Chapter Text
Bruce knew that Clark Kent was an attractive man. No, that wasn’t spoken over his own personal taste—though admittedly even then, Clark would still be well into the uncharted realms of his type in regard to aesthetical preferences. He’d be lying if he said that Clark’s appearance has never slipped any kind of thought into his head. Ones that he’d never speak of or admit to.
Really, he wouldn’t even be caught admitting it fully to himself just how he’d felt himself freeze for a second (too long) seeing Clark for the first time. He’d assumed it to be the fact that, of course, Superman is an Adonis of a man; prevailing over all others through strength and supernatural abilities to the point of holding the possibility of breaking the world into chaos or smithereens at the drop of a hat if he wished. With that thread of thought, it would only be natural to assume that the man who basks in the glory of the blinding sun would accordingly have an appearance just as blindly attractive.
But Bruce had met Clark as the latter was in his shoddy civilian disguise when the man hadn’t even known that he was the man under that brooding cowl, his confidence nowhere to be seen as he’d stumbled in the gala he’d been made to attend, eyes sporadically looking around showing a completely submissive, clumsy act that could never be connected to such an overwhelming force like Superman. Perhaps it worked for almost everyone Clark’s met in his life considering no one’s ever been at least contemplative enough to see how he only really wore a pair of thick glasses to hide those chiselled features of his.
Bruce had scoffed at the sight, free to make whatever ludicrously flamboyant expression he wanted to make that he would usually never be caught dead seen having as he acted as if he was listening to whatever gossip some heiress was disclosing to him, her laughter becoming much more pleased at the face he’d made, seeming amused at his response to the part in her story. Bruce nodded along, only half-listening to whatever could really be presumably important enough for him to keep the conversation afloat for another few minutes for his cover as he surreptitiously observed the way Superman—ah, no, Clark Kent weaved in between people, drunk or not, skilfully taking the information he needed out of people despite the way he seemed to be determined to act the part of the clumsy, nervous reporter. It was a sight for sore eyes really. Funny enough if he really thought about it, swirling the ginger ale in his glass as he continued with his ditzy smile.
Clark’s disguise was ridiculous. But Bruce still felt a helpless sense of surprise seeing not a single soul recognizing the man for who he was known to be. He cocked his head, taking a sip before replying to a sort of reaction to the heiress speaking to him as his lips quirked up. Despite the fact that all Clark had to his disguise was a thick pair of glasses which, Bruce would absolutely bet with half his fortune on (or more), were absolutely not under a prescription with the fact Clark had perfect vision. The man held himself differently; hunched shoulders and craven posture, completely weak despite his large frame—and dear lord, does Superman have an imposing frame, bringing hope and safety to those who stand behind him, invoking intimidating fear to those who stand against him.
Yet as Clark Kent, he was still able to hide it through the means of making him seem so… small. Sure, he was still tall. That wasn’t something so easily changed with the height of the man, Bruce was able to pick him out so easily from the crowd (and not just because Clark’s abhorrent off-the-rack, oversized suit was a rather obvious contrast to all the glamor in the room) without even trying to. Clark was rather skilful with hiding the natural presence he’d have as Superman when he was in his civilian disguise. Perhaps it was the way he kept himself so close together, showing a sign of slight anxiety with his best attempts to show a guise that he was a complete pushover.
He avoided the main floor more often than not, staying away from the light that he’d been known to bask in, scuffling in the side of the party with his back against the wall, writing down whatever the hell was on that damned notepad of his. Despite how absolutely ridiculous his entire disguise was (dearly, Bruce found it to be a mystery how all of his co-workers had never batted an eye to the fact that the strongest man on the planet was typing away on his computer like a nerd), Bruce couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Despite how much he made others look down on him, he made sure it was still within the point where people would simply brush him off, deeming him a non-threat. Just a bumpkin with no real reason to pay attention to him. He made sure he didn’t seem pathetic enough that people would rouse within the interest to bully him. Just a wallflower to be ignored, not a second glance given, and accordingly, no chance for any assumptions to lead towards his secret identity. Knowing all of this, Bruce couldn’t help but feel a sense of amusement.
He had smiled kindly to his dear conversation partner’s way, charming her sweetly with a classic Brucie Wayne kiss to her knuckle and a held eye contact for long enough that she blinked in response to his charm, a shy tone to her cheeks as she waved him off to rush somewhere else to nurse her newly spiked heart. Bruce made his way over to the wallflower to the side of the gala, finding that despite his best attempts to diminish himself, Clark simply beckoned light towards him; he stood out to all others, just inviting the taste of fresh sun on his covered skin. Like a sunflower in the day basking openly under the sun, facing to imbed the very essence of light into itself.
