Work Text:
Bruce saunters into the WE conference room, suppressing a wince. Hopefully, Ms. Grant will chalk any stiffness up to a non-existent hangover and not his three cracked ribs. He plasters an insipid smile on his face, and only years of practice prevent it from slipping when he sees the man standing up to greet him.
It’s Superman. Superman, with his usually slicked-back hair hanging in loose curls, in a pair of rimmed glasses, hunching over in an ill-fitting suit as if to make himself smaller. It’s a surprisingly decent disguise for how simple it is, and might fool those who are used to seeing the alien up in the skies and in the evening news. Bruce last saw him up close just yesterday, when they were having a shouting match at the Justice League meeting. Well, Superman was shouting, while Bruce kept his composure. Mostly. Give or take a few snarls into Superman’s face to shatter that infuriating self-righteous expression.
The point is, he knows that face quite well.
“You are not Cat,” Bruce says dumbly as he quietly panics on the inside. How did Superman learn his identity, an identity that Bruce has gone to such great lengths to protect? What does he want from him now? Bruce knew joining the Justice League was a disaster in the making.
“Cat went down with flu,” Superman says and rubs the back of his neck in a completely un-Superman gesture. Bruce isn’t sure why he keeps his act now that they are alone in the room. “So I’ll be interviewing you instead. Clark Kent, the Daily Planet.”
Superman offers him a hand, and Bruce shakes it on autopilot. The handshake is surprisingly weak. The cogs in his brain are whirring. So Superman doesn’t know Bruce is Batman; he is here undercover to talk to Bruce Wayne. But why? What could put the ditzy billionaire on Superman’s radar?
“Shall we begin?” Superman asks, and Bruce pastes on his most vacuous Brucie smile.
The interview is… just an interview. Perfectly routine and more bearable than most, Bruce has to admit. Superman doesn’t pry into his numerous albeit mostly fictitious affairs or ambush him with questions about Dick as every reporter still does after almost two years since Bruce took his ward in. They talk about WE’s green policy and the Martha Wayne Foundation. The questions are well-researched, and Superman is a good listener when he’s not undermining Batman’s authority. Bruce finds himself talking about their scholarship program without quite meaning to—not a topic that would come up with Cat Grant, that’s for sure. He doesn’t, however, see how any of that can be useful for Superman and whatever he’s investigating.
Superman’s notes slip from the table as he fumbles with them, and Bruce bends to pick them up.
“Sorry, Mr. Wayne.”
“I told you, please call me Bruce.” He smiles, and Superman blushes, two pink spots on that perfect, unblemished skin.
Interesting.
Bruce gives the notes back, making sure their fingers touch. Superman stutters through his thanks. Bruce’s smile grows.
“You’ve been the one asking all the questions so far, Clark,” he says, pitching his tone a bit lower.
“Well, that’s how interviews work?” Superman’s flustered expression looks genuine.
“Tell me about yourself. You are not from Metropolis originally, are you?” Throughout the interview, Superman has had a faint Midwestern accent that Bruce has never heard from him before. Except maybe when they were arguing yesterday, now that Bruce thinks of it. Or when he called a bottle of Coke “a pop” as he handed it to Barry last month.
“Oh, I’m from a small town in Kansas. I grew up on a farm.”
“Why Metropolis?”
“Got accepted to the MetU and stayed after graduation. Not much to write about in Smallville, you know?”
“Metropolis is an eventful city.” Bruce nods. “Do you report on Superman a lot?”
Superman rubs his neck again, clearly uncomfortable. “Lois Lane does most of our Superman stories, but I cover him as well sometimes.”
The door opens, and a man with a camera and lighting equipment barges in.
“Are you ready for the photo shoot?” he asks. “Kent, if you’re done, help me set this up.”
“Sure thing, Jimmy.” Superman—Clark?—looks both relieved and disappointed, and Bruce finds that he shares the feeling.
Superman chats with the photographer, and it’s clear that they know each other well. It increasingly looks like he is here simply as a civilian. Unlike some other members of the Justice League, Superman has always been cagey about his secret identity, although he obviously has one. He is knowledgeable about the Earth’s pop culture and slang, suggesting regular interactions with people. Still, Bruce expected him to spend most of his time off from heroics in his Fortress of Solitude, away from humanity, doing whatever aliens with godlike powers do. Meditating, fighting the voices in his head telling him to burn down the world, bouncing coins off those inhumanly fit glutes. Not having a full-time job as a reporter and wearing the most god-awful suits in existence.
Bruce directs his best face angle at the camera and glances at Clark through his eyelashes. Clark drops his notes again. Bruce grins.
“I hope you’ll be at the Wayne Gala on Saturday,” he says.
“Oh, I don’t usually cover social events.”
“Then I’ll make sure you get an invitation.”
The photographer coughs.
