Chapter Text
Martha Kent cradled seven-year-old Clark in her arms, one hand stroking the dark mop of curls atop his head while the other held a worn, leather-bound book. Her back rested against the headboard of his too-small twin bed, and the boy on her lap melted into her warmth, his smile wide and bright across chubby cheeks. He beamed up at her, limbs quivering with excitement as he asked, for the third time that night, for her to reread the same story.
“Again, again!” he pleaded, voice high and breathless with delight.
“Clark, honey, I have to be up early tomorrow. You know it’s harvest season.” Martha sighed softly, the weight of fatigue settling in her shoulders. The year hadn’t been kind to the Kent farm. Too much rain in the spring, too little sun in the summer. The crops had come up lean, and she and Jonathan had been working longer hours for a fraction of what they usually earned. Some nights, she’d stayed up just to mend Clark’s hand-me-down shirts, to make sure he wouldn’t feel any less than the other kids at school.
Still, none of that seemed to matter when her son looked up at her with those impossibly blue eyes, wide and luminous in the moonlight spilling through the curtains.
“Please, Ma,” he begged, lower lip jutting out in a perfect little pout. “Last time. I pinky promise.”
Martha’s heart softened, as it always did when he gave her puppy eyes. “All right,” she murmured, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “One last time.”
The book in her hands was one of the only items that had been found inside the ship that carried him to Earth. Its pages were thick and slightly iridescent, covered in intricate glyphs that shimmered faintly when caught by the light. When Martha first opened it years ago, the words had shifted and reshaped themselves into English before her eyes. She never stopped being amazed by this relic from the world her boy had come from.
It told, in simple words and colorful illustrations, of how Kryptonians would one day meet the person who shared the other half of their soul. Once they met, their dreams would intertwine. Two minds, one dream. No matter how far apart they were, they would walk the same dreamscape, under the same stars, until they came together as one.
Clark listened raptly, his little fists curled in the fabric of her nightgown, eyes wide with wonder. The story ended with two figures drawn in soft pastel colors, falling asleep beneath twin moons, their dreams flowing together like rivers meeting in the sea.
When Martha closed the book, Clark let out a happy sigh, the kind that belonged only to children who still believed that magic and love were the same thing.
“Someday,” he said sleepily, as she tucked the blankets around him. “I’m gonna dream with my soulmate too.”
Martha smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Someday, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Someday you will.”
She turned off the lamp and left the door cracked open, just the way he liked.
Clark wriggled deeper under the covers, eyes fluttering shut. The last thing he saw before sleep took him was the soft glow of the moon through his window. And as he drifted off, he imagined what it might feel like. To dream with someone else. To know, without question, that they were out there, waiting for him too.
As the years passed and Clark grew older, life lost some of the sparkle it had when he was seven. He was still the same kindhearted boy, still the optimistic soul who smiled at strangers and believed the best of everyone, but the world had grown heavier around him, quieter in its magic.
The little leather-bound book now sat in a box beneath his old twin bed at the Kent farm, gathering dust. Martha had packed it away one spring, after he’d stopped asking her to read it out loud. He hadn’t protested. It felt like something he’d simply outgrown, like toys, or fairytales, or the kind of dreams that promised everything would make sense one day.
Still, even in his teenage years, there were nights when Clark found himself staring out his window at the moon and stars, wondering. He still daydreamed about meeting his soulmate; still went to bed hoping (half-embarrassed, half-hopeful) that maybe tonight would be the night his dreams became something more than his own.
Every person he met carried that hopeful question in his mind. Could it be you? He’d hold someone’s gaze a moment too long, searching for a spark that never came. And when it didn’t, he’d smile politely and move on, the hope dimming just a little more each time.
By the time he outgrew Smallville, the promise of that childhood story had faded into something bittersweet and distant. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he’d wonder if maybe his soulmate had been on Krypton. Someone who’d perished with the rest of his people before he ever had the chance to dream with them. Other times, he’d imagine them impossibly far away, too old, or long gone, or simply… never meant to be found.
The thought used to ache, sharp and painful. Over time, it dulled into something softer, like an old bruise, no longer painful but still tender when pressed.
He stole a glance at Lois from across his desk at the Daily Planet. She was typing furiously, eyes sharp with focus, a pen tucked behind one ear and her lips pursed in concentration. A strand of black hair had escaped its clip and brushed her cheek, but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked unstoppable in that way only Lois Lane could be when she was chasing the truth.