Bruce nearly spilled a bit of his drink, acting the part of a flirtatious drunk as he stumbled towards the unknown reporter’s way. He tripped over himself, nearly toppling over on nothing like a complete klutz as Clark was quick to come to the rescue, the distraction of having to struggle to put together the few quotes he was able to muster together from the gala and the assumption that no one would bother him with his focused guise of practically being identical to the wall placing only the presence of instinct into place as Bruce’s low cry of distress pushed him to drop the notebook, holding the billionaire by his torso, his other hand holding Bruce’s wrist in place to avoid his drink from spilling over.
Clark processed it quickly, his mind immediately thinking to let go of the man before his conscience rebuffed it quickly enough seeing how Bruce just seemed far too drunk to even stand up straight. Bruce laughed a low, almost soothing laugh as he cocked his head, showing the mole close to his ear as he focused his floating gaze to Clark. He smiled, finding a semblance of balance, and pushing into Clark’s space before the man could realize. His hand wound over the sleeve of the oversized suit Clark wore, resting his body closely to the tightening grip Clark had over the side of his body, allowing him to closely feel the warmth. A warmth that Clark no doubt craved.
“Mister… Mister Wayne.” Clark stammered, feeling himself start to sweat as Bruce stuck himself closer than Clark has ever allowed others to come onto him in his civilian form (a precaution since the last thing he needed was people focusing far too closely on his face). He attempted to let go of the drunken man after making sure he looked to be stable enough, but the other seemed quick to notice his plight, only worsening it as he stumbled closer, spilling some of his drink over Clark’s sleeve.
Bruce seemed to be surprised by the spillage, a spoiled scowl on his face before rolling his eyes seeing the cheap material of Clark’s suit. He continued to give his classic smile, placing the rim of his drink onto Clark’s opened, stammering lips. “Aw, I’m sorry about that. I’ll give you some of my drink to make up for it. How about that?” he paused for a moment, tightening his grip over Clark’s bicep as if to keep himself upright. “Don’t drink too much of it, my butler might tell me off for drinking too much if I try to get another glass.” he laughed at that, keeping his gaze over Clark’s lips as he kept the glass there.
“Mister Wayne, it’s alright.” Clark found himself back together, extracting himself from Bruce’s hold before taking the glass away from his lips. His lips pulled down to a soft frown, giving Bruce the glass back when he seemed stable enough to hold it. He wanted to take it away, agreeing silently with the billionaire’s butler (dear Rao, whoever he may be, bless his heart) for the fact that Bruce has absolutely drunk more than he should’ve. Bruce’s heart rate was rather fast and if the stumbling was sign enough for it, Clark would’ve been responsible enough to take the glass away and lead him away somewhere to drink a glass of water and rest. But he couldn’t do that. Not now. The place was too populated with people and Clark Kent would never be bold enough to lead a man like Bruce elsewhere—not when the man exuded the sense of nightlife in the recklessness of his body. Even if the event was late into itself and most, if not everyone, was already drunk enough in some way that they wouldn’t care much for Clark weaving through them, they’d be quick to notice someone like Bruce.
“Really? You’re not much fun… er,” Bruce’s brows furrowed, studying Clark’s features as he seemed to struggle with a name. “What was it...?” he murmured. He leaned against the wall, keeping Clark from fleeing as he stepped closer, with a sense of drunk curiosity as he kept the glass in his hand.
Clark sighed, picking up his notebook off the floor. He introduced himself just earlier on in the event, was it really that forgettable for the man to not even remember that he was a reporter? “Clark Kent. Daily Planet.”
“Ah, Khan! Of course! The reporter!” Bruce interrupted over Clark’s voice, acting as though he was in complete knowledge of Clark’s identity as he gave a charming smile, taking a sip of his ginger ale. A part of his smile was real, and the soft thrill of messing with Superman of all people did give a slight hitch to his heart rate to add to the way he made his heart seem wracked with insobriety.
Clark felt a slight misgiving towards the botching of his last name, but seeing Bruce’s smile, he could only place it away as quickly as it came. Arguing with a drunk man was a failing endeavour, and he wasn’t about to jump to it when he was already tired from this gala. Bruce laughed, almost as if knowing Clark’s identity was the funniest joke he’s ever heard of, stumbling closer to Clark’s space. “Mister Wayne, you… you should stop yourself from drinking any more than you have. Maybe… get some rest?” Clark hesitated with his words, deciding to at least give a word of advice at the end of it with the way Bruce just seemed to have no plans of ending the party with himself.
