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Clark doesn’t need to sleep, just like he doesn’t need to eat, stretch, or drink caffeine the same way Lois and Jimmy do.
That being said, he feels the effects of skipping out on these rituals minutely throughout the day. He’ll space out while writing, his ears perked up for danger across the city. He’ll reach for a mug that isn’t there on his desk. He imagines it is the equivalent of one of those perky rich yoga moms skipping her morning Kundalini class—he’s regulated enough to function, but he’ll spend the day feeling like the coiled serpent within him is moving unsettlingly up his spine, and nothing can keep his attention as long as he feels it slithering in there. So, really, it’s for the best that he continues his little human rituals.
It’s a summery Wednesday just before lunch, and everyone in the office, including Clark, is eager to step out into the sun, so, naturally, they are pointedly ignoring their article deadlines. Jimmy is milling about the office, Steve is not even pretending he isn’t playing Clash of Clans on his phone, and Cat is sitting on one end of Lois’ desk, masterfully texting, gossiping, and touching up her lipstick at the same time. Clark is certain he’s seen JLA members fail to juggle lesser tasks.
On a normal day, he’d compliment her dexterity (clumsy Clark Kent could never), but today is not a normal day, and he’s busy staring at the word persistence repeated five times in his article and struggling to think of a synonym. He’d spent the night in Star City wrangling Ollie and his family out of an elaborate kidnapping plot. So while he couldn’t biologically feel tired, exactly, the lack of personal time set aside for something as meditative as sleeping makes him feel like words are falling out of his head every time he blinks at the screen before him.
Giving up on finding a synonym for persistence—a bit ironic, even for him—Clark leans his head on his hand and decides to listen in on Cat’s gossip. She is, after all, the best gossip in the city. She has awards to prove it.
“I’ve spoken to no less than five confirmed hookups and a number of other more… dubious sources, and they all say the same thing,” Cat says, closing up her lipstick with a satisfying click. She looks down at Lois, sweeping her bangs away from her face and revealing a puzzled quirk to her brow. “The pants never come off. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Lois closes her laptop, also decidedly giving up on her work for now, and stretches as she looks up at Cat. “I dunno. His family has been rich since… Well, forever, right? Maybe he’s got some old-fashioned feelings about sex on the first date—or first encounter, I guess—to go with that old money of his.”
Cat’s grin turns sly. “With the moves I’ve heard of him pulling on these people, I’d say there’s nothing old-fashioned about him.”
Lois’ eyebrow quirks in a synchronized motion with her straightened back. She leans forward, her eyes more piercing, the way they always look when she’s hungry for a story. “That good? You’re sure they weren’t just swayed by a pretty name with a big bank account?”
“Maybe,” Cat admits with a shrug. “But there’s something to be said about truth in numbers—and they all said they walked away thoroughly satisfied. More than once, even.”
Lois blinks up at her. “And pants never come off?”
“Nope. His don’t, at least,” Cat says, eyes lingering on something in front of Lois. She must spot the time on her phone, because she shouts, “Lunch!” before hopping off the desk, with Lois following closely behind as the rest of the office speedily heads towards the elevators.
Clark’s super-hearing is the only way he keeps up with their conversation as he falls to the back of the small crowd ushering out of the office, overseen by Perry’s grumpy expression from the glass walls of his office. The small inkling he had of who Cat is describing is confirmed just below the din of the crowd and Perry’s booming voice calling his name.
“Hmm. It must be insurance so that he doesn’t have little Waynes running around all over Gotham,” Lois says, making Clark unsure if he stopped out of shock at the name Wayne or the authoritative Kent being shouted behind him.
Clark is still for just a second too long, making him receive a number of dirty looks from coworkers who hit the sturdy wall of his back as he accidentally broke the flow of the crowd. He turns back around, peeking a head into Perry’s office.
“Kent,” Perry says, leaning back in his chair, “I’d like you to accompany Ms. Grant to the annual Wayne Enterprises ‘Gotham Gives’ Gala tonight. Jimmy is apparently busy with a date,” cue a classic Perry eye-roll, “so I need you to be the photographer. Have you got a tux?”
