Chapter Text
Clark knows, of course, that his presence and role as Superman aren't unanimously welcomed. There are those who see him as a threat, an outsider with no place interfering in a planet that isn't his. People like Luthor make sure that sentiment is never forgotten. So it doesn't really surprise him anymore when he's met with cold, disapproving, or wary stares.
He's not chasing approval. Doing the right thing will always come before what some people think of him, even if, at times, he can admit that it wears him down.
It's when he meets Batman for the first time that the word turf starts echoing among the usual things he hears from critics.
Not that Batman actually said that. What he said was, "Get out of my city," and then he turned and walked away, leaving Clark speechless. It wasn't loud or hostile, but there was something so cold in his tone that it chilled Clark to the bone, despite the summer heat.
Clark had known about Batman, of course. He had reported on Gotham's crime issues more than once, and the Bat had always been a controversial figure. Still, the majority of the city seemed to support him.
(A man dressed like a bat, never seen in public, hiding in shadows. Clark had felt a little bitter when reading Lois' article on him, because Batman didn't seem to rely on charm at all, and yet the city loved him for it. Good for him, right?)
What really took Clark by surprise was how fiercely territorial Batman was when it came to Gotham. Clark believed in unity, in shared responsibility, in helping where help was needed.
He hadn't expected gratitude when he stepped in to stop a bank robbery where a group had taken hostages. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't expected anything other than contempt.
"I..." Clark had tried to answer, awkward under Batman's cool tone. But the man was gone in the next second, grappling into the night like he hadn't just handled the entire situation alone and made Clark look late to his own job. (Clark had been dealing with a fire in India. But that's not much of an excuse.)
Thankfully, the only one who witnessed the scene was Commissioner Gordon, who offered a small, almost apologetic smile. There was pride in it too, unmistakable. Clark could almost call it affection, though he didn't know their relationship well enough to say for sure.
"He grows on you," Gordon said, a little sheepish but sincere.
"Really?" Clark hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way anyway.
"He's a good kid," Gordon replied, and Clark had no idea how to answer that.
And despite his own rules about not eavesdropping, Clark found himself focusing his hearing, trying to catch the sound of that low voice, just to figure out if Batman had a problem with anyone stepping into his city, or if the problem was him specifically. Superman.
Batman is, to say the least, a difficult person to read. At least, when it comes to his voice. He rarely shouts. His words are always a deep, firm tone, so controlled and cold that Clark can barely make out any emotions beyond that. He only ever hears the man say a few words at a time, but they're always short, simple, and to the point.
When it came to criminals, his voice takes on a sharper edge, a menacing one that made Clark wince every time. (And then Clark found himself in the rare position of feeling glad he never has to be on the receiving end of that.)
When he talks to Comissioner Gordon, it's warmer, not much, but... A little kinder. Softer, as much as that voice is capable of.
Clark isn't a creeper, even if he has every possible means to be an expert stalker. Ma raised him better than that. Tuning out the world around him unless someone is in danger or needs help is something he's had to make a conscious habit.
Now, he has to remind himself to do the same when it comes to Batman.
Clark's not exactly sure when keeping an ear out turned into something more. He swears it isn't intentional when, on a quiet and particularly dull night, he hears Batman's voice, gasping. Grunting, almost like he's in pain.
His senses sharpen instantly. Because regardless of how clearly Batman had told him to stay out of Gotham, it's still a free country. And if Clark can prevent the city from losing its protector, overhearing the occasional noise isn't exactly a federal offense.
He's ready to ditch his oversized lounge clothes and be back in the suit in a fraction of a second when Batman groans again. Only this time, it's not the kind of sound that signals pain or danger. It's… different.
"Yeah, just like that…" the same voice breathes, followed by a shaky inhale. Clark feels the tips of his ears heat up instantly. "Fuck me."
It's low and raspy and… sexy. Really sexy, the kind of sexy Clark hasn't had in a while, and it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up to the fact that the voice is unmistakably Batman's. Or rather, it belongs to the man who wears the cowl. Clark still doesn't know his real identity, and he'd never push that line. But he can't exactly unhear it now, can he?