Bruce scoffed, taking the last swig of his ginger ale before passing it off to a waiter, laughing as he dragged Clark away from the wall. “What? The night’s still young! As are you—you’re a reporter, aren’t you? I’ll give you an exclusive!” Bruce seemed so carefree as he stumbled through the crowd, giving an appropriate wink and a smile to whoever was sober enough or forward enough to notice him. He dragged Clark away from the gala and into another hall. He’d already planned to retire for the night either way, so it didn’t quite matter for him to stay any longer than he needed to.
He led Clark along a hallway, his grip just tight enough that Clark wouldn’t be able to get rid of him without having to make some sort of excuse for his strength. With him, well, he could just fault it on the insistently drunken strength that Bruce Wayne could muster simply because a drunkard like him is reckless that way. Either way, Clark couldn’t oppose him. That tickled an odd feeling within Bruce. Nothing close to thrill—more of an odd, misplaced laughter. The situation tickled a feeling of contradiction. Superman would be at odds with him, standing his ground with his optimism towards different ways of handling a situation that could never sit well with Bruce. He prided himself over his control, his intellect towards a resolution that would prove to be statistically the best option to accompany back-up plans over back-up plans to fill up any fallacies that may arise.
Yet here, Superman— Clark couldn’t oppose him. The him that held drunken whims and reckless throws of champagne over expensive chandeliers. The stupid facade he’s kept up for years, the one that was too privileged to understand the donations he was giving to the causes under his name. Clark couldn’t oppose that man, being dragged along with a bell of laughter in their wake, breath hitched. Clark would readily oppose him as Batman on any issue, at times trusting him too much that he’d forget the force of his strength as he’d barrel towards Bruce after a rough mission, patting him on the back much harshly that he’d mean to his excitement. He thought of him to be strong. Subconsciously allowing his strength in front of someone he deemed to be an equal.
And Bruce Wayne—Bruce Wayne was just as human as Batman. Just as ugly and ridden with scars as he could ever be. But he was bare without Kevlar and leather, just fancy Armani suits and flirty smiles. He posed to be weaker than Batman in every way, yet Clark had to swallow his grievances and follow his lead without a squeak, almost helplessly allowing his ear to be talked off as Bruce talked about gossip high society had to offer, his silly little skiing trips and accidents. He wondered; just how far could he push until the Big Blue Boy Scout was completely unable to muster starting another argument with him?
He was curious to what exactly was the limit of an alien who seemed to have no limits for the humans he’d sworn to save regardless of circumstance. Batman had noticed it. The way Superman would treat him. Perhaps it was due to the paranoid farce he’s created of himself. To seem inhumane in the way a bat would cover itself in the murky dark, to be an urban legend known as a lurking nightmare to the vile, with shadowed tendrils snaking itself into shackles to hurl upon sin. Allowing his weaknesses to show was never an activity that he’d find himself to be fond of. In contrast to a gathering of the inhumane, the powers of the universe vested within them to break the laws of said universe—he was human. Human in the ugliest of ways. He’s never allowed that to bring him down; never allowed such pity to curl into his insecurities. And he succeeded. Gone through scars and incidents where he would’ve paused in realization that he could’ve died at that moment there if he didn’t move away far enough. He went past the human limits set for his broken body, fighting crime until those who had powers vested within them couldn’t even look down on him.
But perhaps that skill had become too second nature to him. Enough that even Superman mistook him to be more than human. He treated him like he was strong. Like he was just as indestructible as the God among men in the sunniest of days. And Bruce would be lying if he were to say that the sentiment didn’t scratch at his heart. It was a sentiment more pleasing than whatever bullshit flattery people would muster in his presence with the Wayne name following him. A comfort in knowing that even someone like Superman, the man that could see through walls and find himself at any location of the world at a distress cry in the presence of crime, someone like him couldn’t see through the lead-lined cowl, couldn’t see through the weakness of a farce that Bruce held close to him. The bats in the deepest throes of his memory allowing to the existence of the night; the vengeance and protector of Gotham.
It was a comfort that Clark could never have known of. Clark had always done his best to attempt camaraderie with Bruce. Used every charm in his arsenal to be closer to what he probably considered to be a vital co-worker, volunteering himself towards situations that would be able to give a sort of, as Diana somehow amusedly calls to be, a bonding experience. It never quite goes through towards what Clark wishes it to be. Partly because Bruce can’t care enough for such enrichment in his life and the ways Clark goes about it only seem to irritate Bruce more than it should, more often than not levelling the younger man with a bat-glare to get him to shut up and leaving with his cape swishing behind him.
