Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne had always been three people. When he was Mr. Wayne, he was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, with a net worth of $2.6B, multiple charity organizations, and fingers in every major financial institution in America. When he was Bruce, he was a private citizen, buried in busy work and wondering if and when he'd die of alcohol poisoning. He'd spent a few years trying to mend the relationship between himself and his semi-estranged son from a college fling twenty five years ago, though where that was headed was anyone's guess. And when he was his most private self, away from eyes of anyone and everyone important, he was a man with a private penthouse paying to get railed by strangers until sunrise. That persona had yet to be named.
Bruce wasn't ashamed of himself, really. Rather, it was his assertion that his sexuality was absolutely no one's business. There was never a repeat hire, and many of the men were paid well enough to keep their mouths shut for a very, very long while. For Bruce, it was a necessary vice. A workout for his libedo so that he could spend the rest of the month doing other things. There was never any evidence, as all security footage was often paid for and destroyed by Wayne Enterprises. The employes of the building were under strict NDA's, with many of them coming from WE's own stable of contractors. It was a seamless, symbiotic relationship, and an arrangement that had kept Bruce sane for the better part of a decade.
Simple. Transactional. No strings, no emotion. The way Bruce liked it.
Bruce checked his watch. 8:15. His appointment would arrive in fifteen minutes. Bruce was a stickler for punctuality. Standing at the window of his penthouse, he stared into the lights of Gotham. The smog of the day left a film of haze along the skyline. It was far better than how it had been when he was a kid. Bruce had personally donated upwards of $2 million a quarter just to keep the air clean. He wanted to put more towards it, but that was about as much as his board of directors was willing to go. He really should fire some of those guys...
A knock pulled Bruce from his thoughts. He turned, whiskey in hand. He'd dressed comfortably for his appointment; a simple white shirt, black slacks, and comfortable loafers. His gray eyes, ever sharp, snapped to the door. He again checked his watch. 8:17 now. It wasn't often his appointments were early.
Another knock. "Mr. Wayne?" A boyish, nervous voice sounded on the other side. Bruce frowned. A temperament like that was hardly his usual fare. Bruce was a large man, with broad shoulders and a sharp set jaw. He'd had his fill of twinks in his twenties and found the pursuit tiring. He needed someone who could bend him over a table with gusto, not some meandering first-timer who didn't know how to rim. As Bruce walked to let his appointment in, he rehearsed the rejection in his head. Something along the lines of, "I'm sorry, you don't meet the requirements. Here's something for your trouble. Good night." That would probably be good enough. He opened the door, and his eyes lowered to meet what he thought would be a young man half his height. What he saw instead was the biggest barrel chest he'd ever laid eyes on.
Speaking of eyes, Bruce's own snapped to the face of the stranger. His eyes were so blue, so clear, that they rivaled a summer's day in paradise. They were framed by two big, tortoise shell spectacles that only drew further attention to them. The man had a face like a shovel, with black curly hair that bounced wildly against his beautiful features. He wore a loose flannel over an old t-shirt, and had with him a second-hand messenger bag.
Nevermind. This is exactly what Bruce ordered.
"You're early," Bruce commented.
"Oh, am I?" Mr. Blue Eyes pushed up his glasses in a nervous fashion. "I'm so sorry, I must have put it in my calendar wrong." The man had a calendar? How precious. Bruce stepped aside to let him in. Mr. Blue Eyes whistled lowly as he looked around the penthouse. "Golly. This place is insane." He turned to Bruce. "You really live here, Mr. Wayne?"
"No," said Bruce. "Just when I want a bit of privacy."
"Right, of course."
"Can I get you a drink?"
"Oh, no thank you, sir. I never drink when I'm on the job." He laughed a little. "Matter of fact, I don't really drink."
"Good for you." Bruce finished his whiskey and headed over to the bar to help himself to a new cocktail. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
"Right." Mr. Blue Eyes set down his messenger bag, but stood awkwardly rather than sit. "Oh geeze, I completely forgot to introduce myself. I'm--"
"No. No names." Bruce dropped an ice cube into his glass and swirled it before taking another sip. "I'm sure you understand that I'm a very private person. So I would appreciate if tonight was handled discreetly."
Mr. Blue Eyes flushed. "You mean anonymous? Oh, right. I guess so." He laughed, and Bruce noticed just how often Mr. Blue Eyes liked to smile. It was a little unnerving. "I'll see what I can do."
