretending that they didn't know each other beyond that one time they'd met at a party months ago.
“Are you saying there is something interesting going on that I should be sticking my nose into, Mr Wayne?” Clark asked, and realised only when Bruce snorted briefly that his words might have come out wrong.
Clark braced himself with both hands on the sides of the stall, his back turned to Bruce, and he could feel the warm press of Bruce's body against his own, so maddeningly close, with no kevlar and leather in the way, just the soft, decadently expensive fabric of Bruce's suit and the rougher scratch of Clark's own clothes. Hot breath washed over the back of his neck, and Bruce's hand was still in his hair, his grip so strong that Clark imagined any human would be wincing in pain. Slender and manicured and yet so clearly not the hands of an idle billionaire.
Another hard pull – not enough to make Superman move against his will, but Clark wasn't Superman here, he was just Clark Kent, just a reporter cornered in a bathroom stall by one of the richest, most powerful men in America, and he let his head be pulled back, bared his throat and felt a strange thrill go through him, as if this actually made him vulnerable. And in a way the uncertainty of what exactly Bruce was up to made him feel that way. He'd seen Bruce angry and that wasn't what this was. But Bruce had to be playing same kind of game. Maybe he was simply trying to make Clark uncomfortable, make him flush and pull away in outrage and shove his way past Bruce.
Clark couldn't help the heat in his cheeks, but he sure as hell wasn't going to give Bruce the satisfaction of making him react like a shy country boy who'd never been hit on by a man before.
Bruce was leaning in until his nose brushed Clark's neck just above his collar, breathed in deeply before he kissed his skin. A shudder went through Clark's body, for all that he tried to hold still. He was acutely aware that, even when he wasn't slouching, Bruce was taller than him, just enough to be noticeable.
“You think I didn't notice that you were watching me, son?” Bruce growled, and this time the sound of his voice caused more than only a shudder, more than just goosebumps on the back of Clark's neck. His breath caught and he felt himself harden. Behind him Bruce's heartbeat was slow and steady as a machine, as if this was nothing to Bruce, as if Bruce did something like this every day. Maybe he did.
“I was hardly the only one,” Clark said, his voice coming out much steadier than he could have hoped for. Bruce's lips were still on the side of his neck, softer than he'd expected, the contrast maddening while Bruce's stubble rasped over his skin. The thought occurred to him that someone that rich really should be able to afford a razor, and yet he didn't think he'd ever seen Bruce clean-shaven. And then Bruce's lips slid up further, kissed Clark just below the jaw, and suddenly Clark was very grateful for that.
“Why, you want me to go out there and find myself someone else to corner in a bathroom?” Sardonic amusement that sounded a lot more like the Bruce he knew, smug and sly and so goddamn sure of himself that Clark was half-tempted to tell him to get the hell away from him, to laugh at him for assuming he could just walk in here and grab Clark in a semi-public bathroom like he was some high society floozie. But the grip Bruce maintained on his hair was inexorable, the angle at which he pulled Clark's head back to keep his throat bared was uncomfortable in a way that was more thrilling than any kiss had ever been. Bruce's right hand was hovering above his hip, not quite touching, and Clark quickly covered it with his own, pressed it closer, onto fabric that seemed all the rougher while his fingers were brushing against the exquisite cloth of Bruce's suit. His grip wasn't as hard as it could have been – that would have shattered every bone in Bruce's wrist – but harder than any human's, hard enough that it must have hurt. Bruce didn't flinch.
“Don't you dare,” Clark said, turning his head enough to get a brief glimpse at Bruce's face. The predatory look in his eyes, the one-sided quirk of his lips. It was almost dizzying to see, this strange creature somewhere between the ever serious, dangerous Bruce he knew and the Bruce who went to parties and ambushed people in bathrooms for … for what exactly, games? Teasing? Actual sex?
He loosened his grip in exactly the moment Bruce tried to yank his hand free, groaned softly when said hand went to his crotch without any detours. He wasn't surprised at the deftness of Bruce's fingers when he unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks – he'd seen Bruce do precision work while wearing thick leather gloves, he almost shuddered at the idea of what those hands were capable of unhindered. He felt more than heard the low hum Bruce gave when he cupped Clark's hard cock through his boxers – it sounded pleased, he decided when he heard Bruce's heart rate pick up just a little bit. Clark didn't bother to hide his smile. His experience with men was limited, to say the least, but he still knew that he was anything but small or even average. It seemed to have intimidated some of the women he'd slept with. Bruce seemed intrigued.