Clark nods mutely, feeling suddenly stiff at the thought of seeing Bruce Wayne in the flesh after such a revelation from Cat. Perry scowls at his expression, then waves him off.
“Good. Go home and get ready. Cat will pick you up,’ Perry says, and, with that, Clark is suddenly very, very awake.
The problem with meeting Bruce Wayne, in Clark’s eyes, is-
Well, there are many problems with Bruce Wayne.
The first, and most complicated, would be that they are colleagues. Bruce doesn’t know this, or, at least, Clark is pretty sure he doesn’t know, since Clark hasn’t told the JLA about his civilian identity. But that’s another problem with Bruce Wayne: he is unknowable. The world sees him as this beautiful tragedy, occasional headline, and, among the more powerful crowd, a bit easy. The little Clark knows about him, from his years working with Batman, feels wholly contradictory to his public image.
With the exception of the beautiful tragedy part. Bruce is undeniably beautiful. His life is also marked by tragedy, and he carries himself as though he bears the same weight as Atlas.
(Clark should know; he once took Atlas’ place for a day. He sees that burden in Bruce’s eyes when his guard is down, when the fight is over and he looks around at the destruction that will take years of emotional and physical labour to patch up.)
The man is overwhelmingly private, so the idea of the unknowable Batman and the media darling Brucie Wayne being the same person would have been laughable to Clark before last year. But when Batman’s cowl was smashed to pieces in a fight in Brazil, Bruce came back to the Hall maskless for the debrief, Batman’s unending nonchalance untouched by the bare face of a billionaire looking out at the stunned faces of the JLA. He’s since spoken to all the members about the importance of confidentiality when it comes to member safety, and the unspoken message of “Tell anyone and the extensive files and contingencies against you will be front page news by morning” was evident to everyone else.
Clark can’t remember his opinion about Bruce Wayne before that day, but he does remember seeing Batman emerge from the fight, face just barely visible between the pieces of the cowl still holding on, the grime and his eye paint mottling his skin. He remembers how his frustrating interest in the stoic vigilante turned from a repressed crush into something more… well, for a lack of a better word, persistent.
He went home that night and fell into the rabbit hole that is Bruce’s life. It was maddening, to have held onto the most miniscule interactions for years, wondering what each small quirk of his mouth meant, and suddenly having every moment of the man’s public life available to be read in detail from multiple sources. It was both an uncovered wealth and an obsession waiting to happen, and Clark had to use immense restraint just to keep from taking a sick day and delving into every story he could find about the man. Instead, he filled his quiet apartment with the sounds of Bruce’s rare television appearances representing Wayne Enterprises, his eyes shining in the light of the laptop screen.
The following JLA meetings forced him to reckon with the effect that Bruce had on him. He caught himself staring at him during important briefings, his mind slowly slipping into imagined scenarios… nothing explicit, since Clark was, well, still Clark. Ever the boy scout.
Instead he imagined lengthy conversations, pieces of dialogue stolen from short interviews he watched online and redirected his way, this woven tapestry of what he could salvage of this broken man, and dreams he had of someone who was both utterly human and willingly placing himself among aliens and gods to fight for a people who had, on one fateful night, failed him. He heard the exasperated “Kal” spoken during arguments in the Hall, and suddenly he imagined the name whispered to him on early mornings, when Clark would wake him with coffee in bed.
It felt a bit pathetic, if he were being honest.
He almost wished he had less repressed fantasies of the man (almost being the key word. No one wants Clark getting a bit too excited when flying Batman across a battlefield). Those he could explain away as mere stimuli, nothing like the thought-consuming pit he had fallen into in the short time since learning more about his stoic colleague. Instead, Clark learned to grapple with the idea of Bruce being unreachable, an untenable element. Even as Superman, the idea of dating someone in the public eye like Bruce Wayne was not only a bad idea, but a dangerous one—for both of them. Mix in the combination of their civilian and heroic identities, and it was like watching oil approach fire. Disaster on the brink.
