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Bruce had a gut feeling that accepting this interview would be a disaster. But he also knew it would be beneficial for the Wayne Foundation to actually speak up about their beliefs. Maybe Martha Wayne’s soul would also feel at ease, wherever it is now. Still, convincing Bruce took quite some time. Alfred tried many different tactics, but he knows Wayne too well. It was a matter of days to get through his really thick defenses.
And there he was, sitting in his office, tapping nervously on a glass of water in his hand. He wished it was alcohol, like whiskey, but he didn’t like being drunk during working hours. Or at least not until the day became tough. After many parties and galas he took part in, Bruce had become excellent at holding his beverage. He spent many nights sneaking out of those parties to patrol Gotham’s streets, so he had to train himself to tolerate alcohol. No one wants to see a drunk Bat on a rooftop.
Now he would actually kill for a strong golden whiskey with melting ice cubes. And this day was starting to become unbearable.
Bruce obviously went through all the background reports about this Daily Planet employee - Clark Kent. From Smallville, Kansas. Adopted, well-behaved kid, good grades, got a journalism degree in Metropolis, joined the Daily Planet not so long ago. Bruce also read all of his articles, which were quite interesting. Kent knew how to write, Bruce hated how much he had to admit that. He seemed to be the type of person who speaks to the audience. A strong voice of the minority. Although his main topic was Superman, this didn’t stop him from throwing mud at politicians’ faces. Altruism. Kent and Superman have that in common. Bruce knew this interview with a man from a small city in Kansas wasn’t going to be easy.
Also, he wasn’t prepared for delays. Kent was late, and Bruce cannot stand when his precious time is wasted. Especially when not only Alfred, but also the Daily Planet took great effort in convincing him to this meeting.
He sighed heavily. He would much rather be punching some criminals in the face than be here.
Then there was a knock on the door, and a man came in. Bruce automatically straightened his posture; a smile was visible on his face. The irritation and tiredness vanished from the surface, but remained seated deep in his bones.
Clark Kent was a mess. Crooked glasses were barely holding on his face, his black curly hair was all over the place, and he was panting as if he had just run a marathon.
“Mr. Wayne,” he said, trying to get a hold of himself. “I am so sorry for being late. The train was delayed and I couldn’t find a cab-”
“Please,” Bruce smiled, getting up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Kent. We still have a whole day for each other.”
Kent was handsome. The black silky locks, the deep blue eyes, and a really well-built body, covered by a terribly plain white shirt and black trousers. Bruce could see his strong hands and bulky muscles through the slightly too-big clothes, and he had to suppress his smirk. He liked pretty people with pretty bodies. Discreetly, Bruce inhaled the air. He could smell a faint trace of Alpha, carefully masked by scent blockers.
Maybe this day won’t be terrible after all.
They shook hands. The reporter had a strong grip and smooth skin. The heat radiating from his touch left some imprint inside Bruce. And Clark had to feel something too, because he quickly moved away, a faint blush showing on his face.
This was either going to be a dangerous or a wonderful day.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Bruce, sitting behind his desk, right in front of the reporter.
“Water would be nice, thank you.” Kent sent him a small smile, getting ready for the interview. “Do you consent to a voice recording?”
“Yeah, sure,” Bruce agreed dismissively.
After the glass of water was placed in front of Kent, he took a deep breath in. Bruce’s sharp eye also caught the small twitch on the reporter’s face when he smelled a hint of Bruce’s scent. Good senses, Bruce noted. He was also wearing a bunch of strong scent blockers, so he was aware that his scent was almost undetectable. Almost.
“Are you ready, Mr. Wayne?”
“Go ahead. And please, call me Bruce,” he winked, observing with satisfaction how quickly Kent moved his gaze away.
Something in Clark Kent shifted. Subtle, but sharp enough for Bruce to notice. He was sitting straight, his gaze became piercing, his whole aura changed. He didn’t look so clumsy as before, even though he was the same person who had rushed late into Bruce’s office. Bruce thought he suddenly resembled someone he knew.
“Mr. Wayne, could you tell me what truly stands behind the Wayne Foundation?” asked the reporter, and Bruce wanted to roll his eyes.
“Mr. Kent, the Wayne Foundation isn’t my idea, it was my late mother’s,” he said instead, keeping his charming smile. “And I believe you can read about it in many different magazines, because I’ve actually given many interviews explaining our Foundation.”
“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Wayne. I’ve read them all.” Something deep was hidden behind Clark’s crystal-blue eyes. “You said the purpose of this Foundation is not only to honor Martha Wayne’s will, but also to help those in need.”
“You are correct, and I asked you to call me just Bruce. We’re equals here.” Bruce sent him a smile full of teeth. “I wanted to provide, to give a helping hand to children. In Gotham, unfortunately, we have many orphans who were touched by tragedy. Many of them come from broken homes or have lost their parents. They have no one in this vast, indifferent world. So we are providing them with aid. We are giving them shelter, paying for school, food, necessities, providing education, especially regarding their secondary gender. I’m also an orphan, but I was lucky to have money. They don’t. So not only am I continuing my mother’s inheritance, but I’m also paying my own little karmic debt to the universe.”
A whole ass-big debt, Bruce thought. He wouldn’t be Batman without it. Money was the only thing he was grateful to his parents for. But if he had to choose, he would give away all that fortune just to forget the memory of their dead bodies in that dark alley.
“Yes, you said something similar in the past for other articles. However, I asked what truly stands behind all of this.”
Ah. So that’s why he’s here.
“Hmmm?” Wayne raised one eyebrow. “You think you know better what my Foundation is?”
“Please, don’t get me wrong, I’m just doing my job,” said Kent, but his apologetic smile didn’t look real.
“Then go ahead. Enlighten me. Maybe there’s something I missed. I’m a busy man, after all.”
“I think you’re using the Foundation and those poor children to cover up the fact that you’re a filthy manipulator, no better than Lex Luthor. You throw money left and right because that’s the only thing you’re good at. Maybe you feel guilt, sadness, even pity for those children, but at the end of the day they’re nothing more than a part of your commercial. ‘Wayne is a saint’ written on the cover of a glossy magazine, with a brand-new yacht in the background.”
The only reaction Bruce showed was his stronger grip on the glass of water. This reporter had some nerve. And that stupid little smirk on his face said he knew he’d landed a good punch. However, Clark didn’t know that Bruce had spent his whole life fighting with Alphas and showing them their place. He had been called worse by people who lived shorter lives.
“Mr. Kent, why come on so strong? I thought we would have a great day. Chat a little, flirt, maybe later, if things went smoothly, a glass of wine and a quick trip to my hotel room. I was hoping we’d have a spark.”
The little blush on the reporter’s face made something warm spill through Bruce’s body.
“But I have to disappoint you, you’re wrong. It’s not pity. You yourself should know how difficult it is to grow up without biological parents. All I wanted to do was give them a little bit of hope, to brighten their future. And Lex Luthor? I’m not that familiar with him. We only shared a few drinks at a few galas.”
