Clark can ignore this. He doesn't have to listen to them kissing, or the sound of skin brushing the bedsheets. He sighs up at the ceiling, kicks his own sheets down to his knees, caught between the chill of the AC and the swelter of the day's heat stored in the room.
He's had a lot of practice with this since his powers manifested as a kid, especially after that one scarring incident with his parents. He perfected it during his travels, in hostels with paper-thin walls and in shared rooms, situations where even a lack of enhanced hearing would require a pillow over his head. It just takes a bit of mindfulness, a meditative drawing inward. Something to bring his focus back into his own body.
In the room next door Piper gasps, bubbling into a laugh. Bruce's returning laugh is muffled. Then she gasps again, serious this time, and Clark hears with pin-drop clarity the scrape of Bruce's stubble on the inside of her thigh.
And, okay, whoa. He is suddenly focused on his own body, alright. A little too focused. Kind of overwhelmingly focused, if he's being honest with himself. This flavor of awkward response was something he thought he'd got a handle on a long time ago, too.
Clark groans and rolls onto his front, which only underscores that he's at half-mast and rising. God, why did he think coming here with Bruce was a good idea.
Sometimes when he's like this sensory satiation is the way to go, overloading his brain until everything turns to white noise. He's not keen on the idea at this particular point in time, so Clark screws his eyes shut and lets his mind drift instead. They're mostly quiet for a long while, just small, intimate noises he can filter out--which means he's almost asleep when her breathing deepens and breaks into an ascending string of moans. Bruce's heart is a metronome.
Bruce. He's good at what he does. Whatever he turns his hand, or mouth, to.
Clark takes a deep, deep breath. He's gotten fully hard while he was dozing, a steady beat between his legs.
Piper quickly reaches a crescendo and then dissolves back into gasping. Clark cracks open his eyes, stripping the wall away in time to see Bruce's slacks slide down over the long cut of his thigh muscles, belt clunking to the floor. It wasn't exactly deliberate. He's tired, sleep-fuzzed and he could go so far to say it was an accident, but he usually has more control than this.
Bruce is helping Piper onto her hands and knees on the bed, hiking her skirt up around her waist. This is already more than a few steps over the line so Clark turns to stare at the ceiling again, ignoring his hard-on as best he can.
"Oh, god," Piper murmurs. "Oh, god, Bruce."
Clark wonders if the bar might still be open. Probably not. Maybe he could go sit in the foyer for a while.
At least Bruce is his usual stoic self, even if the bed is complaining rhythmically. Clark holds his breath and suddenly loses his grip on his restraint, imagining Bruce sinking into her. He lets out a long, shaky breath. He's not going to jerk off, even though his dick is getting wetter against his stomach with each creak of the mattress. He won't be able to look Bruce in the eye if he does. Clark doesn't need to give him that kind of an advantage.
God, he likes to drag things out. Maybe a side-effect of his stoicism, or a manifestation of his usual thoroughness. Piper seems to appreciate it regardless--constant low exclamations and breathy encouragements until finally she gets louder again, escalating as she reaches her second orgasm.
It's the sounds between her gasping that makes Clark realize that's not what he's listening for. Bruce's breath has started dragging in his throat, and god, it's that--that's what is keeping him at a high burn.
Well. Shit.
He sets aside his morals for an instant and stares through the wall. Bruce is curled over her as she collects herself, his hands huge around her waist. He's resting his forehead in the middle of her back, his mouth against her spine. There's little reverence to it.
"You want to come?" Clark hears him say.
"Again?" she says breathlessly, laughing, hair clinging to her face. "Okay."
Bruce straightens up and slides his hands down over her hips. His shirt obscures his cock until he begins fucking her again in earnest, but even that only offers quick glimpses. Clark could look through the cloth. He will not look through it. This should be enough--he's gone far enough.
"Then touch yourself," Bruce says.
Clark clenches his teeth.