Really, in a way that Bruce could begrudgingly admit to, he found Clark’s belief in him to be exhilarating. Bearable on most days and almost creeping under the hood of his cowl to a sense of amusement on rare days. Laughably, all of Clark’s attempts almost always fell through, but whenever he was brave enough to show a sunny smile Bruce’s way, patting him on the back a bit harder than he should when dealing with a human, Bruce could only feel the same, helpless sense of appreciation for the alien that many others would feel simply by seeing him stand over the triumph of victory of a recent enemy, showing . He didn’t appreciate the physical touch itself, but the sentiment was still felt.
Bruce Wayne was plainly different from Batman. He made sure of that. He was the cause of that stark difference. But at the end of day, Bruce Wayne and Batman were one in the same regardless of how everyone else saw them. And Clark would see him as an equal regardless of identity in a way befitting of who he posed to be.
They entered what seemed to be a study, to which Bruce was quick to herd Clark into standing in. Clark stammered out something that fell on deaf ears as Bruce sat on the desk, unbuttoning the button on his suit jacket. Clark nervously stood in the middle of the room, the night as dark as a looming shadow over the skies of Gotham. The windows were shut tightly, a few peeks of the moonlight filtering through the thin gap in between the curtain behind the study desk, wrapping over to the hard lines over Bruce’s features as he stretched himself out. He haphazardly threw his jacket somewhere in the room without looking wherever it could’ve landed on, his light eyes watching Clark frozen through his lashes, neck elongated with the way he languidly rested his head on his shoulder. His smile was confident, drunken wiles on the corner of his upturned lips, a soft, almost indiscernible scar running along the corner of his lips that one could never see unless they just leaned a bit closer than they should to the man.
He was a large man, that was an unquestionable fact. Rippled with muscles lining along his skin, arm stretched back showing the hard lines of his body against the cloth covering him, fitted in just the right places. Clark’s pupils dilated despite him not meaning to, the soft presence of light through the dark allowing him to see every detail displayed over the confident man focused on his fidgeting form. His eyes were shameless with a heat that had Clark shrinking back, tugging on the pen in his pocket. Clark could see that damned mole again, along with another mole closely to the juxtaposition of his neck and his jaw. The position was particularly appealing, showing a fine line of Bruce’s sharp jaw while contrasting to the vulnerability of the position, so close to another mole near Bruce’s pulse point—tempting Clark into brushing his thumb through them in a tracing line, inviting Clark into holding the back of Bruce’s neck to keep him upright, have him looking directly into his eyes.
He shook his head to himself, swallowing his pooling saliva as a slight blush crept up his neck. Clark knew that Bruce was a playboy. He was a part of the press, the medium that directly allowed every single one of Bruce’s scandals, every single new tidbit of Bruce Wayne’s new conquests to come to the public eye. He knew all of it even if he didn’t want to look into it, but he’s never seen it first-hand. He’d never been one to assume so much on how exactly the playboy was able to bed so many women and tempt so many others into falling into his arms when the only background he had was breaking hearts and jumping from one heart to the other. But he hadn’t expected… this . He hadn’t expected Bruce Wayne to look like sex on legs simply by leaning back on a desk, only one piece of clothing having been discarded, barely revealing any more skin than before. He looked unreal in the dark—masculine, confident and… extremely freaking sexy.
Clark fidgeted, genuinely uncertain with himself as he hunched over deeper. He rubbed his nose, licking his lips (gosh, did his lips always feel that dry?) before attempting to muster a coherent sentence. “Mister… Mister Wayne,” Clark coughed, stopping himself from allowing his eyes to wander anywhere else other than Bruce’s eyes.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to step a bit closer to me, Khan.” Bruce chuckled, his voice deep and rich, a slight giggle under his tone. “I can’t quite hear you… and we wouldn’t want to talk too loudly, everyone’s still rather merry out there, after all.”
Clark furrowed his brows, stepping towards the man as he beckoned him over with a slight wave of his hand. “It’s Kent , Mister Wayne. And I’m not really sure if this is a good place to start an interview.” He pursed his lips, feeling the blush on his neck heating on his cheeks. He could only be thankful that Bruce couldn’t see in the dark the same as him.
“Oh? Why so?”
“It’s, it’s well—it’s rather dark, isn’t it?” Clark felt a bit of his confidence leave him, feeling a sense of shame at his nervous stammering. His unsure tone made himself cringe, knowing he sounded like he was making excuses out of nothing.
“On the contrary…” Bruce drags his hand over to the lapels of Clark’s suit, pushing his fingers into the clothing under it, almost able to feel the muscles underneath until Clark quickly held his wrist still from moving any further. He only laughed lowly, peering at Clark. “I’m rather fond of the dark. It holds a bit of… mystery. Wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I don’t understand what you’re implying with that, Mister Wayne.” Clark defiantly removed Bruce’s hands from him, stepping back with a wary glance.