The day he’d met her, Clark had walked home feeling weightless, grinning like an idiot, heart hammering with that old, familiar flutter of possibility. He’d kicked off his shoes halfway through the apartment door, floated onto the bed still in his shirt and tie, and closed his eyes with a kind of reckless hope he hadn’t felt in years.
That night, he hadn’t dreamt at all.
He woke the next morning in a sour mood, groggy and disappointed, peeling himself out of bed as the sunlight crept through the blinds. The milk was warm, the cereal stale, and his Lucky Charms tasted more like unlucky ones. He’d told himself it was silly to care, but a small, childish part of him still felt cheated.
Now, sitting at his desk, that familiar dull ache had crept back in. He stared absently at his monitor, the words on the screen having long since blurred into nothing. Around him, the newsroom buzzed with energy, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, voices rising and falling, but Clark barely heard any of it.
Cat Grant had been talking beside him for… a while now, he realized vaguely. Something about a schedule mix-up, maybe? A favor? Her perfume drifted faintly in the air, sharp and floral. He nodded when she paused, out of reflex more than intention.
“Thank you, Clark, you are literally saving my life,” Cat said, exhaling in relief. “Now I can actually make my daughter’s dance recital without Perry chewing me out. I’ll send you the details of the gala through email, okay? You’re the best!”
That word—gala—slipped past the fog in his brain like a dart. Clark blinked, head snapping toward her. “Wait, wha—”
But Cat was already gone, bustling toward the elevators, humming to herself, blonde curls bouncing up and down in a happy dance. Lois looked up from her desk, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“I didn’t think celebrity galas were your scene,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Pretty sure you wrote a whole column about how billionaires are melting the planet.”
Clark groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t really listening.”
“That much was obvious,” Lois said, her mouth curving into a sly smile. “Guess you’ll get to research your next exposé firsthand. Maybe ask a few CEOs why they take private jets to go to the restroom on the other side of their mansion.”
The joke was funny, but it fell flat as Clark sighed and glanced at his inbox, where Cat’s email had just landed with a cheerful ding. The subject line read: ‘GALA DETAILS!!! <3’
Bruce Wayne had learned, over the past three years, that saving Gotham didn’t always come with capes, fists, or kevlar. Sometimes it came with tuxedos, champagne, and a smile he didn’t mean.
After the flood, the city needed something more than vengeance. It needed faith and, inconveniently, faith tended to trust a face, not a symbol of fear. Alfred had been the one to put it into words. “The city doesn’t just need Batman. It needs Bruce Wayne to believe in it too.” And as much as Bruce had wanted to ignore him, he couldn’t deny the truth. Gotham’s wounds ran deeper than crime; there were structural, civic, and human problems needing to be addressed. So, while the Bat fought in the dark of night, Bruce had been rebuilding during the days.
It had taken Bruce months to admit that Alfred was right. Even more months to learn how to fake it semi-convincingly. He threw himself into rebuilding efforts by buying up drowned neighborhoods, funding shelters, and steering Wayne Enterprises toward sustainable infrastructure (yes, he’d shown his face around the company). Some people called it redemption. Others called it damage control for the uncovered truths about the Wayne family post-Riddler. Bruce didn’t correct either assumption.
But Batman's success depended on the invisibility of the man behind the mask, so the persona of Bruce Wayne had to evolve. That part hadn’t come easily. He’d spent too long in the shadows, too long learning to observe instead of perform. Now, the tabloids had started whispering about a “reborn” Bruce Wayne who was eccentric, unpredictable, and occasionally charming if you squinted. The rumors were still soft around the edges, inconsistent, but he worked to fan them when he could.
He still had to think too hard about how to stand, how to smile, how to seem effortlessly flirty. But it was progress. Alfred said the effort alone was a miracle by his standards.
He’d made plans to push the act even further tonight. The invitation had arrived weeks ago for an exclusive charity gala in Metropolis, held to fund the construction of a new art museum. Normally, Bruce would have ignored it without a second thought, but the invite had come addressed to him personally, and the optics were too valuable to waste.
Bruce Wayne needed to stop being the strange myth from Gotham and start existing as the visible, sociable, and influential man the tabloids wanted him to be. A Wayne who could stand among the elite and not seem like a ghost that crawled out of a cave. That was reserved for the guy in the cowl.
