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Tonight was the first time Bruce slept with someone without hiding behind the mask of a billionaire heir. No easygoing act, no exaggerated charm, none of the carefully constructed personality he's been forcing himself to perform, the one he secretly resents. Brucie Wayne is a safe disguise, a shield made of grins and meaningless flirtation, built to contain the darkness inside him. That smile with too many teeth, those empty jokes he delivers on autopilot; they're all part of the act that makes his skin crawl.
But it's necessary.
He didn't always see it that way. Back then, it felt like surrender. Now, he recognizes the strategy behind it. The persona still doesn't feel natural, not yet, not convincingly enough to be second nature, but Bruce is learning. At every event, every gala, every press-filled occasion, something inside him begs to vanish into solitude again. Still, he stays. Some sacrifices are needed for a larger purpose.
Sleeping with models isn't the worst thing. Bruce isn't about to be a hypocrite and say it's a chore. But it feels different when the interest is in his wealth, not in him. It doesn't wound him. He doesn't feel fooled. If anything, he sees it for what it is: an exchange. One where he's just as much of a liar.
Honestly, sex is sex. It's a means to an end. In this case: tension relief, stress relief, and yes, pleasure.
But tonight, he slept with someone while undercover. Or maybe, right after.
The club isn't shady enough to land on the GCPD's radar, not scandalous enough to pull media heat, but it belongs to Roman Sionis. And when the Penguin starts showing up inside, even if just in passing, Bruce knows something is off.
Some rumors talk about a new drug. Others, a sex trafficking ring.
It was Bruce's fourth night frequenting the place, dressed discreetly enough to blend in as a regular patron just looking for good company to end the night with.
The problem is, apparently Bruce isn't the only one who was pulled in by a spark. It was that night when Clark Kent's presence caught his attention.
Gotham isn't Kent's usual beat, but reporters chase smoke like it's gold. And the partnership between Sionis and Cobb was never going to go unnoticed. Not by him. Bruce was at least relieved it was Kent and not Lois Lane. He doesn't know either of them well, but Lane's approach is sharper. It grates in a way Bruce would almost call irritating, if it didn't get such effective results.
Clark's presence stood out, even as he tried to melt into the background.
He wore a disguise, too, though Bruce didn't miss the shift. The clumsy, sweet reporter was nowhere to be found. In his place stood something else entirely. Bruce isn't sure who Clark was pretending to be. He isn't even sure if it was a disguise at all.
All Bruce could think, when he saw that tall body built like a god and all that muscle shown off under dim lights, was how badly he wanted to feel the weight of that man on top of him.
Wanted to be pinned down, unraveled, fucked until there was nothing left but that sharp pleasure and a bone-deep, satisfied ache.
It felt like too much of a coincidence that the night was quieter than usual when it came to the comings and goings of Sionis' men. Like fate was playing a hand. The Penguin hadn't shown up. Nothing out of place had happened. The whole thing seemed ready to end with Bruce walking away with nothing but the same questions he came in with.
His eyes land on Clark Kent near the bar, a beer in hand and a relaxed posture. To anyone else, he'd look completely at ease. But Bruce isn't anyone else. He notices the tension tucked into Kent's shoulders, the alertness just beneath the surface of his eyes.
Bruce's contact lenses focus on Kent's face, and the Batcave's database feeds him the basics in his field of vision. Nothing surprising.
Affiliation: Martha Kent, Jonathan Kent, Lois Lane.
Apparently, a committed man. Not that it would've made a difference if he weren't, because Bruce wasn't here for sex. Still, something about Kent holds his attention beyond physical beauty, beyond the broad build and attractive lips.
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly, trying to pinpoint the source of the itch buried in the back of his mind. He walks over to the bar and pauses a few steps from Kent, sending discreet glances in the man's direction, digging through his memory, searching for what it is about him that feels so familiar.
