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Bruce had never considered himself a voyeur.
Over his time cultivating his public persona (and admittedly, at times, for leisure), he’s had sex in countless different positions and configurations, entertaining numerous kinks and deviancies. He’s cuckolded men and women, has teased exhibitionism, but he’d always been one of the actors. After all, while he’d certainly derived pleasure from the experiences, they were rarely his choice of pastime. The sex had served the purpose of emboldening his playboy image, and there was no benefit in Bruce Wayne having voyeuristic tendencies.
And even as Batman, with his extensive surveillance system that didn’t leave much of his subjects’ lives up to interpretation, he’d always been clinical and discriminate in his observations. It was rare that he felt the need to survey sexual activity, not unless he felt that it was prudent to do so for someone’s safety. He felt no pleasure from any of his surveillance, much less under such obtrusive, dubious circumstances — it was merely another wearying yet critical task, such as his club and restaurant outings as Brucie.
Which was why it was so surprising when he continued surveilling someone unnecessarily, out of some unspoken, unconscionable, desiring urge.
It wasn’t supposed to be about Clark Kent in the first place. That might be the worst part, in hindsight— that Kent had done nothing to warrant any of this. His only crime, if anyone other than Batman were to consider it so, was that he was a known associate of Superman.
That’s where it had started. Superman had emerged onto the scene eight months earlier, garnering a significant amount of attention given… everything that he was, and what he supposedly stood for. It was in direct contrast to the image that’d been created around the Batman over the past year and a half. He struck fear within each violent assault on the underbelly of the city, but he existed solely in the shadows. Even his confirmed case successes being regarded with disbelief from those who lived out of Gotham.
Superman was undeniably real, to everyone who lived in every corner of the world. He existed within daylight, shone hope and sensitivity to every victim, criminal, animal he saved. He spoke to cameras politely; he sat down with Lois Lane and allowed himself to be photographed by Jimmy Olsen. His smile only wavered in moments of concentration.
It was almost enough to make one forget about all of his indomitable abilities, namely his nonhuman invulnerability.
It chafed at Batman for months, not knowing any method that he might be able to use against the alien. It was true that Superman did nothing to call for such concern, though that only increased Bruce’s apprehension. The Last Son of Krypton. Everything they knew about him and his people had come straight from his mouth. The truth had never been so elusive.
When Bruce decided to take on the cape and cowl, he never believed that it might lead him to this. To a virtually invincible alien who was slowly gaining the trust of mankind and the majority of governmental bodies, questions and concerns dying away in his unwavering loyalty to protecting them all. Even in the case that Superman really was the last of his kind, and that he could not be corrupted by worldly means, his mere existence called forth a million other possibilities of much more hostile life that might appear on Earth, leaving humanity just as unprepared as they were with him.
The discovery of kryptonite was fortunate, even at the risk it posed to the alien. It still bothered Bruce, however, how rare the mineral was, how vulnerable they all were. He hadn’t crossed paths with Superman, and he didn’t plan on doing so until he was adequately prepared for any possible outcome.
Which is what led him to Kent. Not solely Kent, of course, though he was one of only three. Though Superman was international, it was obvious that he’d either been introduced to Earth through the United States, or chosen the country, and the city of Metropolis, as his primary domain. Further, he was evidently deeply involved with the staff of the Daily Planet.
Lois Lane should most likely be considered an outlier, given that the number of times Superman saved her clearly denoted the alien’s partiality for her (or perhaps her own sense of self-preservation). But even then, he’d only ever explicitly agreed to photographs taken by Jimmy Olsen, who had also been saved by him a number of times. And lastly, the only name to share a byline with Lois Lane, the reporter in the budding trio at the Planet, was Clark Kent.
He wasn’t the priority. Bruce conducted exhaustive background checks on all three of them and Kent’s was almost blinding in how squeaky clean it was. From small-town, midwest America, straight to Metropolis University on scholarship, straight to an internship program at the Planet. Twenty-something years old with a matchbox apartment from the money he painstakingly saved throughout his years at METU, working an assortment of typical young adult jobs. The only thing of note was the gap year he took before his freshman year in college, and a handful of strange skirmishes in his hometown, all of which he always took part in volunteering assistance in the aftermath.
Comparatively, he made the upstanding citizens of Lane and Olsen look like deviants. To boot, there hadn’t ever been any actual recording of any interaction between Kent and Superman. Bruce had first planted surveillance within the other two’s apartments. It was two weeks of fruitless footage that led him to prying open Kent’s bedroom window from the fire escape outside.