Bruce stepped off of the desk, running a hand through his ruffled hair. The sight made him all the more tempting. The messy disposition almost reminding Clark of something he should never think of. Bruce wrapped his hand slowly around Clark’s waist, bringing him close enough that Clark could smell a faint citrus from his lips. “Well, mystery is a rather interesting thing, isn’t it?” Bruce’s other hand crept up to the frame of Clark’s glasses, “What you don’t know of just makes you so curious… curious enough to explore every… inch of it.”
Clark’s blush deepened, his hand slapping over to his glasses. He averted his gaze, feeling like the oversized suit on him was more stifling than he remembered. “Mister Wayne, please—”
“Oh? Please ?” Bruce purred, “I like that.”
Clark felt his face grow warmer the more Bruce’s flirtations remarks registered in his head, his throat all knotted up in his fluster as he tried his best to stammer out a rebuff, only able to say a few incoherent syllables as he meekly leaned back, trying to avoid the way Bruce’s hand caressed him so gently, warmly inviting for Clark to make a move. He couldn’t follow along to that, feeling insanely human in that moment, befalling to the scandalised enticement of a devil. He could even swear he felt a sheen of sweat on his skin, a nervous ache in his muscles hoping to hold the radiating warmth of Bruce’s hand as it travelled to the small of his back, careful like a snake creeping itself onto prey. His head swam with warmth, making him dizzier than if he’d rushed straight into the sun itself. Bruce seemed keen on making him want this. He held himself away from Clark just enough that Clark wouldn’t be able to feel that decadent, drunken warmth in Bruce’s chest, feel it through that fitted button up and have his tie jumbled in between them, have it all drenched with the dribbling saliva of the gallant man tempting him. “Mister Wayne, I really don’t mean to make you misunderstand in some way—I, I didn’t follow you with these… these kinds of intentions….”
Bruce raised a brow, acting surprised. He cocked his head, leaning closer to Clark’s space as he seemed to recollect himself, the ‘alcohol’ in his system making him mull over it for a while longer than he should. He removed his hands from Clark, almost giving him time to breathe until he leaned himself fully into Clark’s embrace, barely stumbling the bumbling reporter as he wrapped his arms around his neck. He licked his lips slowly, his large frame showing a sense of dependence that had Clark’s natural need of providing such to fluster him even more. He wanted to crawl into a kryptonite-filled hole and curl himself up within it until Batman would eventually come to fish him out of it, kicking him into one of the sunbeds in the Watchtower to decimate him with a disappointed scowl and scold him to the edge of the universe and back for all of his stupid decisions.
“Are my assumptions false? Or, perhaps, were you looking for something a little bit more… different? Perhaps, something like…” Bruce laughed, the close proximity allowing the surprising scent of citrus to only coddle Clark’s senses more into a state of disarray. He lowered his voice, the smoothness of his voice was accompanied with an unmistakable tease. “ Please , Kent?”
Clark would dig up his own kryptonite grave at this point. Bruce really had no mercy towards him. He’s always been a gentleman, following how his Ma always taught him to act around people, placing kindness and polite bearings before anything even if he held a deep attraction for another. He never allowed his attraction to be overbearing, keeping himself at a space that most would consider old-fashioned. As Hal would probably make fun of him for, he kept a space for Jesus at all times. Even though he didn’t even follow that religion at all, the description fit quite well since, Rao, all he had between him and his sanity at this point was temptation personified in Bruce. He was simply a rookie compared to a final boss.
“Well, Kent? Did you want to hear me beg? Scream out please, please, please —” Bruce intentionally made his voice sound as if he was desperate, giving a soft whine at the end of it as he scratched at Clark’s back gently. So gently that Clark almost couldn’t feel it if not for how every single one of his senses were driven to an overdrive that contained Bruce Wayne’s existence alone blocking out any rational thought from entering his brain. Bruce hummed softly, feeling Clark’s unmistakable shiver through the fabric. He could feel Clark’s blue eyes heat up, no doubt unable to tear his eyes away from Bruce’s enticing back as he shifted his hips so slowly it was almost hypnotizing. “Were you looking forward to that? Leading me to a study all alone… did you want me bent over the desk desperate for you? Kent ?”
Bruce knew he was pushing a step further than he should’ve now, but he was anything if not an actor that committed fully to his role. And to commit to it, he wouldn’t be any less than what Bruce Wayne shamelessly prided himself to be—an A-grade whore. Never one to turn down any opportunity for pleasure, just as much of a thrill seeker as he was a horny bastard. Dumb but enticing enough to lead on with whatever role he wanted to be in the sheets.