"Touch yourself," Bruce says again, much quieter. Barely a whisper. "Go on." Then he hooks his arm around Piper's thigh, brings her leg over his hip and turns her body into Clark's view in a motion that's as efficient as any Clark's seen him execute in combat. She goes onto her forearm so she can rub herself, fingertips brushing Bruce's cock as he glides into her. Clark can see him--all of him, whenever he pulls out, wet and--
It's raw and explicit even after listening to them, watching them. It shocks the breath out of him, in truth, but not so much that he can't make for his dick, his last shred of decorum melted in the white-hot flare of his arousal.
"That's right," Bruce says and pulls her onto him deeper, faster. His pulse breaks into a sprint. It barrages Clark's hearing and he can't bear it for long, the way his own pulse is trying to match him beat-for-beat. He turns his face away and jerks himself with shaking hands. Roughly, as though it's--Bruce is evidently considerate in bed, but he's not gentle with Clark in any respect. He wouldn't need to be gentle with Clark.
God, he's actually going to come from this, and probably before Bruce does. It's not a competition, Bruce would say. Not a competition, no, but definitely a game and Clark's not sure there's any way for him to win at this point. May as well lose gracefully.
Piper beats them both with a sedate groan that quickly subsides, and then Clark is alone with Bruce's ragged, shortening breaths. Clark strokes himself in time, his heart pressing into his throat.
Bruce makes a small, harsh noise that Clark will never, never be able to get out of his head and then exhales all at once. If Clark turned his head right now he would see him in his moment of climax, guard dropped for an instant. Maybe he'd see if this is a way that Bruce can be gentled.
He wants to so badly, but--he struggles briefly with his conscience until it turns out the mere idea of it is enough. He shudders, muscles clenching hard enough to twist him up off the bed. He comes over his fingers and his stomach, a foot above the mattress.
He just floats there for a moment in a stupor, slowly rocking into his own hand until he comes back to himself. He can hear talking in the next room, bodies moving around. The hum of the bathroom light. Clark lets himself watch this part without guilt: Bruce splashing water onto his face; Piper pulling down her skirt.
"That was fun," Piper says, stepping into her pumps and patting her hair into place. "We should do it again sometime."
"You're not going to ask for my number, are you?"
"Bruce," she says. "I'm not stupid." She pushes up on her tiptoes and lands a small, sweet kiss on his mouth. Bruce lets her, then sees her to the door.
Clark suddenly feels distinctly uncomfortable. A shower would probably help. He drifts onto his feet and slopes into the bathroom to wipe at his hands and stomach, and lets the shower heat up while he stares at himself in the mirror.
Just as he's about to step in, there's a knock at his door.
"You've got to be kidding me," he groans, bolting through and casting about for yesterday's slacks. "Are you kidding--goddamn--"
He doesn't bother buttoning his shirt, and there's not much he can do about his sweat-mussed hair and its wild licks. He opens the door and Bruce, who's put his shoes back on even if he hasn't bothered to tuck his shirt, invites himself in.
"It's kinda late," Clark says, following him past the steam billowing out through the bathroom door.
"Not too late for a shower," Bruce remarks. "I need your laptop."
"Didn't you bring your own?"
Bruce just makes an ambiguous noise and leans on the melamine table where Clark's laptop sits, rubbing at the trackpad until the screen wakes up. He hooks his phone up and drags a bunch of files onto Clark's desktop, displacing most of his icons.
Neither of them acknowledge Clark's bed and its rumpled sheets, its conspicuous wet patch. Clark sees Bruce's nostrils subtly flare. Both of them smell like sex. It's unmistakable.
"Did you get what you need?" Clark asks. His heart won't seem to calm the hell down, like Bruce's proximity is triggering some kind of fight or flight instinct.
"Yes," he says. He glances sidelong at Clark and abruptly closes the laptop. "Did you?"
Apparently a rhetorical question, since he goes to leave while Clark is busy floundering over what he means, whether is was--ah, the guy at the bar. Not this. Whatever this was. "No," Clark says in a rush. "I didn't."
He didn't expect that to bring Bruce up short the way it does, but he mitigates it quickly, a flash of his eyebrows that drop into their customary furrow. "Too bad," he says. "I'm heading back to Gotham first thing tomorrow."
It's a perfectly relevant piece of information. Clark struggles with the context. "Sure," he manages.
