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Bruce pictures it like a counter.
Each time someone at a fundraiser rests a hand on his shoulder, his arm, the count ticks up by one. His waist? The small of his back? That’s approximately five ticks at once.
Every time Bruce shows up in the news with a beautiful model on his arm as they walk the red carpet, the count increases. Same with each trashy tabloid that catches him leaving a hotel in the same clothes he wore the night before.
When he gets home and he smells like some stranger’s perfume. When there’s a lipstick mark on his jawline or a bruise on his chest after he comes back from patrol. When an alien prince takes Bruce's hand and engages in an intimate gesture intended as a peaceful greeting.
When Barry sits on the table next to Bruce, a little too close so that their knees almost touch. Each time Diana hefts his arm over her shoulder, and their faces are inches away from each other. All the little playful remarks exchanged with Selina, every quiet conversation he has with Harvey at Arkham.
The cuts left behind by whichever rogue of the week has gone wild. The rare praises he offers to Leaguers when they listen to his requests for once. The smile he gives an old flame who’s long been happily married, but still runs in the same high society circles as he does.
Day by day, the counter goes up and up and up—
Until it hits max capacity, and Clark snaps.
The counter seems to have reset since they had intense, life-affirming sex after a particularly grueling battle for the fate of the earth (again, as usual). Emotions were expressed, there was some cuddling, Bruce slept for more than four hours afterwards. Everything was at equilibrium again.
And then Bruce has to pretend to be Hal’s husband for a diplomatic mission and the cycle starts anew.
“So he’s going to kill me, right?” Hal asks as they get dressed in the local attire. The League is visually monitoring them from afar, just in case things go sideways. “We’re gonna have to kiss for the mission and then Clark is going to incinerate me when we get back.”
“He’s not going to incinerate you.”
“I saw that smile he gave you before we left. That was his ‘I hate this but I’m too Midwestern to let you know’ smile.”
Bruce lets out a huff of a laugh because he’d seen it too. “It’s going to be fine,” he says as he laces up his sandals. “He’s a professional; we all are. He knows there are things we each have to do for the greater good.”
“Is it really the greater good for you to pretend to make out with movie stars?” At Bruce’s raised eyebrow, Hal puts up a hand. “Hey, it’s not like I’m trying to keep up with your celebrity gossip, but it’s pretty hard to avoid on Earth.”
Fair enough. “Kal understands why I do it.”
“Y’know, you wouldn’t have to do it if one of you just popped the question already. Or like, even publicly admitted you were dating.”
“The current state of our relationship suits us just fine.”
“You sure? 'Cause Clark seems to get pretty worked up whenever you have too many people pawing at you- Oh, I get it,” Hal says slyly as he ties Bruce’s sash into place. “You like him like this.”
“Jordan.”
“Don’t ‘Jordan’ me; I’m your husband for the next three days, Bruce.”
Bruce rolls his eyes and pushes Hal's jabbing elbow away. “Just turn around, Hal.” Hal turns away so Bruce can tie his sash in return, but Bruce can somehow still see the smirk on his face.
“I’m just saying, you don’t need all the weird layers of subterfuge to get Supes to fuck you through the mattress. Pretty sure he’d do anything for you if you asked nicely enough. Or not so nicely. Dunno what you guys are into-”
“Hal,” Bruce scolds as he turns Hal around to fix the drape of his sleeves.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Probably shouldn’t be talking about you getting it on with another man anyway; they’ll get suspicious.”
“Exactly. Now hold my damn hand.”
“I can't believe one of the last things I'll do with my arm before Superman snaps it off is hold Batman's hand. What'd I ever do to deserve this, huh?”
“Three days isn't long enough for me to list all the reasons.”
“Ha. So you do have a sense of humor hiding in that big cape.”
The mission actually goes quite well, but Bruce estimates the fake marriage brings Clark up to at least 20%. Hal and Bruce have to kiss three times, and engage in some very platonic bedsharing that results in Hal accidentally kicking Bruce in the knee and Bruce rolling away with all the sheets. Hal definitively does not get incinerated upon their return, but Bruce knows Clark, and he can tell that he's holding just a bit tighter when he kisses Bruce that evening back at the manor.
Poison Ivy's latest toxin causes innocent bystanders and gang members alike to pepper Batman's face with kisses as he chases her around the city. Bruce has to carefully peel each person away from him, taking to grappling around to avoid any further incidents. 28%.
One of the doctors at Gotham General clasps both of Bruce’s hands in his for an extended handshake during a fundraiser, and later seeks him out for a private conversation (about further donations to upgrading the pediatric cancer ward). 33%.