He tries to tune it out. Really, he does.
Except his stupid, oversensitive hearing seems to focus on it no matter how hard he tries to push it away. Batman isn't a vocal man, not that Clark knows him very well. But Clark can picture him: always so quiet, and focused.
The sounds are a low hum in the background of the world, so easy to ignore but at the same time, the only sound Clark can really focus on.
He's letting out these little noises, nothing louder than a heavy sigh or a moan muffled by something; maybe a pillow, a mattress, or even his own arm. And even though Clark knows the thought is ridiculous, he can't stop himself from wondering if he could be the one to draw something louder out of the man who's always so obsessed with control.
"Faster." It's the only word that escapes Batman's lips after a long stretch of low, steady groans and ragged breathing.
It's only when Clark becomes aware of the erection straining against his pants that he forces himself to cut off his focus entirely. He grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the TV, not enough to make the walls shake, but enough to drown out the sounds. Loud enough that Krypto lifts his head from his bed, giving him a sleepy but unmistakably annoyed look.
Clark shifts, his body heating up at the friction from his clothes, and the guilt washes over him at the mere thought that he'd allowed himself to eavesdrop.
But he couldn't help it.
There's something in Batman's voice that makes his blood run hot. The tone, usually so cold and unemotional, now dripping with lust. Hearing him moan, knowing exactly how the sound is made… it makes Clark's pulse race.
He closes his eyes and forces his breathing to even. His face feels flushed.
There's no denying his attraction, but he can ignore it, right?
It's been a while since he and Lois decided to just be friends. Since then, there haven't been many other chances, or, honestly, real interest to meet anyone. The only action he sees these days is with his own hand.
Clark tells himself it's the dry spell, the lack of sex and intimacy. And that Batman has a nice voice, a sharp, attractive jawline, and probably a great body under the Kevlar suit.
(Okay, that last part might just be a wild guess. Still.)
And really, it's not like Clark can just show up in Gotham one fine day and start flirting with Batman. The guy's already suspicious of anyone who dares set foot in his city, and the fact that they didn't exactly get off on the right foot doesn't help.
Whatever this thing is that Clark's just realized about himself, it's probably doomed to stay buried. He can already hear Lois' reaction if he told her he's somehow developed a... crush for a man whose name he doesn't know, whose face he's never seen above the mouth, and who has barely said three words to him.
Yeah, this is the level of pathetic Clark's operating on, apparently.
Sure, he could use his powers. He could look past the cowl--assuming Batman isn't paranoid enough to wear a suit resistant to x-ray vision. Clark would call that overkill, but honestly, nothing surprises him anymore when it comes to the Bat. Of course, that's just a hypothetical. Clark would never actually do that. Horny or not, he still has boundaries.
Besides, if Batman's nightly activities say anything about him, it's either that he's in a committed relationship, or he's the kind of guy who has one-night stands. Nothing wrong with that, Clark has no judgment there, it's just never really been his thing.
The best course of action would be to forget this entire thing, and surprisingly, he does a very decent job of it. Keeping busy helps. Clark focuses on work and saving people, and it's easy enough to block out everything else.
When Perry sends him to Gotham to cover a charity gala that Bruce Wayne himself is hosting, Clark's first reaction is to be irritated. Of course, he keeps that to himself, because he knows how important the event is. But this is Cat's scene, not his, and he really can't say that he enjoys going to these things. Perry says something about a flu bug hitting the staff, but Clark's too sour to pay close attention.
This kind of assignment is the one thing not even Clark, with his endless patience, can truly handle: events where people rich enough to solve world hunger gather just to show off their million-dollar outfits, socialize with fake smiles, and soak in the attention. At least, it's for a good cause. The Wayne Charity Gala is known for being one of the biggest fundraisers for social initiatives, even if the heir himself rarely makes public appearances.
This is one of the few events where Bruce Wayne actually allows himself to be seen, to be photographed, though Cat Grant insists that's been changing. Her personal mission, it seems, is to track Wayne's social life with religious devotion. And honestly, considering how private he is, Clark would argue she's wasting her time.
