Clark had left, but to Bruce’s surprise, he hadn’t actually taken the tension away with him. An hour later, and Bruce’s emotions were tuned up to an impossibly high key. Every toss or turn in the bed brought the screaming friction of the cotton against his skin. His body screamed its need for release.
Bruce lay naked on his bed, turned on his side to face out across the lake.
He watched as the pre-dawn glow spread its rosy fingers across the sky. Another unwanted emotion overcame him – a despondency mixed with the sour kind of humiliation that had nothing to do with pleasure.
What was he doing?
He had worn the armor of the Bat in front of his his best friend and he had been aroused in front of him, and because of him. He had the most intense orgasm of his life because Clark had disapproved of the reputation he had painstakingly created for himself--even if that story hadn’t been true, so many similiar to that one was. Had been. Especially before he’d accumulated distinctive scars from Gotham’s most infamous criminals.
He had crossed so many lines tonight. Was he going to cross one more?
Bruce had no control over himself tonight. The pleasurable burn of submission teased in his body, one that promised satisfaction beyond pleasure if allowed himself to give in to desire, rather than be broken by it. Give in to the shame of having desires at all.
Exposed in an entirely different way now, Bruce gently lowered himself onto his back, let his legs fall open on the sheets. He slid his hand down to stroke his hip, fingers dancing away from where he wanted them to be.
It was one thing to be the Bat and Bruce Wayne where anyone could discover; it was another order of magnitude to be exposed to Clark as the unfamiliar, lustful creature wearing Bruce’s face and the Bat’s black garb. Bruce felt the twinge of disgust and delight, wrapped so tightly around each other that he couldn’t tell one from the other, and the small thrill as he brushed the back of his hand across his straining erection.
He allowed himself to pretend.
Did you touch yourself to those pictures, Clark? Did you see my moment of absolute shame in the living room, and get hard, Clark? Did you feel how humiliating it is for me to give in to my desire? Do you know how hard I am for you now?
Pleasure mounted in his body, and he bucked into his touch as his other hand slid down to cup himself. He kept the motion of his hand punishingly slow.
He wasn’t touching himself in the brutally efficient way he treated himself most nights, when he couldn’t deny the need of his body but couldn’t justify enjoyment, either. No. This was just for him, tonight. He delighted in the feeling of rough skin of his hands against his sensitive organ. The drag of his nails over his abdomen.
It felt good, but he needed more.
Bruce moaned as he picked up the pace. Burned, because he wanted more than this, that he wanted--Bruce fought against himself. He set a punishing motion: down, up, flick of the wrist, down, up...
In the long run, wanting would only lead to difficulties when he knew he’d have to put his emotions away again, sublimate himself in the Bat. And yet--hadn’t that weird in-between creature he’d been ached with the intensity of the Bat? Would it be possible that the Bat could want--could want--
Bruce could feel the way his body tensed for another dry orgasm that he would not find release unless he surrendered this last fight.
Bruce surrendered, giving voice to the shame that smoldered in his core. He started low, barely a whisper, to nothing but his sheets. “If I was the kind of man who--could be that Bruce Wayne from the tabloids--”
He stopped, and threw his head back against the pillow, fighting with himself even in this. Even when the words are for him alone. “I would have been in the grope box at Seven Diamonds.”
Bruce brought a hand up to his mouth and licked a stripe up his palm. He returned it to his cock, and groaned.
“I would have taken off all of my clothes, slipped the blindfold on, and waited on that dais for anyone to touch me.
“And I wouldn’t even have known who they were. I wouldn’t have known whose hands were on my body, they could have been anyone’s, Clark. They could have been yours.”
He choked the confession out of himself. "I want them to be yours."
His cheeks burned in remembrance of of Clark’s face as he recriminated the tabloid’s story--and Bruce by proxy. When he pictured the color high on Clark’s cheeks, as… something… dripped in his voice, and maybe--Clark hadn’t been so clueless at the end? His words had felt like a benediction, his breath against the skin of his neck, tender and controlled.
Good night, Bruce.
It was too much, and not enough; Bruce jackknifed off the bed and came in long spurts that bent his spine.
When he came back to himself, Bruce was aware that he was wetting his lips with his tongue over and over again as he stared out into the lightening sky.
Bruce laid back against the bed, skin now agonizingly over-sensitive to the merest touch, and his body completely spent. A hazy lassitude carried him away into sleep, with the dim realization that tomorrow was going to be a nasty come-down, and one hell of an apology.
As he drifted off, a single image affixed itself in his mind: Clark, half-turned in the sky, wearing a suit & tie, his glasses off, lips parted to say something. An image that Bruce dimly believes to have bubbled out of the depths of Bruce’s id. The god dressed as a man, descending. The only luxury that the Bat of Gotham couldn’t afford, but that he burned to have, anyway.
Bruce's eyes aren't open, so he can't see that it's less a forbidden tableau, and more of a promise of what's to come as Clark straightens his tie, raises his hand, and rests it against the sliding glass wall of Bruce's bedroom without waking him.