That was why, tonight, he arrived fashionably late. Camera flashes went off the moment his car door opened. He stepped out with two models on his arms, both named Kate, which he decided was either fate or convenience. “Easier not to mix up names,” he’d joked on the way in, the smirk practiced, the tone just flippant enough. That had earned him a couple of pretentious giggles.
He looked the part of a man halfway through his third drink. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his hair fell into his eyes in the kind of artful mess that took more effort than he’d ever care to admit. He laughed when he was supposed to, smiled when the cameras turned, and let his companions pull him into the light like they were born to orbit it.
Of course, he had no intention of staying long. The plan was simple: make an appearance, charm some of the press, and slip away before 10pm under the pretense of finding “something a little more fun.” Gotham still needed him, after all.
Alfred’s advice had followed him here, the same steady reminder echoing in his head. “If you want the world to stop asking questions about your nights, give them something frivolous to write about in the day.”
Bruce had to admit, he was getting better at giving them exactly that.
He’d made meaningless conversation and answered a few questions from reporters. Yes, he was thrilled to be donating to breast cancer research—what’s that, that wasn’t what the gala was about? Whoops. A harmless mistake from a man who clearly wasn’t here for substance.
It didn’t take long before he’d discreetly freed himself from the two Kates, guiding them toward a silver-haired billionaire who looked delighted to inherit them. Bruce moved through the crowd with a practiced kind of aimlessness, a glass of whiskey in hand that never stayed his for long. He’d pick one up, pretend to sip, set it down, and replace it minutes later with another. He liked to stay sharp and keep his wits about him, so he avoided actually drinking, but the illusion of indulgence mattered.
Every few steps, someone stopped him—an eager handshake, a forced laugh, a question about Wayne Tower’s reconstruction or his “heroic” rebuilding efforts. He gave them what they wanted: nonchalant charm in short, forgettable bursts.
His instincts noticed it before he did. A gaze. Narrowed. Quizzical. Following him from across the room.
He didn’t turn toward it. Not at first. Instead, he drifted toward the edge of the ballroom, pretending to search for another drink. The dimmed lights made it slightly difficult to find the owner of the stare searing into him, but Bruce noticed the person had moved closer.
Bruce saw the collision coming seconds before it happened. He could’ve avoided it easily, but drunk Bruce Wayne shouldn’t have the reflexes of a fighter. So he made a choice and let it happen.
At the same moment, he realized the man he was about to bump into had also seen it coming and hadn’t done anything to stop it either. Their gazes met across a breath’s distance, something like a crack of lightning sparking between them as stormy blue eyes met much brighter blue ones.
Their chests collided in a brief, solid contact that made Bruce’s glass slosh, amber liquid nearly spilling over his knuckles.
“Oh—sorry, my fault,” the stranger said immediately, his voice low, warm, apologetic in a way that felt genuine, despite very clearly having run into Bruce on purpose.
Bruce looked up…and then up a little more. It was rare for someone to be taller than him.
The man in front of him wasn’t dressed like the rest of the gala’s guests. His suit was a soft tan, a little rumpled at the sleeves and too loose in the shoulders, like it had been borrowed or bought off the rack on short notice. The tie sat a bit crooked, and he was slightly hunched, as if trying to take up less space in a room full of people who only knew how to take more.
But none of that dulled him. If anything, it made him stand out. His hair was dark and curled, stubborn in the way that only genuinely good hair could be. His skin caught the light in warm tones, and his bright blue eyes met Bruce’s with such open sincerity that it threw him off balance more than the collision had. It was a shame bulky glasses clouded most of his facial features, as the man was incredibly handsome despite his less than favorable style.
“Oh! Mr. Wayne,” the man said, his smile widening with polite surprise. “Didn’t think you were drunk enough to be tumbling into people just yet.”
The tone was light, teasing. But Bruce heard the precision of the observation, the deliberate choice of words. The man knew he wasn’t drunk, somehow. Nobody had ever called him out so blatantly before, even if they had noticed.
Bruce let a slow grin spread across his face, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I assure you, I’ve had plenty to drink,” he murmured, stepping a fraction closer, closing the gap between them under the pretense of regaining his balance. In reality, he was moreso trying to regain the upper hand in the situation.
He placed a steadying hand on the man’s arm, fingers brushing against firm muscle through the tan fabric. He lingered there a moment too long before sliding his palm up to the curve of his shoulder, feigning casual familiarity. The man was a lot more muscular and broad than his demeanor was giving him credit for. “You’re solid under there,” Bruce said lightly, tone almost playful. “You don’t seem like the type to bump into people by accident.”