His apartment was as unassuming as he was. Modestly furnished and decorated, unsurprisingly given his meagre earnings, with the occasional token from Smallville, METU, and the life he was building here in Metropolis.
Bruce hadn’t been distressed while planting the bugs, though he did hesitate in Kent’s bedroom, just as he had in Lane’s and Olsen’s. He usually refrained from doing so in cases like these, where the bedroom was unlikely to be of any influence.
But the reminder of Superman’s inscrutable expression, his enigmatic background, had Bruce concealing a cam within a lampshade without further hesitation.
It felt like an act made in vain, but Batman couldn’t regret it, not considering the threat at hand. He’d already observed Kent at a distance and figured that, if anything, Superman might visit him nightly to assure that the man didn’t trip over his own two feet on the way to the fridge. It was almost laughable to imagine the two of them in conversation, representing such dissimilar competencies.
Kent really hadn’t been a concern, and still wasn’t when Bruce first thought to check the collected footage of the reporter’s apartment a few days later.
Clad in comfortable clothing, Bruce combed through the recordings idly. The bugs were set to alert him if certain keywords were said (in this case, anything regarding Superman and related topics), but the visual feedback was less reliable, so he preferred to review it himself. Predictably, Kent’s mornings were like something you might see out of a magazine. Bruce had mirthlessly mused on how the man might react to a morning at Wayne Manor, where Bruce slept like the dead with new bruises and scars painting his body, and Alfred awaited with breakfast at noon.
He was shallowly involved in these thoughts, enough so that it took a moment for his eyes to register what he was seeing. When he did, he nearly coughed on his tea, his fingers automatically moving to pause the recording as he shook off any lingering exhaustion from his eyes.
The image was just the same. Clark Kent, fresh home from work, naked as the day he was born.
The appropriate reaction, then, would be to divert his eyes and only listen in, or even discard the footage altogether and move forward to the next day of recordings. It wasn’t the first time that something like this had happened, but, for some reason, it was the first time that Bruce couldn’t make himself follow what his conscience was ordering him to do.
Kent was… broad. It was already clear to see that he was a big guy when he was dressed in his oversized suits, but apparently Bruce had been too hasty in dismissing what he looked like underneath. His shoulders were wide and built, his casual strides differing from his usual slumped shuffle. His chest was almost intimidating in its fullness, in the stretch of skin displayed as he leaned down and folded his discarded clothes, humming some pop tune. Bruce mindlessly turned up the volume and listened to Kent sing under his breath as he moved, motions fluid and neat— the curve of his thick, muscled thighs, and his arms and back, flexing minutely, trailing down— Kent was leaving the folded clothes on the arm of his sofa, moving out of the camera’s view toward the kitchen.
Bruce’s fingers scudded across the keyboard as he quickly beat in the command that would bring up the kitchen camera. There was Kent, bare naked and walking around his small dining area to bring out a mug and what looked to be a tea bag. The perspective from the microwave gave Bruce a limited view, but it was enough to see the gentle shake of his large pecs as he prepared his drink, the way he moved casually and unashamedly in his own home, in his bare skin, and, a quick command switched to a different camera from the dining space, revealing him stepping away from the stovetop, an unimpeded view to his profile and then the furred trail down to his—
It slammed into Bruce just then, the reality of what he was doing. With the sudden jolt to his system, he realized that his cock had hardened in his briefs, tenting the crotch of his loungewear.
The self-reproach, and disgust, trickled in shortly thereafter. What was he doing? This wasn’t— If he wasn’t so disgusted by himself, he might even be disconcerted from how enveloped he’d been in watching Kent. There was no justification, no rationale, other than that inexplicable desire that had overtaken him completely when he first realized what Kent was doing.
With no small amount of angry shame, Bruce briskly exited the recording, his eyes concentratedly moving away from where Kent’s ass was clearly on display on the screen. He ignored his erection as he hesitantly clicked on the other days of footage, both of which he quickly turned off upon seeing that it was a daily routine for Kent. He came home, stripped naked, and acted like nothing about the behavior was out-of-sorts.
Bruce’s cock throbbed and he shut the system completely off, shoving away from his desk to train and remove any lingering images of Kent’s naked body from his mind.
It didn’t work.