Before, Bruce Wayne appearing in public was almost unheard of. Cat had explained that to Lois and Clark, though neither of them had asked. She offered some cheesy metaphor about emancipation, and Clark was proud of himself for not laughing. Lois didn't even try to hold back.
"Please, what is he, thirty? Bit late for a bird to decide to leave the nest," she said while sipping her cappuccino, completely ignoring Cat's deadly glare.
"Anyway," Cat went on, "whenever Bruce Wayne makes a public appearance, it becomes the event of the day." She smiled like it was an undeniable fact. "I managed to get an interview with him at Oliver Queen's birthday party a few weeks ago, and let me tell you, that man should charge people to see him smile. Because wow, just wow."
Clark hadn't known how to respond to that, and Lois had clearly lost all interest in talking about rich people. The conversation died right there.
Clark is fairly certain Perry sent him here as punishment for missing his deadline on his article about the recent blackout in Metropolis and the city's aging electrical grid by a single day. One day. And now here he is, once an investigative reporter, now reduced to covering socialites. He's pretty sure Lois is still laughing about it.
He adjusts his tie again, letting it sit slightly crooked, and steps aside to let the waiters pass. They carry trays full of champagne that probably cost more than his entire month's rent. He mutters a few polite apologies, a "pardon me" here and there, getting side-eyed by women drenched in perfume and glittering diamonds that nearly blind him under the lights.
Still, he does the job. He interviews people who make him grit his teeth, like Veronica Vreeland ("Oh my boy, next time pick a suit that actually fits you!"), Bianca Steeplechase (who brags about being a favorite target for kidnappers and criminals), Sebastian Harr (who critiques the Daily Planet for ignoring his precious tech innovations), and a handful of others Clark would never go near under any other circumstance unless it led to a story that actually mattered.
When Bruce Wayne finally arrives, Clark instantly understands what Cat meant about the smile. He's flashing it at someone whose back is turned to Clark, and even from this far, it's obvious that the expression is fake. But that doesn't make it any less dazzling. It's still graceful, polished, and so attractive that it feels like a personal offense.
Realizing the direction his thoughts are heading, Clark clears his throat and forces himself to look away. He really needs to focus. He's never been good with these types of things. He prefers a different kind of reporting; not always chasing the scoop, but something that makes him feel useful. That makes him feel like he's not wasting his time and using up all this energy, and maybe this is why he finds himself watching Bruce Wayne as the rest of the room seem to be waiting to greet him.
He smiles at a woman, takes her hand and brings it to his lips, leaving her looking stunned and more than a little delighted. He makes small talk with someone Clark doesn't recognize. He accepts a glass of champagne, and it's not long before someone takes him by the arm and starts dragging him over to where all the rich socialites gather in an effort to flirt.
There are cameras everywhere, people calling out questions and waiting for the perfect opportunity to grab a sound bite or a photo. But even in the midst of this, even among his peers who are equally used to this kind of event, Wayne looks a little lost, a little tense, maybe even annoyed.
Most people don't realize this, of course. He's good at covering it, but Clark can see past it, the tension in his posture, in his jaw and hands.
Clark can empathize, really. Maybe Cat is used to this kind of event, but for Clark, it's nothing short of claustrophobic.
Even so, he grabs his camera, snaps a few more photos, jots down some more quotes from other rich guests, and tries to make himself as invisible as someone with his height and build possibly can.
After what feels like an eternity, Bruce Wayne finally seems to catch a break from the endless stream of people circling him like vultures. Clark watches as the mask slips for just a moment. Fatigue and discomfort settle over him, but the second he notices someone approaching, the expression vanishes, replaced by something open that wasn't there a second ago.
"Mr. Wayne. Clark Kent, Daily Planet," Clark introduces himself, waiting for the other man to lift his gaze.
His eyes shift slightly, the darkness of his pupils expanding into the blue, and for a brief moment, it looks like he forgets to breathe.
"I'd like a few words, if that's not too much trouble," Clark continues politely, meeting Bruce Wayne's silence with patience.