That's when Kent catches his look and offers a smile. That's when Bruce sees the white teeth, slightly pointed canines, and those unmistakable dimples.
And just like that, Bruce's brain catches up to his instincts. Superman.
Of course. How could he miss it? Without the thick framed glasses and with the shirt sleeves rolled up, Superman's resemblance to Kent is undeniable. He should've seen it at once. He was stupid not to make the connection before.
Superman is Clark Kent; investigative reporter from the Daily Planet, adopted son of a Kansas farming family. And he's approaching Bruce with an interested expression.
It takes him a moment to come back to reality. A few more heartbeats, to realize that Clark has been talking to him.
"Sorry?" He asks, and inwardly winces at his own response. It's unlike him to zone out, but finding out Superman's secret identity in the middle of an undercover assignment is more than enough to take anyone out of their head.
"I said, 'did you get something you like?'" Clark says, repeating his words slowly as if to be sure Bruce understands them this time. His voice is a deep, delicious baritone.
"Was that supposed to be your catchphrase?" Bruce can't help but ask.
"Might be now." Clark smiles and Bruce's eyes snap up to look at him.
"It's terrible," Bruce says. It comes out blunt and he immediately regrets his words when Clark's expression shifts to embarrassment.
"Yeah, I'm probably bad at it." He says. "Probably something a friend of mine would say."
He looks shy. A man who can lift tanks like it's nothing, but blushes in his socks at the smallest flirtation. The sight is cute, even if the circumstances are absurd.
"With a face like that, you don't need catchphrases," Bruce says, then adds. "Or any pickup lines, really."
"Oh," Clark says. "So, you were looking?"
Bruce nods, choosing to stick with the small lie of omission, instead of making up some story to cover the truth.
It's not appropriate for Kent to know that Bruce is aware of who he really is. There's no benefit in it, nothing to gain from that knowledge. Not now. Not anytime soon.
Superman and Batman don't belong to the same world. Their wars are fought in different arenas. Their methods don't align. Maybe there's a version of reality where Clark Kent, the reporter, could exist alongside Bruce's truth. But this part of him; the part that actually matters, is not something he's willing to share.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Kent breaks the silence, voice low. "What's your name?"
Ah. That part was bound to come, wasn't it?
Bruce considers giving a fake name. Or the truth. It wouldn't take much for the man in front of him to piece it together if he stopped thinking with his cock for just a moment. Bruce Wayne isn't exactly a secret among journalists, even the ones who don't write for tabloids. Maybe Clark is an exception. Still, Bruce doubts someone like him has never heard about Thomas Wayne's ties to Carmine Falcone.
"My name is… You, me, and a bed?" Bruce murmurs as he leans in. "Unless you're taken?"
The flush that blooms across Kent's cheeks is delicious. His laugh is quiet, warm, disarmingly human for a man who could bench-press a freight train.
"No. I'm… single. Broke up a few months ago and since then I've kind of been… you know."
The softness in Kent's tone coaxes a quiet smile from Bruce. He almost feels guilty for offering something so filthy and impulsive. Almost. But Kent's pupils are already wide, dark with interest. His body betrays whatever hesitation might still live in his mind.
"Must get lonely," Bruce whispers, his mouth brushing close to Kent's ear.
Even through the pounding music, he hears it. The shift in Kent's breathing. The slight catch in his throat. Then a hand slides onto Bruce's waist and settles there, warm, steady. It tightens a little. Not hard enough.
Bruce lets his eyes fall shut for a second. He leans into the touch, wanting more pressure; more intent.
Kent seems to have lost his words, so Bruce continues, though silence is usually his preferred weapon. "Maybe it doesn't feel so lonely right now."
Kent closes the distance until their lips nearly meet. Bruce holds his gaze, despite the discomfort of prolonged eye contact. He watches Kent's lips, how red they are, how they glisten when he wets them. They look soft. Too soft. Bruce imagines the burn of friction if he were to crush their mouths together, the paradox of tenderness and violence. A rose's velvet petals against barbed wire.
