Chapter Text
It wasn't like him to be so intoxicated. He would never spill a drink on somebody.
“Bruce, h-hey!”
Billionaire play boy Bruce Wayne? maybe.
“Wh-What–”
But that was an act, and right now, he wasn't acting.
“ – are you –”
Yes, Clark quickly realised Bruce was serious indeed. All it took was for Bruce to smash his lips against his own, kissing him like a man starved the instant he shut the door of the supply closet behind them, right after clumsily shoving Clark into it and almost tripping over his own two feet in the process. Somewhere on the floor, lay Clark's glasses, knocked off his face.
“Are you serious?” he finally got out from beneath Bruce’s hungry mouth, despite already having his answer. It didn't make sense though. Bruce never allowed himself to be so inebriated, not even in more intimate settings. Clark couldn't ever recall a time he had seen Bruce genuinely drunk. A small and stubborn part of him refused to believe that this was anything but a ruse.
“Bruce!”
But if that were to be the case, then why had Bruce shrugged off his jacket? Why did Bruce's hands scramble for Clark's belt? If it really was an act, then why did it require the philanthropist to undress the Daily Planet reporter at Gotham's biggest charity gala of the year, behind closed doors no less?
The chuckle Bruce let slip then smothered those remaining doubts though.
“I'm always serious,” he said, and while he spoke the truth, Clark scoffed in disbelief.
Still, he asked “how much have you had to drink?” using every fibre of his strength to resist caving in and lending Bruce a hand with the bothersome belt loops that were currently slowing him down. Sure, he could have grabbed hold of Bruce's hands and stopped him, but he needed to grab hold of some sort of support to brace for Bruce's answer instead, because it ought to be good.
“Not enough, I’m afraid” he sighed, and before Clark could even think of arguing – because Bruce had clearly drank more than enough – Bruce shut him up by leaning in to whisper “I'm still so thirsty,” just as he covered the gap left between their bodies so the bulge in his crotch pressed right against Clark's wine-damp thigh.
Whatever protest he was about to push was no more. It was a good thing Clark was already leaning against the supply shelf behind him, because if he wasn't, he probably would have stumbled backwards and made Bruce slip. Flustered, all of that Kryptonian strength was useless. With nearly all of Bruce's weight now leaning into him, Clark was cornered.
“Well, go back out there and drink some more! and try not to spill it on me next time!”
God, he squeaked like he was the one that was tipsy – but of course, alcohol had no effect on him – and yet the smell of liquor that clung to Bruce's finely tailored suit stirred something deep within the pit of Clark's stomach.
“I'm bored of the booze,” Bruce groaned, “I want to taste something else,” and if it weren’t for the fact that his hands were now creeping up Clark's front, he may have let out a little laugh. Bruce, whining? No, scratch that – Batman whining? Shit, he had always wanted to catch a glimpse of the spoiled rich kid persona one day, but this is not what he had in mind.
“Wh-What do you mean?”
The Bruce that Clark was most familiar with was the one that donned the cowl, who had no patience to crack anything more than a smirk before getting back to business.
“Don't play dumb, Clark.”
The Bruce before him was seemingly just as impatient and just as smug.
“You don’t have to play the bumbling reporter with me, you know.”
And yet a completely different person at the same time.
“No masks necessary.”
Clark wouldn't have minded some sort of facade, though – a filter at least.
“I'm not like Miss Lane.”
Too late.
“Jesus Bruce,” Clark grunted, “is that what this is about?” not entirely out of exasperation. Mustering genuine annoyance proved difficult whilst a beautiful man dragged his mouth along your neck, you see. With every suck of Bruce’s lips and flick of his tongue, Clark’s restraint loosened more and more.
The next chuckle that escaped Bruce’s husky throat, Clark felt deep, reverberating within his bones. “Just reminding you,” hot arousal swarmed his groin as Bruce spoke, the feeling of his lips brushing his neck taunting, “that there is no need to hide around me,” but it wasn’t enough to distract him from feeling the slight waver of Bruce’s breath fanning his skin. “Remember?”