"Of course," the man finally replies, offering Clark a smile that's just a little different from the ones he's been giving all night.
(A little softer. Clark blinks a few times, just to be sure that it's still there and not a hallucination brought on by the stifling atmosphere in here.)
It's just a little smile. Small enough that a less experienced reporter might dismiss it as part of his charming public persona. But it's enough that Clark can read a little sincerity behind it.
Clark feels oddly flattered, but he doesn't dwell on it, because if he lets himself, it will most certainly be misplaced.
"So..." Clark clears his throat, ready to start the usual list of questions he asks at these kinds of events, but then Bruce's gaze meets his and he forgets everything he prepared.
Clark Kent is an adult man, in a committed, monogamous relationship with his job, and he can keep his personal and professional lives separate. But something about that look makes him freeze for a split second.
"Yes?" Bruce tilts his head ever so slightly, amusement written across his face.
Of course, Bruce answers every question with practiced elegance and ease, even though, according to Cat, he hadn't been seen in public much until recently. He smiles at the right moments, drops in a few light jokes that actually land, and despite this being a gathering of the rich and powerful, he genuinely seems to take the event seriously. It's a tradition that began long before he was born, and he treats it with the kind of respect that makes it clear he's aware of that weight.
When the music shifts and a slower melody begins to play, Bruce pauses for a moment and glances around the room.
"It's time for the dance," he says. "Care to join me?"
Clark's first instinct is to say yes. The answer hovers on the tip of his tongue, eager and too easy. But he remembers the press badge pinned to his chest, the camera still hanging at his side. With a quiet smile, he gestures to his notepad and camera.
"Duty calls," he replies, wishing he hated himself a little less for saying it.
Bruce nods in understanding, not at all offended.
"Maybe later, then?" he says, voice low and smooth. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Kent."
Clark watches him melt into the crowd, swept up by a woman in a sleek gown that clings perfectly to her figure and shines against her pale skin. Silver St. Cloud, he recognizes her immediately, her hair cascading down her back like liquid gold, her smile painted in a deep cherry red that Bruce will probably kiss before the night ends. The hand at her waist isn't bold; it's respectful, yet still shows interest. Mutual, judging by the way she arches her brow and smiles at him.
She draws closer, aligning their bodies until her breasts brushes against Bruce's torso, and Clark finds himself staring a little too long. He watches the way she turns her head, smiles up at Bruce with something flirtatious and polished, and he answers with another one of those almost-sincere smiles. The ones that look easy but never quite reach his eyes.
The image of Batman drifts through Clark's mind like smoke. And just like that, he feels the pull of guilt. Watching someone this closely, reading into every touch and look, it's not what he's supposed to be doing. He sighs, forces himself to look away, and starts snapping pictures of other couples moving across the dance floor in slow, elegant circles.
That's when Crystal Brown appears, all glitter and perfume, and practically demands an interview from him. For once, he's grateful to her, grateful for her ego and need for attention. Her company is the exact distraction he needs.
"You're tall, aren't you? And broad-shouldered." She looks at his biceps through the suit jacket as if she could somehow see his muscles beneath.
"Um, thank you, Ms. Brown." Clark forces out the words, tries his best to maintain a smile, "So, about the--?"
"I'm sure you don't have trouble finding women to warm your bed at night, right, Mr. Kent?" Crystal interrupts with a wicked smile.
"Oh, um." Clark clears his throat, taken completely off guard. "That's very nice of you, Ms. Brown, but I--uh."
"You're too shy for that?" she cuts him off again, this time with a giggle that sounds like she's trying to mock him and is doing a poor job of it. "Oh dear. If only you had better taste at fashion, we might be able to do something with you. This suit really doesn't suit your body, dearie. What size is it?"
Clark barely resists the urge to look at his watch, only to be interrupted once more when the woman throws her head back, laughs, and says something about his ears. He doesn't bother with a response.
He does checks his watch this time, and realizes enough time has passed for him to slip out without feeling guilty about it. He has more than enough material for a solid article on the event, and if he stays even ten more minutes, he's going to lose his mind.