Kent's eyes drop to Bruce's mouth again, lingering, before dragging back up.
"What's with the makeup?" Kent asks, thumb swiping a smudge of eyeliner from Bruce's cheekbone. "Fan of The Cure? Or maybe The Crow?"
"Something like that," Bruce deflects.
Kent's grin widens. "I'm more of a punk rock guy myself."
Bruce smirks. "Everyone loves a rebel."
"If only they knew how much of a pushover I actually am."
Kent's laughter is contagious. Bruce finds himself smiling back. "So, I take it you're not one for theatrics, then."
"Not really. I like things simple." He moves in even closer, so close that Bruce's lips tingle from the nearness of their bodies, the promise of contact. "Honestly, I prefer things straight-forward."
"Like what you see, don't you?"
Kent hums his agreement and Bruce lets his lips ghost over his ear.
"Wanna touch me?" Bruce's voice is a rough murmur. His hand moves to cover Kent's. He slides it up from his hip and slips it under the edge of his shirt. Kent's palm is warm on Bruce's stomach, fingers curling gently. It feels nice. Arousal stirs inside him and he arches a little, pressing Kent's hand further up until the callused tips brush the raised edge of an old scar.
Kent makes a soft, hungry noise as he turns his head and presses his lips against Bruce's throat.
They end up at a corner of the club, mouths pressed together as Clark grinds against Bruce's body. Bruce reaches to clutch the man's shoulder as his back hits the wall, one hand grabbing onto Kent's ass to pull him closer.
"Ever had wall sex?" He whispers in the reporter's ear.
The hitch in Clark's breathing is delightful.
Bruce is getting hard, and it shouldn't be so easy, he thinks. This wasn't what he came here for. It was supposed to be a undercover, nothing else. And yet, he doesn't feel like resisting it, and it's hard to even care when he has Kent's body so close, so warm and firm and responsive against his.
"I want to," Bruce murmurs against Kent's neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses, wet and eager, enjoying the little moans the man keeps making in his ear.
It's a dark corner of the club, and Bruce can spot a few other people pressed together in similar fashion, lost in a haze of desire and alcohol, too far gone to even make it out of the club, or maybe not even to consider leaving.
By his right, a man presses a woman against the wall, her panties dangling from her left ankle and her skirt pulled up, a hand between her legs while he kisses her throat.
On the far corner of his left, two women kiss with teeth and nails, tugging at each other's hair and moaning.
A man is kneeling in front of the one against the wall, his face between his legs, mouth on his cock as his partner groans and moves his hips into his face.
Bruce looks away from the other patrons and back to Kent, whose mouth is pressing kisses to Bruce's exposed throat, lips wet and tongue moving.
He wonders if Clark noticed the kind of place this is. He wonders if it's the same in Metropolis.
He bets it's not.
This is Gotham; filthy and raw, rough on the surface and down to the core. It's just another ordinary night in this place, filled with bodies pressed together in dark corners, hungry and lost in their pleasure, desperate to find a spark to hold onto and never let go of, whether that's a kiss, a fuck, a pill or a needle.
Or all at once.
It's the perfect place for people to hide. To disappear and never show up again, if that's what they choose to do. If that's what they need.
A place to lose yourself and never be found again.
Kent cock is hard. Bruce can feel it pressing against his own, hot and throbbing, eager, even with layers of clothing between them.
It would be so fucking easy to give in right there, just like everyone else already doing it. It would be easy to drop to his knees on the filthy floor and take Kent's undoubtedly gorgeous cock down his throat, to feel it hit the back of his mouth and beg him to pull his hair and use him however he wanted. If only Bruce could be sure Clark actually would.
Maybe he would.
Bruce wouldn't have guessed Superman was the type to get off with a stranger in a club owned by Roman Sionis, but he's not in the mood to overthink it now, and probably won't be anytime soon.