Bruce nuzzled his neck and Clark wondered briefly if Bruce could smell his arousal – he'd never been quite sure just how developed normal human senses were, and even if he had, he'd come to expect far more than normal from Bruce Wayne. He'd also never had anyone grip his cock as tightly as Bruce did when he finally got his hand on it, his fingers mercilessly strong, and no manicure in the world and no expensive lotion could hide the small callouses on his palm from Clark's senses.
Clark's eyes closed, as if he could shut out his mind providing him with all the reasons why this was a terrible idea – anyone could walk in and hear them, and even if nobody heard them, this was Batman, Bruce, the most aggressively paranoid man Clark had ever met, the most dangerous man Clark had ever met, not to mention someone so inscrutable that after months of knowing him Clark still could barely read him. But all that did was heighten the sensations of Bruce's hand in his hair, Bruce's fingers around his cock, not stroking yet, just dry, almost angry squeezes.
Bruce even smelt differently. A strong cologne, something woody like a deep, dark forest – Clark had smelt remnants of it before, he realised now, lingering deep under the kevlar and leather, but somehow he'd assumed, foolishly, that that was just how Bruce smelt. Underneath it was just the faintest hint of sweat and pre-cum trapped in Bruce's underwear, and Clark let himself push backwards until he felt the solid hardness of Bruce's body behind him, of his cock pressing lightly against Clark's ass. And then Bruce bit his neck, not trying to break his skin, just pinching it enough to rip Clark out of his reverie. His eyes snapped open, his hips jerked into Bruce's hand – or tried, because Bruce's hand was suddenly gone.
Clark was only halfway through an annoyed growl when Bruce offered him his palm, and he still sounded so infuriatingly calm when he ordered, “Get it wet for me.”
And as if to demonstrate, Bruce licked along his jawline, and Clark couldn't not imagine that tongue on his dick. He didn't know if Bruce made a habit of sleeping with men, but he did know that he'd never, ever seen Bruce Wayne do anything badly. Part of him, the part Clark had grown very good at ignoring over the years, wanted to grab Bruce, force him to his knees and fuck his smug mouth, but instead Clark contented himself with a bit of competitiveness – the first lick over Bruce's palm was broad and wet, efficient, but then he let his tongue twirl around Bruce's index finger. He didn't need a playboy's experience to know how to tease a little.
For the first time since this had started, Bruce's control seemed to falter – a sharp intake of breath against Clark's neck, the slightest twitch of his hips before he stopped himself. But his hand was back on Clark's cock before Clark could wrap his lips around Bruce's fingers, his grip slick now, but no less firm.
“I might take you up on that later.” Bruce had a voice like sandpaper, deep enough to send shudders through Clark's body when he rasped against his ear. Clark felt like he should reply something, but words were hard when Bruce started stroking his dick, so much raw strength in his grip. Maybe this was how Bruce liked it, rough to the point of brutality; maybe Bruce got off on pain, and just how much of Clark's strength would Bruce be able to take, that trained, hardened, and yet so very human wonder of Bruce's body … Clark reached behind himself, grabbed Bruce's hip to pull him closer, too hard, he knew, and didn't care because all Bruce did was grind against his ass with a muffled moan.
Clark heard the steps a few seconds before Bruce did, and yet his brain didn't process their meaning until the door to the bathroom was pushed open. Nobody could see them in the closed stall, and yet Clark still felt a flare of panic. Bruce, meanwhile, reacted immediately – probably, Clark decided, because he wasn't the one getting the handjob of the year right now. He let go of Clark's hair and clamped his hand down on Clark's mouth instead, his finger under Clark's nose effectively cutting off his air supply, and even though Clark didn't need to breathe, his chest tightened and his cock only ached more for Bruce's touch.
Bruce's touch … Bruce's hand had only stilled for a second when the door had opened and leather soles crossed the tiles towards one of the empty stalls, but then it resumed its firm strokes.