“Then how are you going to explain your recent big purchases from LexCorp? It seems to me that the two of you are rather friendly.”
“We’re friendly the way one Omega is to another. You know, there aren’t many Omega CEOs around here. And to answer your question: yes, we did buy some tech from Luthor for a high price. And Wayne Enterprises is working on this as we speak. The idea is to create safe rooms available for everyone, to spend unexpected ruts or heats in safety. And Luthor recently came up with strong scent-proof materials.”
Kent looked… flustered. He frowned deeply, looking at his notes.
“I… wasn’t aware of that.”
“Yeah. Double-check your facts next time. Also, I can schedule you for a chat with Lucius Fox. We’d be happy to share our little project with a bigger group of people.”
Bruce had faced sexist behavior toward his secondary gender many times. At this point, he was used to it. Brucie Wayne was a loud, proud Omega. Seductive, sexy, confident, always surrounded by beautiful people. And because the only things on his mind were alcohol, sex, and money, he had to be a useless chairman. And maybe there was a little truth in that. Bruce didn’t have time to fully run a business. His other life in the shadows consumed most of it. But it was still his company. He had fought tooth and nail to raise it from ruins, and people still assumed all of that was achieved thanks to his consultants. And yes, without Lucius Fox, his double-life would be hard to maintain. But his pride hurt a little regardless. He was a stupid billionaire Omega, after all.
And Batman was something else entirely. There was no sign of an Omega in him, Bruce had made sure of that. Batman was a fearless, blood-thirsty Alpha who liked to get his hands dirty. A dark shadow lurking in the night, taking care of Gotham’s safety. A true leader. Batman was everything Brucie Wayne was not, and vice versa.
And in the middle of that was him, just Bruce, but nobody knew where his real persona started. The edges between his different faces blended with each other, creating that grey area of opposites. Sometimes Bruce himself felt torn. The hands covered in blood mixing with hands sticky from alcohol and different fluids were still his own.
Bruce started explaining the things that were happening within the Foundation to the reporter, putting his playboy persona aside, though not completely. Bruce really enjoyed watching the blush and embarrassment on an Alpha’s face. The tense air between them started to settle, and Clark looked invested in Bruce’s words, asking curious questions whenever something caught his attention.
“So, are you trying to say that you actually take your workers’ advice seriously? Even if it clashes with your advisors’ opinions?” asked Kent, eagerly scribbling something in his notebook, even though the interview was being recorded.
“Certainly. They’re here, on the spot, seeing everything with their own eyes. How stupid or reckless would I have to be not to listen to my own employees?”
“This is… a really good answer, Mr. Wayne. Your approach is not so popular in this world.”
There was a spark in his deep blue eyes. The edges of his mouth pulled upward, and his little dimples showed. A handsome man with dimples was a dangerous thing indeed.
“Just Bruce,” Bruce corrected him automatically. He wasn’t even trying to hide his gaze, which slipped freely down the reporter’s body.
“Then call me Clark… Bruce.”
The reporter held his gaze firmly, and with the same slow, burning passion, he also checked out Bruce’s body.
Oh?
“I like that name. Clark. It suits you.”
Maybe Bruce said his name on purpose, testing its taste on his tongue. Clark tried to swallow subtly, but the movement of his Adam’s apple didn’t escape Bruce’s sharp eyes. The reporter had a thick, strong neck. Bruce could imagine biting into it, leaving wet traces of his lips on the skin. And maybe a few colorful hickeys as a souvenir to admire.
Wayne cursed his always prepared, always careful mind, because he was basically drenched in scent-blockers and right now it was really tempting to let more of his pheromones slip out, just to see the Alpha’s reaction. Clark was subconsciously releasing his own pheromones, and they were slowly wrapping around Bruce like a thick, warm blanket. And they smelled exactly like that too. Like warmth. Like a hug. Like sunlight, something bright and soft, with a hint of honey.
Bruce liked this smell a lot. And it also reminded him of something he couldn’t quite recall.
The interview was quickly coming to an end. Bruce had to admit he didn’t feel much of passing time.
Clark stopped the recording, looking pleased with himself.
“Thank you, Bruce, for your collaboration and time. I’ll be focusing on this article to publish it very soon.”
“Thank you too, Clark.” Bruce didn’t want their time together to end. “But… if you’re still interested, I can schedule a conversation with you and Mr. Fox.”
I want to check if you want to see me again, Bruce thought.
“I… yes, actually, that may be a good idea. I’ll contact your assistant.”
“Or you can just save my personal number.”
Bruce knew he was being really straightforward, but so was Brucie. And Clark’s reddened face was more than enough encouragement.
Bruce stood up, approaching the reporter with his business card. When handing it to him, their hands touched for a few seconds. Bruce didn’t miss the sharp breath Clark pulled in. He also had to moisten his suddenly dry lips. Bruce took a step back, trying to gather his thoughts and not jump the Alpha right then and there.
The spark and chemistry between them was undeniable, and Clark seemed to recognize it too.
When they were saying their goodbyes, their gazes never left each other.
”You’re not just a stupid rich celebrity, Bruce. And I can’t figure out why you’re portraying yourself this way.”
Then Clark smiled, showing his dimples, and left the office, leaving startled Bruce surrounded by the scent of warm honey.
Bruce definitely needed a whiskey now.
***
Justice League was still kind of a new thing. They had started working together as a team roughly half a year ago, but Batman still wasn’t used to working with other people. In the past, the only person he trusted enough to collaborate with was Alfred, but times had changed. Actually, he was one of the main founders of their organization, which was really out of character for a loner like Batman. And after all the time he had spent with the Justice League, he had begun to trust them little by little. But it took time. And he wasn’t afraid to admit that he trusted some of them more than others.
For example, Wonder Woman. She was an excellent team player, a great tactician, an amazing fighter, and she didn’t ask stupid questions. Bruce respected her a lot and found her company quite tolerable. And then there was Green Lantern, a pain in the ass. He was never serious and enjoyed making stupid pranks and jokes. He had started calling Batman “Spooky”, and every time he used that name he received a deadly glare from Bruce. Which only seemed to encourage him to use it more.
And Superman. They had a more complicated history. Batman had known Superman the longest out of the team, but their beginning wasn’t easy. Bruce actually considered the possibility of having to kill him one day. If he had to be honest with himself, Superman scared him at first. Just the thought of a random alien, who was basically unkillable stirred something unpleasant in his gut. So, to say the least, they weren’t friendly with each other.
But with time, when Superman actually made an effort to show Batman who he was, to show that he wouldn’t suddenly turn evil and destroy the whole world, to show Bruce that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, things changed. And his x-ray vision and super-hearing also came in handy quite a lot. Still, to this day, Batman kept some Kryptonite secured in his Batcave. Just in case.