Tonight, Bruce doesn't have to play the billionaire playboy the world expects. He can lose himself in the dark, grimy air of the club, thick with heat and sweat and sex.
He's sober. Painfully sober. But shit, his knees go weak and he feels drunk on pure lust when Kent lifts him clean off the floor like he weighs nothing.
The man is strong. Absurdly strong. It shouldn't turn him on again, but fuck, it does. The idea of getting bent over right here in this shadowed corner is tempting as hell, but there's something even better.
The thought of Kent's solid body above him, pushing him into a mattress.
That's how they end up at a hotel just down the block. A luxury place where they don't need an ID or credit card. Some places aren't that choosy, especially in this neighborhood, and they're probably used to dealing with shadier individuals. The kind with something to hide. The kind that have nothing to lose.
They both have secrets to hide and something to lose, though. Still, it's not enough to stop them. Not enough to even slow them down.
The path to the bed is barely a blur. They tumble together on it, and when they fall, they're both naked already. Bruce isn't sure when that happened. But he feels hands on his body, feels the warmth of Kent's body, feels their cocks sliding against each other, hot and slick, feels Kent's mouth on him.
It's more like Kent's tongue down his throat than a kiss, hungry and demanding, all tongue and teeth and spit. He's touching Bruce like he wants to crawl into his skin, and it's exactly what Bruce wants. To be touched, to be touched so deeply he loses the feeling of what it is to be alone.
Not that loneliness has ever mattered much. He can't remember a time when it did, not really. But he did feel a certain amount of it before, when he was still younger. But he got used to it. Embraced it. Claimed it as an old friend. Now, it's different. The loneliness is still undoubtedly there, but he's not alone now, is he? Now, a big, warm body is holding him against the bed, pinning his hands above his head and covering every inch of him in heat.
Kent kisses him so thoroughly, so desperately, Bruce forgets this is supposed to be anonymous and temporary. The way Kent kisses, deep and passionate like a lover would, makes him wonder. Makes him feel, in a moment of weakness, like Kent's lips were meant for this and this only; meant to be kissing Bruce.
But as quickly as these thoughts surface, they dissolve, too. Bruce chases away any emotion he can find. It's nothing. Just another anonymous fuck.
But god, Kent is good with his tongue. It should be fucking illegal. Bruce squirms, aching with arousal as he grinds against him, his thighs clenched tightly around Kent's body.
The lights are on, and that in itself is a contrast to what he's used to. People only see what they want to see, and the kind of sex Bruce is used to doesn't involve much beyond the hot pressure of his cock buried in a wet pussy, or sometimes the sweet burn of a man filling him up. It always comes with the certainty that the man in front of them is Bruce Wayne, the billionaire.
Tonight, Bruce is stripped bare in more ways than one. The scars and bruises along his body are fully visible under the harsh yellow light of the hotel room, just like the need he knows is written all over his face.
But he's not the only one exposed. Bruce gets to watch too; the fogged-over blue of Kent's eyes, the way their cocks slide together, wet and messy, creating something thick and beautiful between them.
Kent is big, thick, and uncut, and Bruce's mouth waters at the sight of that cock, at the thought of being split open by it, of being pushed to the edge and shoved straight into the kind of orgasm that steals the air from his lungs.
He opens his eyes and lets Clark rut against him for a moment, fascinated by the parted lips and the way his face twists in pleasure.
"Come here," Bruce whispers, pulling him into a kiss, swallowing the deep, shaky moans Clark lets out and offering one of his own in return. "Do you want to fuck me?"
"Christ." Clark chokes out, grinding harder and faster. "Can I?"
Bruce groans. His eyes roll back and his breath escapes his lungs. God. He wants that more than he's ready to admit. It's been so long since someone fucked him properly, but the truth is that Bruce likes being fucked. Of course, he enjoys the wetness of a tight cunt and the pressure around his cock, but nothing beats getting a good pounding and then having to feel it for days.