It was a pointed comment, letting the other know that he wasn’t the only one harboring suspicion.
Bruce recognized the assessing look instantly, too focused for polite curiosity. The man was onto him, or at least onto the act. Which meant Bruce had to sell it harder. Flirting with someone of Bruce’s caliber distracted most people. He let his grin soften into something lazier, tilted his head just enough to blur the line between mockery and invitation, and leaned in close enough to be able to count the other man’s lashes.
Across from him, Clark’s smile didn’t falter, but his mind was already working itself into a frenzy.
Up close, Bruce Wayne was a problem. The man’s reputation hadn’t done him justice. He was too composed, too good at pretending to be oblivious, and infuriatingly handsome. Bruce’s cologne was subtle but intoxicating, smoky with a hint of something warm and sweet underneath, like cedar and bourbon. It clung to the air between them, threading into Clark’s senses. He told himself he was only noticing because of their close proximity.
From the moment Bruce Wayne walked in, Clark had been paying attention, almost compelled to hone his senses on the billionaire. He could hear the steady rhythm of the man’s heartbeat shift every time he lied, like when he said he didn’t know what the fundraiser was for, or when he pretended to be too drunk for coherent conversation. The act was convincing, but not to someone who could see through it. Bruce’s balance never faltered, his coordination too clean, his flirtations perfectly timed for when the cameras turned his way. It was all a performance, and Clark found himself watching closer than he meant to, curious about the man who was trying so hard to seem shallow.
Clark’s knowledge of Bruce Wayne was slightly more extensive than that of the average Metropolis civilian. It was an occupational hazard of keeping tabs on the powerful and influential. Wayne was a name that carried weight, legacy, and tragedy in equal measure. After the death of his parents, Bruce had become Gotham’s most famous recluse, a ghost in a city that fed on its own darkness. The story of the Waynes was practically folklore now, retold so many times it had become less about people and more about symbols. To some, it was poetic justice, the universe humbling the rich who helped shape Gotham’s decay. To others, it was a senseless tragedy that snuffed out the last of the city’s good-hearted elite.
Only recently had Bruce reemerged, polished into the perfect billionaire heir turned philanthropic nepo baby, all charm and camera flashes, sipping champagne at charity galas as if he hadn’t vanished for most of his adult life. Where had he been? What had he been doing all those years?
Clark didn’t know why he wanted to push him, why he couldn’t just leave the act alone like everyone else did. Maybe it was professional curiosity. Maybe it was the smug tilt of Bruce’s mouth, the calculated ease of a man who’d spent years being adored and knew exactly how to weaponize it. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something low and magnetic that tugged at him like gravity, something he didn’t have a name for yet.
Whatever it was, it made him want to see the mask slip, even just for a second, so he pushed. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be untouchable, wealthy, careless, perfectly self-assured. But up close, Clark could see the control beneath the performance, the way every gesture was measured and every smile calculated to disarm. That only made him want to test the edges more.
“You left your entourage awfully early,” Clark said lightly, meeting Bruce’s gaze head-on. “Got bored, or already had your fun for the night?”
Bruce’s grin turned knowing, almost wicked. “You seem far too perceptive for your own good,” he murmured. His hand still rested against Clark’s arm, thumb grazing the inside of his elbow as though testing how far he could go before being stopped.
Clark’s pulse betrayed him, thudding louder in his chest. He steadied his voice, forcing it to stay even. “I’m a reporter. Observing is part of the job.”
“Then I hope you take notes accurately,” Bruce replied. His tone was smooth, but there was something sharper underneath it, a hint of challenge that Clark couldn’t ignore.
Clark tilted his head, refusing to look away. “Guess that depends on what there is to observe. Didn’t think Bruce Wayne cared enough about art to drive so far for a museum fundraiser.”
“I don’t,” Bruce said easily, moving a little too close for two people having casual conversation. His voice lowered, meant only for Clark. “I only care about the press coverage.”
The closeness hit Clark before he could stop it. Bruce was too near, his presence filling the space between them until Clark couldn’t think straight. Up close, he was sharper, more beautiful than the photographs ever showed—eyes stormy and knowing, mouth curved in that practiced half-smile that shouldn’t have felt like a personal attack to Clark’s heart. Clark’s breath caught before he could hide it. His heartbeat betrayed him, quick and uneven. He told himself it was annoyance, the kind that came from being toyed with, but the warmth creeping up his neck said otherwise.