Right now he and Superman were some sort of… friends, if Batman was even capable of maintaining any proper human relationship. Superman seemed to have a lot of patience for Bruce. They often patrolled together, just the two of them, and they also shared shifts at the Watchtower. And Metropolis and Gotham were only an hour apart. It wasn’t that Batman didn’t trust the other team members, but somehow he felt at ease having someone like Superman at his back. And Superman seemed to feel the same way.
Tonight was supposed to be a calm night. But Batman already knew that “calm nights” usually meant something was about to go bad.
He was right.
Scarecrow had appeared at the gala, the one Bruce was, of course, attending as part of Gotham’s high society. At first, he wasn’t keen on going, but he had spent the last few nights in front of his computer, gathering as much intel about Clark Kent as possible. Alfred pointed out that it was starting to look like an obsession, and unfortunately, he was somewhat right. So Bruce wanted to play Brucie for an evening, to get drunk with a fake smile plastered on his face and get that reporter out of his mind for at least a couple of hours.
But then things started to get interesting.
He heard breaking glass first, and then loud screaming from terrified people. That was his cue. He swiftly fled the scene, moving between the running guests, trying to reach an exit. Bruce distractedly sent a message to the Watchtower, where today’s shift was covered by Flash and Superman. Bruce Wayne disappeared into the shadows, making space for Batman. Luckily, by the time he put on his batsuit, Superman was already there.
“Flash stayed behind, just in case,” Superman said. He didn’t bother greeting him, there was no time for that. “I spotted ten people, armed. Scarecrow is underground, doing something around the pipes.”
Batman grunted in acknowledgment.
“Probably something related to the gas,” he muttered, his voice dark and gravelly. “Let’s split. Take care of the guests. I’ll deal with Scarecrow’s people.”
Superman nodded, adding quick ”Be careful, B” and flew off.
Batman stepped out of the shadows as well, landing a perfect punch to the face of an unsuspecting thug.
Everything was moving rather quickly. Scarecrow’s men weren’t trained well enough, so Bruce swiftly disarmed them, leaving them unconscious after a few precise punches. And left quite a few broken bones in the process. However, he was too slow. He realized too late that the thugs were only meant to slow him down.
By the time the criminals were lying on the floor, Superman had already helped the last remaining guests evacuate the building. Batman was left alone in the hall, not even out of breath, when the speakers on the walls crackled to life.
“Ah, well,” Scarecrow’s voice drawled. “You kind of ruined my plan, but not everything is lost. Thank you, Bat, and enjoy your evening with that alien.”
And then, from the ceiling vents, splinters opened and released a heavy, gray gas.
Bruce quickly ripped off his cape and wrapped the material around his nose and mouth. He scanned the room for an escape route and spotted the windows. He made a move to run. And then heard a voice behind him.
“B?” Superman asked, also covering his face. He had come back inside after escorting the guests out.
“Get the hell out of here!” Batman shouted, feeling how the gas was already settling into his muscles.
Heat spread under his skin, and his legs were losing strength. The gas was affecting the Man of Steel too. Bruce saw Superman’s face flushing red, but not from suffocation. The gas wasn’t poisonous. He wasn’t hallucinating. There was no creeping fear under his skin. Batman quickly deduced it had something to do with their secondary gender, pheromones pushed into overdrive. That was why Superman was affected as well. If Batman were an Alpha, they would probably jump at each other’s throats.
A cold sweat formed on Bruce’s nape. His breaths felt heavier, hotter.
They had to leave. Now.
And then a new smell hit his nose. Sunlight. Warm breeze. Bright and soft. And that damn hint of honey.
Batman, with a spike of terror, glanced at the panting Superman. They were the only people in this room. Just the two of them. No one else.
Bruce felt his mind beginning to fracture under the weight of realization. Every puzzle piece locked into place. Everything started to make sense.
Then Superman lifted his head, his deep blue eyes locking with Bruce’s. Batman held his gaze, watching different emotions cross Clark’s face. Confusion. Shock. Realization. Bruce didn’t want or need to see anything more.
He gathered every remaining ounce of strength and headed for the window.
Superman’s hoarse voice tried to stop him, but it wasn’t enough. Batman crashed through the glass and jumped out of the window, firing his grappling hook to reach the next rooftop. He called the Batmobile and fled, swallowed by the night’s shadows.
He knew Superman would be fine alone.
But Bruce wasn’t. Not after this night.
***
It was easy for Bruce to disappear, he was Batman, after all. And he knew he had acted like a coward, but he didn’t feel ready to face Superman. Or should he say Clark Kent, reporter from the Daily Planet, ex-lover of Lois Lane. Maybe, somehow, Bruce could wrap his head around that, but the fact that Superman also knew his secret identity made something drop in his stomach like a stone.
His secret was guarded better than the nuclear codes. Only a handful of people knew it. Batman trusted Superman with his life during missions and Superman trusted him back, but this was a completely different thing.
He was almost certain Clark wouldn’t trust someone like Bruce Wayne. Not after realizing the truth. And if Bruce added the fact that, during the interview, he had almost, in his mind, crossed a line. He was sure Superman must now feel disgusted with him. For reasons he couldn’t explain, that thought stung. More than it should have. More than he wanted to admit.
So Bruce did what he always did when emotions became too much, he disappeared. Only for a few days. He just needed to clear his head, to put distance between himself and the impossible truth choking him. Of course, he didn’t neglect his responsibilities as Batman, never that. If anything, he buried himself in them even deeper. He spent every night patrolling Gotham until exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision. He still visited the Watchtower too, but only when he was absolutely certain Clark wouldn’t be on duty.
He wasn’t running away. He just wasn’t ready to be found.
He was aware Superman was looking for him. He send him messages, which he never read. Also everyone in the Justice League knew something had gone wrong between them. But at least Clark hadn’t shown up at Wayne Manor, apparently, he had some tact. However, he didn’t cancel the interview with Lucius Fox, the one Bruce was also supposed to attend.
And when that day finally arrived, Bruce locked himself inside his office. He instructed Lucius on what to say, what to show, how to treat the reporter. He made sure everything was prepared and handled. There was no reason for him to be there in person. Problem solved.
Or not.
Hours passed, and Bruce grew bored. He had finished all his work for the day, and even more was waiting for him in the Batcave. As mentioned, Bruce didn’t like wasting his time. So he made a decision. He’d just sneak out, like a kid. From his own company. Of which he was the chairman. And after so many hours, Clark should probably be home too, right?
Bruce quickly smoothed out the wrinkles on his blazer, the sleeves still pushed up to his elbows. His previously perfectly styled hair was slightly messed up by his own impatient hand. He said goodbye to his assistant and headed toward the exit.
But, obviously, something had to go wrong.
As he passed through the corridor, a door suddenly swung violently open and standing in the doorway was no one other than Clark Kent. He was wearing another terrible button-up shirt, this time a checkered one. His black hair stuck out in every direction, and one single curl fell onto the frame of his glasses, shadowing those deep blue eyes.
Bruce cursed internally. The resemblance was clear as day. How could those stupid glasses be Superman’s key to a secret identity? And why the hell did it work?