"Yes," He moans, thrusting his hips against Clark's. "God yes, I want it."
Kent kisses his cheek and Bruce lets his head fall to the side. The exposure earns him a hot mouth at his throat, teeth digging in, and a sharp gasp of his own as pleasure sparks up and down his body, curling hot in the base of his spine. His cock twitch and pulses as precome oozes out of the tip.
Kent moves back just enough to get the lube and the condom from the hotel amenities pack.
Bruce watches as Kent loses his breath when Bruce's legs spread for him and the pink, tight opening of his ass comes into view. It's endearing, but he's also too turned on to give the reaction more than a second's attention. Bruce watches the condom roll onto Clark's thick length with a little thrill. It's pulsing, jerking like Kent's too hard, like he's holding on by the thinnest thread, but the expression on his face is more wonder than anything.
The way he opens him up, nice and slow, always tuned in to every twitch and gasp Bruce makes, catches him off guard. Not that he expected anything different. He just hadn't really thought this far ahead. After the frantic way they had been all over each other minutes ago, Bruce wouldn't have been surprised if they skipped this altogether or rushed through it like it was just another necessary step before getting to the good part.
But this is the good part. Torturously slow, filthy and intimate. Kent's fingers, thick and long like the rest of him, burn on the way in, stretching him open in a way that makes Bruce's breath catch, his hips twitch. The initial sting is sharp, but it fades into something fucking divine, making Bruce moan in ways he usually forces down. Definitely not the kind of sounds Brucie Wayne is supposed to make. Because even though he loves the feeling of being fucked, giving up control has never come easy. Letting someone see him like this? Rare. Letting someone feel him like this? Almost unheard of.
And it's so fucking hard to keep any kind of mask on when Kent's working him open like he's got all the time in the world, like every reaction Bruce gives him is worth savoring. His fingers move with intention, spreading Bruce open, rubbing deep, and every now and then he glances up like he's watching something holy. That look on his face, wanting, awed, hungry; is almost too much to bear.
When he finds Bruce's prostate, his fingers press and stay right there. Bruce doesn't even realize his eyes are wet until Kent leans down and kisses the tears from his cheeks.
"You okay?" he asks, voice rough with tenderness. "Want to stop?"
"No, I—" Bruce tries to speak, but it's all heat and haze. He blinks, tries again. "I'm fine, it's just…"
"A bit much?" Kent offers with a grin, and fuck, those dimples should be illegal. They knock the goddamn air out of him. "Me too."
Bruce's eyes fall shut when Clark pushes a third finger into him and he pushes back, eager and open, but the feeling of teeth scraping over his neck distracts him from it.
"Can't wait to feel you around me."
And god, those words alone could probably get Bruce to come.
Kent kisses him again, licking into his mouth with long, filthy swipes of tongue that have Bruce squirming in pleasure. His hips twitch when Clark pushes in deeper, spreading his fingers, testing the stretch.
Bruce breathes into their kiss. The hot pressure of Clark's fingers and his own leaking cock feels too good, the sweet edge of pain mixing in with the pleasure is making his body tingle with want, so intense that Bruce thinks he'll probably die from it if it continues much longer.
"Please... Fuck. Now." He murmurs against Clark's lips. He feels the stretch and the drag as the fingers slip out, leaving him feeling empty, twitching around nothing.
But Clark doesn't waste time, thank god. He grabs Bruce's ass with both hands, spreading him open, exposing his hole before pressing his cock against it, slowly but firmly. The head slides inside and Bruce gasps at the burn, the fullness, the heat. The thick ridge of it, the pressure and the stretch, is incredible, almost too much, but Bruce breathes and focuses on how good it is.