With practiced politeness, he excuses himself from Brown and makes his way toward the exit. He's nearly there when a hand rests on his shoulder, halting him. Bruce stands in front of him, composed in his perfectly tailored suit that Clark could never hope to rival, eyes still as striking as when they first spoke earlier.
"Leaving so soon, Mr. Kent?"
"Well, my work here is done, Mr. Wayne. Now it's just a matter of waiting for the piece to run in the Daily Planet. I hope you'll take a look at it when it's published," Clark says with a warm smile.
Bruce lets out a quiet sound, something like a thoughtful hum, and tilts his head slightly. "So... you're officially off the clock?"
Clark blinks, then nods, a bit curious now. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "More or less. There's no real timecard to punch, but yeah, I'd say I am."
"Then... would you like to get out of here?"
Clark rushes to clarify, flustered. "Oh, I didn't mean anything bad, Mr. Wayne. I mean, the event is lovely, and the cause is important, but--"
"I meant... with me," Bruce interrupts gently.
Clark freezes, taken by surprise. His ears grow hot and the blood rushes to his face so quickly he nearly stumbles over his own tongue. Bruce's expression is perfectly composed, polished and elegant.
"Um, with you, as in...?"
Bruce smiles ever so slightly again. There's a flirtatious tilt to his voice when he replies. "Well, that depends on you, doesn't it?"
Yeah, Clark is completely at loss here, because no one with even a single brain cell could have misinterpreted Bruce's invitation. Clark feels something clench inside him. Heat that crawls down his spine and coils low in his gut.
"Oh," he says, feeling the air escape from his lungs.
Bruce raises a brow at him, amusement curling in the corner of his mouth. "My car is a black Maserati Ghibli, waiting for me in the parking lot. I'll wait for you out there for, let's say, ten minutes? If you want to join me."
His heart pounds as he watches Bruce's retreating back, his long, elegant legs in a fitted suit.
That whole thing about one-night stands not being his thing? Yeah, that still holds some truth. But Clark is definitely not in the right state of mind (or body) to think rationally about any of it right now.
Well, okay then.
Clark can totally do this. A one night stand with a gorgeous billionaire, who for some reason, seems interested in him, even if he's wearing a suit that makes him look like an oversized child.
He's going to meet Bruce in his sleek, expensive car, probably have sex with him, and then they'll both pretend it never happened. They'll go back to their separate lives, like it was nothing.
When has that ever worked out for Clark? Never. But that doesn't stop him from making his way to the parking lot exactly two minutes after they parted. His senses confirm that no one is nearby, which comes as a relief. The last thing he needs is his name plastered across the tabloids as the latest conquest of Gotham's elusive billionaire. Even if Bruce usually stays away from scandals, Clark doesn't want to be the exception.
The car door opens before he can even knock on the window. The glass is tinted too dark to see through, unless maybe you're someone like Clark. He slides into the passenger seat, considers asking where they're headed, but Bruce doesn't give him the chance.
Instead, Bruce climbs into his lap, settles there, and kisses him. Not gently. Not slowly. It's deep from the start, all heat and teeth and hunger.
Clark's thoughts vanish. He kisses back just as fiercely, gripping Bruce's waist and then sliding lower, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit pants, wanting more than just this teasing pressure.
Okay, Clark thinks, moaning as Bruce nips at his lower lip, he's fine with this. This is good too.
It's not how he imagined it would be; a quick fuck in the back seat of a luxury car, pants pushed down just enough to get things done, but hey, he can work with it.
Just because he's a farm boy doesn't mean he's above filthy, messy sex, right?
Wrong.
But he's not about to say that out loud or complain, not with Bruce's tongue down his throat and bold hands gripping his biceps through the fabric of his suit. It's fine, he tells himself as his glasses go crooked and get shoved up his forehead by the force of Bruce's kisses. He doesn't care.
That's the part Clark tries not to focus on, because his brain will find a way to overthink it, he's sure. Bruce's kisses are rough and desperate, and the heat of his tongue against Clark's skin is driving him wild.
"Wanna get out of here?" Bruce whispers against his jaw, his breath hot and heavy against Clark's skin.