Clark stammered, feeling a shudder run through him as Bruce leaned down, peering at him through thick lashes, the expectation in his eyes making Clark feel more confused than embarrassed. Still embarrassed, but he looked at the billionaire in more curiosity than shame. The entire time, his heartbeat had been flurried, clearly indicative of his insobriety. But it was steady—unbearably steady despite how combined with his actions, it showed a playboy in the flesh, a pleasure-seeking bastard ready to add yet another name to his illustrious list of conquests.
Gently, allowed himself to be pushed back against the arm of the couch, sitting slantly against the leather, just enough that his thigh brushed against Bruce. He held his breath despite the fact he didn’t even need to breathe. Bruce blinked, a far off look in his eyes that Clark could only catch with his ability, a short gap of hesitance before he allowed his fingers to claw onto Clark’s broad back, licking softly at his Adam’s apple as he gulped. Bruce bit down harshly on Clark’s neck, feeling his teeth ache and his gums sting.
Clark genuinely jumped at that, hoping Bruce wouldn’t be able to notice the lack of a bite mark on him. He pushed at Bruce’s hips, accidentally brushing his thigh up against Bruce’s groin. He narrowed his eyes through his glasses, allowing time to slow unknowingly as he focused as closely as possible at the way Bruce’s heart stagnated, his teeth grazing over skin. Clark couldn’t feel pain from a simple bite, but he felt himself stiffen regardless, the salivating brush of Bruce’s teeth throwing him out of a loop.
“Mister Wayne. I wasn’t the one to have led you here.” Clark managed to say, attempting to remain cordial and reasoning to make up for how he couldn’t move away from this moment. Bruce was warm. Rao, so unbelievably warm. The lingering touch of his saliva was akin to a dabble of fine silk, a sweet scent lingering from his breath as he could feel Bruce lick over what he’d assumed to be where he’d bitten him. “It’s highly unprofessional to be… to be in this kind of state. And I don’t know if I had done anything to insinuate this, but I’d never want to… to…” Clark struggled, biting his lip as his mind replayed everything Bruce had suggested to him.
“To?” Bruce supplied for him to continue, his breath leaving Clark’s skin.
“To…” Clark wanted to disappear. He could fly into space and float around and forget the world existed. But he’d get a multitude of unfortunate consequences doing that, so he could only play nice and remain as still as possible as if hoping the predator that had wanted to toy with him would get tired of him eventually.
“Go on, Kent. I’d like to hear of it as specifically as possible. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Inform me all about what you’d never want with me.” Bruce’s soft chuckle ghosted over him, his knees felt like jelly, slightly thankful for the couch behind him.
“To… bend you over that desk. To make you beg.” Bruce hummed at that, silently urging for him to continue with his fingers hovering over the lapels of his suit. Clark closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm his nerves. Only, that proved itself to be a bad idea with how Bruce’s scent immediately hit him like a truck. He covered his face, avoiding Bruce as much as possible, knowing how his face was definitely showing his embarrassment. “Mister Wayne, please . I, I don’t… I’m not interested in—not that you’re not… that, I—“
Bruce smiled, chuckling softly, and showing no sign of embarrassment or spite at being rejected. “Relax, Kent.” He brushed his thumb over Clark’s neck in a silent apology. He stepped back, his warmth leaving just as quickly as it came. He bent over to the side of the desk, picking up his suit jacket and shrugging it over his arm. He ran a hand through his hair as he stumbled, nearly hitting the side of his waist against the desk. Clark had to stop himself from moving to help, distracted by the way Bruce’s rugged hand pressed against the desk, finding a balance in his being. “I’m not fond of forcing myself on my partners. I can understand when I’m not rousing any interest.”
Bruce’s stance remained confident albeit stumbling slightly, his smile simple as he breathed lowly. He looked almost relieved, but Clark could only see that fleeting relief in his ice blue eyes before they left as quickly as it came to that drunken haze in his eyes that Clark could only feel himself drowning in the more he tried to look away. Clark gulped, feeling tense within the depths of his stomach. It would be a lie if he were to say that Bruce Wayne wasn’t attractive. Despite being a drunk he was still held a countenance of a noble that couldn’t be replicated. If it were due to the blood running through his veins or the way he’d grown up in complete luxury, Clark wouldn’t be able to guess. All he knew that he couldn’t look away even as Bruce posed himself to be a complete mess before the media, and a complete helpless flirt in front of him as inebriated as he is, chuckling softly as he almost trips on his own shoes.