The way Kent fucks him is… It's like no one Bruce has been with before, which isn't a surprise. He's the most powerful being on Earth and the strength that radiates from him is unmistakable. Even so, even with the intensity of his thrusts and the size of his body, his hands are careful, his lips soft when they trail kisses over Bruce's shoulders, neck and face, almost sweet in comparison.
"Is this okay?" Kent whispers in his ear, and Bruce moans, clutching at his arms as the man picks up his pace. "Good. God. You're so tight."
Kent's words are more praise than anything, like he can't even believe what they're doing. His pace is relentless and Bruce loses his breath, clinging onto Kent's sweat-damp skin and pushing his hips down, meeting the man's every thrust.
"It's— It's good," Bruce gasps. "More. Faster."
Clark's laugh is quiet and breathless, like Bruce's demands are ridiculous.
"I'm— God. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," Bruce moans. He looks up into Clark's face and pushes his damp hair away from his eyes. "Don't hold back."
"I'm— I won't," Clark murmurs, a soft look of disbelief in his eyes, and fuck, if that isn't the most gorgeous thing. Clark's brows are pinched, and a line has appeared between them. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm—" Bruce groans when the man changes angle and the thrusts hit harder, faster.
Bruce can almost hear the way his blunt nails scratches Clark's back when his body arches from the pleasure, can almost feel the hot wetness of blood when his nails break skin, and god, that thought is the hottest fucking thing ever.
He knows, unfortunately, the bruises probably won't be there when it's all over. Still, he drinks in the moan; sharp with pain, soaked in pleasure, as if it's the only thing keeping him alive, like water to a man lost in the desert.
They shift positions. Bruce settles on top of Kent, sinking down on that thick, perfect cock, riding him with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Every inch of him feels split open and filled, and it's maddening in the best possible way. He can only imagine what a mess he looks like now, black-streaked sweat dripping from his face, falling onto Kent's abs. The paint he uses under the cowl is melting, bleeding proof of how horrible he must look now.
And yet Kent looks at him like he's never seen anything more beautiful. His hands rest on Bruce's hips, not controlling, just steady, helping him move. He doesn't rush him. Doesn't push. Just watches, completely taken by the way Bruce fucks himself down over and over, the way his body takes it, the way he loses himself in it.
The sex is better than Bruce would have dared hope, but that isn't really what has his eyes stinging and his body shaking. It's the way Kent is looking at him, so close, so tender, so intense, like they're the only two people left in the universe, like the world could fall apart and neither one of them would care as long as they stayed here, wrapped around each other, forever.
It's enough to have Bruce closing his eyes, if only to spare himself from the full force of the way Kent makes him feel. Kent is holding his hips hard now. There are bruises there, sure to come. He's close, Bruce feels it. The way he thrusts up is wilder than before. Uncontrolled. Uncaring.
Kent pulls him in for another kiss, his mouth wet, his tongue greedy. Bruce leans in. Their hips meet hard and Kent moans against his lips.
"I-I'm— God," he says, barely a whisper, like a prayer, before his hands are suddenly around Bruce's ass and his cock is as deep as it can possibly go.
It's impossible for Bruce not to notice: even in the heat of the moment, Kent is still being careful not to hurt him, despite the force he's fucking Bruce with.
It's that, more than anything, that pushes Bruce over the edge. Bruce feels it build, every muscle tensing up, pleasure pooling in his gut. He moans against Clark's lips as he comes hard, untouched, painting their sweat-drenched abs with come.
"God—this so hot, you came just from me fucking you, I can't—all over me," Clark whispers. "That's— so, so—" he babbles, "You're beautiful, so gorgeous—" he babbles on, and Bruce swallows every word like an addict, high on praise.
His legs feel like jelly. They tremble and burn, and Kent pulls out with a gasp and changes their position so he's on top.
"Sorry, just—gotta," he gasps, his voice breaking off, his face screwed up with need. He ruts against Bruce's hip, sliding in his come and sweat, his own abs and thighs streaked with it. He moans desperately and pants as Bruce watches with bated breath, completely overwhelmed by the sight. "Can I— Are you—?"