Then Clark smiled, showing his damn dimples. He looked relieved, his worried gaze scanning Bruce from head to toe. A shiver ran down Bruce’s spine, prickling over his skin like a static charge.
“I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried,” said the Man of Steel himself, closing the door behind him. They were alone.
“B.”
It was strange hearing his nickname spoken by Superman in Clark’s voice. But at the same time, it made perfect sense. That single letter carried so many layers of emotion that Bruce’s knees nearly gave out.
They had to talk.
“Damn it,” Bruce muttered under his breath.
He grabbed Clark by the arm, dragging him quickly into the men’s bathroom. Then he pushed him into one of the stalls, making sure the whole bathroom was empty and locked the door behind them.
Bruce realized it was a terrible idea the moment he registered how close they were. The cramped space was already filling with Clark’s pheromones. They should have been overwhelming, like every other scent that ever hit Bruce’s nose, but somehow Clark’s scent seeped into him like warmth. Like comfort. Like something that melted every last piece of tension in his body. Bruce felt his muscles loosen despite himself.
Then he noticed he was still holding Clark’s hand. He let go instantly, pulling back as if he’d touched fire.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Bruce began, refusing to meet Superman’s eyes. “That day in my office… I had no idea it was you. I know you must feel disgusted by me and by what happened, but-”
“Does it matter that it was me?” Clark asked quietly.
Bruce still didn’t look up.
“No. I mean, yes. I don’t want to complicate our work. And it does complicate things.”
“Would you have reacted the same way,” Clark pressed, “if you had known it was me back then?”
Bruce hesitated, thinking.
“…yes.”
“Are you disappointed that Superman is actually just a stupid dork like Clark Kent?” Clark asked, and there was something raw in his voice.
“What the fuck are you saying?” Bruce snapped, finally lifting his gaze. “Of course not.”
“Then why,” Clark asked softly, “should I be disgusted by you?”
Nothing made sense to Bruce. Nothing at all. Why did it matter what Clark thought of him? Why did he care about Clark’s opinion of Bruce Wayne, the mask he crafted so carefully to fool the entire world?
So why now? And why did he like Clark’s scent so damn much?
“You know about me. The billionaire playboy. Everybody does.”
“And I also know Batman. He’s my best friend.”
Bruce didn’t know what to say. His mind was silent, which was terrifying. He was the World’s Greatest Detective, yet he couldn’t figure out his own feelings.
“B… Bruce..”
Clark’s hand settled gently on Bruce’s shoulder, grounding him. It was too easy to get lost in those eyes.
“I want to know you,” Clark continued, voice low. “The real you. I’ve always had. Since our first meeting, I’ve wanted to know everything about you. So please… let me.”
Clark stepped closer, and Bruce instinctively took a step back, until his back pressed against the stall door. Trapped. Surrounded. Warmth radiating off Clark like a second skin.
“Please, I-”
There was something unsteady in Clark’s eyes. The way he kept biting his lip. The way his hands came up, caging Bruce in without touching him. The way his gaze kept flicking over Bruce’s face, like he was memorising every detail.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” Clark whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about you, not since then, but since our first meeting. I can’t focus on my job. I can’t sleep at night. I keep seeing you. Your face. Your expressions. Your suit. Your gloves. Your voice during missions… during the interview…” His breath shuddered. His pupils were blown wide.
“Your strength. Your mind. Your scent…” He swallowed hard. “Please, Bruce… I don’t- I don’t know what to do with this. Please-”
And then Clark just… broke.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead and then his entire weight against Bruce’s shoulder, breathing him in like he’d been starved of oxygen for days.
Bruce remained completely frozen.
Clark’s scent was getting stronger with every passing second. Intense, sun-warm, honey-sweet, and Bruce could feel heat crawling under his skin, pooling in his chest, his throat, his stomach. Too much. Too good. Too familiar.
His body reacted before his brain could catch up. He was trembling, as if he was weak.
“Sorry… I shouldn’t have said any of that. I don’t want to scare you again,” Clark said sadly, starting to pull away.
Bruce stopped him. His hand shot up on instinct, fingers wrapping around Clark’s wrist beside his head, pinning it gently against the stall wall.
“Don’t,” Bruce said, his voice dropping low, almost a growl. Clark’s breath hitched. Bruce heard it, felt it. “Don’t you dare walk away from me now.”
“B-But I made you run away,” Clark breathed.
“I’m here now.”
Clark went still. Like a statue carved from heat and tension. His deep blue eyes locked on Bruce’s face, full of fear, hope, disbelief, too many emotions to name. His pulse hammered so loudly Bruce could hear it echo off the tiled walls.
Bruce’s own heartbeat was steady, unbothered, but his mind was chaos.
“Fuck it,” Bruce muttered.
Before Clark could even inhale, Bruce grabbed him by the collar with his free hand and crashed their lips together, rough, desperate, burning. Clark made a quiet, choked sound, which Bruce swallowed immediately, and then Clark leaned in, answering with the same blazing passion and hunger. Their lips collided, dragged, bit, sucked, while their hands remained exactly where they had been. Bruce tightened his grip on Clark’s wrist, making the man’s breath stutter.
“Bruce, I… I need- I need you to tell me to stop. Please. I don’t want to cross a line,” Clark said, his voice fractured with restraint.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Clark rested his forehead against Bruce’s, their lips red and swollen, their breaths mixing in the narrow space. They were completely lost in each other’s eyes.
“Bruce… Can I…?”
Bruce nodded. He couldn’t trust his voice. He didn’t want Clark to hear how undone he’d become from one kiss.
“Please, Bruce,” begged Clark, leaving open-mouth kisses on Bruce’s skin. He left behind wet, hot traces of saliva when he traced the bottom of Bruce’s neck to the jaw with the tip of his tongue. “Please.”
Bruce’s dick was painfully hard, he couldn’t remember the last time he was like that. Maybe even never. Clark was in a similar state. He kept rubbing his dick on Bruce’s thigh, and Bruce’s mouth watered, feeling how big the Alpha was. He was a Superman, after all.
They kissed again. Clark took his glasses off with one hand, other grabbing Bruce’s ass, his thick fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks. Bruce moaned quietly, his shaking fingers unbuttoning the ugly checkered button-up. He couldn’t think clearly, his mind clouded by desire and pheromones. He wanted Clark. He wanted Clark to bend him over in the stall, where his own employees could hear them. To tear off those terrible clothes and bite into his strong muscles. To be pinned down by superstrength. To be marked. Used.
But then Clark, in the blink of an eye, grabbed Bruce’s wrists with one hand, suddenly freezing. A second later Bruce heard voices outside the bathroom. He sobered up instantly, pushing Clark away from him. The voices faded down the corridor, but the mood was killed.
Clark looked like a mess. His lips were red, swollen, and wet with saliva, pupils were blown wide, his curls were sticking out like a bird’s nest, and under his half-undone shirt his perfectly sculpted pecs were showing. Bruce had to swallow hard.