A morning talk show host stands a little too close when Bruce explains to her how to use the newest Wayne Tech automatic vacuum cleaner robot. 40%.
Talia passes through Gotham on her way back home from business abroad and stops by to visit Damian. She leaves behind a smudge of lipstick on her teacup and a long strand of dark hair that clings to Bruce’s turtleneck after their brief embrace. 51%.
Oliver makes a joke about having a crush on Bruce back in boarding school. 53%.
Another tabloid insinuates that Bruce and Silver St. Cloud might be reconnecting after he stops to catch up with her during a gala. 59%.
The Joker tries to take a bite out of Batman's arm while worked up in a frenzy of his own creation, and manages to leave some teeth marks behind on his glove. 68%.
Lex Luthor invites Bruce out for dinner in Metropolis in another veiled threat disguised as a business proposition. Bruce gets drunk enough to one, fall onto his lap, and two, have an excuse for Alfred to come fetch him home. 79%.
Another diplomatic mission, another incident where an alien entity tries to convince Bruce to become its spouse. 87%.
Barry makes a joke about Bruce Wayne being the celebrity crush of two thirds of the League. Bruce offers to give him a signed poster. 91%.
Hal makes a joke about not needing a poster because Bruce Wayne is his trophy husband. 93%.
Bruce receives the third in a series of blank postcards from southeast Asia that he tucks away in a box in his office desk. 97%.
Bruce is thinking about canapés when it happens.
Not because he’s particularly hungry or anything, but because a server passes by with a tray of mini toasts heaped with some mysterious seafood and microgreens and he’s suddenly stricken with a reminder of the time Tim and Cassandra each managed to stuff ten hors d’oeuvres in his pockets while he was busy swanning around the room alternately hitting on and offending various people. Alfred had not been happy about the resulting mess, but Bruce had thought it a easy price to pay for their amusement.
In his little traipse down memory lane, he doesn’t notice the state senator approaching him until they’re already too close to each other, the alcohol on the other man’s breath unpleasant against Bruce’s face.
“Bruce! Bruce,” Senator Green says, his arms bracing Bruce around the shoulders. He’s a fairly harmless man, considering the usual state of politicians from Gotham, but his fondness for liquor isn’t doing him any favors tonight. Chances are he’ll fall into someone before the night is up.
“Senator, how are you enjoying the event?” Bruce asks, turning so that he can pivot the man toward the wall, away from other patrons. There’s a chair a few yards away; if Bruce can slowly waltz their way there, he can deposit the senator without trouble. Unfortunately, Green is further along than Bruce expected, and almost faceplants into Bruce’s chest when he twirls them slowly toward the chair.
“Great, it’s great, you always know how to throw a party. Bruce, I need to know- the- the park thing, that’s- my wife was saying that your mother, bless her soul, that the rose garden there- some of the roses were donated by your mother-”
“Yes, transplanted from her garden at the manor,” Bruce says, helping Green over the last few steps to the chair. The man is half draped over Bruce’s shoulder by the time he gets seated.
“That’s wonderful, it really is. Say, d’you know- the wife’s been hounding me to ask you- any way you’d be willing to consider her ideas for the other park- the one in midtown?” He clasps a hand around the nape of Bruce’s neck, shaking him slightly, and Bruce bobbles his head along to avoid getting whiplash.
“I’d be happy to send her designs along to the project head,” Bruce gives him a smile, gently beginning to extricate himself before their foreheads can smack into each other. In his periphery there’s someone striding forcefully over, and it’s only his preternatural self-control that stops him from double-taking when he recognizes that person to be Clark.
Hm. For Clark Kent to be moving with so much purpose, he must be at his limit.
Glancing down, he notices that Green’s other hand is on his chest, in what is a decidedly non-sexual way to the two of them, but is a big, glaring matador’s cape to Clark at 100% possessiveness.
“You’ll have to excuse me, senator; I have an engagement with the press to get to. But I’ll be in touch about the parks.”
Bruce quickly steps away from Green to sweep into Clark's path before he can get any closer to the senator.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” he says, tugging on Clark's press badge as he intercepts his partner, his throat going a little dry at how intensely Clark's eyes follow each tiny movement. “Come to get a soundbite out of me?”
“Yes. You owe me a private interview, Mr. Wayne.” He leans in closer than could be considered professional, his hand closing around Bruce's. His touch burns. It always does, but it seems to sear even hotter when Clark’s eyes have darkened this much, and he looms large over Bruce with his full size, no longer constrained by his affected slouch.
How can Bruce do anything but follow him?
“Then by all means, lead the way.”