It had, at least, for a week. By the time patrol had ended that night, all memories of Kent were firmly fixed away from Bruce’s conscious mind. When he later revisited the surveillance over Superman’s associates, he dismissed reviewing the visual footage of Kent’s apartment, relying solely on the audio alerts. Lane was the one who consistently tripped that particular wire, given her inability to hold any type of conversation without bringing the alien up, though Olsen followed closely. Kent, though admiring of the alien, seemed to be much less of an avid fan than most Metropolitans. There was really no reason to scrutinize him further.
Yet Bruce didn’t remove the bugs. He rationalized that it would be worth more of a hassle than it warranted, given that he’d only planted a few cameras and microphones, and that a trip to Metropolis should be worth more of an explanation than that.
Besides, he’d always rather stay vigilant in matters concerning Superman, and he was proved justified the following weekend. He’d been gathering Alfred’s required breakfast (“Lunch, sir.” “Breakfast.” “Master Bruce, it’s one in the afternoon.”) and half-hour of daylight exposure before heading back down to the Cave, when he caught sight of the Daily Planet with the rest of the mail that he was supposed to look at on the table. He’d subscribed to the paper to monitor any shifting opinions on Superman, but it was more of the same praise from Lane on the front page. Still, his eyes narrowed as he sighted what caught his attention in the first place.
Another article about Superman, deeper in the paper. Written by Clark Kent.
In the Cave, he swallowed down a full mug of coffee as he read through Kent’s work. At odds with his fumbling appearance, Kent’s writing remained sharp and compelling. He had an aptitude for the type of the story that he was writing here, about Superman’s rescue of a dozen people from a burning apartment building. He balanced the alluring topic of Superman, the humanistic approach about the different lives he’d saved, and the investigative grit that came from uncovering the faulty wiring that the building’s ownership should’ve accounted for long ago.
Slowly eating a piece of toast, Bruce’s eyes strayed from the newspaper to his computer monitor. It was clear that Kent had reached out to the families and the police about the situation. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that he reached out to Superman on the cause of the fire itself.
It called for further examination.
Bruce pulled up the logs of Kent’s apartment. After a brief pause, he bypassed the existing recordings and selected the live feed.
Bruce didn’t have to switch feeds. It was like opening a worn textbook only to discover a hidden clipping from a dirty magazine. Kent was lounging across his sofa, attention fixed to the laptop balanced on his lap. His pants-less, boxers-less lap, because the man was completely naked again.
Bruce didn’t blink as Kent leaned back for a moment, stretching out over the arm of the couch, eyes shut as he presumably recollected his thoughts. His armpit hair was dark and curly. His nipples were a dusty color.
It was just so disorienting. If anything, Bruce had expected Kent to return to his apartment each evening to microwaving pre-prepared, home-cooked meals while he watched evening television in a sweater vest or something. Maybe he might’ve had to deal with hearing close-lipped, joyless masturbation at ten at night, considering the vague sense of sexual repression spilling from the man in spades.
No one else from the Planet, nor anyone else of Kent’s disposition that Bruce had ever encountered, had any type of… hobby similar to Kent’s. Was it a hobby? Or was it some— a kink, or fetish? Was he in some sort of relationship that called for this? Or was it really just a matter of comfort? Kent generally walked around like the weight of the world was not only on his shoulders but also in the middle of his throat. Maybe this was the only way he ever decompressed, which would be fairly believable, considering that Bruce had yet to discover a romantic or sexual affair or any other type of secret ventures. He’d witnessed the rich and the powerful conduct similar nudist activities but nothing so… unaffected, so guileless. There was something about being bare that made most people, and certainly ordinary people, feel less comfortable than if they’d been wearing several layers of clothing. Yet here was Clark Kent, who did it shamelessly, candidly.
Within his own home. Kent wasn’t doing this shamelessly— he was doing it privately.
Bruce forced this reminder to himself, but it fell flatly in his mind. Kent was typing away at his laptop, evidently struck with great inspiration considering the speed at which his fingers were moving, though his expression looked thoughtful. His bottom lip was fixed between his teeth, his eyebrows gently furrowed over his eyes. It was almost pornographic, how Kent kept his glasses on without anything else.
He shifted in his chair. As if it was any sort of exoneration, Bruce refused to touch himself, to even adjust himself. With controlled breathing, he sat back in his chair and kept his eyes fixed on Kent as he ate the blueberries Alfred served with breakfast. Belatedly, he realized Kent was listening to music — he turned up the volume and heard gentle strains of Bruce Springsteen. Occasionally, Kent would start humming, murmuring the words. He fully stopped writing just to sing along to Dancing in the Dark.