Clark tries to get a look at him through half-lidded eyes, his chest heaving for air. He takes in the way Bruce is slightly flushed, how he licks his lips, how he's grinding down on Clark's lap and breathing heavily.
"Oh, yes please," Clark hears himself say, his voice strained and breathless.
"My penthouse is some blocks away," Bruce tells him, the words punctuated with kisses along the column of Clark's throat, teeth teasing over his skin.
"Really," Clark says stupidly. "I thought you lived at the Wayne Manor."
"I do. But I do have a penthouse."
For sex, and stuff, Clark thinks. He swallows and feels his skin burn a little brighter at that thought.
"Lead the way, Mr. Wayne," Clark breathes, earning a smile from Bruce as he pulls back to get out of Clark's lap.
Clark can't say that he regrets agreeing to this, especially not when Bruce pulls him into his penthouse with a hungry look that makes Clark feel a bit weak. Bruce doesn't even give him enough time to look at the place, just pulls him by the hand into what is probably the bedroom.
It's desperate and fast, just like the kiss in the car. Clark pushes Bruce onto the bed and slides on top of him, kissing his throat and listening to the heavy, uneven sounds of Bruce's heartbeat, the rush of air into his lungs. Clark fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, clumsy and shaking a bit from how worked up he is already.
Clark barely registers the scars on Bruce's chest. Faint bruises and greenish marks that stand out against pale skin, but he pushes that observation aside for later, for a time when his cock isn't this hard and Bruce isn't looking so damn gorgeous in front of him.
Bruce helps him out of the rest of his clothes, thankfully more coordinated than Clark, and the moment their bare bodies press together, both of them moan. God, the sensation of their cocks grinding against each other makes Clark's skin burn with heat. Even with the air conditioning already on, it does nothing to cool the fire building under his skin.
It's the kind of summer night that clings to skin. Sweat begins to bead on Bruce's chest, glistening like temptation, and Clark wants to lick it off. He wants to cover Bruce in marks, to leave proof of this moment etched into his skin.
He does. Bruce tilts his head, offering more of his throat when Clark drags his teeth gently along it. Clark has to remind himself to hold back. Even though Bruce is a grown man and that means Clark can be a little rougher than he would be with a woman, he still has more than enough strength to break a human being without meaning to.
"Clark," Bruce groans, and Clark bites down just enough to earn that sound again, just enough to feel Bruce's hips twitch. Their slick cocks glide against each other, precum easing the way, making every movement feel dizzying and raw.
Clark finds his mouth again, and it's more moan against moan, tongue against tongue, than a kiss. But Jesus, it feels incredible. And even in the thick of it, even overwhelmed by sensation, Clark notices it.
Something about the way Bruce moans and pants, the sound of him falling apart. It hits a nerve deep inside Clark that he can't quite place.
It feels like something he's heard before. That realization stops him in his tracks, his hands freezing as they slide up the curves of Bruce's thighs.
"Is there a problem?" Bruce asks, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath.
"No." Clark clears his throat, eyes a bit wide, still a little caught off guard. "Not at all."
Clark finds his way between Bruce's thighs, licking the sweat off his skin and enjoying every noise Bruce makes. Bruce's fingers find their way to his hair, gripping his head with just the right amount of pressure, but still so careful. He seems to know the exact moment that Clark wants more, when he starts to go lower, closer and closer until his breath fans over the heated flesh of Bruce's cock.
Bruce lets out a low, strangled moan, and then, there's another familiar noise, a quiet whimper from deep inside Bruce's chest.
"Clark," Bruce moans again, hips bucking in desperation, his cock twitching and hard against his stomach, leaking precum from the slit. "Please."
And just like that, the memory is complete, hitting Clark like a punch to the gut.
"Oh, God." Clark moans against Bruce's skin, and when Bruce bucks against him again, he just-- he loses it. "Oh my God."
"Cl--" Bruce starts to ask, but Clark's mouth is suddenly on him, sliding down his cock without any warning, sucking so hard that Bruce nearly chokes from the overwhelming sensations.