Clark thinks he looks adorable. But a sense of awkwardness enters in his bones, knowing that the rejection must’ve hit him rather harshly with how Clark felt like he’s technically been leading him on the whole time, following him all the way through and speaking such filth to him. He knew he didn’t hold any responsibility with Bruce’s emotions, but he felt all the more liable to getting the man home safely at the very least now. Who knows what he’d do drunk and rejected?
Clark took Bruce’s suit jacket before wrapping it around Bruce’s shoulders tightly, keeping him from stumbling again much to the billionaire’s surprise. He smiled abashedly but kept his eyes kind. He tried his best to keep his touch gentle, keeping himself from touching Bruce too much. His shoulders really were broad, and an itch was begging Clark to run his hands over them, but he ignored it. “Mister Wayne... I’ll get you home.”
Bruce blinked, unable to react as Clark leaned him against his shoulder, warmth wrapped around him. He looked at the serious look on Clark’s face, laughing softly. “Oh? You’ll take me home before indulging me? How romantic.”
Clark blushed, pushing up his glasses as he led Bruce out of the room. He licked his lips, groaning softly. “No, no… I’m not doing something like that when you’re not in your right mind. You’re too drunk.”
Bruce raised a brow as his eyes strayed to the way Clark held him—chaste. So chaste it went beyond the practical duty of a paramedic, almost as if Clark was deliberately avoiding touching him anywhere that would be unnecessary to escorting him home. He hummed, his voice swaying. “Am I?” A small challenge was hidden within his voice, watching Clark closely to see if he noticed it. He ran his hand over Clark’s on his shoulder, blinking as Clark only seemed helpless instead of being as abashed as before.
“You really are drunk…” Clark laughed, his voice soft. Bruce frowned, able to deduce how Clark seemed to point those words over to his own awareness rather than Bruce’s. He watched his eyes scan the place, hiding it under the thick lenses of his glasses. He ignored Bruce’s charm more than ever now, dead-focused on getting Bruce out of the party without alerting anyone of their appearance together.
Bruce blinked slowly, now simply toying with Clark’s hand as he allowed himself to lean his weight onto Clark. “I’m not.” He hummed, his tone ungiving to any indication of deceit. “And I’m not blind, Kent. Even if I were to be too deep into insobriety, I would still be able to see your pretty, darling eyes under those thick glasses of yours.”
That got Clark stumbling.
Bruce laughed, following Clark without any complaints to the discrete exit that he must’ve found with his X-ray vision. He’d attempt to cause a few more embarrassments on Clark’s part, but it seemed that was the last straw for the Metropolitan reporter as he actively opposed to most of his wiles. He stamped down any attempts Bruce had of touching him as if the grown man was a misbehaving child that he simply had to put up with and be patient towards, ignoring his attempts at getting attention through wrong acts. It had Bruce silently irritated under his suit jacket, feeling reminded of how Alfred would chide him as a child, only worse because it was Clark of people doing the same chiding. Bruce tried to move his hand to touch Clark, but Clark was quick enough to hold his hand against Bruce’s chest, keeping the suit snug around his shoulders as he was helpless to comply being led outside. The familiar, cold Gotham breeze brushed past his cheek, standing outside the building with Clark by his side.
“Mister Wayne, you should call your driver to get you home now.” Clark said into the night air, allowing Bruce to stand on his own just close enough to the wall that he wouldn’t fall over directly to the floor.
Bruce sighed, feeling a stark chill without Clark’s body taped against his all of a sudden. He looked into the night, calculating the amount of time leftover that he could have to go on patrol. “The night is still young.”
“Mister Wayne.”
Bruce allowed himself to roll his eyes, doing it exaggeratedly enough that he looked childishly annoyed. He pushed his hand on Clark’s chest, coyly smiling. “You’re nag an awful lot, Kent. Would you do this in bed as well? Or were you looking for me to push you down in the backseat of my car instead?”
Clark groaned, but the thought of how drunk Bruce must be pushed down the blush threatening to burst on his cheeks. He repeated to himself that Bruce was only saying these things because he was drunk, convincing himself that his words didn’t matter. He held Bruce’s hand on his chest, pulling him away. “Mister Wayne, I appreciate your forwardness, and you’re… you’re a really charming man, but you’re really too drunk for this. Please call your driver to take you home.”
Bruce raised a brow, frowning as he traced his thumb over Clark’s hand, surprisingly feeling a few callouses here and there. He leaned forward, “Call me Brucie, love. If you do that, I’ll do whatever you want.”
Clark sighed, “Bruce, please.”