His bowl of blueberries was entirely empty when Kent’s head snapped up, followed by a curse and stumbling to set his laptop to the side before he disappeared out of the camera’s view to the bedroom. It took Bruce a debating moment to switch the camera feed but he inevitably did. The bedroom’s view was limited to the bed and the door to the en suite, which was shut, and Bruce hadn’t set up any cameras in there — which was the only explanation of Kent’s complete disappearance. He must’ve gone to shower.
In the face of an empty apartment, Bruce felt a trickle of guilt slip in. He mollified the feeling by quickly shutting off the visual feed and deleting the past recordings, aside from the audio files which he digitally scraped for any intel on Superman. There was none, which supported Bruce’s belief that Superman kept his meetings with the Planet staff to the building itself.
Though there was, of course, always a chance that that might change one day.
Kent’s bedroom was still empty when he flipped to the visual feed again for a moment. He shut it off and ignored the misplaced disappointment in his chest.
Only three days passed before there was reason to monitor Kent again.
Bruce had just returned from a meeting with Wayne Enterprises’ board of directors, head pounding and considering leaving to the streets despite the early evening hour. It was demoralizing, having to deal with the demands of stakeholders when there were a dozen direct threats to Gotham’s safety that he could be investigating and pursuing in the same time. He’d stalked down to the Cave immediately, planning on expending all of his energy in training before going out on patrol, when he noticed a surveillance alert.
Kent. He’d mentioned Superman.
An unwelcome scene began playing out across Bruce’s riled mind. Kent, naked at his kitchen table, humming while preparing dinner when a shadow appeared across the room— Superman, in his imposing glory, viewing him from outside. Superman, walking into Kent’s apartment— Superman, falling from Kent’s lips breathlessly.
There was no hesitation this time as Bruce pulled up the recording at the time stamp, his frustration having spiked violently, until the image came on screen.
Bruce started— not because of any intrusive aliens, but because Kent was wearing clothes. Actual, real clothes, not even the drapes of fabric he wore to work — he was in a blue, hand-knit sweater and jeans, sitting atop of his kitchen counter, socked feet knocking against the lower cabinets as he spoke over the phone.
“…I know, but don’t worry about me too much. I’m being safe.” Kent smiled a little, conspiratorially. “After all, I’ve got Superman to watch my back, right?”
Bruce’s fingers twitched, eyes narrowing.
Kent laughed at whatever the other person said in response. “Come on, ma, I’m sure Superman knows what he’s doing.”
Ah. A knot of tension released itself in his chest. Kent’s mother, Martha Kent, the widow of Jonathan Kent.
Some amusement struck Bruce, then, at the sight of Kent’s fond expression and clothed body. Perhaps Kent was unconventional enough to walk around his apartment naked, but it seemed speaking to his mother over the phone didn’t warrant the same nonconformity. It was endearing.
His mother said something that made Kent’s expression soften. “Well, then, the next time I see him, I’ll let him know.”
Bruce’s attention sharpened to a point at that. As Kent and his mother said their goodbyes, the words spun around in Bruce’s mind. The statement was confident, doubtless. Kent must be in regular contact with Superman, and comfortable enough with him that he would share some type of second-hand shovel talk from his mother. Though he has bugs within Kent’s home and workplace both, the untapped abilities of Superman meant that he couldn’t possibly anticipate every method of communication between the two of them — their relationship might’ve even grown stronger in the time that’s passed since Bruce first entered Kent’s apartment.
He would have to keep a closer eye on Kent.
By the time he reached that conclusion, Kent had disappeared from the kitchen camera feed. Bruce skipped ahead in the footage but Kent seemed to have left the apartment immediately after. When Bruce switched to the live feed, however, about two hours following his phone conversation, it seemed that Kent was back in his apartment with takeout and the television on. And, par for the course, he was naked.
Kent looked tired. Not in his eyes or skin, as it might be shown in others, but in his posture and movements. Though this might be how he often appeared to others in public, Bruce now knew the man possessed a certain grace and energy that wasn’t common. But it seemed that the day had taken its toll, as he sunk into his sofa and ate his dinner, a small strain between his brows as he watched television. He had one leg tucked underneath him, the other dangling, balancing his takeout container on his knee. The soft skin of his bare shoulders was pulled tight from tension, the line of his neck long as he leaned his head back a bit and his eyes went hooded.