Of course he remembered, it wasn’t something Clark could easily forget, no matter how hard he tried. ‘Reminding’ him was an excuse – no, just a straight lie. It was painfully obvious he was lying. Bruce could be such a good liar when he needed to be, but he was hardly trying. How much had he actually drunk?
Come to think of it, Clark had caught Bruce staring hard at both himself and Lois from across the room earlier in the night, his jaw tense as he took a swig of wine.
The only instance Clark saw him drinking.
It was obvious now, but since it had been so long since they had decided to keep their relationship strictly platonic and professional, Clark didn't even register that look as one of jealousy. He just subtly nodded in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the woman beside him. For the rest of the night, up until Bruce 'accidentally’ spilled his drink on him and pulled him down a side corridor just off the main ballroom, Clark didn’t see him again.
Didn’t look for him again.
Maybe some part of him did catch that jealous glare, and didn’t know how nor want to face it.
“Bruce, stop.”
Well, he no longer had a choice in the matter.
“We agreed –”
But Bruce didn’t stop; he just pulled Clark’s belt out of the loops of his trousers and off his hips, before moving onto the zipper. Clearly, their agreement was another one of Bruce’s convincing lies.
“Did we really, though?” Bruce practically sneered, “or did somebody just get cold feet,” his whisper almost a hiss in his ear, “too worried about getting carried away and getting somebody hurt?” that last word emphasised with a sharp nip to his lobe.
Ah, but Bruce’s hands had faltered, unable to unzip straight away thanks to the growing bulge in Clark’s crotch slowing him down. Even drunk, he was careful to not accidentally hurt him. If Clark wasn’t so taken aback, he may have laughed at the irony; he hadn’t taken kindly to Clark putting an end to their previous ‘arrangement’ in fear of it going too far, but here he was, subconsciously worrying about pinching Clark, the strongest metahuman on the planet.
“Yes,” Clark said with a faint scoff, staggered a little by Bruce just indignantly repeating his exact reasoning at the time. “And you agreed and understood!”
With a sharp inhale, Bruce’s hands stilled as he pulled back to seemingly talk face to face. There was a faint crease in his brow and that familiar tenseness in his jaw suggesting irritation, but Clark was too enthralled by the image of Bruce’s flushed face he hadn’t seen in quite some time to take much notice.
Hadn’t seen any tinge of pink in Bruce's face since his last time in that glorious bed back at Wayne Manor, when he had Bruce pinned beneath him with one hand holding him down by his waist and the other hand grasping the headboard firmly, holding himself up so he could thrust into Bruce sharper, more directly hitting the spot that made the detective crack and cry out as he came undone… while Clark kept going until the wood in the headboard snapped, and the support beams of the canopy fell down.
Of course, Clark had sheltered Bruce from any falling debris with ease, but as he did so, he noticed a bruise in the shape of his hand left in his wake at Bruce's waist, dotted with tiny specks of red around the edges, and sure, Bruce had experienced much worse in his years of crime fighting and protecting the planet from extraterrestrial beings, but… Clark had never lost control like that.
The memory stirred something within the pit of his stomach. It was something guilty, mixed with arousal.
“And yet,” Bruce's voice pulled Clark back to the present, “I've heard rumours.”
Clark almost gulped. “About?” he asked, and Bruce arched a brow as if to say ‘really?’
“About Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent – you know, Superman in disguise – getting cozy with Daily Planet's investigative journalist Lois Lane.”
Then, Clark blinked. Admittedly, Bruce's jealousy was a tad unsettling, but that didn't stop his chest from swelling with pride because Bruce Wayne? The Batman? Jealous? Oh, what a juicy low stakes story it could be for the Planet’s gossip column.
Alas, since Clark's cock was swelling too, sharing any of this with anybody was out of the question – obviously. Even Alfred was kept in the dark, having to be sent off for a break the day Bruce had organised for the replacement bed to arrive.