"Enjoy your panel tomorrow." Bruce says. "Goodnight, Clark."
FILL: It’s more than silhouettes tonight, Bruce/Clark, voyeurism [1b/3]
He's had a lot of practice with this since his powers manifested as a kid, especially after that one scarring incident with his parents. He perfected it during his travels, in hostels with paper-thin walls and in shared rooms, situations where even a lack of enhanced hearing would require a pillow over his head. It just takes a bit of mindfulness, a meditative drawing inward. Something to bring his focus back into his own body.
In the room next door Piper gasps, bubbling into a laugh. Bruce's returning laugh is muffled. Then she gasps again, serious this time, and Clark hears with pin-drop clarity the scrape of Bruce's stubble on the inside of her thigh.
And, okay, whoa. He is suddenly focused on his own body, alright. A little too focused. Kind of overwhelmingly focused, if he's being honest with himself. This flavor of awkward response was something he thought he'd got a handle on a long time ago, too.
Clark groans and rolls onto his front, which only underscores that he's at half-mast and rising. God, why did he think coming here with Bruce was a good idea.
Sometimes when he's like this sensory satiation is the way to go, overloading his brain until everything turns to white noise. He's not keen on the idea at this particular point in time, so Clark screws his eyes shut and lets his mind drift instead. They're mostly quiet for a long while, just small, intimate noises he can filter out--which means he's almost asleep when her breathing deepens and breaks into an ascending string of moans. Bruce's heart is a metronome.
Bruce. He's good at what he does. Whatever he turns his hand, or mouth, to.
Clark takes a deep, deep breath. He's gotten fully hard while he was dozing, a steady beat between his legs.
Piper quickly reaches a crescendo and then dissolves back into gasping. Clark cracks open his eyes, stripping the wall away in time to see Bruce's slacks slide down over the long cut of his thigh muscles, belt clunking to the floor. It wasn't exactly deliberate. He's tired, sleep-fuzzed and he could go so far to say it was an accident, but he usually has more control than this.
Bruce is helping Piper onto her hands and knees on the bed, hiking her skirt up around her waist. This is already more than a few steps over the line so Clark turns to stare at the ceiling again, ignoring his hard-on as best he can.
"Oh, god," Piper murmurs. "Oh, god, Bruce."
Clark wonders if the bar might still be open. Probably not. Maybe he could go sit in the foyer for a while.
At least Bruce is his usual stoic self, even if the bed is complaining rhythmically. Clark holds his breath and suddenly loses his grip on his restraint, imagining Bruce sinking into her. He lets out a long, shaky breath. He's not going to jerk off, even though his dick is getting wetter against his stomach with each creak of the mattress. He won't be able to look Bruce in the eye if he does. Clark doesn't need to give him that kind of an advantage.
God, he likes to drag things out. Maybe a side-effect of his stoicism, or a manifestation of his usual thoroughness. Piper seems to appreciate it regardless--constant low exclamations and breathy encouragements until finally she gets louder again, escalating as she reaches her second orgasm.
It's the sounds between her gasping that makes Clark realize that's not what he's listening for. Bruce's breath has started dragging in his throat, and god, it's that--that's what is keeping him at a high burn.
Well. Shit.
He sets aside his morals for an instant and stares through the wall. Bruce is curled over her as she collects herself, his hands huge around her waist. He's resting his forehead in the middle of her back, his mouth against her spine. There's little reverence to it.
"You want to come?" Clark hears him say.
"Again?" she says breathlessly, laughing, hair clinging to her face. "Okay."
Bruce straightens up and slides his hands down over her hips. His shirt obscures his cock until he begins fucking her again in earnest, but even that only offers quick glimpses. Clark could look through the cloth. He will not look through it. This should be enough--he's gone far enough.
"Then touch yourself," Bruce says.
Clark clenches his teeth.
"Touch yourself," Bruce says again, much quieter. Barely a whisper. "Go on." Then he hooks his arm around Piper's thigh, brings her leg over his hip and turns her body into Clark's view in a motion that's as efficient as any Clark's seen him execute in combat. She goes onto her forearm so she can rub herself, fingertips brushing Bruce's cock as he glides into her. Clark can see him--all of him, whenever he pulls out, wet and--
It's raw and explicit even after listening to them, watching them. It shocks the breath out of him, in truth, but not so much that he can't make for his dick, his last shred of decorum melted in the white-hot flare of his arousal.