"I'm okay, yeah." Bruce moans. He slides a hand up Clark's biceps. "Come, it's okay."
Clark nods briefly and enters him again. His hips jerk forward a few times and that's all it takes before he's coming deep inside Bruce, filling up the condom, his whole body jerking and spasming in Bruce's arms as he falls against him with a long, loud moan.
Bruce wraps his arms around Clark's shoulders, feeling the way his muscles tremble as his orgasm subsides, his breaths evening out. They lay like that for a while, quiet and calm as their heartbeats slow.
"Are you going to tell me your name?" Clark finally asks, still a little breathless as he smiles at Bruce. "My name's Clark. Clark Kent."
For a moment, Bruce can't help but marvel at how innocent Clark seems. Giving his full name to a stranger he just fucked. Then again, maybe the problem isn't Clark. Maybe it's just Bruce and his chronic distrust of people.
"Nice to meet you, Clark. Are you from Gotham? I haven't seen you around before." Bruce keeps his voice casual, choosing the safest path through the conversation. Clark doesn't seem bothered by it.
"Metropolis," he answers, gently stroking Bruce's cheek. "I'm here for work."
Bruce hums and offers the faintest smile as Clark closes his eyes under the soft touch running through his hair.
"At the club?" Bruce asks, unable to stop himself, his tone playful with a hint of irony.
"It's just…" Clark blushes and seems momentarily lost for words.
"It's none of my business," Bruce says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I was teasing you."
"Right. Forgive my innocence," Clark replies, dryly amused, and Bruce lets out a quiet laugh.
His fingers continue threading through Clark's hair, slow and tender, long enough for Bruce to realize that Clark is seconds away from sleep.
"Can I see you again?" The words come out rough, heavy with sleep, almost swallowed by the silence.
Bruce hums, not an answer, just a sound, his fingers never stopping as they move through soft, dark strands.
"My name is Bruce," he whispers, his lips brushing against Clark's, just a breath before sleep takes the other man completely. "Bruce Wayne."
Silently, Bruce gets dressed.
Just as silently, he leaves, but not before taking one last look at the naked, sleeping figure in the bed.
Back in the cave, Bruce removes his lenses and notices they've been recording. From the moment he entered the club to the moment he walked through the cave.
Without a word, he watches Clark on the monitor. That beautiful smile. Those blue eyes. His flushed cheeks. His face, lost in pleasure. The way his breath caught, the low sound of his moans, the deep rasp of his voice.
Bruce closes his eyes. His fingers hover over the button to delete the file, but he can't bring himself to do it.
Instead, he sighs and lets himself have this. Just this once. He doesn't allow himself to think too hard on the reasons why, and he doesn't question the reasons he watches it again, or again.
He listens to his own moans, to his own pants and gasps, and his eyes never leave the image on the screen. Clark, on top of him. Bellow him. Moving against him, into him, against his thighs. Clark, kissing him. Clark, so close. So soft and beautiful. So open, like he wanted Bruce, and Bruce alone.
Like Bruce was something beautiful, too.
His hand finds his cock and his eyes roll back into his skull, and for once in his life, he doesn't fight the pleasure. He lets go, gives into it, lets it consume him completely. He comes with a choked, ragged moan, and the image of Clark Kent fills his mind.
He shouldn't have let it happen, he knows that. It's wrong in more than one way, but in the end, it doesn't even matter. It's over, and Bruce is back where he's always been.
Alone. In this cold cave, surrounded by machines and leads and evidence and files and batarangs and gadgets. His safe space. His home.
But despite this, as he looks at his monitors and sees the sleeping figure of Clark Kent, recorded by his lenses, he can't help but feel as if his chest is filled with something that grips his lungs and squeezes the air from them.