Bruce quickly got a hold of himself. He helped Clark button up his shirt and put his glasses back onto Superman’s face. Clark, on the other hand, looked completely confused, staring at him with glassy, dazed eyes.
“Do you have time today?” Bruce’s voice cut cleanly through the air. Calm, steady, controlled. The opposite of everything that had happened seconds ago.
“Um, yes? I have to finish some paperwork, but later I’m free.”
“Then come to my manor. Around 9 P.M.”
Clark looked dumbfounded, but there was hope in his eyes. A small smile appeared on his face.
“Y-Yes. Sure. And no taking it back.”
”Yeah. Now, go. You shouldn’t be here.”
Clark left soon after, kicked off by Bruce, practically buzzing with new energy. As he passed by Bruce, his hand softly brushed against Bruce’s, just the lightest touch of his fingertips.
When Bruce was finally alone, he almost collapsed onto the floor. He grabbed the door handle to keep himself upright. His heart was pounding fast, each breath leaving his lungs in a shaky exhale.
He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Or how. His mind, usually full of rapid-fire conclusions and plans, wasn’t offering him any answers now. But one thing he knew with absolute certainty - he didn’t regret it. Not even a little. If anything, he was excited. Anticipation curled warm and sharp in his stomach.
Why not use this opportunity to learn more? About the Alpha from Krypton. About Superman. About the reporter Clark Kent.
Bruce couldn’t wait.
And for the first time in a very, very long while, Bruce felt something dangerously close to hope.
***
Bruce was reading a report in his bedroom when someone knocked on his balcony door. He wasn’t startled at a sudden intrusion, the guest has been standing there for the last five minutes, frozen in place. Bruce could only chuckle to himself, when he stood up to open door for an embarrassed reporter.
“You know,” Bruce started, letting Clark in, “you could also use the front door like a normal person.”
“Sorry,” Clark said, a light blush appearing on his cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Alfred would’ve let you in. I told him about you, hope you don’t mind,” Bruce said, gesturing for Clark to sit on the sofa.
“Alfred?”
“My butler. Also the person who sometimes speaks to me on missions over comms. The person I trust the most.”
“This is A? I’d be happy to meet him,” Clark smiled showing his dimples. After a little thought he added, “But maybe under different circumstances. Like during the day, not when I’m sneaking into your bedroom.”
“Well,” Bruce chuckled lowly, grabbing a heavily-detailed bottle made of glass, with dark liquor inside. ”Do you want a drink? I have a bottle of nice brandy.”
“No, thanks. I can’t even get drunk, so it’d be a waste of expensive alcohol.”
Clark sat down awkwardly, hands folded too neatly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Bruce took an armchair, close to Clark, but not too close, enough for considerate distance. Bruce was wearing black sweatpants and a simple dark T-shirt. His hair was still a little damp from the shower he’d taken not long ago after his trainig. Clark had finally ditched his ugly, too-big button-up, tonight he was wearing a simple, slightly fitted white shirt and jeans. The shirt was showing his toned biceps, what Bruce found really distracting. Clark still had his glasses on, even though he didn’t need them to maintain his secret identity here. Maybe it was just a shield now. A habit. Or something to hold onto. Or just a real part of him.
They sat in silence, neither of them willing to speak first. But Bruce knew they needed to clear up a lot between them.
“Erm… y’know,” Clark began, looking everywhere except at Bruce, “I wanted to address something. I wanted to reveal myself to you, but… not like that. I was actually scared you’d find me boring and dull. Who would’ve thought the almighty Superman is just a simple reporter?”
“I don’t find you boring. Never did and never will, Superman or Clark Kent,” Bruce answered easily. He watched with amusement how different shades of pink appeared on reporter’s face. “You’re a good person, Clark, and a brilliant reporter. I’ve read your articles.”
“You did?”
“Obviously. I went through all your background reports before our interview.”
“You do your Batman thing even without the costume on,” Clark joked.
“Yeah. I double-check my facts, overall,” Bruce smirked and Clark snorted with laughter. “And your articles are really good. I think I’ve read them all.”
He paused for a moment, eyes drifting over Clark’s face in a way that wasn’t subtle at all.
“You’re fighting even as a civilian. That’s something I truly admire. Most reporters write from a safe distance. You don’t. You dig until you hit the bone. You call out politicians by name, even when it gets you hate mail. You stood up for that Omega shelter in Metropolis when every major outlet ignored it. You covered the Alpha-children discrimination case when no one else wanted to touch it.” Clark blinked, stunned.
“And your pieces on Superman?” Bruce continued, voice lower now. “You don’t treat him like a god or a weapon. You make him human. You remind people he’s trying. That he cares. You show things no one else sees. You show yourself.” Bruce shrugged lightly, pretending nonchalance. “It takes guts to put truth above popularity. You do that every time you pick up a pen.”
Clark was red to the ears now, practically glowing as he played with his fingers.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me, really,” he said quietly. “And I admire you too. I’ve always had. I even joined the League because of you. And… I wanted to get to know you ever since I heard about Batman. The way you sacrifice yourself for Gotham, for everyone here… You don’t even have superpowers, and yet you fight with everything you have.”
“Well, I have money. That’s my superpower,” Bruce said lightly, brushing his shoulders as if dusting something off, uncomfortable with genuine praise.
“Yeah, you do. But you could’ve been someone like Luthor… and you’re not. You choose to fight for Gotham, for this planet, even as Bruce Wayne.”
“Oh, don’t pull the wool over my eyes. You hated my guts.”
“I- well…” Clark looked embarrassed. “Because I believed the rumors. But during our interview I realized very quickly that I misjudged you, and I’m sorry. I told you I didn’t understand why you pretend to be a stupid billionaire.”
Clark swallowed, gaze softening. “I think I’m starting to get it. You pretend because the world doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s… you.”
Bruce looked calm. Inside, he was still falling, with every second, with each word leaving Clark’s mouth. He didn’t know how to handle praise, let alone understanding. And Clark wasn’t just seeing through the masks, he was treating the man underneath like he mattered.
He sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. “Clark, what the hell are we even doing?”
And suddenly Bruce felt it again, that instinct to run. To get as far away as possible. To disappear into shadows where nothing could reach him. He wasn’t good with emotions. He never had been. His answer to everything was always attack, never vulnerability. He was built to destroy, to break things, to carve justice out of the darkness with his fists. Not to feel. Batman didn’t have emotions. Bruce Wayne wasn’t allowed to have them either. Those parts of him had died a long time ago, buried in the cold dirt beside his parents’ bodies. So whatever was rising in him now, slow, warm, terrifying, he didn’t know how to handle it. He didn’t even know how long it had been there, waiting for him to notice.
They looked at each other. Clark sent him a small, shy smile.
“Going with the flow, I guess.”
“And you really want that?”
“Yeah,” he answered easily. His blue eyes were full of fondness and other emotions Bruce was too scared to even name. “I like you, Bruce. I have for a long time. Every version of you.”