Bruce felt it.
“A fine woman, don't get me wrong” he continued casually “but I can't see her faring too well if you were to get carried away,” as if he wasn't currently palming Clark's clothed erection while maintaining challenging eye contact. Now Clark was starting to wish Bruce would hurry up unzipping and free him from the confines of his pants.
But he couldn't admit that!
Instead, he said “it isn't like that, we haven't even…” only to trail off once he realised what he was doing subconsciously (again). Bruce narrowed his eyes, not quite convinced, but Clark was wholeheartedly telling the truth! Yes, he had gone on a couple dates with Lois, but nothing further had progressed and they were nowhere near becoming exclusive anytime soon.
Why was he telling Bruce that though? There was no need for him to know, especially not when Clark was still trying to think of how he could prevent this from going any further.
“You haven't ‘what’?”
Hardly trying, really, unless he was actually trying to encourage Bruce further. He didn't need to think though, he could push Bruce off of himself with just his pinkie finger if he wanted to – but he didn't want to.
“Clark?”
Clark couldn't respond. He wouldn't, even if he knew how to respond. There was a good chance he would say the wrong (or right) thing again, something that would give Bruce all the permission he needed to keep going.
“Oh.”
Saying nothing seemed to do the job anyway. A glint of smug amusement shone in Bruce's eye, and he seemed to be holding back a smirk as he leaned back in to whisper a question that needed no further elaboration;
“How long has it been?”
God, too long. Clark needed this more than he would like to admit.
“W-Well, that isn't really any of your business, is it?” he spluttered defensively, hoping the heat in his cheeks wouldn't show, and that the throb of his cock would go unnoticed. Judging by the triumphant blaze in Bruce's eyes though, nothing got by him.
“I’ll make it my business,” Bruce said, just before he started moving quicker than Clark – in his flustered state – could process; one second, Bruce was teasingly rubbing the bulge in Clark's crotch, hovering just a few centimeters from his mouth and captivating Clark with his stare, and the next second his hand was wrapping around the base of Clark's length, having finally freed him from the fabric prison of his pants and underwear without him realising until Bruce dropped to his knees.
Warmth spread in the pit of his stomach, and even though Clark tried to demand “s-slow down”, Bruce did anything but. With his erection still held firmly in Bruce's hand, Clark could only watch as the usually stoic man guided it to his waiting mouth. His tongue pressed flat against the tip, his lips latched around the girth, and his eyes stayed locked on Clark's as he began to sink further down his length, tongue dragging along the underside.
“Sh-Shit,”
It wasn't like him to swear, but Clark couldn't help it. Even if Bruce wasn't attempting to swallow him whole, Clark still would have sworn because those sultry eyes were just too much – they always were. When he donned the cowl, they always made Clark's heart skip a beat whenever their eyes locked, before and after their relationship. As the Dark Knight, Bruce's emotions were harder to read than normal, and those icy eyes of his were the only windows to whatever went on in his head.
Now though, his lashes were heavy and his brows were furrowed, making him the most erotic sight Clark had ever seen.
“Fuck, Bruce…”
And, as he reached the base of Clark's cock, that sight was quickly becoming too much for him to bear. Bruce's eyes started to shine as he struggled with the size of him, but his gaze did not waver. Clark tried to hold it, but once Bruce retreated to the head and broke away for a quick breath, Clark couldn't handle seeing the string of spit and precum hang between Bruce's pink lips and his tip. While Bruce panted and licked his lips, Clark threw his head back and groaned another curse under his breath, knuckles whitening as he grasped the shelf behind him for help.
“Just like old times,” Bruce chuckled, fanning Clark's sensitive tip with husky air. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine and he shuddered as his dick twitched – but that reaction was not triggered by Bruce's breath, oh no.