Clark loses all control. His mouth and hands move on their own, working Bruce until the sounds Bruce is making are frantic and breathless, louder than those low moans that sounded so familiar a few moments ago.
"I need... I want," Bruce pants, struggling to breathe and talk at the same time, "Fuck me, Clark..." And if Clark ever had any doubt, it vanishes now.
The man beneath him, moaning and twisting under his touch, is Batman.
There's no room left for questions. It's the same voice he heard months ago, pleading in the dark from a faceless man. Only this time, he's the one without a face. And this time, no one is eavesdropping on those sounds, because the one who used to listen is now the one making Bruce fall apart like this.
God, he should say something. He should ask Bruce if he knows, if he remembers, if this means anything. But the words die before they can form. Not with Bruce's hands digging into his back and his eyes full of need. And definitely not with that voice echoing in his mind, still ringing in his ears.
It's the voice he chased for weeks. For months. A voice that used to carry steel and distance. Now it's pleading, breathless, breaking apart with want. Begging to be fucked. And it belongs to a man so heartbreakingly beautiful it feels almost cruel.
The Bat, who never cracks, who holds himself like armor, is shattering beneath him, not knowing who Clark really is. Not knowing that the man touching him like this is the same one he supposedly hates. Or, at least, is very wary of.
Clark pushes every thought to the back of his mind and does exactly what Bruce asked:
Grabs the lube and the condom Bruce throws at him. Stretches him open and watches the way Bruce's expression twists into something that looks like agony when he brushes a fingertip over that spot.
And finally, Bruce spreads his thighs wider and Clark moves between them, pushes his slick cock inside Bruce's tight heat, and they both groan in pleasure. He fucks him until the bed creaks under them and the headboard bangs against the wall, over and over again. He fucks him until his own breathing sounds rough and pained and all Bruce can do is gasp for air and beg for more, until every single thought in Clark's head is reduced to yes and please and more and fuck.
This is how a one night stand should be, he thinks. All sweat and heat, filthy noises and bruising hands gripping each other in the darkness, desperate and wild.
It shouldn't be a voice that echoes in his head. It shouldn't bring his memories to a cowl, a scowl, the dark lines of a suit that could swallow the world in shadows. It shouldn't turn that scowl into something like surrender and turn Batman into something so achingly beautiful it hurts.
It shouldn't.
But it does.
This is Bruce Wayne, the billionaire heir of Gotham City. This is the man Clark is allowed to touch, to fuck. A persona, maybe. A mask, certainly. But the Bat is the mask Bruce never wanted to share, and Clark won't ruin the night by letting it show.
When Bruce comes with a strangled, broken sound, Clark's world narrows down to one thing. It's all he can see, all he can feel, as his release hits him in a sudden, blinding flash, leaving him dizzy and gasping. He collapses onto the bed, sweat clinging to his skin, heart still hammering in his chest, and it feels like he's drowning. Like the air he tries to suck into his lungs won't help him breathe, won't ease the fire under his skin.
Bruce touches him. Runs a hand along the curve of his spine. Slips fingers through his hair. His movements are tender and gentle, like a lover.
He kisses him like a lover, too. Slow, sweet. The kind of kiss that lingers in a person's mind for weeks after it fades.
Get out of my city, it echoes in his thoughts, over and over.
Clark swallows, closes his eyes and lets out a quiet, shaky breath.
"Was it good for you?" he hears Bruce say.
Clark smiles at that and manages a quiet nod, the memory of the Bat's voice still haunting him, lingering like a ghost.
"Yeah, it was." he answers and leans in, stealing one more kiss. "It really was."
'Get out of my city', it echoes again. This time though, it's followed by, 'Fuck me', and Clark shivers, just thinking about it.
Bruce smiles a small little thing and strokes the line of his jaw with his fingers, then taps them under his chin, bringing him back from his thoughts.
"What's on your mind?" Bruce asks, voice soft and still a bit breathless, "It must be pretty interesting for you to be lost in thought after we just had sex."
Clark won't tell him. He can't tell him. He kisses Bruce, and Bruce melts against him.