Bruce exhaled, and it came out shakily. Kent was a lone figure on the screen; Bruce was a lone figure off of it, watching. Still, Kent’s presence made something in him ease. Unwind.
He undid his tie and cufflinks and stored them in his pockets before hanging his suit jacket off the back of his chair. There was time before he needed to go on patrol. For now, he’d go over the recent case on the new name going around Gotham’s underground — the Penguin.
He kept the feed of Kent going on an adjacent screen.
It becomes routine.
He knows it shouldn’t, but it does, and he no longer dwelled over rationalizations because there were none that gave him enough basis to continue as he was. He already knew it was reprehensible behavior. He also knew he didn’t necessarily want to stop anytime soon.
It was grossly indulgent in a way he had thought he’d never allow himself to be, yet there he was, nearly every night before patrol like clockwork, checking on Kent. Kent wasn’t often at home. Especially on workdays, when he was commonly in the newsroom until it’d grown dark out, but then there were always old recordings to queue up.
Bruce didn’t watch them too closely, generally had the feed playing while he was working on casework or training— but even that was enough to make the knots in his chest unfurl, and spark up the inevitable thrum of arousal that coursed through his veins like a shot of adrenaline. Without fail, Kent’s unclothed figure would vitalize Bruce like nothing short of physical contact had before. His blood ran hot after watching Kent, and it made him better at fighting as Batman, better at playing the hedonistic Brucie. That delicate balance between frustration and gratification that left him perfectly on edge.
The first time he gave in was the first time that he saw Kent strip live. He’d had the live feed on as he was working on the specs for personalized aircraft for his nighttime activities, ignoring Alfred’s curious look toward the display of an empty apartment when he’d served Bruce dinner. Eventually, six o’clock hit — the front door opened and Kent walked in, depositing his laptop bag to the coffee table with a sigh. He leaned against the wall for a long moment, then straightened up and went to the kitchen.
Bruce had recently programmed his surveillance systems to automatically switch feeds without any further command, following identified figures’ movements. It made it so that he could continue working while glancing at Kent, who began preparing a cup of tea and then, as expected, called his mother over the phone.
Bruce muted this weekly conversation. It was a small concession, if it could even be considered one, but one he respected regardless.
After twenty minutes or so, the conversation ended. Bruce turned the volume back up in time to catch a yawn and then the sound of Kent calling another number: “Hey, Ellie. Yeah, the usual…”
It took Kent’s favorite Mexican place twenty minutes to deliver to his place. He took a shower in this time, which gave Bruce ample time to set up some tests for the prototype he was currently working on.
By the time he was returning to his seat, Kent was already opening the front door.
“Thanks, Daniel.”
“Anytime, Clark,” the delivery guy flirted like usual, throwing in a wink that Bruce believed to be entirely unnecessary. “How’s work going?”
Kent rubbed the back of his head. “It’s alright. Slow news week.”
Daniel leaned in a bit. “I could make it move a little faster for you.”
Though Bruce couldn’t see so from the camera angle, he imagined that Kent was blinking owlishly. “Well, gee, that’s a nice offer, Daniel, but I don’t see how you could. Anyway, I figure it’s good that things are boring and safe, right?”
Daniel was sighing, as longing as ever, and leaning back. “Right, Clark. I better not keep you any longer. Enjoy your meal.”
Kent waved goodbye. “Thanks!”
The door shut, and Kent entered the living room with a small smile on his face. Bruce sometimes wondered if Kent, despite his oblivious nature, did fully know that the man was flirting with him. Yet... Daniel was attractive. If Kent knew, was it just that he wasn’t attracted to men? He was obviously attracted to women given his painful crush on Lane, though there was really no future there considering Lane’s occupation with Superman.
It didn’t really matter; Bruce was the only other man with him now. Kent set down his bag of food on his table.
Bruce’s jaw twitched as his attention strayed from his work, fixed to Kent. He’d been watching recordings of Kent's Fridays, and had realized this routine hardly changed, which meant—
Kent started with his socks.
He always folded everything, nice and deliberate, as if he was taking his time and enjoying it. Then he’d start at the buttons of his shirt before moving to his pants.
Bruce watched. Kent undressed himself like he was giving a show. He lingered in pulling the fabric down his shoulders; he’d stretch and run his hands over his skin once it was uncovered, savoring the feeling of nudity once again. Bruce was certain that if he'd been asked to perform such a show, however, Kent would become a mess of nerves.