Bruce wasn't quite right about this being like old times, oh no. Since Bruce had never really been the one to serve, it was a job typically left for Clark (which he was more than happy to fulfill, of course). Clark couldn't remember the last time Bruce had ever gotten down on his knees for him… It was the realisation that this may be the first time that made Clark utterly throb, and without a doubt, Bruce caught it.
“Has it been that long for you?” Bruce asked, and despite the fact that Clark was staring up at the ceiling, he knew Bruce was smirking and studying. He could hear it in his voice, and feel the weight of his analytical gaze all over him, undressing him while he was at it, despite the fact he already had Clark's dick in his hand, wet with his own saliva.
Hot all over, Clark refused to answer, and thankfully Bruce didn't push further. He just took Clark back into his mouth and got to work.
Oh, and he was good at it. It's like he was made for the job… to think, Clark had never had the pleasure of experiencing Bruce's mouth. Had he always been this good? Why had he hidden this skill? Unless he had only recently gotten the hang of it…
Ah, but it was a good thing that Bruce knew what he was doing. It meant that Clark didn't have to dwell too long on Bruce's latest history simply because he couldn't. Not with Bruce’s mouth managing to keep Clark out of his head and in his body. There was no room for insecure jealousy when all he could think and feel was pleasure. He couldn't even resist anymore, he just had to look.
“My God,”
So he watched, despite how close he already was to spilling down Bruce's throat.
The instant their eyes locked he knew it was a mistake, but he groaned in awe regardless, unable to look away. Lust clouded Bruce's gaze and pink dusted his cheeks, reminding Clark of the few times he ever saw Bruce so fucked out. He looked as much of a wreck as Clark felt, and he wasn't even touching himself! The desperation was subtle, but Clark guessed that if he were to press his foot against Bruce's crotch, he would find a bulge.
He wanted to look and check, but he couldn't even decide if he should keep hold of Bruce's gaze a little longer, or tear it away to watch his mouth slide up and down his cock. Bruce's lips were stretching around his girth, his tongue was pressing right against his underside, and his cheeks were rhythmically hollowing as he sucked, but feeling and seeing all of that happen could bring him much too close much too quickly.
Combined with the slurping sound of Bruce's mouth? too risky indeed.
The adorable furrow of his brows would do though, and – scratch that. Clark's line of sight slipped, and his grasp on the shelves threatened to break the metal, even as he threw his head back and closed his eyes. The sight of Bruce's lips (so pretty and pink) wrapped around his spit-soaked cock was enough to start unfurling that burning coil within him faster than he would have liked.
“Bruce, I'm c-close,”
It brought him so much closer, yes, but maybe it was worth it if it meant that image would forever stay in his mind
“B,”
And maybe for Bruce it was worth it, if it meant Clark continued to use that old nickname – just like old times.
“please, I-I can't–”
Clark wasn't sure what he meant to say next though, his train of thought vanishing. Bruce's low moan, which was likely in response to both the nickname ‘B’ and Clark's pleading, sent his mind spiraling from the sound of it and the sensation of it, but it was the not too distant call of his name which almost immediately forced him back down to Earth.
“Clark!”
Clark’s head whipped up to face the door. He knew that voice. It was a feminine voice.
“Clark Kent!”
No need for x-ray vision. It was Lois Lane's voice, and both Lois and her voice were gradually coming closer.
“Where the Hell has he gone?”
Panic challenged his lust then. Heat in his abdomen was suddenly accompanied by cold traveling up his spine. Without warning, his hands flung to Bruce's shoulders and pushed.
“Shit, we have to–”
Not to push him away exactly, moreso to push himself away
“St-Stop,”
But of course, Bruce wouldn't let him.
“Bruce!” Clark hissed the instant Bruce grabbed his thighs and held him still. “What are you –” ‘doing’ or ‘thinking’, whichever it was, it fell off the tip of his tongue once Clark looked back down just in time to witness exactly what Bruce was thinking and doing.