“Stay quiet, son.” A faint whisper, so low that human ears wouldn't have been able to pick it up. It made Clark feel like Bruce breathed the words right into his mind. “You don't want to read about this in tomorrow's gossip magazines, do you? Modern Cinderella: Kansas farm boy snags Gotham billionaire.”
The idea was mortifying, thinking about facing Perry and Lois and everyone else at the Planet if they thought he'd used his job to get his hands on someone rich and famous, thinking about the neighbours back at home asking his mother what the hell her son was up to in the big city. It should have been enough to turn Clark off for good, but Bruce's lips were moving against his neck, tongue sneaking out between words to lick the salt off his skin, and his hand never relented on Clark's cock. Clark couldn't think, felt himself whimper and was relieved when the sound was muffled by Bruce's palm.
Bruce was quiet as a grave behind him, even as he kept his hard dick pressed against Clark's ass. His hand slowed down a little, but this wasn't mercy. Bruce merely replaced firm, rough strokes with gentler teasing, running his thumb along the length of Clark's cock, once, twice, the third time with his fingernail pressed into soft skin, and Clark bucked back against him, would have whimpered against the solid warmth of Bruce's palm if he'd still had enough air in his lungs.
“Quiet,” Bruce admonished again, his thumb teasing the slit of Clark's cock now, all of Clark's senses narrowed down to the calloused ridge on Bruce's thumb right where it pressed down, to the constant rasp of Bruce's stubble on the thin skin of his neck. Clark's hand was still on Bruce's hip, bruising him, hurting him, he knew that and he couldn't stop himself, and how the hell was it possible that a mere handjob made him lose control more than fucking someone usually did?
The other man, two stalls away from them, couldn't have possibly taken more than a few minutes, going about his business and washing his hands only perfunctorily, but then he seemed to take just as long standing in front of the mirror, preening or checking his phone or God knew what the hell he was doing before he finally, finally left, and Clark felt like an eternity had passed, an eternity of breathless, forced silence and nerve endings on fire wherever Bruce touched him.
He drew in a shuddering breath as soon as he was able to, and it turned into a moan halfway through as Bruce's hand was back on his hair, fingertips digging into Clark's scalp. His other hand was still teasing, and this time there was a thinly veiled threat in the way Clark gripped Bruce's wrist. Not that he'd truly hurt him, no, he just let him feel that he could.
“Now,” he said, and whether Bruce felt indulgent or whether there was actually something in Clark's voice that made him obey, Bruce's strokes became harder again. Not as hard as Clark could touch himself, of course, but still a hundred times better because it was nothing like what he did himself, nothing like how anyone else had touched him. There was a ruthless efficiency in Bruce's touch, mixed with a violent possessiveness, as if letting Bruce do this to him somehow made Clark his. The presumption was infuriating, the smirk he felt against his neck was mocking, and Clark came with a gasp so loud he was sure the entire building must have heard it. He came over Bruce's long fingers, some of it spilling from his grip to stain the immaculate cuff of Bruce's shirt, some of it dripping down onto Clark's shoes.
He heard his own heartbeat, faster than Bruce's behind him, the smell of his come mingling with Bruce's smell, Bruce's lips pressing another kiss against Clark's neck before they were gone. Clark's head was swimming, his excitement barely abated, not when Bruce's fingers maintained their grip on his hair, made Clark turn his head a little so Bruce could get a look at his face. Clark moaned softly when Bruce let go of his cock, and gasped when Bruce raised his hand to Clark's lips instead, his fingers hot and gleaming wet as he ran his index over Clark's bottom lip. There was a challenge in Bruce's eyes, like he still expected Clark to balk, to laugh this off and run. Something about Bruce's expression made it impossible to ignore that challenge.
So Clark sucked two of Bruce's fingers into his mouth, gave them the filthiest lick he could, maintained eye contact as he lapped his come off Bruce's fingers. He grabbed Bruce's wrist to keep his hand where it was, let Bruce's fingers slip out of his mouth to lick firmly along each of them, tongue twirling around each fingertip. Bruce pressed closer against him, the look in his eyes was heated, but that wasn't enough. Clark didn't want to crack that nonchalant playboy façade, he wanted to shatter it. He wanted to force moans from Bruce's rough throat, wanted to make those strong legs buckle until Bruce had to hold on to him for support.