Tonight will be fine, Clark tells himself as he buttons up his tuxedo jacket. I’ll take photos, stick by Cat’s side, and interact minimally with Bruce. He’s the host, after all. Too busy for the likes of two journalists from a neighboring city. He checks himself in the mirror, once, twice, adjusting everything carefully, even knowing the jacket is deliberately a bit oversized, and he’s missing a bowtie, so he had to stick with a necktie instead. And yet…
He looks good for a liar.
The old hall that hosts the annual “Gotham Gives” Gala, or G3, as locals call it, is everything Clark had hoped for and more. Seeing Gotham at a street-level for once, as Cat’s car exited the tunnel from Metropolis, makes him understand why Bruce protects this place so fiercely. When he flies overhead on the rare occasions Batman allows him in Gotham, Clark has always noticed the darkness of the city, the way its old brick buildings and smoky skyline look so ominous against the younger, shinier Metropolis. But tonight, he sees what Bruce has always seen.
It’s beautiful.
The hall’s walls and floors are dark cherry wood with the slightly sticky patina typical of buildings from this era—probably from 1920 or 1930, if Clark were to guess. Gold candlesticks and chandeliers and brass doorknobs catch the light all over, giving the place an old-timey sparkle, and Clark starts to feel like he’s stepped into the old movies Ma loves, surrounded by wealthy people that will either fall into a tumultuous romance, meet an ill fate on the Titanic, or both. Even the layered smells of dusty velvet curtains and old incense add to the feeling that Clark is way out of his depth. And out of his tax bracket.
His stomach drops as the din silences for a second, because knowing Gotham, something has gone wrong. Instead, Clark looks up to see glossy black hair filtering through the top of the crowd, and he is overcome by the sense of stepping into the Golden Age of Cinema when Bruce Wayne makes his first appearance of the night.
He’s wearing a standard, albeit expensive, tuxedo, and he carries himself with the swagger of Sinatra entering Radio City Music Hall. This is his element. He is the star. He glides through the crowd effortlessly, or, at least, he seems to, when filtered through Clark’s hazy, romantic vision of the man.
Clark meets Bruce’s eyes, and for a split second, he thinks he sees recognition there, but it is gone so quickly that, even with Clark’s superspeed, Clark thinks he’s imagining things. There’s a brief moment as Bruce sucks in a breath where Clark almost expects him to frown, the way Batman always does, but is instead met with a signature, captivating grin. He recalls seeing photos of Thomas Wayne as a young man in the spotlight, grin bright in the contrast of the black and white newspaper photos, and the resemblance is stark. He has to wonder if part of the reason Batman smiles so little is because doing so creates a reflection of his own greatest loss.
Bruce greets several reporters by name—some mistakenly, though Clark knows that Bruce is doing so intentionally, some of whom he knows to be staunch critics of Batman’s nightly ventures—before approaching Cat and Clark. He greets Cat with familiarity, asking about the drive from Metropolis in that efficient, polite way that a host of his stature in society is wont to do. Cat shows her skills by conducting a sincere interview with unique questions in under three minutes, and Clark captures as many photos as he can, hoping Jimmy can get something of use out of them. Clark may know how to adjust the settings on the camera, but his eye for photography ends there.
Just as Bruce is about to leave, he turns towards Clark as he lowers the camera, offering him a hand, and the shake is cordial, but Clark thinks Bruce’s touch lingers for a second as their hands fall.
“Now, Ms. Grant, I can’t leave without you introducing your new photographer to me. It just wouldn’t be polite. Did Mr. Olsen abandon you for the crime beat?” He says, glancing back at Cat with a playful grin. He turns back to Clark, his eyes sharp and interested.
Cat’s eyes narrow, and she bears a likeness to her namesake as she simply says, her tone all-knowing, “Clark Kent.”
