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Bruce Wayne’s focus on regular subjects was slowly crumbling as he became further and further worried about the secret identity of his ‘co-worker’. It was a stupid theory that held little weight and had embarrassing implications. Clark Kent was not Superman for very many reasons. Many, many reasons. But for posterity's sake, imagine if they weren't. Bruce takes a look at the corkboard in front of him, Alfred at his side with a fresh cup of herbal. He takes it thankfully, trying to avoid the judging stare of his mentor. “I see you have a new case, Mr. Bruce.” He offers, averting his eyes from a picture of Superman’s suit torn from his chest and stomach. He quickly shoos him out and closes the door. Turning back to said case, he traces a red string from the Daily Planet’s exclusive interviews of Superman to Clark’s own smiling face.
What did they have in common, exactly? Barely anything. The blinding smile with too many teeth to count, that reached up to dazzling blue eyes and squinted them into crescent sapphires of joy. The brown-black curls that turned slightly auburn in the sun’s light, almost always needing to be pushed back by a strong palm. He pauses. What did they not have in common? Other than the fact that Clark was an awkward sweetheart great at interviewing with a sharp wit. Superman was none of those things, and if anything, annoyingly stupid.
Then there was the bite. Bruce, as Batman, distinctly injured Clark on his left shoulder near his neck. Was that harming a civilian?
Superman didn’t get injured, full stop. That was not something that happened to him unless he was facing a force like… himself. But that wasn’t the case here. Bruce was fully, completely human and broke Clark’s skin. He had even apologized already by sending flowers and a new bag to his job - if he was being completely honest, the fraying newspaperboy look was just making Clark into a target. He was too timid, too awkward, too clumsy, to be that idiot. He was sure of it. So why would he have so many exclusive interviews with Superman, when no one else did?
His heart pounds as another realization dawns on him. That god-awful spandex wearing boundary pusher was fucking his Clark. Clark was a hero chaser; and Bruce needed to do something about it before he was swept up from underneath him by someone way better than him.
Clark Kent was being punished for something. That was the only way to explain why Bruce Wayne had set his sights on harassing him. He stares across the room at the beautiful man framed in his article; one of his best recently. Angrily, he thinks about how difficult Bruce’s made it for him lately since then. Usually it was little things, like flirts and comments when they saw each other at various events or Bruce knew he'd be watching, but the worst of it, and the most recent, was a brand new expensive looking work bag left on his work desk. All with the intention of being “thanks” for coming to what turned out to be his charity event a few weeks ago. He had written a few kind words on the charity, and because of that, deserved a formal thank you from Wayne Enterprises. Or that's what the card he threw in the trash said.
He was pretty sure this counted as bribery, and knowing how Gotham operated, he was pretty sure it was. But there he is again, when he gets off of work.
In the apartment hallway, by his front door, stood Bruce Wayne. He was checking his watch and looking impossibly handsome doing just that, though Clark was more focused on taking slow, deep breaths. In and out. Why was he here? What was he possibly thinking? Was he completely out of his mind?
“Are you kidding me? What if someone sees you?” Clark hisses, unlocking his door while throwing long looks over his shoulder to make sure the hallway hadn’t filled in the second he had looked away. He checks to see if Bruce has any defense for himself. He doesn’t. Not that Clark wanted to hear it right now. “You should really, really not be here.” He pushes him inside angrily, slamming the door shut- but not before checking to make sure the hallway was clear one last time.
“I needed to see you.” He looked completely out of place in Clark’s apartment.
“Needed-? Wayne.” Clark laughs, stuck in his throat in an angry chortle. “I could get in big trouble at work because of you, and you don’t even care! You just throw your money and your will around without thinking of others - I can’t just accept gifts at my job and have you showing up at my house.”
“...I’m sorry.”
He sticks a finger into Bruce’s chest, looking down at him. “You need to stop. You’re going to get me fired.” He puffs himself up a little bit behind the point.
“You’re going to get yourself fired.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Your private interviews ‘with’ Superman? You think no one is going to catch onto that?”
Clark’s blood turns cold, taking a step back to distance the attractive man from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I thought your skin was impenetrable.”
“Now you really sound crazy, Mr. Wayne. I think you should-”
“But I bit you. And you bled.”
“Sorry?” Clark's heart hammers in his chest. He can't feel his hands.
“I bit you.” Bruce repeats himself slowly, as if the issue was him speaking too quickly, and not the fact that he was speaking an alien language.
“You bit me? You?”