Clark licked a last time over Bruce's index finger, then smiled against his skin – took a moment to savour the expression in Bruce's eyes, the dawning realisation that he wasn't the only one playing games, before Clark spun around, grabbed Bruce by the shoulders and slammed him back against the door of the stall in the mere fraction of a second. It was a controlled movement – otherwise he would have broken either the door or Bruce's spine – but he made sure that it didn't feel like one.
The thump of Bruce's back hitting the door was followed by a quieter noise as the wood of the door cracked ever so slightly, a hairline fracture, a vain reminder of what Clark could do. Bruce had gone tense as if he expected a fight, but the look in his eyes was one of pure hunger. Maybe because he too knew that if Clark wanted a fight, he would have done far more than that.
For a second neither of them moved; Bruce's breathing was tightly controlled and Clark almost kissed him, imagined Bruce's lips parting underneath his in a breathless gasp, but then Bruce said, “Careful there.”
“Careful?” Clark laughed softly, cupped Bruce's chin with one hand and his crotch with the other, and that got him a sharp, audible intake of breath. “There's nothing careful about any of this.”
He dropped to his knees so fast he had to be a blur before Bruce's eyes, opened his slacks just as quickly. His fingers brushed over exquisite silk and Clark only barely managed to bite back the question whether Bruce also wore silk underwear underneath the Batsuit. Instead he leant in to mouth at Bruce's cock through the silk, nostrils flaring as he breathed in his smell, and this, yes, without the cologne distracting him, this was exactly how Bruce should smell. Needy and aroused, and not for any of the pretty girls who'd been swarming around him all night, but for Clark.
Bruce leant back against the door, some of the tension seeping out of his body, and he moved more slowly this time when his hand found Clark's hair. Stroked it almost gently, before he curled his fingers into it with a deliberate cruelty that made Clark gasp against Bruce's cock. Bruce's hands were going to be the death of him, he thought and tried not to laugh.
“Don't tease,” Bruce said, pulling on Clark's hair, his voice low and gruff. Clark smiled against the black silk, the growing spot where the fabric was damp from both Clark's tongue and Bruce's cock.
“What else did you expect?”
“I actually didn't expect you to return the favour.” There was a well hidden sense of wonder in his expression and Clark tried not to be offended that Bruce had thought him that selfish. Or that repressed. He nuzzled his cock again, was just about to point out that he was, technically, about to do much more than merely return the favour, when his hands pulled down Bruce's trousers and his underwear to discover bright red marks on his pale hips, the early signs of bruises forming in the shape of Clark's fingers, and suddenly Clark remembered just how hard he had grabbed Bruce's hips in the heat of the moment, imagined the damage he could have done if he'd gripped him tighter still.
A wave of nausea and guilt rolled over him, he looked up and blurted out an apology that was met with a look of confused incomprehension. Then Bruce glanced down at himself, at Clark's hands hovering over fresh bruises, and actually laughed.
“I've had worse,” he said and pressed Clark's hands to his skin. “I've even had worse from you.”
“Hardly comparable.” Clark swallowed and lowered his gaze. Bruce's cock was still hard right in front of his eyes, and a part of Clark couldn't help but stare in fascination at the bruises blooming on Bruce's skin, bruises that didn't seem to bother him at all; if anything Clark's grip had only made Bruce grind against him. Clark tightened his grip carefully – a normal, human grip. But even that didn't seem to be enough, Bruce's hands kept pressing his down until Clark gave in, increased the pressure until he saw a shudder go through Bruce's body, his cock twitching.
His assumption that Bruce might like pain hadn't been so far off then. He fought down the voice that had always told him to be careful in bed, no matter who he'd been with, and allowed himself to pin Bruce to the door. He was rewarded with Bruce's hand back in his hair, pulling his head closer. Clark mouthed at his cock as teasingly as he had at his underwear, still half waiting for Bruce to tell him to be gentler, but all he got was fingers digging into the back of his head and a growled, “Go on, son.”