“Clark… I don’t get to have things like this.”
“Who says?”
“Life.”
Clark didn’t hesitate. In two steps he was standing right in front of Bruce, so close that Bruce could feel the warmth radiating from him. Clark lifted a hand, large, steady, and cupped Bruce’s cheek gently, as if Bruce were something fragile. His thumb brushed softly across Bruce’s cheekbone.
“Then trust me,” he said quietly. “If you want me too… nothing is stopping us.”
Bruce wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. The whole world narrowed to one single point, the weight of Clark’s hand on his face, and those blue eyes that seemed to see right through him. Clark leaned in slowly, searching Bruce’s gaze for an answer. And he must have found something there, because a small, bright smile tugged at his lips, warm and victorious, like someone who had just won a battle no one else knew he was fighting.
”I won’t let you fall, I’ll catch you.”
Clark kissed him. Simply. Softly. And Bruce let him. For a heartbeat he stayed perfectly still, stunned by how gentle it was. Then something inside him finally gave way. His fingers curled into the fabric of Clark’s shirt, pulling him closer, and he tilted his head, kissing back.
The kiss deepened. What had started soft turned molten, their mouths opening, tongues brushing, then sliding together in a slow, hungry rhythm that made Bruce’s breath stutter. Clark’s hand threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a quiet gasp from Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s fingers found Clark’s shoulder, then drifted upward to the warm line of his neck, tracing the steady, pounding pulse beneath his skin. Clark moved closer, inch by inch until his knee brushed Bruce’s thigh, then his weight settled between Bruce’s legs, almost in his lap. Bruce’s back pressed into the armchair, trapped in the best possible way, surrounded by heat and strength and the scent that had been haunting him for days.
Clark held him like he was something precious and breakable. One hand stayed buried in Bruce’s hair, guiding his mouth upward for another kiss, the other still cupped his cheek, thumb brushing in slow, reverent strokes as if memorising the shape of his face. Even with the fire building between them, Clark’s touch remained gentle, anchoring Bruce while everything else in him came undone.
Bruce’s hands slid down Clark’s arms, over the firm curve of his biceps, to his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left at all. Clark exhaled shakily against his lips, their breaths mixing, their bodies aligning in a way that made heat coil low and tight inside Bruce’s abdomen.
“Shit…” Bruce breathed, voice cracking on the word, when Clark left his lips to bite softly at the side of his throat. The scrape of teeth sent sparks dancing across his skin.
“You smell so delicious,” Clark murmured, voice low and nearly trembling. He licked a slow stripe up the column of Bruce’s throat before biting down again, just enough to make Bruce’s fingers dig into his hips. “I can’t get enough of you.”
“Yeah?” Bruce managed, a smirk flickering across his lips, only to vanish instantly when Clark’s teeth caught him again, sharper this time. “Were you secretly hoping Batman would turn out to be an Omega?”
“No.” Clark’s mouth was on his collarbones now, tugging Bruce’s shirt down to expose more skin, his lips warm and wet as they trailed over bone and muscle. “I didn’t give a damn. Alpha, Omega, Beta-” he kissed the hollow of Bruce’s throat, slow and deep “-I wanted you regardless.”
Bruce bit his own lip hard to stop the sound threatening to escape him. Clark’s breath was hot against his chest, his hands were gripping Bruce’s waist like he was afraid Bruce might disappear if he let go.
“Batman always smelled like metal, oil, leather…” Clark whispered between kisses, voice thick with something close to awe. His lips dragged lower, following the line of Bruce’s sternum through the thin fabric. “…and something alluring underneath. Something sharp. Like lightning before a storm.”
He lifted his head, cheeks red, eyes dark with hunger, hidden underneath glasses.
“You smell like dark chocolate,” he murmured, breath ghosting over Bruce’s cheek. “I can almost taste it on my lips.”
Bruce barely had time to inhale before Clark kissed him again. The air between them thickened, heavy with heat, with want. Bruce gripped his hips, then lower, his fingers wrapping around the firm muscle of Clark’s thigh, feeling the strength beneath denim. Clark let out a quiet, helpless moan, and that sound alone nearly shattered Bruce’s restraint. Something wild snapped loose inside him, dragging a deep growl from his chest.
Bruce tore his mouth away, breath shaking.
”You. Bed. Now.” said Bruce, pushing Clark away.
Clark froze, chest rising fast. Then he nodded, almost trembling. Bruce stood first, grabbing Clark by the front of his shirt, dragging him up with him.
“Move.”
Then there was a gust of wind, and Bruce found himself thrown onto his bed, with Clark on top of him in the blink of an eye.
“Sometimes superpowers come in handy,” Clark joked, and Bruce let out a quiet chuckle, even though at the same time he felt his dick twitch inside his pants.
You can discover a new kink at any age, it seems.
Clark hovered over him for a breath, like he was asking permission even now. Bruce dragged him down.
Clark stripped Bruce of his shirt in one smooth motion, his big, warm hands roaming over Bruce’s torso. His fingers traced the scars scattered across Bruce’s skin, old, faded, angry, healing, and he leaned down, pressing soft, reverent kisses to a few that were still new.
“You’ve seen them a thousand times,” Bruce said impatiently, unused to being touched like this, carefully, worshipfully. “You’ve patched my wounds, and I’ve patched yours.”
“And every time,” Clark murmured easily, brushing another scar with his lips, “I thought about how beautiful you are.”
Bruce let out an irritated groan at the sheer audacity of it, of him, and Clark smiled against his skin.
“Even with that terrifying cowl on,” Clark added playfully.
Bruce sat up in one sharp movement. With one hand he braced himself, and with the other he grabbed Clark by the back of the neck, dragging him in and crashing their mouths together, the fastest, simplest way to shut him up. Bruce tugged impatiently at Clark’s shirt and Clark helped him pull it off, his glasses still somehow clinging to his face.
Clark looked sculpted by the gods. Or maybe he was one. It didn’t matter. He was everything bright and impossible and painfully perfect in Bruce’s eyes. Bruce had seen his body before under the suit, but not like this, not when Clark was breathing hard beside him, his lips swollen and red, his curls a chaotic mess, and his eyes fixed on Bruce with raw want and hunger. A fallen god, pulled willingly into darkness. And Bruce, the Dark Knight, meeting him there.
Bruce leaned in and started kissing his broad chest. Clark’s pecs weren’t carved stone like Bruce’s own torso. He was soft in places, human in ways no one would believe, but the power beneath that golden skin was unmistakable. Superstrength. He could take Bruce anywhere, pin his wrists, slam him into the wall without effort. The thought alone made Bruce’s mouth water.
He licked Clark’s nipple slowly, deliberately, tasting the heat of his skin. He bit and sucked hard, watching every mark he left heal right in front of his eyes. Clark’s fingers slid under the waistband of Bruce’s trousers and his boxers, grabbing his ass and tugging hard enough to leave marks. Bruce used his teeth again on Clark’s nipple, earning a low, muffled moan from Clark’s closed lips.