They have the decency not to fuck in the coat room or the men’s bathroom, but barely.
“Clark,” Bruce says as Clark yanks his pants open. They're holed up in a far off stairwell, where no patrons should go wandering. The handrail is digging into Bruce's legs, but he doesn't stop Clark as he tugs Bruce's cock free from his boxers. His shirt has already been hastily unbuttoned, his chest exposed so Clark could mark him right where the senator’s hand had been resting. “Security could come passing through.”
Clark gives him a stern look as he undoes his own belt. Bruce finds it annoying that he looks cool and unruffled while Bruce almost certainly has lovebites blooming on his throat and jaw from the last five minutes. “Then let's hope you don't make any noise.” He pulls his own dick out, and if Bruce weren’t currently trapped against the corner of the landing, he’d be dropping to his knees already. He’s unbelievably easy when Clark gets like this.
Clark takes them both in hand, and Bruce follows suit, so they can jerk off together.
“They think they have the right to just touch you whenever they feel like it,” Clark snaps as he strokes upward, his grip firm. “They think they deserve a chance at this.”
“I can guarantee Senator Green had absolutely no designs on my virtue,” Bruce promises as he thrusts up into Clark’s hand, the slide of their cocks against each other causing him to shiver.
“If not him, then someone else. They’re like vultures, Bruce. The way they circle you, desperate to get a taste. So hungry to sink their claws into what’s mine.”
Bruce groans at the words as Clark works them faster. “They don’t know any better.”
“Then maybe it's about time that they did.”
“Soon, I promise.”
“Could be sooner. I should just stake my claim- should march you back out there and put you on your knees in the middle of that ballroom-”
“Fuck, Clark-”
“-finally show this city exactly who you belong to. Gotham should know that her Prince Charming gives it up to a Kansas farm boy every night.”
Bruce drags him into a kiss instead of trying to reply any further. There’s no world where Bruce could actually let Clark fuck him in front of the Gotham elite, but he can certainly dream about it.
Hal was right: Bruce loves Clark like this. Loves knowing that he can shake that iron control, that Clark wants Bruce enough that it brings out the endearing imperfections in him. He loves that Clark is sweet and upright and good, but he also loves that Clark can allow himself to be as human as the rest of them when he’s around Bruce.
“Going to show them how you made me yours?” he murmurs against Clark’s lips as they frot against one another in a desperate chase for release. If they weren’t in the middle of an event that neither of them can leave, Bruce would drag them both back to the manor now, so Clark can burn through all the frustration that’s been building in him for months.
“Now I’m not so sure. Don’t want them getting any ideas about taking you over your desk.” Clark plants a palm against the wall, closing Bruce in. It should be claustrophobic, but it only makes him feel more beloved, especially when Clark presses a kiss much gentler than his words to Bruce’s cheek.
“You say that like- nn- like just anybody can come waltzing into my office whenever they so please-” Bruce trails off with a whine as Clark slips a hand down the back of his pants and teases his entrance. What he wouldn’t give to be in his office at this very minute, thrown on his couch while Clark strips his tie off and prepares to fuck him into next week.
“The press badge unlocks more doors than you expect,” Clark says, but there’s a trace of laugh in his voice now. His blunt fingertips rub at Bruce’s rim, hinting at what’s to come, and Bruce makes an undignified noise as he grinds harder against him, both of them nearing their limit.
“Only yours,” Bruce promises. “Only for you.”
He seals his promise with another kiss, his hips jerking as he comes. Clark breaks their kiss to grab hold of his own cock, now sticky with Bruce’s cum. He works himself a few times more before he comes, and it isn’t at all subtle how he angles himself to shoot his release all over Bruce’s stomach.
“Marking your territory? Really?” Bruce gripes half-heartedly, and Clark laughs before giving him another quick kiss.
“Sorry, it was you or the wall, and I don’t really want to lick the wall clean.”
“That’s definitely not the most efficient way to clean up.” There’s a men’s bathroom right outside the stairwell just two flights up.
“But it would be the most fun,” Clark counters. One evil hand is still holding Bruce’s softening cock, and the other is sneaking down the back of Bruce’s pants again. “Besides,” he says, his voice dipping low, “I don’t think I’ve fully proven my point yet.”
Bruce stares at Clark’s dick as it seems to regain vitality. “I have a speech to give in thirty minutes.”
“Good thing this won’t take longer than twenty.”
Bruce thumps his head against the wall as Clark’s mischievous hand finds the spot it was searching for. Fuck it. He made this bed, so he might as well lie in it.
“I’ll give you fifteen. Hop to it, Kent.”