It was even more enrapturing than the other displays Bruce had seen, because it was live — a half hour away, Kent was slipping out of his boxers just as Bruce was watching him do so. He was sitting in front of his television, sprawling his legs comfortably, everything on display and—
Bruce shoved the palm of his hand into the base of his cock. It was aching within its confinement, and he grit his teeth as he attempted to regain himself. Discomfited at his own reaction, he quickly turned off Kent’s apartment feed and tried to concentrate on work.
But the arousal burning under his skin wouldn’t fade like it usually did, not even as he went to Gordon at the signal nor when he interrogated criminal after criminal for more information on the Penguin. When he eventually returned to the Manor, later than usual in an attempt to avoid the source of his depravity, even a cold shower didn’t help.
Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Kent’s lips parting around his fork, his fingers deftly moving down his shirt buttons, the movement of his thick ass as he walked to his sofa, and it was in technicolor, higher quality than the footage was because Bruce was there, getting to watch in person without a screen impeding the view of Kent’s miles of soft skin and deep dimples and blue eyes and Christ—
He started jacking off in the shower after patrols, though, after the first time, he forcefully avoided thinking of Kent while doing it — just mechanical strokes to curb off the heat that was growing inside of him. Sometimes once wasn't even enough, and he finds himself jerking it like a teenager in bed, rutting into his fist harshly as lingering images tortured him.
Startlingly, he didn’t notice any other change in his behavior until Alfred lightly pointed it out one morning.
“Here you are, Master Bruce.”
Bruce sat at the table with a slight wince — bruising littered his back from his latest night out, the extent of which already had Alfred in a prickly mood, so it was somewhat unsurprising that it wasn’t only his breakfast that was being served.
“What’s this?” he said, unnecessarily, because it was obvious what it was.
The familiar arch of a single brow. “The Daily Planet, sir.”
Bruce stilled a bit. “Why are you…”
“I’ve noted your consistent readership,” answered Alfred.
Unreasonably, Bruce’s neck heated up. He resisted throwing the paper away like a child. “It… assists me in monitoring Superman.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Alfred added, “And in monitoring Mister Clark Kent, too, I presume.”
Bruce stood up with his plate and paper both. “I’m eating this in the Cave.”
“Do give Mister Kent my regards.”
Because no, it wasn’t just Kent being naked that made Bruce return to the footage. It was the way he spoke to his mother like he was soaking every word in. It was how he was one of Lois Lane’s most supportive friends, even when he was visibly pining over her without any sign of reciprocation. It was how he made Jimmy Olsen laugh with every dorky joke he shared over the phone, or in the office. It was how he was compassionate in every article, never straying from his extraordinary sense of good even in the face of constant abuses of power.
It was his humanity.
Bruce had investigated countless of others, those who most would consider more glamorous and alluring than Kent in his everyday life, but he’d never felt this way toward any of them before. As Batman, he’d only ever considered his surveillance in a detached way, sexual arousal never having anything to do with it. But there was something about the contrasting shades of Kent — how the shadows and light seemed to play tireless games across the planes of his body — that drew him in. His naked figure was such a reversal on how he walked the streets of Metropolis in oversized clothing, his altruistic constitution at odds with the reticent man he was at work. And even then, in the quiet of his apartment with nothing shielding him from the air against his skin, Bruce still felt there was more to Kent than it appeared. Like there was puzzle within him that inexorably called to Bruce, despite all appearances. A mysterious attraction.
Yet sitting alone, with Kent alone, Bruce sometimes thought it wasn’t much of a mystery at all.
It was nearly three AM when Bruce returned to the Cave.
He’d finally come face to face with the Penguin the night prior, but he had slipped from his grasp. He had been reportedly seen boarding a ferry hours earlier, so Batman followed its route to Metropolis — that alone was enough to make him want to draw back but Penguin was in possession of over half a million dollars’ worth of fine jewelry which Bullock was saying was the fault of Batman, as if a quarter of the GCPD wasn’t still in one crime lord’s pocket or another’s.
He’d been at a disadvantage at the start considering the unfamiliar terrain, his chances worsening when he realized the connections Penguin had made in Metropolis. His plan to seize the man turned into an underdeveloped reconnaissance mission, which was soon interrupted.
Batman had employed every technique he could to mask his presence. He hadn’t left Metropolis’s fledgling shadows since he arrived.
The alien appeared without a sound— only the feeling of air being suddenly displaced in a breeze, and the new shadow that casted across Batman’s line of sight. He’d hovered in the air with a beguiling smile on his face.