"Please." Bruce made his way to his armchair and took a seat. Mr. Blue Eyes followed suit, and Bruce realized he had been waiting to sit second. How charmingly odd. "May I assume this is your first time?"
"Sort of," Mr. Blue Eyes said. "I mean, this is definitely my first time with someone so high profile. Really, I'm honored that you'd make the time for me."
"You really don't need to kiss my ass, you know."
Mr. Blue Eyes seemed taken aback. "Er... that's not what I... I hadn't meant..."
"It's fine." Bruce took another sip and set his glass down. "Are you sure I can't get you anything? Maybe something to eat? Or would you like to wait until after? I'll warn you, we won't be done for a long time."
His eyes widened. "Really? Wow. I guess I'm glad I came prepared."
"That makes two of us. That being said, we can take our time. I don't do this more than once a month, so I like to make the most of it."
Mr. Blue Eyes tilted his head. "Once a month? Really? But I thought--"
"Like I said, I'm a very private person."
"Huh. Do you mind if I asked you who, at least? It might help me later."
Bruce furrowed his brow. "Yes I do mind, as a matter of fact."
"Oh. Sorry, Mr. Wayne, I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm not upset."
"You're not?"
"No."
"Then why are you frowning so hard?"
"This is just my face."
Mr. Blue Eyes flushed. "Oh." Bruce took exception to just how cute such a big man looked, fumbling over his words. Even so...
"Look, if you're not up to this, you can tell me," Bruce said. "You seem a little too nervous, and I'm not in the habit of forcing things to fit, so to speak."
Mr. Blue Eyes straightened his posture and cleared his throat. "Sir," he said, "I'm a professional. I promise you, I am the man for the job."
Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Duly noted. I will have you sign an NDA of course. When we're finished."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose that's alright. Though doesn't that...?" He thought for a moment and shook his head. "Nevermind. Whatever makes you the most comfortable, Mr. Wayne."
"Bruce."
"I'm sorry?"
"Feel free to call me Bruce. Just for tonight."
Mr. Blue Eyes broke into a smile. There was a glimmer of something special in this one. "I thought you didn't want names, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce felt a pull in his gut. The kind of pull that yanked on his nethers and got his blood pumping. Well, well, well. There was a little bit more of a personality in there after all. This would prove to be a very good night. Bruce finished his whiskey and set the glass aside. "I guess that means you want to get started." He stood, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Ah, right!" But rather than strip down, Mr. Blue Eyes turned to his messenger bag and began rummaging around. Bruce stopped half way down his buttons and tilted his head. Had he brought something for the evening? Toys, his own lube? Bruce wondered if he had a latex sensitivity and brought his own condoms. Smart. But before he could ask, Mr. Blue Eyes removed a notepad and pen and leaned back, ready for notes. His smile stretched from ear to ear. "I know you don't allow recording devices, so we'll do this the old fashioned way."
Bruce blinked, his lips slightly parted. His hands hadn't left his shirt. "The old fashioned way," he repeated.
"If you don't mind. Don't worry, I'm a pretty fast note taker. Oh, and I have my questions written down here." He flipped through a few pages as realization dawned on Bruce like a very unpleasant sunrise. "I wanted to start with your research division if that's..." He trailed off, noticing Bruce's expression for the first time. "Everything all right?" he asked. "We could start with a different question if you'd like. I have a few. Though some are a little more puff than others. My boss says he wants to get more of a personality angle on you to go with the report on your enterprise."
Was he asleep? Going through head trauma? Each seemed more likely than reality. "You're a reporter," he blurted out.
Mr. Blue Eyes looked up, caught off guard. "Yeah," he said. "Erm, I'm from the Daily Planet. Out in Metropolis. So this won't be local, sorry."
"Why?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why are you a reporter?"
"Well, I grew up in Kansas. Uh. And I started doing stories for my high school paper and--"
"Get out."
"Huh?"
"How did you even find this place? Who told you? Why are you here?"
"Uh." Mr. Blue Eyes stood in utter confusion. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Wayne, did I do something wrong? You invited me here."
"I absolutely did not."
"No, you did." Mr. Blue Eyes pulled out a cocktail napkin with unmistakable penmanship. He handed it to Bruce, who read it over.