"I just had a very good night," Clark tells him. "That's all."
Bruce nods at that, his fingers stroking Clark's hair.
Clark wonders, what now?
Well, it's obvious. Now he gathers his clothes and he leaves, of course. That's how things are done. This is how one night stands work. You sleep with someone, you don't fall asleep with them. You don't stay for the morning cuddles or for breakfast, you just--
Clark closes his eyes and almost regrets how the night ended up going. He thought he was prepared for this, for the inevitable awkwardness of it, but he's not. Not even a little bit.
He's not ready for the feeling of being just another nameless man leaving Bruce's bed and going back to his life in Metropolis, knowing the very same man that moaned his name would never trust being like this with him if he knew who Clark really was.
"Would you like me to leave?" he hears himself asking, because that's the polite thing to say, isn't it? Even though it feels wrong on his tongue and makes his skin crawl, knowing how selfish it is.
"You can stay, if you want to," Bruce whispers back, "But I won't ask you to."
It's all Bruce needs to say, really.
"Then I'm staying," Clark answers with a smile, and he pulls Bruce close again. Bruce happily follows the movement, his arm resting over Clark's chest.
They fall asleep like that and wake up the same way the next morning. When Clark steps out of the shower, the breakfast Bruce had ordered from a deli nearby is already waiting. Clark tells himself it doesn't mean anything. It's just a polite gesture from someone who was raised to be thoughtful.
"When are you heading back to Metropolis?" Bruce asks quietly, watching Clark button up the shirt he wore the night before.
"My train leaves at noon," Clark replies, not mentioning that he could easily fly back in a matter of minutes but chooses to take the conventional route instead.
Bruce nods and walks over to him, stopping just in front. Clark is taller, and there's something strangely charming about the fact that Bruce — Batman — has to tilt his head to look up at him.
"If you come back to Gotham sometime, find me," Bruce says, his voice low as his lips brush near Clark's jaw. "We could figure something out."
Clark offers a small smile, trying to silence the quiet flutter of hope rising in his chest. "I doubt you'll even remember me in a few days, Mr. Wayne."
"Bruce," he corrects, with a flicker of something like offense, like he's annoyed on Clark's behalf. "You really don't give yourself enough credit."
A blush creeps up Clark's cheeks, and for a moment, he doesn't know how to respond.
"Well," he finally says, eyes softening, "maybe I'll come back this weekend, then."
Bruce just smiles and pulls him closer, until there's not an inch between them and Bruce is breathing him in like a starving man. "I'll be waiting," he murmurs. "Now kiss me goodbye before I never let you leave."
Clark kisses him, slow and deep, and tries to forget how it feels like something between a lie and a promise.
Bruce hands him a card before he leaves, embossed and silver, with a number Clark suspects belongs to Bruce's private line.
"Call me if you can make it, alright?" he asks. "You're welcome any time, Clark."
It takes effort for Clark to nod. To take the card and leave with a smile when all he wants to do is turn around, press Bruce against the wall, and tell him he's Superman. Tell him everything, and stay, and hold him, and kiss him.
Bruce's words are the opposite of the Bat's; the opposite of the low warning growled at him from behind that cowl. The opposite of how Batman keeps the world at arm's length with barbed wire and the weight of a thousand ghosts.
"Am I, really?" He finds himself asking quietly as he puts on his glasses.
Bruce just smiles, and there's something wistful in that smile, in the look in his eyes as he stares back.
"Why wouldn't you be?" He asks in turn.
Clark shakes his head, shrugs, and kisses him once more before turning around and leaving, like the night was never meant to last longer than a moment.
He'll tell him, Clark promises himself. If they see each other again, Clark will tell Bruce that he knows who he is and will tell him about who he is too. And then, Clark will hope that Bruce won't tell him to get out of his city, like he did as Batman. That Bruce will accept him as something other than the intruding Superman and welcome him as Clark Kent, farm boy from Kansas, incapable of having one night stands and loving too fiercely for his own good.
He hopes Bruce won't hate him once he knows the truth.
And God, he hopes he'll have the guts to tell him.