Bruce’s skillful fingers quickly pulled down the zipper of Clark’s jeans, and Clark, using superspeed, kicked them off and sent them flying across the room. He was wearing dark grey boxers, and they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. His impressive length pressed against the fabric, the material soaked where the tip of his dick pushed against it. The sight alone made Bruce instantly want to take him into his mouth. But Clark had other plans. In one swift motion he flipped Bruce onto his stomach, stripping his trousers and boxers off in a single smooth pull.
Clark began kissing along the curve of Bruce’s ass, spreading him gently with his hands as he worked his mouth over soft skin. Bruce could only bite back the moan rising in his throat.
“Bruce?” Clark’s voice trembled, unsure, but full of awe. “You’re… wet.”
“What?” Bruce snapped, confused, right until he felt it. Clark’s finger slid over his rim, and sure enough, he was slick.
This shouldn’t be possible. Omegas didn’t produce slick unless they were in heat, and Bruce hadn’t had a proper heat in years. The suppressants made sure of that. And he didn’t feel like he was in heat now. But there was no denying the wetness between his cheeks. Clark had driven him past the point of reason, past logic, past control, enough for his body to respond like some inexperienced teenager overwhelmed by his first Alpha. Somehow Clark Kent made him like that.
Bruce’s face burned. He grabbed a pillow and shoved his face into it in pure mortification.
“That’s so hot…” Clark breathed, and then Bruce felt his tongue. On the most sensitive place he had.
Bruce bit down on the pillow hard, desperate to muffle the sound that tore out of him. Clark, meanwhile, was anything but quiet. He worked his tongue with hungry, eager strokes, moaning into Bruce’s skin like he couldn’t get enough of the taste. When Clark pushed in a thick, long finger, then a second, Bruce’s breath shattered. His body clenched, slick dripping down his thighs, and the edges of his vision went white.
“Bruce…” Clark moaned, working Bruce open with his fingers, now three of them, while his tongue moved eagerly against slick, sensitive skin. “You taste so good. I can’t get enough of you.”
Bruce felt his thighs trembling uncontrollably. Glistening droplets of precum kept dripping from his hard dick onto the sheets beneath him. His jaw ached from how hard he was biting into the pillow, trying to keep every sound trapped in his throat.
Then Clark shifted, pulling his fingers and mouth away, and Bruce felt the sudden, overwhelming emptiness, eaving him open and desperate for more. Before he could even draw a breath, Clark flipped him onto his back with effortless strength. And Clark looked wrecked. His glasses were gone, tossed aside or lost somewhere in the chaos, nothing left to hide the raw, glassy blue of his eyes. His lips and chin were slick, shining with Bruce’s wetness. His breath came in uneven shudders. At some point he had lost his boxers too; his dick was painfully hard, flushed red, the tip glistening. He looked like a man barely holding himself together. Like an Alpha right on the edge.
When he kissed Bruce, Bruce could taste honey and dark chocolate on his tongue, their scents tangled, impossible to separate anymore.
Clark rested his forehead against Bruce’s, eyes squeezed shut as his hips rutted forward in helpless, impatient movements. His cock slid against Bruce’s, both of them moaning at the friction.
“Bruce… please,” Clark begged, his voice raw and hoarse. He pressed small, trembling kisses all over Bruce’s face. “Let me… please, I-”
“The condom is in-” Bruce started, but Clark silenced him with a kiss.
“No, I don’t… I need…” Clark broke off, looking completely lost, his wide, desperate eyes locked on Bruce like he was drowning.
Bruce huffed a soft laugh and brushed a few dark curls away from Clark’s forehead.
“You’re Superman. You don’t catch any diseases, right?” Clark nodded immediately, almost frantically. “I’m clean too,” Bruce added. “Haven’t been with anyone in a long time.”
That seemed to sober Clark a little; the fog behind his eyes thinned.
“What? B-but those photos of you sneaking out of random hotels in the mornings-”
“Kal,” Bruce groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’re a reporter. You know better than to believe gossip magazines. They’ll photograph me anywhere they can. I’m still Gotham’s Prince.” He sighed sharply. “But I haven’t slept with anyone in over two years.”
“How?” Clark breathed, utterly dumbfounded.
“Oh my god, don’t piss me off right now,” Bruce muttered, exasperated. “You’re kind of ruining the moment. And I’m getting old. I have different priorities.”
He rolled his hips slowly, deliberately, and Clark’s breath hitched hard in his throat.
“Right now,” Bruce said, voice low and steady, “my priority is getting this dick inside me.”
Clark let out a breathless laugh, the sound shaky and disbelieving. His smile lit up his whole face, bright and warm, reminding Bruce all over again of who he was. What he was. He felt like the sun. A symbol of hope. A warmth Bruce hadn’t felt in years. Clark’s skin was hot under Bruce’s touch, heat rolling off him in waves, and the scent of honey wrapped around Bruce’s senses, thick and intoxicating.
Bruce wanted more. All of it.
Clark searched Bruce’s eyes for permission. When Bruce nodded, he kissed him, deep, messy, desperate.
The stretch dulled every one of Bruce’s senses for a moment. It didn’t hurt, the slick and Clark’s careful fingers had prepared him too well for that, but the fullness was overwhelming. Clark was large everywhere, and Bruce felt every inch of it. Clark kissed him through it, slow and grounding, not moving until Bruce’s body relaxed around him. He stayed perfectly still, giving him time, letting Bruce breathe. Then Bruce rolled his hips, impatient, needy, and that was all the signal Clark needed.
He started a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate. Bruce gasped quietly, his breath catching every time Clark bottomed out. He felt his insides shift, felt the way Clark’s size forced his body to open, to take, to yield. Silent moans slipped past Bruce’s lips. His fingers dug into the flesh of Clark’s broad back, leaving quickly healing crescent-moon marks on overheated skin. Their bodies slid together, slick with sweat, chests brushing, thighs pressing, every movement sending another shock of pleasure up Bruce’s spine.
Clark was holding him like a lifeline. Bruce was falling apart in his arms.
Their kisses had devolved into something messy and desperate, just lips sliding against lips, breath exchanged in hot, shaky bursts. Clark wasn’t even trying to hide the sounds spilling out of him. Little ah’s every time he bottomed out, helpless whimpers breaking from his bruised mouth as he lost the rhythm of his own breathing.
“Oh god, Bruce,” he groaned, voice absolutely wrecked, murmuring it right against Bruce’s ear. “You feel so good around me…”
Bruce had never imagined Superman capable of sounding like this, dirty, ruined, begging. And he liked it. Every filthy word Clark breathed into his ear made Bruce’s dick twitch, heat coiling in his belly.
Then Clark lifted him, rotating him onto his stomach again. His ass was high in the air, open and slick, as Clark’s hands clamped down on his hips, fingers digging deep enough to bruise. Bruce buried his face in the ruined sheets, but they didn’t come close to muffling his moans. Clark set a brutal pace, their bodies slamming together, the room echoing with wet, obscene sounds, skin clapping, slick dripping, Bruce’s breathless cries.