“Mr. Kent,’ Bruce says, tapping his shoulder, which draws him in closer, his next words almost a whisper against the voices surrounding them. “I have to see to my guests, but we must get acquainted.”
Clark says nothing, slack-jawed as Bruce heads off as swiftly as he came. He’s only brought back to the present by Cat, who laughs and shakes her head at Clark.
“I should’ve known,’ Cat says, making Clark quirk a brow, but before he could ask, she’s already weaving through the crowd and directing him on who to photograph, and who is a must-see of the night.
The following hours are a mix of rushing to interview significant guests before they leave and sitting through long speeches by various Wayne Enterprises board members. Bruce makes the rounds, but notably does not address the room like his associates do. Clark, long abandoned by his more sociable colleague, melts against the wall next to the bar, listening in on Cat’s interview across the room, his eyes blankly glossing over the crowd of the veritable “who’s who” of Gotham.
“I’d offer to get you a drink, but something tells me that my usual moves won’t work here,” Bruce says, and Clark straightens, surprised that he could be caught off guard by anyone—though, he recalled, this is Batman, after all. The man could surprise God. And luckily, tonight, they were Clark and Bruce, rather than Superman and Batman, because if Bruce knew who he was, he’d have certainly scolded him for not being more wary in a place like Gotham. Knowing the rogues Bruce faces, even someone as strong as Clark would be inclined to agree that caution should be a baseline.
“Why?” Clark says, quirking a brow at him. “Do I seem like someone who can’t be bought?”
“No,” Bruce says, grinning as if they are partaking in an inside joke. “Though, as a journalist, I would hope you are not. Besides, it’s an open bar.”
Clark glances over, then blushes. He hadn’t even noticed.
“You don’t drink,” Bruce says in hushed observation, like a secret being shared between the two of them. “I’d guess it takes more than some champagne to surpass a metabolism like yours.”
“You’re awfully observant of a mere journalist, Mr. Wayne,” Clark says, earnest in his surprise. There are at least a hundred people at the gala that surpass Clark Kent’s importance, many of whom are probably big donors or key associates to WE. There are at least a dozen more who have been making eyes at Bruce all night to get his attention, though Bruce seems keenly uninterested in them, despite what Clark had overheard from Cat and Lois hours earlier. He blushes again as he remembers their conversation.
“I’m observant of everybody,” Bruce says.
Clark begins to notice how Brucie and the Dark Knight are converging; his voice has lost its movie star quality, and is instead replaced by the deeper, flatter tone, and his head ducks lower, regarding the crowd with Batman’s distinct brand of cynicism. No one else is looking their way, so he either underestimates Clark’s own observation skills, or… does he know?
The thought is interrupted by Bruce flashing him that smile again, returning as easily as it left. It would be scary to see such an easy switch on anyone else, if only Clark weren’t so swayed by both his easy charm and quiet genius.
His chest feels hot. Maybe he should have taken that drink. Even if it wouldn’t have helped, he’d love something to blame his lack of self-control on.
“Besides, Mr. Kent,” Bruce says, “you discount yourself far too easily.”
Clark’s heat has spread to his face, worsened as Bruce smoothly plucks his pocket square from him, only to shake it out, refold it, and replace it. Clark feels the shape of a plastic card against the fabric, and he’s confused how even he didn’t notice it getting placed in his pocket. Bruce pats his chest in a way that would look to any observer like a cordial moment of fixing a fashion faux-pas, but that Clark read for what it was: an invitation.
Bruce exits his field of vision with a few long strides, melting into the crowd.
Clark spends a good twenty minutes agonizing over what this could mean. Was Bruce flirting with him? More than that, if the card is an invitation, what should Clark expect? He’s never really been the type to have one night stands. They are a bit difficult to manage with the whole Superman thing. He is, admittedly, also a bit shy at the idea of it all.
Never one to back down from a daunting situation, Clark makes his way to the elevator and finds his way up to the room listed on the key card. He stands still outside the door, scenes flashing before his eyes of Bruce pulling him in by the tie and ravishing him. He stands there, growing redder and redder at the thought of what may transpire behind closed doors, when the door opens.