Bruce nodded, smiling like he’d received an amazing achievement. He took his phone out of his pocket, making a show of almost dropping it with a clear incoordination before calling his driver. Clark patiently waited by his side, watching the sight outside while paying attention to Bruce whenever he’d shiver, leaning a bit closer to share his warmth with him. Clark couldn’t feel the cold like Bruce, so he could only really rely on the biological responses Bruce would be able to show against the Gotham temperatures.
Bruce said a few words, indicating his location before putting the phone away. He hummed under his breath, a stray melody in his breath as he allowed himself to lean his weight towards Clark. Clark stiffened, focusing on his own breath. He knew he didn’t need air the same way as a human but for some reason, he couldn’t help but feel suffocated with Bruce’s scent being so warm against him. He liked warmth. That might have been because of his upbringing on a farm and how often he enjoyed basking himself under the sun with his Pa, enough that freckles had formed on his cheeks when he was a child before his powers could have ever quite revealed itself enough to protect itself from the rays, spending hours under the sun helping out or flying kites over the windy, humid skies of Kansan summer, enjoying youth in the sun. He’d thought perhaps warmth was just a familiar feeling that he chased like a running dream, but with his powers, his natural towards attention warmth might very well be simply because the sun itself supplies him with his energy.
But Bruce Wayne wasn’t exactly the sun. He wasn’t sunny nor was he able to supply him with that warming temptation to lay under it, enjoying every ray on his skin like a sunbathing lizard. He was the life of the party, more of a shining chandelier of artificial light rather than something as omnipresent as the sun. But Clark silently allowed Bruce to rest his weight on him, wrapping Bruce within a half embrace. As Bruce’s breath evened out along with his heart, Clark took the time to watch him, wanting to avert his eyes only to be drawn back to his breathing.
“You really don’t want to come home with me? I can show you a good time.” Bruce drunkenly purred, laughing under his breath as Clark shook his head helplessly. He didn’t move away, convincing himself not to take Bruce seriously with his teasing. At most the man could just paw at him and wait for a response that Clark wouldn’t be willing enough to give. He wouldn’t even allow himself to encourage it more than he already has. It felt like taking advantage of him and the mere thought of it made Clark guilty. Bruce seemed to notice, clicking his tongue regretfully.
Clark looked out into the cold air, his ear twitching as he tried to hear for Bruce’s ride back home. He gently allowed himself to stray from Bruce’s side, watching as his run-through hair leaned against the wall, looking more melancholic as his heartbeat evened. His driver pulled to the nearby space, and Clark had to stop himself from helping Bruce to get to his own car personally himself. This would be the end of their interaction. Bruce with his playboy tendencies simply fishing for Clark’s attention for the night, soon to forget it because that’s what Clark Kent is supposed to be. Forgettable. Away from Bruce further from simply their social circles or upbringing. Away from a carefree soul like his with the heavy mount of responsibilities.
“Good night, Mister Wayne.”
Bruce smiled, “Good night, Clark.”
And if Clark had to admit that he’d regretfully gotten hard at Bruce’s drunken flirtations as he flew back home, that was his own shame to deal with.
And Bruce... Bruce went home with warmth still lingering over his shoulders. If Alfred saw his gaze more affixed than it should be on his jacket as the older man put it away, he could only look away, knowing that he wouldn’t answer even if he was questioned.
Thrown over his mattress, he couldn’t help but compare Superman to what he found him to be tonight. Clark Kent. A simple reporter easily abashed by a few flirtatious words here and there. Superman was a benevolent soul. A shining paragon of unending good. Bruce knew that. Damned, he could reluctantly admit to the fact that Superman was a good in the world that did thankless things simply for the fact he wanted to help . He’d thought Clark would be different. Different in the same way that Jekyll would place all of his lifelong inner, twisted desires into a man that wouldn’t be connected to him. Perhaps not in the way of murder, but Bruce had expected to be snubbed, or perhaps Clark would accept his advances and take the chance with a stupid, unthinking billionaire with not a single thought in his head. Something imperfect in what he’d always seen to be an inhumane perfection standing before the bright rays of the sun, something twisted human.
But no. Clark was… human, yes. His stammering, his mannerisms merely said that he was a shy individual, but not anything wrong. Instead… despite being pushed to his limits, Clark was kind. unbearably, unendingly kind and patient. He didn’t look down on Bruce Wayne . Didn’t shame him for his clearly one-sided lust. He kept him close, simply letting him down gently.
Unnecessary. All of that was unnecessary. Bruce hated it. Bruce Wayne is stupid. Bruce Wayne is a ridiculous whore.
He hated how kindly Clark treated him.