Bruce lets his hand linger just this side of proper as they shake hands goodbye, to see Superman blush again. The handshake is much firmer this time. Superman stands straight for five whole minutes before remembering to hunch over just as the door closes behind him.
True to his word, Bruce instructs his secretary to send the invitation that very day. Back in the manor, he holes up in the Batcave and researches Clark Kent and his extensive digital trail. His articles are sharp and clever, if too blindly optimistic for Bruce’s Gothamite taste. They echo the self-righteousness Bruce is way too familiar with, but it’s much more palatable in the written form, directed at the likes of Luthor. It’s not just a cover; Superman clearly cares about his job and uses it as another avenue to help people.
Clark Kent didn’t lie about being from Smallville, Kansas, either. Other than the official paper trail, Bruce finds teenage Superman on his classmates’ Instagram and his parents’ access-restricted Facebook accounts, in plaid shirts and blue jeans, in a cheap but much better-fitting prom suit.
Bruce sighs as he closes the tabs. In a rare moment of honesty, he can admit to being attracted to Superman, in an angry, testosterone-fueled way. He doesn’t know where wanting to pinch his teenage self’s cheeks fits into that.
The gala is in full swing, and Bruce is Brucie-ing his way through the crowd, mingling and laughing boomingly at unfunny jokes. Clark is here, wearing another polyester abomination, but they haven’t had a chance to talk yet. Their eyes meet as Bruce puts his hand rather low on some heiress's back. Clark purses his lips infinitesimally as he usually does at the League meetings before putting forward whatever inane argument to Bruce’s reasonable suggestions, blink and you miss it. Thankfully, Bruce is good at observation.
He winks at Clark.
The Drakes distract him for a while, insisting on talking shop with the fakest of fake smiles; Jack is a moron and Janet is a shark. At the corner of his eyes, he notices Clark moving towards the exit and finally disentangles from the tedious couple.
He catches up with Clark at the cloakroom.
“Leaving already?”
“Why, you want to give me your comment?” Clark asks bitingly, a tone familiar to Batman. His face promptly smoothes into a mildly contrite expression. “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne. That was uncalled for.”
He moves to leave, but Bruce catches him by the hand. “Call me Bruce, please. I realize I’ve been neglecting you all evening.”
“You’re a popular man, Mr.—Bruce. I understand that everyone wants a piece of you.”
“Do you? Want a piece of me?” Bruce swipes his thumb across Clark’s wrists, feeling his pulse spike.
Clark gulps.
Bruce tugs him into the cloakroom, lightly, but Clark is eager to follow. Once they are inside, Clark crowds him to the wall, and then his lips are on Bruce’s, hard and bruising, his shy demeanor vaporizing. For a few moments, Bruce lets himself be kissed, thrown by a sudden change. Even if he were inclined to allow his partners to manhandle him, he’s always the taller, the stronger one. Clark has good three inches on him, and could break him with his pinkie. The thought is, perhaps unsurprisingly if Bruce is being honest with himself, exhilarating.
Vision swimming, Bruce responds in kind. His tongue pushes past Clark’s lips, and his hips grind against Clark’s. It’s good, so good. Clark moans, a low sound that goes straight into Bruce’s cock and makes his breath come out in short, shaky gasps.
“Bruce—” Clark says when Bruce snakes his hand underneath his shirt, but doesn’t follow it with anything. Bruce takes it as an invitation to splay his palm against those deliciously firm abs.
It would be embarrassing that he’s fully hard already, except that Clark is too. He feels his cock through the trousers, and it must be as big as the rest of him. Bruce’s mouth waters.
To hell with it. Usually he is particular about things he’s comfortable doing where anyone can walk in at any moment and snap a picture, but something about Clark makes him—not reckless. Daring, perhaps, similar to how it feels to chase a Rogue through Gotham. He can’t stop now that his goal is within his reach.
Bruce slides to his knees and looks up at Clark, who looks back at him in startled wonder. He shivers, pushing away an unfamiliar naked feeling, and raises an eyebrow. Trembling uncallused fingers fumble with the belt as Bruce kneads the plush ass that has driven him to distraction in the field.
Finally, that magnificent cock is free. Bruce wraps his hand around its base and gives it an experimental pump before wrapping his lips around the head. Clark makes a guttural sound at the back of his throat and bites his lip in an attempt to stifle it, red and swollen from all the kisses.
“You don’t have to—” Clacks gasps. “If it’s too b—”
Bruce cuts him off by swallowing as much of him as he can, the tip hitting the back of his throat. His eyes never leave Clark’s face. Clark’s own eyes are riveted on him, pupils blown impossibly wide. Bruce feels a hand in his hair, caressing but not tugging. He leans into it for a moment to signal to Clark that he can. Another thing he usually doesn’t allow.