Something that makes it hard to breathe. Something that feels suspiciously like loss.
"It's nothing," he mutters, to the sleeping figure on his screen and maybe, to himself.
The figure doesn't seem to agree. He lies there, asleep, beautiful and at peace, and it sends another unwelcome ache through Bruce's chest. Something that has no right to be there.
The sex had been good. Clark was incredible. But that's all they can ever be. That's the limit of what this is.
Bruce can't afford to get involved with someone who has every tool to uncover who he is and what he does, even if he himself has uncovered something he's certain Clark wouldn't want anyone else to know.
Fucking journalists. Always digging where they shouldn't.
But all it takes is a single glance at the screen to make that thought vanish, as if it never mattered at all.
Two nights later, he finds himself back at Sionis' club.
Last night, his lenses had captured the Penguin in Sionis' meeting room. In the back storage area, he had recorded crates of heroin arriving from Blüdhaven, and a smaller box filled with sleek vials containing what looked like a newly synthesized drug. Gordon had received the footage. The investigation was moving forward.
Tonight, Bruce knows he doesn't need to be there. His presence serves no tactical purpose. And deep down, he knows the real reason why he came.
"Bruce Wayne."
The sound of his name, spoken low and certain, makes his heart stutter. He knows Clark hears it too.
He turns.
And there he is.
Clark, standing there like a memory given form. Gorgeous. Radiant. Familiar in a way that aches.
Bruce swallows something that feels too much like longing and meets his gaze.
"Clark," he breathes, offering a smile so small and unsure it barely counts as one at all.
It seems to be enough to reassure him. The small smile on Clark's face brightens into something more familiar. The brightness in his eyes is the same, and god, his eyes are the deepest, bluest eyes Bruce has ever seen, so easy to get lost in that he has to look away for fear of what might happen.
"I didn't think I would see you again."
There's something like disappointment in his voice. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just sad and tired, like Clark is already sure the answer to his question is going to be no.
"Me neither." Bruce's voice is honest and steady, even if his hands aren't, his fingers twitching by his sides as Clark steps closer, into his space. "I don't know why I'm here."
He knows, though. He does, but he doesn't understand.
"Well." Clark is so close now, the air is electric, like there are sparks in it, dancing around their heads, and Clark's voice is so gentle that Bruce feels like he might drown in it. "I'm glad you're here."
"I—me too," Bruce replies. He hesitates. He doesn't know why, but he can't stop himself. "Do you want to—? Maybe go somewhere? Together, I mean. For coffee or something. Not— Not coffee."
He bites his lip, looking down at the floor, a wave of heat flooding his cheeks. Christ, he feels like an awkward teenager. It's pathetic.
"Coffee sounds great," Clark says, his voice filled with laughter, but not the mocking kind.
The kind of laughter that's filled with happiness and warmth and softness.
They end up at a small coffee shop just down the block, the kind of place that only sells coffee and sandwiches, the walls covered with vinyls of every musician who ever lived, from The Smiths to David Bowie. They sit by the far end window, bathed in a gentle glow, their shoulders almost touching, close enough that Bruce can feel the warmth radiating from Clark's body.
They kiss under the glow of the moon, bathed in the shadows of the night, the only witnesses to this stolen moment a handful of street lamps, and a lone owl perched on the highest branch of a dead oak tree, just a few feet from where Bruce stands, watching the beautiful, kind reporter he kissed only seconds before.
"Will I see you again?" Comes the question again, and Bruce feels himself soften under that blue gaze, his walls coming down.
"I hope so," Bruce replies, his voice almost a whisper, like he's afraid to say it any louder. Afraid of what might happen if he did.
"I want to," Clark says. "See you again."
He gives a small, nervous smile, and Bruce smiles back.
"Me too."
A moment later, they kiss again. A promise, maybe; a wordless contract made only in silence.
A promise later sealed by a phone number written on a napkin and the memory of a smile under a street light.