“Batman,” Superman had said, unnaturally blue eyes unnervingly fixed to Bruce.
Batman retreated. There was nothing in the situation that worked in his favor— he’d even been the one that was infringing on the other’s territory. He would've been tempted to experiment with kryptonite if Superman had done the same without his knowledge. So he swept away, ignoring Superman’s noise of surprise when he jumped over the edge of the building, and kept an eye on his radar as he left the city in the waiting jet. His skin itched for the rest of his patrol back in Gotham, discomfort flooding him at the knowledge that there was no possible way to ascertain that Superman hadn’t been following his every move since their meeting.
He was still so defenseless against him.
After shoving the suit off impatiently, Bruce slammed his hands down on his desk. It was nights like these that were indisputably the worst — when even getting his pound of flesh later on in the night fell short of satiating the endless rage inside of him, not a single part of him feeling appeased.
He was moments away from merely returning to the Batmobile and finding a fight when his computer issued a notification.
He opened the feed immediately. The alert was about a mention of Superman earlier but it was pointless to check the validity— it was almost certainly in casual conversation to his mother, or in passing with Lane, and Bruce would rather just get his fill of Kent instantly, something that might subdue just the smallest part of him so that he could think more clearly in channelling these emotions towards something productive.
Kent was in bed. For a brief moment, Bruce assumed he was asleep. And then his eyes focused and he realized Kent was anything but.
He always slept naked but tonight, he was above the covers. Tonight, he was touching himself, hand moving over himself at a tantalizingly indulgent pace.
Almost instantly, Bruce’s cock twitched. He’d never seen Kent— He’d always assumed Kent kept this restricted to the shower, given the lack of activity before, but evidently, he couldn’t resist tonight.
Bruce barely remembered to engage the locks to the Manor entrances to avoid any awkward interruptions. He was frozen where he stood, jaw slack and eyes fixed to the sight of Kent. The sight that was— beautiful. Kent was beautiful. He had his shoulders and neck propped against his pillows and wire bed frame, one hand clutching his bed sheets and the other working himself. The position of the camera was good (from this view and the positioning of Kent’s arms, his large pecs were pressed together and formed a generous cleavage), though Bruce suddenly wished the quality was better — he knew with utmost certainty that Kent’s entire upper body must be dusted with a mesmerizing flush. His face, those features that Bruce knew so remarkably well, was fixed with concentration, his bottom lip pulled tightly between his white teeth, hair messy and eyebrows low over his shut eyes. His glasses were strewn to the side. Bruce was still motionless — he was tempted to rewind and see just what had gotten Kent so worked up but he couldn’t imagine interrupting what he was seeing now, Kent’s mouth opening and the soft sound of a whimper spilling through the audio feed.
Robotically, Bruce unzipped his undersuit and hissed a quiet breath of relief when the tightness around his cock finally ceased, though it only made it more apparent how achingly hard he’d gotten, so rapidly, as if his body was scrambling to catch up to the aching dark color of Kent’s own desire.
Kent made another keening noise and then his hand was moving faster, his legs spilling further apart, giving Bruce an unhindered view of everything.
Bruce pulled himself free, gripping himself roughly as his jaw clenched painfully tight. He swallowed back the saliva that was gathering in his mouth at the show Kent was making, the curves and lines of his perfect body, the way he threw his head back with a moan, revealing the line of his neck, the way it joined to his tense shoulders, his biceps flexing, and he was— Bruce was matching the pace that Kent was setting without thinking, sliding into his chair and bracing his feet against the floor as he thrust into his own hand, his actions secondary to the pleasure he received from seeing Kent touch himself, the way he curled into his own hand sometimes, like the sensations were too much but he couldn’t stop from chasing the feeling further, deeper.
Kent’s hips lifted off the bed for a moment before he visibly edged himself, following it with a quiet moan of, “Please, please, please—”
Bruce’s own hips pistoned into his fist at the sound of his voice. He watched as Kent gathered the copious amount of wetness he’d produced to use to rub over himself, and the slick smacking noises that followed made Bruce let out a groan himself, coming from somewhere in his chest and sounding almost inhuman.
“Like that, like that— Please…”
It was like Kent was begging for release and Bruce’s mind spiraled, working himself at a faster pace, biting pleasure darkening the feeling of want in him as Kent sped up as well, body twisting as he trembled from his arousal.
Bruce ached; he let out a choked grunt, and ignored how Kent’s name was lodged uncomfortably in his throat. Ignored everything but the sight of Kent and his panting mouth and his hard nipples and his hands, his fingers moving lower and lower until— Kent, fingers damp with his own arousal, pressed a finger inside of himself.