Whenever Bruce imagined him and Superman having sex—and he did, almost as much as he imagined throttling him—it was always a struggle for domination, perhaps another of their League arguments escalating into an angry tussle. Now, as he bobs his head, still holding Clark’s awestruck gaze, those images are the farthest thing on his mind. He wants to make Clark loud, make him forget where they are. He wants Clark to keep looking at him like that.
It’s a dangerous thought, of course, given that Clark doesn’t know Bruce is Batman. Bruce distracts himself by pulling all stops to take him even farther in his throat. This time, Clark’s moan is loud enough to be heard outside the cloakroom, and he puts a hand to his mouth, pearly white teeth biting into the flesh. His other hand is still in Bruce’s hair, tugging experimentally.
Bruce encourages him by stroking his balls, with just a hint of a nail over the sensitive skin. He used to wonder if Superman’s invulnerable skin would feel like marble, but it’s wonderfully delicate on his tongue and under his fingers. Clark’s hips jerk but still—a pity. Bruce moves his fingers to stroke his perineum, and that earns him a thrust.
“Sorry,” Clark breathes out, panting.
Bruce leans back, letting out his cock for a moment, a string of spit still connecting it to his lip.
“You can.” Bruce tries to give him his most seductive grin, but he’s too turned on to play any games. His own cock is painfully hard against the seam of his dress pants, and Bruce gives it an absent-minded rub through the fabric.
Clark traces the move with another groan, one he forgets to stifle.
“I don’t—don’t want to hurt you.” His eyes dart to Bruce’s chest.
“You won’t.”
Clark could, of course, and very easily, but as Bruce dives back, he believes his own words, for the first time ever about Superman. He would appreciate the irony if he wasn’t so busy moaning around the mouthful of Clark’s cock.
Clark thrusts, delicately, and then more boldly. Bruce lets Clark use him, fucking his face until he’s coming down his throat.
“Sorry, I should’ve warned—”
“Stop apologizing.” Bruce scrambles to his feet and shuts him up with a kiss, letting Clark taste himself on his mouth. It’s languid but no less filthy, and Bruce savors it even though he’s going to combust if something isn’t done about his own erection very soon.
“Let me.” Clark reaches for his pants.
“I’m so close.”
Bruce bucks into Clark’s sure hand and comes after just a few pumps, head buried in Clark’s shoulder, as Clark cards his finger through his hair. They stay like that for a few moments, strangely intimate for a tryst in a cloakroom. Bruce’s heart is beating fast, and he tells himself it’s just the aftershocks of his orgasm, nothing else.
“Do you think—” Clark starts. “Would you like to maybe—”
A woman’s scream and the sounds of gunfire cut him off. An amplified voice of Harvey Dent booms outside.
Bruce sighs as he hastily does his pants, and Clarks does the same.
“Rain check?” Bruce asks, and throws the door open without waiting for an answer.
There’s a panicking crowd outside the cloakroom, but nobody pays them any mind. Bruce rushes to get his Batsuit, noticing Clark running in the opposite direction from the corner of his eye. If he’s planning to actually intervene as a Superman here in the middle of Gotham, Bruce is going to eviscerate him. With kryptonite.
The next meeting comes earlier than expected, as the aliens—of a non-Superman variety—descend on several American cities just a few days after the Two-Face attack—that did, unfortunately, involve Superman saving the day. Afterwards, Bruce gets into another shouting match with him, and they haven’t even tackled him operating in Gotham against Batman’s wishes yet. So far, they are arguing about whether Bruce should have gotten in front of the infuriating Boy Scout to intercept the suspiciously green blade thrown at him.
“You lecture everybody about caution and safety, and then pull a stunt like that. You already had three cracked ribs before the battle, Batman!”
“First, I did not. Second, how could you even tell?”
“I have an x-ray vision.”
“X-ray vision.” Bruce carefully files this information away.
“Yes. I can also—” Superman trails off. He looks between Bruce’s chest and his chin, mouth opening and closing a few times, but no more words come out. His cheeks redden, just like they did so many times during the interview, and never once in his red and blue.
“Also?” Bruce prompts, even as he can see where it is going.
“Listen, um, Batman, can we talk in private?” Superman’s voice is suddenly tentative. His hand darts to his face before he jerks it back. He is still unfairly attractive, even when gaping like a fish.
Wonder Woman, the only one who hasn’t made themselves scarce as the shouting started, gets up and leaves the room with a curt nod. Once the door closes behind her, Bruce sighs and takes off his cowl.
“I liked your article,” he says, if only to put Superman out of his misery. Bruce has had his daily dose of fighting for today.
“You knew?” Superman sputters.
“Clark.” Bruce stares at him. “Your disguise is a bad suit and a pair of glasses.”
“Well, shucks.” Clark does tug at the strand of his hair this time, letting it fall loose. “So, what were you saying about that rain check?”