Clark's own cock jumped a little at that, still hard because one time was rarely enough to make his erection subside. He let himself be pulled close, licked over Bruce's cock just like he'd licked his hand earlier, resisted only for a moment when Bruce pushed his cock against his lips, then let it slide into his mouth. He loved the heat in his mouth, loved the barely noticeable tremors that shook Bruce when Clark began to suck on his cock.
A blue vein stood out beautifully over Bruce's hip bone, stark against his pale skin, and Clark pressed his thumb against it, increasing the pressure while he took Bruce's cock deeper into his mouth; deeper and deeper until his face was pressed flush against him, his throat constricting around Bruce's cock, and even Clark's senses could barely perceive anything other than Bruce's smell anymore, Bruce's raging heartbeat, the shallow breaths Bruce still tried to keep quiet so desperately, as if his entire body wasn't already betraying him.
Bruce tried to move, tried to fuck into Clark's throat, he realised, but Clark didn't let him. Now that he'd been all but told to, he took a perverse pleasure in bruising Bruce's hips, letting his hands slide a bit further to grab his ass and leave his marks there, too, aching red welts caused by inexorable pressure. Both of Bruce's hands were in his hair, pulling and pushing as if to make up for the fact that Clark kept his body all but immobilised, fingernails digging into Clark's scalp and Clark wondered if Bruce could scratch his fingers bloody on his skin. The thought should have horrified him, but instead it made his cock ache to be touched, made him swirl his tongue around Bruce's cock to get a moan, if only a choked one, from Bruce's stubbornly closed mouth.
He glanced up, unsurprised to find Bruce's eyes looking down at him – of course he wouldn't close them, of course he wouldn't simply relax. His expression was wild, full of rage almost, but then Clark realised that rage was simply the only strong emotion he'd ever seen on Bruce's features and that this, this was something quite different. He would have grinned at Bruce if his mouth hadn't been so full, but as it was Bruce didn't get a warning before Clark's hands on his ass lifted him up a little, just an inch from the floor – he was showing off, really, indulging in a downright childish pleasure he always denied himself. He certainly hadn't expected the deep growl that left Bruce's lips when he came in his mouth, shuddering as if he himself was surprised by the suddenness of it.
Clark swallowed most of it, kept only enough in his mouth to make a mess when he pulled back and let Bruce's cock slip from his lips, after setting him back down carefully. He wasn't sure if Bruce's knees were giving out, but he certainly was leaning heavily against the door, his blood raging through his veins like the ocean in a storm, the sound mixing with laboured, gasping breaths. Clark kept the tip of Bruce's cock between his lips for a moment longer before he let it slide over his cheek, dragging a trail of come over Clark's skin. He had no doubts that he was blushing like a virgin, but the look in Bruce's eyes was worth it – and then he finally got a moan from Bruce when Clark licked his lips, tongue chasing a splash of come on the corner of his mouth.
He was as hard as he'd been when Bruce had first touched him and quickly got a hand on himself before Bruce could gather his senses. The sensation itself was nothing compared to Bruce's hand, no matter how hard he stroked his cock, but his senses were still overwhelmed with Bruce, the smell and the taste of his come, the feeling of Bruce's hands – those strong, nimble, cruel hands – stroking his hair as if tenderness was the most mundane thing in the world for them.
“Are you …?” Disbelief, and Clark almost felt a hint of embarrassment before he saw the sheer amazement in Bruce's eyes. So he only nodded, pressed his face back against Bruce's groin, nuzzling his balls, his cock, feeling it soften a little under his lips. A smear of come had landed on Bruce's upper thigh, just where that vein found its way south, and Clark licked it away hungrily, kissed his way up to the red marks on Bruce's skin. Squeezed and stroked himself harder, his other hand retracing the bruises Bruce had not merely allowed Clark to make, but downright demanded from him, and the thought made Clark moan against Bruce's skin. He found himself grateful that nobody else had come in, he doubted he'd be able to stay quiet without Bruce's hand forcing him, with Bruce's hands still stroking his hair instead.
“That's it, don't stop now.” Bruce's voice sounded so different that Clark startled for a moment – there was a soothing, gentler tone to it now, paternal almost, far more so than the condescending, mocking “son” that had still made Clark harder than he liked to think about. It shouldn't have made his hips jerk forward, rutting against his own hand. He buried his face against Bruce's stomach, the fine threads and cool buttons of his waistcoat, and all it took was Bruce's palm settling gently on the back of his neck, holding him close, and Clark came over his hand, his hips twitching helplessly.