Bruce greets him with an amiable smile, beckoning him inside by silently stepping to the side.
So… no ravishing.
Clark internally scolds himself for creating some bodice-ripper fantasy in his head. His polite midwestern repression gawks at this side of him, though he can’t really help it. He looks over at Bruce, who closes the door and walks into the suite with such confidence that he knows Clark will just obediently follow, and Clark does. He would follow Bruce anywhere.
The quiet they share for a few moments is intimate and familiar all at once; it reminds Clark of all the years of shared Watchtower duty and huddled seconds behind debris in battle as they gathered their composure before returning to the fray. He remembers the steady rhythm of Bruce’s breath in each of those moments, and how, without trying, he had memorized the man’s heartbeat long before he had realized the feelings he bore towards Batman were far from platonic.
There’s a long, acknowledging look between them as Bruce hands Clark a glass. The Brucie he met with Cat, and the half-Brucie, part-Batman he felt in their earlier conversation was gone. The Bruce he knows from those shared moments, the one that has always felt the most raw and real to Clark, has replaced them. He is calm, present, and while the charisma remains, it feels less Hollywood, and more… real. He knows Bruce constantly puts on an act, but if he were to guess, he would say this Bruce is as close as he could get to the real thing as he could get. Quiet, an attentive stare, and a looseness in his stance that he would never allow on patrol or among the wealthy of Gotham.
Is he like this for all his hookups? Clark wonders.
He looks up from his glass—a sparkling drink with no alcohol, so Clark feels included in the ceremony of a drink without the burning taste wrecking his oversensitive tastebuds—and meets Bruce’s eyes. He doesn’t look away as he drinks, or as he places the glass down. He steps forward, closing the polite gap of space that had been left between them, and, with an uncharacteristic hunger, he takes Bruce’s glass, too, setting it down before pulling him against his chest. He feels like he’s stepped out of his body and into the mind of someone more suave. He can’t complain—all he wants is to not make a fool of himself, and from the way Bruce’s pupils dilate, he’s doing a good job.
Up close, he notices things he hadn’t earlier: how soft his face is when clean shaven, a rarity when he dons the cowl for longer missions, or how he starts to see Batman when he really looks. Bruce, he knows, is covered in scars. Bullet holes, stab wounds, slices, nicks, impromptu surgery scars, the works.
Until now, he thought they were so cleverly hidden below the collar—another reason Clark supposed Bruce remained clothed during hookups—but he sees the truth of the matter now. Bruce is careful, unbelievably so, and doesn’t take a wound unless he truly couldn’t avoid it. There’s no saving his face or neck or scalp from attacks, not with the amount of fights he’s in, or how outmatched he often is—physically, at least.
Bruce bears scars under nearly imperceptible layers of makeup and carefully placed hair. Clark’s lashes blur Bruce’s face in the periphery as he closes in, thumb gently pressing into the corner of his lips so he can look at the scar there. He remembers this one, he thinks, though he can’t voice that. From two years ago, when he assisted him in a fight against Brainiac. He glances up, a silent request for permission. Bruce nods, mouth still slightly open where Clark’s thumb presses into it.
Clark’s nose skims Bruce’s cheek as he tilts his head into the kiss. Gentle, at first. Clark’s always been aware of his strength, and he’s so careful in moments of intimacy that it seems timid, but there’s a confidence to the movements that comes from him letting his body take over. You have his permission, his body tells him, you can do the things you wouldn’t let yourself imagine, late at night, after you’d brushed against him accidentally at the end of a JLA meeting-
His hands cup Bruce’s face, gathering him closer, making the shorter man rise on the balls of his feet, an indignity he’s sure he’s never faced with any other partner. Bruce does nothing to combat this, though, and lets his hands wrap around Clark’s biceps (to steady himself, certainly. No other reason). Clark’s tongue runs along Bruce’s, and finally getting a taste of something he has wanted for so long must snap the boyish eagerness in him, because Clark’s hands fall to Bruce’s thighs and pick him up so quickly and suddenly that even Bruce, Batman, is caught off guard.