Thursday the 27th
5631 Rockefeller Street, Gotham
Top floor, come before 8:30
"We met at the charity ball for Metropolis's school lunch program," Mr. Blue Eyes continued. "You spent most of your time at the bar, admittedly, but you seemed very eager to meet me." He paused. "Do you... not remember?"
Bruce shut his eyes, hoping to will away the thump in his skull. "The charity ball..." he mumbled.
"Yeah. I was reporting on it, and saw that you donated $20 million. I wanted to get a soundbite from you while I could."
Vague memories returned to him. Some kind of fancy ballroom in a cheap Metropolis Marriott. It had been a rough week, he remembered, and spent quite a few hours in the limo depleting his mobile bar before arriving. Anything to numb the experience with the public. Fortunately, Bruce wasn't a sloppy drunk. But he was, it seemed, a very forgetful one.
"What did I say?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What specifically did I say to you, Mr. Reporter?"
Mr. Blue Eyes fidgeted. "Well, I walked over to you and asked if you'd be willing to do an interview. You invited me to drink, and I politely declined. You seemed very interested in me. Asked me about who I was and why I was in Metropolis." He paused. "You really don't remember, Mr. Wayne? You were very friendly."
Friendly? Never in his entire life was Bruce Wayne accused of being friendly. "And then what?" Bruce pressed.
"Well you kept asking about me, but I tried to redirect the conversation because I had some questions for you. You stopped me and said that if I really wanted a sound bite, I should meet you here. Said you'd give me the interview of my life."
Bruce put a hand to his forehead. "Jesus Christ."
"So look, I would really like to start with your research department." He clicked his pen. "You said that Wayne Enterprises would be at the forefront of cutting carbon emissions for Gotham by next year, but half way there, your program hasn't been on track. Do you have any comment on what might be causing the delays?"
Bruce took a moment to think. He could very easily kick him out. He owned the very building and paid every single salary of the people who worked there. But this was a reporter. One who signed no NDA, agreed to no secrecy, and--for all Bruce knew--was playing it very dumb when it came to the real reason he was there. One wrong move and Bruce's business would be on the front page of every tabloid in the city. Bruce took a moment to breathe and sat back down. His posture was stiff, and his fingers gripped the armrests.
"Climate science is difficult," he said, hoping to remain diplomatic. "Progress is often dependant on the cooperation of local government and other businesses, and negotiation is a slow and delicate process."
"What other businesses are you working with?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Mr. Blue Eyes ran down his notes. "So the delays in your clean energy program are not due to missing funds?"
"Missing funds?"
Mr. Blue Eyes went through his messenger bag. "According to a most recent audit of WE Research, there's about $3 million worth of purchases and grants that are unaccounted for." A lull lingered in the conversation. Mr. Blue Eyes looked up. "Do you want the specifics?"
Bruce tried not to let his irritation show. "Look. Mr...?"
"Kent. Clark Kent."
"Mr. Kent. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention." Bruce stood, fixing a few buttons to his shirt. "But I'm afraid that's an internal matter, and one I'm not prepared to share with the public."
Kent frowned and stood. "All do respect, Mr. Wayne, those funds are meant for the public good. They have as much right to know what happened to them as your board of directors."
Bruce tilted his head. Who knew Mr. Blue Eyes had a backbone? "I assure you, I'll handle it. If there's a misuse of funds--"
"Grants, equipment purchases, facility rentals, all logged with appallingly high prices, only for there to be no physical record of any such purchases in the last six months."
"As I said, I appreciate this, Mr. Kent, but--"
"Do you oversee your staff in the research department, Mr. Wayne?"
"Excuse me?"
"Look, I don't mean to be rude. But you handle a whole lot of money all the time. Is it possible that you would have not noticed the missing money? Maybe someone is relying on you staying busy with the hundreds of other social programs you're a part of."
"If you're making accusations, Mr. Kent--"
"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Wayne."
The air was thick. Bruce felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "I think it's time for you to leave." Bruce gestured to the door, but Kent did not move. "Look. You're young. You're trying to do the right thing. But all you're doing right now is pissing me off and wasting my time. Here." Bruce dug into his wallet and held up five hundred dollars. "This is, what, a week's salary for you?"
"Are you trying to bribe me?"
"I'm trying to get you out of my hair."
"This doesn't work like that."
"Alright, how does two week's salary sound? A month?"
"There are discrepancies in your company."
"Discrepancies I will address, trust me."