“Here.” Bruce taps the mark on his own body, knowing Clark was way too upset to be touched right now. Knowing he could definitely throw him across the room easily. Admittedly, that was adding to it a bit for Bruce.
“...did you bribe him?”
The unmasked Batman pinches the bridge of his nose. “...Kal, no.”
Clark sits himself down on the couch, slowly. He’s quiet, stuck in his head, unsure. Bruce stands some distance away, looking unsure himself. He sits down in the arm chair across from him, some distance away. The reporter, he notices, refuses to look at him.
“I can't picture it.” He admits, slowly. “You and him… you're so different.”
“Isn't that the idea?” There's a pause. “How do you think I felt when I found out you were him?” The billionaire retorts. He says the you with a bit of flowering, though the him has a slight venom. Clark shivers slightly thinking about… everything. It made sense. Bruce and Batman were very different politically (from Clark's perspective), but physically… even sexually?
Clark glances up at Bruce. Their eyes meet and he looks down, hands between his legs and arms resting on his thighs as his head bent over. He brushes a calloused hand over the very quickly healing bite left on his shoulder. “I can turn it on and off. The impenetrable skin thing.”
“...how?” The way he asks sounds a bit exasperated, even grossed out. Not in a genuinely disgusted way, but in a morbidly curious one.
“It's like flexing any other muscle… but it's my skin…”
Silence again. Clark taps his knees rhythmlessly. He was still here. He wasn't kicking him out. But neither had anything to really say to each other. It did feel a little good for him to know. Even if it was a reveal to Bruce Wayne, he was still Batman; and he had always wanted Batman to know his identity. He had just gotten a bit more careful about it after telling so… so many people.
“You let me bite you?” Bruce offers, forcing a stammer out of Clark.
“Uh, oh… uh… I guess. Yeah.” His voice gets smaller.
“Is it the mask that does it for you? The I am vengeance?” Bruce watches with a smile as Clark starts to shrink into his chair. Superman looked cute like this, actually. Ungelled hair and glasses with his little button up top. Knowing how strong he was, how much he held back with him, how this adorkable thing was a semi-act. “I won't tell anyone.” He adds, reassuring.
“I know… neither will I…”
“I know, Clark. That's not you.” Clark seems mildly appreciative of the compliment, though it's obvious he's hesitant to accept it. He was still nervous about the Bruce Wayne of it. With impure intentions, the businessman reaches into the small bag he had been carrying and picks out a smooth, simple faceplate. Adorning it, Clark's heart stutters. It was him. His hero.
Bruce leans forward, pressing his helmed head against his palm as he watches him closely. “Will you forgive me? And still be a fan?”
Clark rubs his sweaty palms against the fabric of his pants. “Thats… teasing.” He murmurs it. He was still interested, then. Bruce uncrosses his legs.
“I could sweet talk you, work you up, but you're already there. You're thinking on your own.” He offers this smoothly, crossing the living room to press a large, warm hand on Clark's thigh. Clark doesn't pull away, instead leaning forward until their noses are touching. He looks at him, waiting. Impatient. Wanting. “Go ahead. You can kiss me.”
Bruce wasn't expecting Clark to pull him into his lap, tongue searching his mouth as soon as he was given the go. Impossible strength pins his wrists down to each side of him, keeping him restrained against stuttering hips. “Are you him? Is it really you?” The columnist whispers against his lips, strong hands releasing his wrists to rip buttons until they go flying. It was Bruce's fault for giving him the go ahead, he supposed, but he didn't think he needed to specify clothes ripping wasn't ideal. He reaches underneath the man's shirt to find the mark left from before, running a hand lightly over it. It was almost completely gone.
“Does it look like me?” Bruce takes Clark's chin until they're facing each other, eye to eye. The mask is cold between them. Clark is panting like a dog, ready to rip off the rest of his clothes at a moment's notice. The torn linen drapes over his shoulders and covers his arms. Clark is already inching off the pieces and kissing pale skin. This is the most he had ever seen of a nude Batman. Yes, he had seen a naked Bruce. But… he was still putting those two together. “...take off your glasses.” Clark pulls away, retracting his tongue from tasting the sweat of his chest. He blinks for a moment as if taking awhile to process what was asked of him.
Slowly, and almost as if humiliated, he removes the glasses, setting them off to the side. Ohh… there was Superman. Bruce tilts Clark's chin to the left and to the right, getting a good look in. He could see both the hero and the man as one. He's blushing for the first time, actually blushing, and Bruce can't believe it took this to embarrass him. “You can deep throat me but you can't take off your glasses?” He murmurs gently, earning a darker shade of red. Piercing blue eyes look away from his, hiding their shame and eagerness. Bruce runs his hand through Clark's curls. Superman with loose curly hair was a pretty cute look, admittedly.