Bruce nearly whimpers as Clark presses him against the wall, the pressure literally taking the weight off his shoulders as Clark holds him a few inches off the ground. His hand splays across Bruce’s lower back, slowly pulling him up the thigh he’s nestled between Bruce’s legs, the friction pulling Bruce’s pants taut, and Clark finds some confirmation that he wasn’t misreading the appraising looks at the Gala.
With his head tipped back, eyes shut tightly, mouth pressed into a quivering line, Clark is willing to bet that this is the most vulnerable Bruce has appeared in front of another person since taking on the mantle of Batman. How many people can lift the Dark Knight without paying dearly with an overnight stay at Gotham General Hospital? The thrill of somehow knowing this innately, that he is the only one that gets to see Bruce like this, courses through him, and his lips are back on Bruce’s with fervor.
The feeling of Bruce grinding against his thigh, his hands working quickly to unbutton Clark’s dress shirt, the subtle tug of his tie as it is shed; Clark feels almost dizzy at how quickly this is going. He pulls back for a second, wanting to pause and really look at Bruce, but Bruce has other ideas.
The other man kisses down the bare skin of his chest and abdomen, sinking to his knees against the wall, and dares a glance back up at Clark, who has to close his eyes and silently recite the only Kryptonian song he knows to cool himself down.
“Clark?” It’s whispered, almost as if the shared silence up until now has been reverent. Clark is so used to silence in church back in Smallville that he almost didn’t question it, this feeling, and when he looks down at Bruce, kneeling, he realizes that he’ll never be able to think of church without this picture in mind again.
‘I’m fine,” he says, though he knows he looks like a mess. After a second, he tugs Bruce back up. He kisses him quickly, pulling back again to carefully unbutton a suit that must cost more money than he can really conceptualize right now.
“I’ve heard a rumour about you,” Clark says without thinking. He pauses unbuttoning for a second, wincing as he realizes what he’s done, then quickly finishes off the last button. When he looks back up at Bruce, he’s met with a curious, amused expression.
“A good one, I hope,” Bruce says, not quite inviting him to say it, so Clark takes a moment to decide if he should.
He pulls the layers of Bruce’s tux off, using the proximity as he pulls them down his arms to lean in and kiss him again, just in case this confession goes awry. At least he’d get a good look at his sculpted arms. And toned chest. And his abs. God, his abs. He commits the scarred, beautiful body before him to memory before making the leap.
“I’ve heard…” he begins, then realizes he doesn’t know how to word this in a way that translates from Cat’s Metropolis bluntness to his midwestern polite discretion. He takes a moment, which makes Bruce look even more amused. “Well, I’ve heard you don’t, uh, undress, at least not fully, when you-”
“Clark,” Bruce interrupts, “You’re a reporter. Ask the question.”
The authoritative tone snaps Clark from his bumbling behaviour, as if putting on the Batman voice clicked him back to the confidence he has as Superman.
“Bruce Wayne,” he says, reaching down to run a finger along the inside of Bruce’s belt. “Why can’t anyone get in your pants?”
Clark almost immediately feels the flush reach his chest as he wrangles with such a direct question, but Bruce looks unsurprised.
“I have a couple reasons,” Bruce begins, tilting Clark’s chin up to meet his eyes. He leans in for a kiss, short and sweet, then lists things matter-of-factly between open-mouthed kisses down his neck. “Mostly, it’s easier. Less risk of disease or pregnancy. They can’t blackmail me with a hidden camera. If they’re, to put it politely, not getting the job done, I can usually satisfy my end of the bargain and be done with it quickly.”
Clark blinks down at the man as he kisses his shoulder, then looks back up at him. One of his hands rakes through his hair, making him shiver slightly under his gaze.
“I’m sensing something is missing from your list,” Clark says. “And?”