FILL: Vogue Le Magazine (3/3) Bruce/Clark, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation
Clark had left, but to Bruce’s surprise, he hadn’t actually taken the tension away with him. An hour later, and Bruce’s emotions were tuned up to an impossibly high key. Every toss or turn in the bed brought the screaming friction of the cotton against his skin. His body screamed its need for release.
Bruce lay naked on his bed, turned on his side to face out across the lake.
He watched as the pre-dawn glow spread its rosy fingers across the sky. Another unwanted emotion overcame him – a despondency mixed with the sour kind of humiliation that had nothing to do with pleasure.
What was he doing?
He had worn the armor of the Bat in front of his his best friend and he had been aroused in front of him, and because of him. He had the most intense orgasm of his life because Clark had disapproved of the reputation he had painstakingly created for himself--even if that story hadn’t been true, so many similiar to that one was. Had been. Especially before he’d accumulated distinctive scars from Gotham’s most infamous criminals.
He had crossed so many lines tonight. Was he going to cross one more?
Bruce had no control over himself tonight. The pleasurable burn of submission teased in his body, one that promised satisfaction beyond pleasure if allowed himself to give in to desire, rather than be broken by it. Give in to the shame of having desires at all.
Exposed in an entirely different way now, Bruce gently lowered himself onto his back, let his legs fall open on the sheets. He slid his hand down to stroke his hip, fingers dancing away from where he wanted them to be.
It was one thing to be the Bat and Bruce Wayne where anyone could discover; it was another order of magnitude to be exposed to Clark as the unfamiliar, lustful creature wearing Bruce’s face and the Bat’s black garb. Bruce felt the twinge of disgust and delight, wrapped so tightly around each other that he couldn’t tell one from the other, and the small thrill as he brushed the back of his hand across his straining erection.
He allowed himself to pretend.
Did you touch yourself to those pictures, Clark? Did you see my moment of absolute shame in the living room, and get hard, Clark? Did you feel how humiliating it is for me to give in to my desire? Do you know how hard I am for you now?
Pleasure mounted in his body, and he bucked into his touch as his other hand slid down to cup himself. He kept the motion of his hand punishingly slow.
He wasn’t touching himself in the brutally efficient way he treated himself most nights, when he couldn’t deny the need of his body but couldn’t justify enjoyment, either. No. This was just for him, tonight. He delighted in the feeling of rough skin of his hands against his sensitive organ. The drag of his nails over his abdomen.
It felt good, but he needed more.
Bruce moaned as he picked up the pace. Burned, because he wanted more than this, that he wanted--Bruce fought against himself. He set a punishing motion: down, up, flick of the wrist, down, up...
In the long run, wanting would only lead to difficulties when he knew he’d have to put his emotions away again, sublimate himself in the Bat. And yet--hadn’t that weird in-between creature he’d been ached with the intensity of the Bat? Would it be possible that the Bat could want--could want--
Bruce could feel the way his body tensed for another dry orgasm that he would not find release unless he surrendered this last fight.
Bruce surrendered, giving voice to the shame that smoldered in his core. He started low, barely a whisper, to nothing but his sheets. “If I was the kind of man who--could be that Bruce Wayne from the tabloids--”
He stopped, and threw his head back against the pillow, fighting with himself even in this. Even when the words are for him alone. “I would have been in the grope box at Seven Diamonds.”
Bruce brought a hand up to his mouth and licked a stripe up his palm. He returned it to his cock, and groaned.
“I would have taken off all of my clothes, slipped the blindfold on, and waited on that dais for anyone to touch me.
“And I wouldn’t even have known who they were. I wouldn’t have known whose hands were on my body, they could have been anyone’s, Clark. They could have been yours.”
He choked the confession out of himself. "I want them to be yours."
His cheeks burned in remembrance of of Clark’s face as he recriminated the tabloid’s story--and Bruce by proxy. When he pictured the color high on Clark’s cheeks, as… something… dripped in his voice, and maybe--Clark hadn’t been so clueless at the end? His words had felt like a benediction, his breath against the skin of his neck, tender and controlled.
Good night, Bruce.
It was too much, and not enough; Bruce jackknifed off the bed and came in long spurts that bent his spine.
When he came back to himself, Bruce was aware that he was wetting his lips with his tongue over and over again as he stared out into the lightening sky.
Bruce laid back against the bed, skin now agonizingly over-sensitive to the merest touch, and his body completely spent. A hazy lassitude carried him away into sleep, with the dim realization that tomorrow was going to be a nasty come-down, and one hell of an apology.
As he drifted off, a single image affixed itself in his mind: Clark, half-turned in the sky, wearing a suit & tie, his glasses off, lips parted to say something. An image that Bruce dimly believes to have bubbled out of the depths of Bruce’s id. The god dressed as a man, descending. The only luxury that the Bat of Gotham couldn’t afford, but that he burned to have, anyway.
Bruce's eyes aren't open, so he can't see that it's less a forbidden tableau, and more of a promise of what's to come as Clark straightens his tie, raises his hand, and rests it against the sliding glass wall of Bruce's bedroom without waking him.