"Maybe I can help. I haven't been at the Planet for long, but I'm a dang good investigative reporter."
"I don't need help."
"You invited a stranger to your private penthouse for prostitution and then tried to bribe a reporter. I would say you need all the help you can get."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Ahhh..." He retracted the money as Kent realized he was caught. "So you aren't as oblivious as you played it. Well done. I was buying it for a while."
Kent tried to will away the blush in his cheeks. "I thought I could steer the conversation into something more productive." He took a breath. "I'm not interested in your personal life, Mr. Wayne. If it matters, I also don't judge people for their consensual adult lives. And actually, I find the prosecution and demonization of sex work pretty deplorable. I've worked with sex worker rights advocates, and they're currently out in Washington trying to introduce a referendum which--"
"Get out."
Kent blinked. "Huh?"
"I said get out. Unless you're ready to rip off your pants and make me forget my middle name, you're not welcome. So turn around and get the fuck off my property."
Kent took off his glasses and wiped them on the edge of his flannel. "The swearing is a little uncalled for."
"Just so we're clear, Mr. Kent," Bruce continued, "if I even hear a peep about this encounter in the press, I will ruin you. Do you understand? I will weigh you down with so many lawsuits and court hearings that you'll need to sell every last scrap of gingham you own to pay for legal fees, and you'll still end up sleeping in a box."
Kent looked down at his shirt. "It's plaid."
"I don't give a goddamn if it's polkadots. Get out of my sight, and keep your mouth shut."
Kent didn't move. "I'm not going for your reputation, Mr. Wayne. Regardless of how tonight went, I was raised better than to try and expose a person's private life. Especially for something as petty as revenge."
"Yeah. Sure."
"I'm serious."
"And I'm the Queen of fucking England."
Kent paused. "Isn't she dead?"
"Out, Mr. Kent."
Knock knock knock.
Both men turned to the door. Clearly, their interview was over. Bruce walked over to it and opened it wide, revealing a gorgeous, brown-haired man with the build of a linebacker. Perfect. He was going to need the distraction. Bruce let him inside, and then turned to his unwanted guest. "My 8:30 is here," he said, coolly. "I believe that ends our interview."
Kent lingered before making his way to the door. He paused, and met Bruce eye to eye. Bruce was expecting anger, or perhaps intimidation. Maybe one last little plea to secure his job and his livelihood. But Clark Kent offered nothing of the sort. He stood tall and proud, his brows knit in self-assurance. "Here." He handed Bruce a business card. "When you're ready to find out the truth, give me a call."
"Don't hold your breath." The minute Kent was in the hall, Bruce slammed the door behind him. He took a moment to breathe, and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Friend of yours?" asked Mr. Linebacker.
"Hardly." Bruce tossed the business card onto the kitchen island and proceeded to undo his shirt buttons. "You're three minutes late," he pointed out.
"Traffic," said Mr. Linebacker. He was already starting to pull off his shirt. Bruce spotted all the little hairs that had recently been shaved off. Ugh. Would it kill a man to keep some chest hair? "So? You want to get this party started?" Mr. Linebacker leaned in for a kiss, but Bruce cupped his mouth before he could stick the landing.
"Rules first," he said. "No kisses, no names, no breakfast." Bruce pulled out the contents of his wallet and dropped it onto the table. Since Kent hadn't taken his bribe, there was a good two grand out in the open. "That'll be your tip. You'll get the wire transfer in the morning for the full fifteen thousand." He tilted his head forward. "Let's get that paperwork signed."
✧༺✦✮✦༻∞ 𓆩🖤𓆪 ∞༺✦✮✦༻✧
It was a good thing Bruce had no neighbors and thick floors. The shaking of the bed alone was liable to trigger a noise complaint, and the headboard was so busy beating against the wall Bruce was sure there'd be a dent in the plaster by the end of the night. Mr. Linebacker was certainly serviceable. With Bruce on his knees, bent over the bed, he kept himself open and willing as his guest jackhammered him from behind.
"Ugh. You like that, don't you? Fuck, yeah, take it. Take me you little bitch."
"Shut the fuck up," Bruce snarled. He'd never been very vocal in the bedroom. Bent forward into his pillows, he gripped the ends with whitening knuckles. The slap of their skin was rivaled only by the scratch of the bed frame against Bruce's hardwood floors. He'd need to get those buffed out. The maintenance guys were always good about that. Probably leave them a note as he left for the day.