Testing, he squeezes his thighs and Clark replies by humping upwards equally, still not looking at him. He cups Clark's jaw and kisses him softly as he unbuttons the other's pants, though when he goes to remove them, Clark rips those too. A hand goes to pull the back of his head deeper into the kiss, leaving Bruce dizzy for air. “Don't you have something to ask?” Bruce tries to tease, his breath stolen from him as Clark pulls away.
His soft brow is knit in confusion and concern as he racks his brain for an answer, finally getting it, “Please… can I…”
“Uhuh?”
Clark nibbles on Bruce's lower lip, his hands starting to pull apart the waistband of his clothes. He was going to rip those off too. “Can I please… have sex with you…”
Still couldn't manage a fuck. Or to call his dick a dick. Bruce wondered if he could test how unwilling Clark was to spout vulgarity one of these days. “One more thing?” He murmurs against Clark's lips, their foreheads pressed together in sweat as their hips start to move in the same rhythm. Clark begins to speed up, bare beneath Bruce's torn pants and barely holding on boxers. With one finally rip, he's nude, clothes tattered on the floor.
Bruce leans back, Clark looking dangerously larger when he loomed over him like this. “Sir. Please, sir. Please let me… please if I could even touch you, right now, like this,” Bruce stops him before he continues rumbling, slipping the condom from his pocket onto Clark slowly, teasing. Clark humps into his hand until it's all the way on, Bruce lining him up to enter. “Wait, I didn't… you're tight so…” He murmurs, moving a finger to press it to the ring of muscle. It gives easily, the residue of lube rubbing between two of his fingers when he pulls away.
It's Bruce's turn to be embarrassed, though he isn't sure why. He prepped regularly when he knew he was going to get laid. But being presumptuous about Superman fucking you seemed a little braver than most people would assume. Clark doesn't even notice as he pushes in slowly without resistance, head hung in concentration. His cheeks are hot with blush and there's an awkward excited smile on his face. He's being gentler than he's ever been before, though he's also obviously in his own head. “Clark…”
“Mhm?” The man buries his face in Bruce's neck, smelling like an animal. He shivers.
“Don't go easy on me.” The brunette stills beneath him, the exact opposite of what he had wanted. It was obvious he was thinking. Slowly, but with purpose, Clark lays himself against Bruce, their chests touching. His weight is immense, but it's not as pressure inducing as the feeling of his hips going completely flush before pulling out and repeating at a bruise like pace. The vigilante businessman moans. Loud. His back arches up against Superman's, chin facing the ceiling as his head bends back in pleasure. Every shot Clark took was directly rubbing against his sensitive spot, something that Bruce was sure the other had studied specifically to be this brutal.
Bruce's thighs are already twitching and shaking, trembling at being held open while every muscle begged to tighten and release in successive pleasure. Clark pounds into him while whispering praise against his neck, “You're so tight, sir. You feel so good. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is…” He trails off as Bruce presses a kiss to his lips, nibbling at them. Clark replies with an overeager positivity when strong, thick fingers weave into his curls and pull them, rough. He moans into the kiss and quickens his pace, pulling away to leave hickeys across Bruce Wayne's neck and chest.
He didn't care about leaving a mark. He wanted to see them in Batman's room in the Justice Tower. He wanted to see them peaking out under his shirt collar because of a candid shot. He wanted to make Bruce Wayne and Batman his. “Are you marking me as yours, Kent?”
Embarrassingly, the image of that is enough to make him come. He nods as he grips Bruce's thighs with restrained strength, leaving small blue purple marks where his fingers lay. Still rolling from his own orgasm, Clark wraps his hand around Bruce's own member. He quickly gets to work, keeping one hand pressed into his lower back as the other moves gently up and down. Bruce sways and humps and moans while pressed into the couch by Clark's sheer weight, his mask haphazardly covering only part of his face as it begins to slip from not being held by anything substantial. Underneath was that pretty, gorgeous man who made him so confused.
Locking eyes, his Clark answers the taunt with seriousness. “Yes.”
Part of a helm uncovered brow curves into a look of befuddlement as he comes, hard. His eyes squeeze shut and Bruce uses a shaking hand to fix the mask across his face, only his panting lips and red tinged jaw revealed now.
Clark slips off the mask and kisses the man underneath, gently. Bruce Wayne was definitely, definitely his.