For once, Bruce stopped trying to analyse, stopped trying to control the outcome, and let himself be taken. Goosebumps rippled over every inch of his skin. Each deep thrust dragged across a spot inside him that made his vision white-out around the edges. His hands clawed at the sheets so hard the fabric began to tear.
“You’re so good,” Clark moaned behind him, voice ragged.
Bruce must have blacked out for a second, the world went dark, then burst into blinding light. He felt Clark’s hand grip his jaw, turning his head to the side, forcing him to look back. Clark leaned over him, still thrusting, not slowing for a single heartbeat. He licked something from Bruce’s cheek, slow, deliberate, tongue tracing up to the corner of Bruce’s eye. It took Bruce a moment to realise it was a tear. One single tear of pleasure.
“M’sorry,” Clark breathed, his voice low, apologetic, but not stopping. His breath was hot on Bruce’s damp cheek. He pressed a soft kiss there, tender in contrast to the ruthless pace of his hips. “You just… you feel amazing. I can’t get enough of you.”
Bruce knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. Not with Clark’s pace, not with the weight of him, not with that hot, uneven breath ghosting over his ear. After just a few brutal thrusts, perfectly angled, perfectly devastating, Bruce shattered. Bruce came with a sound he didn’t recognise as his own, raw, unguarded, and realised dimly that he hadn’t made a noise like that since he was young.
His cum spilled onto the ruined sheets beneath him, mixing with slick, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to care. All the strength drained from his body at once, leaving him trembling, boneless, barely able to hold himself up.
Clark wasn’t far behind. As soon as he felt Bruce collapse around him, he gripped Bruce’s hips and held him up, supporting his weight as his own rhythm faltered. A few uneven, desperate thrusts, then a quiet, broken moan as Clark came, spilling warmth deep inside Bruce.
When it was over, Clark folded over him, catching himself with his forearms so he wouldn’t crush him. Slowly, gently, he gathered Bruce into his arms, rolling them just enough so Bruce could breathe, pulling him close like something precious. He brushed a thumb across Bruce’s sweaty cheek, soft and reverent, his touch completely at odds with the rawness of what they’d just done. His breath was still shaky, but his eyes, glowing blue, exhausted and full, never left Bruce’s face.
“What the fuck, Clark Kent,” Bruce muttered after a few minutes, voice hoarse. His throat ached, every muscle in his body protested. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“It was all because of you, old man.”
Clark grinned, bright and annoyingly pleased with himself. Bruce shot him a cold glare that only made Clark smile wider.
They lay there a little longer, tangled together, until Bruce’s expression began to sour. His skin was sticky, slick and cum drying on his thighs made everything itch in the worst way. Clark noticed immediately. He pressed a soft kiss to Bruce’s forehead, then picked him up effortlessly and carried him into the bathroom. He turned the shower on, warm water steaming the room, and they washed quickly, trading a few lazy touches and quiet glances in the process.
Once they were clean, Bruce led them to the guest bedroom.
“It smells like a fucking dessert in there,” Bruce grumbled when Clark asked why they weren’t using his bed again. “And the sheets are ruined. I need to get rid of them before a mortified Alfred finds them.”
When they lay down again on the clean bed, Bruce’s mind flooded with thoughts. He closed his eyes, his body finally relaxing after the overwhelming, satisfying release.
He was calm. It was… new. Strange. Almost unsettling.
Clark lay beside him, not touching, but close enough that Bruce could feel the heat of his skin radiating toward him. He could hear Clark’s steady heartbeat, the slow rise and fall of his breath.
“You’re quiet,” Bruce murmured suddenly.
“I’m thinking,” Clark replied.
“Usually that’s not a good thing.”
Clark turned his head toward him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m thinking that I never believed I’d get the chance to hold you like that.”
Bruce froze.
Clark’s voice remained gentle. “If you had told me back then that you didn’t want this… I would’ve stopped. I wouldn’t have brought it up again.”
Bruce’s throat felt tight.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I didn’t stop you.”
Silence settled over them again, heavy, charged, impossible to ignore.
Bruce shifted, turning fully onto his side to face him.
“I don’t know what’s going on between us,” he admitted, surprising even himself with how honest the words came out. “And like I told you… I don’t get to have things like this. It won’t end well.”
Clark reached out, gently brushing his fingers against Bruce’s hand. Bruce should’ve pushed him away, should’ve broken the moment, driven him out before anything became too real. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to run this time.
Even in the dim light, Bruce could see it, clear, unmistakable, shining in Clark’s eyes. Affection. Warmth. A depth of emotion Bruce didn’t recognize and didn’t know how to accept. Something dangerously close to love. It still terrified him. But he didn’t run away.
“I’m not asking you for a love declaration,” Clark whispered. “Or marriage. Or anything like that.” His thumb brushed once over Bruce’s knuckles. “All I want is a chance.”
Bruce stared at their joined hands, as if the sight alone was something he couldn’t quite process. A chance. It sounded simple. Too simple for someone like him.
Bruce looked at him then, really looked. At the warmth in his eyes, the quiet sincerity, the ridiculous hope shining there like a light Bruce didn’t know how to stand in.
Bruce lifted Clark’s hand and pressed it to his chest, right over his heartbeat. Clark inhaled sharply, eyes widening, the moment suspended between them like something delicate and dangerous.
“My life is…” Bruce struggled for words. “Complicated. Messy. Dark.”
Clark didn’t look away. “So is mine.”
Bruce’s fingers tightened around Clark’s wrist, not possessive, not fearful, but grounding.
“I can’t promise anything,” Bruce said quietly. “No forever, no perfect ending, none of that fairy-tale crap.”
“I’m not asking for any of it,” Clark replied. “Just… let me stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you want me.”
Bruce closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. He realised, that he didn’t want Clark to walk away from this bed in the morning and never come back.
“Fine,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Stay.”
Clark’s breath caught, soft, disbelieving, almost reverent.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I won’t,” Clark promised, though the warmth spreading across his face said he absolutely would.
They shifted closer without speaking, bodies brushing, legs tangling loosely. Bruce rested his forehead against Clark’s for a brief second, barely a touch, but intimate enough to say everything he couldn’t voice. And for the first time in years, Bruce felt his chest unclench. Not safe. Not healed. But no longer alone.
Clark let out a content, breathy sigh and closed his eyes. Bruce stayed awake a moment longer, watching him, studying the softness of his expression, the curve of a smile he wasn’t even aware he had.
Maybe this would hurt later. Maybe it would fall apart. Maybe he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But when Clark tightened his hand around Bruce’s, gently, instinctively… Bruce decided he could live with maybe.
“Goodnight, Clark,” he murmured.
Clark’s smile deepened in the dark. “Goodnight, Bruce.”
And for once, the night felt warm.