“And…” Bruce says, taking Clark’s hand, and guiding it to slowly pull the leather belt loose. He does the same to Clark’s belt as the Kryptonian remains frozen in place, trying not to spook the Bat. He doesn’t look back up at Clark as he speaks again, his voice low: “Maybe I knew they weren’t who I really wanted. So I spared myself the disappointment at the end of the night.”
There’s a long bout of silence as Clark takes that in, one hand still holding the leather. Not for the first time that night, he questions if Bruce recognizes him. If he figured him out ages ago. If, somehow, Bruce was the mastermind behind this whole night, and somehow got the rumour to reach him, knowing that curiosity was always Clark’s downfall.
“And if I were to do this,” Clark says, pulling the buckle off the leather, and slowly sliding the belt out of the loops before dropping it to the floor. “Could you see yourself feeling disappointed tonight?”
Bruce finally looks back up at Clark, and the signature rhythm of his heart picks up in a way that only Clark would notice.
“No,” Bruce says.
Bruce splays his hand across Clark’s chest, leading him backwards until he falls back onto the bed. Bruce is watching him with a subtle smirk as Clark opens his legs wider, an invitation that is met with an achingly slow performance of Bruce unbuttoning his pants. He lowers the zip and pulls them down without breaking eye contact, laying them over a chair in a movement akin to a matador waving a red flag. If it’s meant to elicit a similar aggression in Clark, it’s working.
Clark sits back up, leaning forward with the intent to pull Bruce back in for a kiss, only to be pushed back onto the bed so quickly his body bounces against the mattress. Clark only has time to blink before Bruce is on him, straddling his waist. He takes Clark’s glasses off, and Clark stiffens slightly as Bruce looks down at him, his expression serious, as concentrated now as he is during battle. Clark takes a slow breath as he does, fearing the recognition that might follow, but Bruce’s stare doesn’t change. He tries again to move, but Bruce catches his wrists mid-motion and slides forward, dragging them up and above Clark’s head. He tuts his tongue disapprovingly, and the sound travels straight to Clark’s dick.
Clark takes the hint and holds his arms above his head, letting Bruce have free reign to touch his body freely. Pulling down the elastic of their briefs simultaneously, Bruce takes both their dicks in hand, squeezing them together and stroking them far slower than Clark would have done, but maybe that was why his hands were in air jail.
Bruce’s free hand moves out of Clark’s line of sight, and he begins to work himself open. Clark, wide-eyed and tortured, stares on. Too obedient to lower his hands, he lets himself plead with his eyes. Bruce, preoccupied, doesn’t notice.
“Bruce,” Clark says, whispering again—for what reason, he isn’t sure.
Bruce looks up again, his cheeks dusted pink, and his mouth hanging open. Clark’s words refuse to come out.
“You can move, Clark,” Bruce says, shaking his head with a slight grin. “It’s not like I cuffed you. Not that I think-”
The words die in his throat as Clark sits up and swaps their places. It’s Bruce’s turn to bounce onto the mattress as Clark boxes him in. He hooks a finger into the elastic of his briefs.
“Can I get rid of these?” Clark asks, sounding out of breath (a difficult task for someone who doesn’t technically need to breathe).
Bruce nods, and Clark rips them off, and his own briefs follow suit. He moves too quickly, something he has worked hard to avoid doing when he’s out of the suit, but Bruce Wayne, Batman, is naked beneath him, and he has a laundry list of things he would like to do before the night is over, because who knows if he’ll ever have this chance again?
Clark bites, then licks each spot on his thighs gently, working his way up. He gauges permission before running his tongue up Bruce’s cock. Bruce responds with a guttural groan. Clark doesn’t have much experience with men, but what he lacks in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He sucks on the head of his cock, letting a thumb run along a vein as he bobs his head ever so slightly.
He uses his free hand to continue where Bruce left off, pressing a finger into Bruce, then two. For a man with famous composure, Bruce is being more vocal than Clark would have guessed, a low whine escaping as he stretches him enough for a third finger.