“N-No,” he gasped, again reaching for the shelves behind him for support. Without them, he would have risked thrusting into Bruce's mouth as he reached his tipping point, and considering Bruce's mouth was already full – so full his nose grazed the fine hairs below Clark's navel – Clark knew he had to be careful.
“Stop!”
Careful enough to leave some room for him to spill down Bruce's throat, because really, he didn't actually want Bruce to stop, not when he was about to come.
“Clark!” Lois called out again, this time sounding louder and clearer and so much closer. Still, she sounded muffled. Underneath the noise of sucking and panting, she was getting drowned out.
Which only meant they were louder too.
Clark’s eyes darted to the door handle. Shit. It wasn't locked. Did it even have a lock? It didn't matter. If she had any inkling of a suspicion her date was up to no good, she'd have no problem opening the door that hid the likely audibly amorous couple and catching them red-handed.
Red-handed…
As if on instinct, Clark's eyes heated up. When Bruce's movements faltered, Clark’s right hand snapped back to him and entwined within his hair, any and all worries of hurting him now evaporated. He rocked into Bruce's desperate mouth, glaring at the door handle until Bruce's choked splutter snatched his attention back down, where he could only handle a couple more strokes before Bruce's smothered moans and heavy gaze, combined with the sound of heels clicking quicker and closer, brought Clark tumbling off the edge.
“F-Fuck,” he muttered breathily, cursing again and again as he came into Bruce's waiting mouth and rode out his high – a high which didn't seem to have an end in sight. Time seemed to slow down, making it almost impossible for Clark to look away from the mess he had made of Bruce's flushed face alone; a thin line of tears brimmed his pretty eyes while saliva and come coated his pretty lips.
It was a sight Clark never thought he would have ever gotten to see. In fact, Bruce had made it clear he wouldn't, and yet there he was, choking on his cock and swallowing his seed. Could Clark really be blamed for, once again, having to avert his eyes upwards and press his left hand – balled into a fist – against his mouth to quiet his vulgar groans? somebody may have heard by now–
“Clark?”
Lois probably had, if the cautious creak and turn of the door handle were to suggest anything… but she wasn't going to get the chance to see anything if Clark's heat vision had anything to do with it.
“Are you in– ow!”
This was the loss of control he worried about. Like a reflex, the heat from his eyes targeted the door handle so it burned hot and spread to the other handle on the other side of the door. The one Lois started to twist, only to hastily release it, judging by the sounds of her pained hiss.
“What the Hell…” she muttered under her breath, utter confusion laced within her voice. As the pleasure faded from his body, guilt weighed him down. He could sense her hesitate before she stepped away and continued down the hall. He should have felt lighter, having successfully avoided getting caught, but the guilt only weighed heavier.
He didn't mean to hurt her!
“Jesus Christ, Bruce! what were–”
He didn't mean to hurt Bruce, either. It wouldn't exactly be fair to ask him what he was thinking when he didn’t look like he even could think! Because beneath him, hunched over, Bruce must have pulled away at some point since Clark lazered the doorhandle, and now he was rasping and gulping down air as if he had just breached the ocean surface.
‘What was I thinking’ is what Clark should have actually asked, but instead, he kneeled down and brushed Bruce’s ruffled hair out of his eyes, cupping his face so he could look the man in the eye while he asked, “are you okay?”, a question that needed no answer, really.
The man before him looked nothing like the partner he knew and respected. Clark didn't think it was possible for both the billionaire play boy and the world's greatest detective to look so… wrecked. The daze in his usually overly alert eyes was all thanks to him.
“I went too far, didn't I?”
Oh, and the alcohol… the alcohol probably helped too, just like it seemed to be helping Bruce again.
“No,” Bruce perked up, but in a sort of angry way. “Not far enough.”
Clark blinked. “What has gotten into you tonight?” he asked carefully, while Bruce was anything but careful. Before he could blink again, Bruce pounced, smashing their lips together to kiss him so hard and fast, that was really more tongue and teeth than anything else.
“Have a taste and find out.”