It was almost humiliating, how much he wanted Bruce, how easily he reacted to him. But when he pulled back and opened his eyes, he saw spurts of his come marring the smooth leather of Bruce's shoes, and he couldn't bring himself to feel bad about this anymore. He stayed on his knees for a few moments longer, catching his breath as if he needed to, but really just soaking up Bruce's touch like it was sunlight.
He bit back a sigh when Bruce finally denied him that, but to his surprise it wasn't smugness he saw when he looked up. Bruce looked thoughtful, still almost amazed, never took his eyes off Clark when Clark got up from the floor. For a few seconds they simply looked at each other, and then there was an odd moment in which Bruce's face changed – every real emotion slid off it like snow off a smooth slope, like a screen of glass went up before his eyes; just a few muscles twitching here and there and suddenly Clark was looking at the same playboy he'd been watching all night, at that lazy smile and unthinking confidence.
“You really are full of surprises,” Bruce said. He reached past Clark for some toilet paper, cleaned himself up quickly before he tucked himself in, even remembered, to Clark's disappointment, to wipe his shoes clean. They still weren't quite as shiny as before. After staring for a moment, Clark remembered to follow suit. The stall felt suddenly far too tiny for two men their size, confining and awkward.
“You don't like surprises,” he replied, buckling his belt while he watched Bruce adjust his cuff links. There was still a stain on the cuff of his suit – a small victory Bruce couldn't get rid off as easily.
“That only means I'll be prepared next time,” Bruce said. Nonchalantly, as if this was a regular occurrence for them, a casual habit, as if they'd already agreed on a “next time”. Clark half felt like objecting on principle and half hoped that “next time” would be later tonight in Bruce's hotel room. Bruce spread out on luxurious sheets while Clark mapped his body with his lips, with his fingers, then again with his lips to kiss every bruise his hands had left. Bruce on top of him, straddling his lap and wrapping both his hands around Clark's cock.
He tried to force the images out of his mind before he could get hard again, but just then Bruce leant in, his right hand going for Clark's tie, his face coming closer until Clark was sure Bruce would kiss him. Bruce paused, hypnotically close, glancing from Clark's eyes to his mouth, licking his lips – and then he pulled back in the blink of an eye, adjusted his tie with affected boredom before he unlatched the door and stepped out of the stall. Clark didn't move while Bruce walked to the basin, washed his hands thoroughly, splashed water on his face, even took the time to smooth back his hair.
Clark could go after him, grab him and pull him back here, drag him away to somewhere more private and do every single thing he had barely let himself fantasise about. He could. Bruce might even let him.
But then Bruce met his eyes in the large mirror – Clark saw the challenge in them, almost like an invitation. And he realised that he didn't want things to be quite that easy.
“I'll see you around, Mr Wayne,” he said and leant, casually, against the door of the stall. Bruce gave him a nod in the mirror and a smile that seemed both pleased and surprised, and then he was gone.
Clark spent a minute almost as if in shock before he startled himself into action. He flushed when he saw the puddle of come on the floor and hastily bent down to wipe it up before anyone could come in and see. The bathroom smelt so unmistakably of sex that Clark didn't have any doubts that even a normal human walking in right now would be able to figure out exactly what had just happened here.
Glancing into the mirror, Clark thought he looked not just dishevelled, but downright ravished. He tugged at his tie, his hair, his clothes in a desperate attempt to make himself look more respectable, but it was no good; five minutes later he still felt as if anyone who'd look at him would immediately know what he'd been up to. Eventually he had to force himself to leave the bathroom and return to the party.
By then Bruce Wayne was nowhere to be found. Clark heard two young women at the other end of the room chatting disappointedly about how he'd simply left a few minutes ago, and alone on top of that! It wasn't like Clark, but he for a brief moment he felt a certain petty smugness. He even let himself fantasise about following Bruce, but if Bruce had left so early, he clearly had more important plans for the night.
Next time, he thought. Next time, Bruce had said, and maybe Bruce wouldn't be the only one who'd be more prepared then.