Bruce’s hand combs into Clark’s hair, pulling him off gently. He takes the hint, but wastes no time in hooking Bruce’s legs and pulling him closer, earning a grunt and derisive look from the man.
Clark tries to be gentle, as he always is, but Bruce hates feeling coddled, and forces himself to take more of Clark than he should have. His first thrust is met with a punched-out sound and an equally breathless “Fuck.”
Clark forces a pause to allow him to adjust by biting Bruce’s lip, which devolves into a far more combative makeout session than before. Clark wins, he thinks, when he thrusts without warning, making Bruce exhale sharply and scramble to grab the headboard.
He moves quickly, building a steady rhythm from the squeak of the headboard, which makes Bruce let out a low string of curses. Clark tucks his face into Bruce’s neck, overwhelming himself with the scent of his cologne and the thin sheen of sweat.
Just hours ago, Clark had thought he was alone in this. That he was resigned to sitting across the table from this man for the rest of their lives, never to speak a word to him of how he wished they could speak more, about how he thought they were more similar than anyone gave them credit for. Now, pressed so tightly against him he could feel his heartbeat against his lips, he was overcome with a sense of peace.
He slows himself down, thrusting deeper until he finds the angle that makes Bruce dig his nails into Clark’s shoulders.
“Fuck, yes,” Bruce repeats.
Clark leans his forehead against Bruce’s, kissing him sweetly, more sweetly than a hookup warrants, but he can’t help himself. Looking down, he meets Bruce’s eyes.
He wraps his hand around Bruce’s cock again, and times his strokes with his thrusts. He speeds up steadily, only losing eye contact when Bruce pulls him in to kiss him again. It isn’t long before they come together, and Clark falls to the bed beside Bruce, his gaze lingering.
“I- I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Clark stutters as he places his glasses gingerly back onto his face. He props himself up on his elbow, reddening as he looks over at Bruce. He can feel himself coming back from wherever he just went, and suddenly feels sheepish, as if he was just caught trying to act cool.
Bruce clearly doesn’t mind. He chuckles, then reaches over, taking the glasses back off and placing them onto the side table. Clark would find this aggravating from anyone else, but there’s a look in Bruce’s eye, something that he couldn’t see through the haze of desire earlier, that makes him feel truly caught.
Clark thinks back to the comment about his metabolism back at the gala, the way Bruce spoke to him like they were sharing a secret, and the realization makes him smack himself in the face in an absurdly theatrical way that makes Bruce bark out a laugh so rare and genuine that it almost brings Clark back around to not feeling embarrassed. Almost.
Bruce leans over again, kissing him, and the feeling melts away.
Back at the party, Cat glances at the time on her phone, weighs the chances of seeing Clark again tonight, and takes her leave. When Perry had told her she would be bringing Clark as her photographer tonight, she had wagered with Lois that she’d be making the trip back to Metropolis alone—not because of Clark’s proclivities, no. The opposite, in fact, his wallflower personality when he wasn’t investigating something had been Lois’ main reason for betting Clark would be in Cat’s car heading home tonight. But she didn’t know what Cat did.
Cat may not think that Clark is Superman, but she had eyes. Good eyes. Great at picking apart potential celebrity couples, and who is making eyes at who, even at a gala packed to the brim, just like tonight. Cat could see how someone who liked Superman would want someone like Clark: wholesome, dark-haired, tall, with that bulky farmboy physique. If asked, she’d say his nervous tics may pull away from that draw towards the confident, unwavering Man of Steel, but he’s not the worst pick of the litter.
And if Bruce Wayne was going to pick someone up tonight, Cat would have wagered her indispensable Meteors season tickets that he would pick Clark. Why? Because with every hookup of his that she met, she had started to piece together a pattern: dark hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, and a bright, shining smile.
If you were to ask Cat about what Bruce Wayne looks for in a partner, she’d tell you to look no further than Metropolis, because Bruce Wayne may be mysterious, but there’s only one living being that man would let into his pants:
Superman.