He made a noise louder than any of the others before, sinking the digit deeper inside, and Bruce burned. Far gone was any quiet thrum of want; desire consumed him like a wildfire, and, powerlessly, his mind rushed to everything he’d vowed not to indulge in— He imagined that it was he who was making Kent writhe so beautifully, he who was driving his fingers inside of him while he used his mouth on Kent, making him plead and moan and beg so beautifully to Bruce— He imagined that he was touching Kent, grabbing him, holding him, positioning him as he pleased, molding himself alongside Kent’s bare skin and possessing him— He imagined threading his fingers in Kent’s hair and pushing his tongue inside of his mouth as he pressed his cock inside the tight grip of his body, Kent’s pleases spilling into his mouth as Bruce shushed him and gave him what he wanted, what he needed— He imagined getting Clark naked, just for him, and then completely guarding him from view of anyone else so that it was merely them in a world of Bruce’s creation, Clark existing solely in the circle of Bruce’s arms, his bright eyes flickering open to look at Bruce and seeing him in return and—
Kent’s hips jerked frantically before he let out a drawn-out moan and came, his entire body tightening and splatters of cum squirting over himself. It only took a glance at the rapturous expression across his face that had Bruce following after him, powerful and violent and more satisfying than any other time he’d masturbated since he started watching Kent. Or maybe even before then.
Silence followed, only the sound of his own slightly labored breathing. The evidence of their indulgence dried across both of their chests. Kent looked utterly relaxed.
Bruce wanted to avert his gaze but he couldn’t. He’d once again crossed an imaginary line that was miles out from the first wall that he’d crudely scaled. He’d watched Kent, and he gave into his own desires simultaneously—
The guilt that followed was familiar, if not just as bitterly hard to swallow as it had been before.
There was movement on the screen. Sitting up abruptly, Kent’s posture visibly tensed. His head tilted, eyebrows furrowed, before he got out of bed. Sitting back and trying to regain control of his sprawling thoughts, Bruce watched as the man moved out of view from the bedroom camera toward the most significant blindspot in the room. He did this often — he seemed to be a severe insomniac, and his respite, rather than television or the internet as others’ were, was sitting at his window.
Not for the first time, Bruce considered revisiting the man’s apartment so that he might be able to survey this, too, but only then did his conscience get the better of him. It’d been over two months and not once had Superman visited or made any type of contact with Kent. Or, if he had, he hadn’t visited the man’s apartment to do so, most likely utilizing his preferred meeting place of the Daily Planet rooftop.
Bruce mindlessly turned up the volume of the audio, but Kent had gone completely silent in his room. There was a stiff wind blowing through the room, the ends of his pale curtains visible through the video footage, and Bruce could imagine Kent’s bare chest, nipples pebbling as he let the breeze cool his flushed skin, perched at the window.
Was Kent on call for Superman, like Lane seemed to be? Was it that simple for Superman— he just had to show up at Kent’s workplace and Kent would summit the stairs and stare at him with stars in his eyes like every Metropolitan seemed to do when facing their beloved hero? Did Superman give him that distantly polite look that he always did to civilians? Did he think of Kent at all?
Perhaps Bruce was thinking about this all wrong. It was Superman who always came to Lane’s cries. Maybe an overt threat to Kent’s life, such as those that Lane and even Olsen frequently faced in their investigative pursuits, would have Superman rushing to his side to save him. Kent would be unequivocally grateful. He blushed if a coworker brought him a pastry by surprise. Saving him from harm, delivering him home… Kent would be profusely thankful, effervescent in how he might repay—
Superman.
Bruce’s hands curled into his arm rests.
Kent was acquainted with Superman. He knew him, trusted him, and relied on him, and— He hadn’t even met Batman, had never come to Gotham for all Bruce knew, might be one of the many who thought Batman to be an urban legend. It was Superman, alien, powerful Superman, who Kent knew and trusted and— believed in.
On screen, Kent suddenly appeared as he stumbled back towards his bed. The window was still open, but he seemed too exhausted to care, immediately peeling back his blankets and curling up under them until only his ruffled head of hair was visible. Bruce’s fingers twitched, eyes fixed to his figure.
If Clark was ever in danger, Superman could certainly try and save him. But the man was now under Batman’s watch, and he wouldn’t blink before moving to rescue him himself, no matter the cost.