"That's right," Bruce says and pulls her onto him deeper, faster. His pulse breaks into a sprint. It barrages Clark's hearing and he can't bear it for long, the way his own pulse is trying to match him beat-for-beat. He turns his face away and jerks himself with shaking hands. Roughly, as though it's--Bruce is evidently considerate in bed, but he's not gentle with Clark in any respect. He wouldn't need to be gentle with Clark.
God, he's actually going to come from this, and probably before Bruce does. It's not a competition, Bruce would say. Not a competition, no, but definitely a game and Clark's not sure there's any way for him to win at this point. May as well lose gracefully.
Piper beats them both with a sedate groan that quickly subsides, and then Clark is alone with Bruce's ragged, shortening breaths. Clark strokes himself in time, his heart pressing into his throat.
Bruce makes a small, harsh noise that Clark will never, never be able to get out of his head and then exhales all at once. If Clark turned his head right now he would see him in his moment of climax, guard dropped for an instant. Maybe he'd see if this is a way that Bruce can be gentled.
He wants to so badly, but--he struggles briefly with his conscience until it turns out the mere idea of it is enough. He shudders, muscles clenching hard enough to twist him up off the bed. He comes over his fingers and his stomach, a foot above the mattress.
He just floats there for a moment in a stupor, slowly rocking into his own hand until he comes back to himself. He can hear talking in the next room, bodies moving around. The hum of the bathroom light. Clark lets himself watch this part without guilt: Bruce splashing water onto his face; Piper pulling down her skirt.
"That was fun," Piper says, stepping into her pumps and patting her hair into place. "We should do it again sometime."
"You're not going to ask for my number, are you?"
"Bruce," she says. "I'm not stupid." She pushes up on her tiptoes and lands a small, sweet kiss on his mouth. Bruce lets her, then sees her to the door.
Clark suddenly feels distinctly uncomfortable. A shower would probably help. He drifts onto his feet and slopes into the bathroom to wipe at his hands and stomach, and lets the shower heat up while he stares at himself in the mirror.
Just as he's about to step in, there's a knock at his door.
"You've got to be kidding me," he groans, bolting through and casting about for yesterday's slacks. "Are you kidding--goddamn--"
He doesn't bother buttoning his shirt, and there's not much he can do about his sweat-mussed hair and its wild licks. He opens the door and Bruce, who's put his shoes back on even if he hasn't bothered to tuck his shirt, invites himself in.
"It's kinda late," Clark says, following him past the steam billowing out through the bathroom door.
"Not too late for a shower," Bruce remarks. "I need your laptop."
"Didn't you bring your own?"
Bruce just makes an ambiguous noise and leans on the melamine table where Clark's laptop sits, rubbing at the trackpad until the screen wakes up. He hooks his phone up and drags a bunch of files onto Clark's desktop, displacing most of his icons.
Neither of them acknowledge Clark's bed and its rumpled sheets, its conspicuous wet patch. Clark sees Bruce's nostrils subtly flare. Both of them smell like sex. It's unmistakable.
"Did you get what you need?" Clark asks. His heart won't seem to calm the hell down, like Bruce's proximity is triggering some kind of fight or flight instinct.
"Yes," he says. He glances sidelong at Clark and abruptly closes the laptop. "Did you?"
Apparently a rhetorical question, since he goes to leave while Clark is busy floundering over what he means, whether is was--ah, the guy at the bar. Not this. Whatever this was. "No," Clark says in a rush. "I didn't."
He didn't expect that to bring Bruce up short the way it does, but he mitigates it quickly, a flash of his eyebrows that drop into their customary furrow. "Too bad," he says. "I'm heading back to Gotham first thing tomorrow."
It's a perfectly relevant piece of information. Clark struggles with the context. "Sure," he manages.
"Enjoy your panel tomorrow." Bruce says. "Goodnight, Clark."
*