Bruce closed his eyes. He was certainly getting what he wanted. The initial penetration was aided by the prep Bruce had done all that afternoon. Mr. Linebacker was rough, and slapped Bruce's behind unprompted. No real complaints. Bruce could feel a tension in his lower half, and he grit his teeth into the pillows. The speed of his orgasm was coming fast, and with a gasp, he squirted short and quick onto the two thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
"Ooh, that was a fast one this time," Mr. Linebacker growled. Removing himself, he flopped Bruce onto his sweaty back, apathetic to the mess Bruce now laid in. Hiking up his large legs, Mr. Linebacker continued pounding deep into Bruce's ass. Bruce gripped the sheets, his head tilted to one side. The pain was coming now. Bruce reveled in it. It was the one thing that kept his chattering mind quiet.
He'd always been like this. Ever since he'd discovered who he was. He'd tried in earnest to give a few more romantic relationships a go, but they never worked out. After he got control of his parents' company, it became evident that any potential romantic partner was there for the money and prestige, and not much else. The weight of everything--his job, his life, his responsibility--was on him from morning till night. And only when he laid himself down to be ravaged did he ever find that his worries were drowned out. Drowned by the noise and the pain, the sting of dominance and chains of subjugation. He'd always been a man on top of the world at great cost. The only way he was ever free of it was when he was on his back, disparaged and fucked into submission. In the real world, he was Bruce Wayne. Here? He wasn't anything at all.
"Ugh!" Mr. Linebacker jerked, and Bruce felt the condom fill up. His painful bliss ebbed, and Bruce realized with growing disappointment that he'd lost his headspace. It was the third time that night that he was on the edge of his mind-wipe, as he called it, only to be brought down again to earth with a splash of cold water. Mr. Linebacker, on the other hand, looked perfectly satisfied, and pulled away to dispose of the condom.
"Mm." He pushed back his sweaty hair with a gleeful smile. "How'd you like that one?" When Bruce didn't answer, Mr. Linebacker bent over him and dug his fingers uncomfortably into his lubricated ass. Bruce hissed, and Mr. Linebacker grinned against his neck. "What, you still hungry for me? How do you want me to fuck you? Maybe I should pin you to the window and let the whole world see you come?"
Bruce's eyes opened just so. His jaw was set, and any erroticism had drained from his expression the moment Mr. Linebacker pulled out. He sighed, deeply, and sat himself up. Mr. Linebacker, clearly thinking they were going into round four, moved to get another condom.
"This isn't working."
"Huh?" Mr. Linebacker looked up, his hand on the box. "What do you mean? You came, didn't you?"
"That's not what I mean."
"Okay..." Mr. Linebacker put a hand on his naked hip. "What, I'm not doing it for you?"
"I guess you could say that."
His guest flinched. "Jesus, that's a little harsh. I thought you were having fun."
"It's not about having fun."
"Well what the fuck is it then?"
Bruce got out of bed, ignoring the mess on his back, and grabbed a robe from the back of his bathroom door. "A driver will be waiting for you downstairs. Grab your tip on the way out. If you need a shower, I suggest the Ritz off Elm Street. They'll have a room in my name you can use."
Mr. Linebacker's face fell. Bruce's own remained stony and unchanged. "Well fuck me, sorry I was such a disappointment to you. You fucking dick." Mr. Linebacker grabbed his clothes and angrily started to dress. "Guess I got confused with how many times I got you to fuckin' bust. Piece of shit rich asshole." He threw on his coat and swiped his shoes from the floor. "You know what? You can suck my dick. You know? I came all the way out here, I signed that stupid fucking paper, and I gave you the best fuck of my life, and you want to just cut it short? It's not even midnight!"
Bruce tilted his head. "That was the best for you? Low standards."
Mr. Linebacker flashed beet red. He had nothing more to say, and slammed the door on his way out, rattling the whole penthouse. Bruce rubbed his face with his hands. Oh well. There was always next month.
Walking out to his living room, he helped himself to a drink and a cigarette. Alfred had been trying to get him to quit for ages. It was hard to break a habit you've had since you were a teenager. Bruce's eyes crossed his apartment until they landed on his kitchen island. The business card of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, stared back at him. He took a drag and blew the smoke through his nose.
After a moment more of thought, Bruce took his laptop from his personal bag, sat himself on the dining room table, and got to work.