The tension between them was tight and humming, a test of patience and control. It was a game, and Clark was too stubborn to lose.
“Honesty from Gotham’s prince. I’ll make sure to quote you accurately.”
Bruce’s eyes dropped, catching on the badge hanging from Clark’s neck. His smile deepened, predatory in its charm. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” he read, his voice dipping into something almost intimate. “You seem… overqualified for puff pieces.”
Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce’s fingers brushed the edge of the badge first, tracing the lanyard before catching it between two fingers. He gave a sharp tug, enough to make Clark have to pretend the action pulled him a step forward. The movement drew them close enough that Clark could feel the ghost of Bruce’s breath against his cheek.
For a moment, Clark had forgotted the crowd. Then the hushed whispers, the stutter of camera shutters, and the subtle ripple of attention spreading through the ballroom hit him. People were watching. They always watched Bruce Wayne, but now they were watching both of them. He was used to getting attention as Superman, but mild mannered farm-boy Clark Kent usually shied away from situations like this.
Bruce seemed to notice. He didn’t retreat. If anything, the awareness of being observed seemed to embolden him. He tugged the badge one more time, fingers lingering against the lanyard as his thumb brushed over Clark’s clothed chest. “You’re blushing, Mr. Kent,” he said quietly, almost to himself, though his tone carried clear enough for the nearby onlookers to hear.
Clark stiffened. “I’m not,” he said defensively, though his face was warm, pulse loud in his ears.
“Of course not,” Bruce replied sarcastically, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “Metropolis air must be warmer than Gotham’s.”
Their gazes locked again. Suspicion burned in both pairs of eyes, but beneath it, something else simmered—something volatile.
Clark couldn’t decide if he wanted to push Bruce away or grab him by the collar and demand to know what he was hiding…right before kissing him.
Bruce leaned in, his voice ensnaring him like a siren’s song. “Why don’t I give you something worth writing about?”
The inside of Clark’s brain looked like a military base that had just been breached. Red lights flashed, alarms blared, and every system screamed that he’d let something dangerous slip through. He knew he’d been screwed the moment he laid eyes on Bruce Wayne.
Honestly, if you asked him what possessed him to approach and challenge the man in the first place, he’d come up empty-handed. He’d never been so entranced by someone’s gaze before, yet every time Bruce opened his mouth it was to bait him, to push him into doing something dumber than the last thing he’d done.
Clark felt like an insect in a spider’s web, caught but unwilling to admit it. Against every better instinct, he’d let Bruce take his hand and lead him to the sleek black car waiting outside as if the entire thing had been planned in advance.
The ride was quiet and tense. They sat on opposite ends of the back seat, arms crossed, trading glances like blows. Bruce looked infuriatingly calm, one leg crossed over the other, his expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch of amusement when Clark’s gaze lingered too long. Clark tried to pretend he wasn’t cataloguing every detail of the slope of Bruce’s jaw, the shadow of stubble, the plumpness of his pink lips, but his mind recorded everything anyway.
It felt like the drive lasted only a minute, though he knew it hadn’t. His heartbeat had set its own tempo, quick and steady in his ears, drowning out even the hum of the engine.
When they finally arrived at one of Bruce Wayne’s many penthouses, all glass and steel and a view of Metropolis that looked too good to be real, Clark barely had time to think. The moment the door shut behind them, all that tension finally snapped.
Bruce moved first. One second, there was only the charged silence between them, and the next, he closed the distance with a decisiveness that left Clark no room to react. His hand came up to Clark’s jaw, tilting his head with calloused fingers, and before Clark could protest, their mouths collided.
The impact sent Clark back against the wall, his glasses skewing as the air was knocked out of him. He froze for a heartbeat, stunned less by the kiss than by the sudden force behind it. Bruce didn’t hesitate; his grip on Clark’s arm and back was firm, guiding him against the wall with a strength that Clark hadn’t anticipated.
Clark had to let him. Every instinct told him he could easily break free, move away, or resist, yet he forced himself to stay pressed against Bruce. It was the only way the scene made sense. Bruce was tall, broad, and muscular, more so than Clark would have guessed from his public image, and pretending to be overpowered was part of the game now. Bruce’s grip was firm and unyielding, guiding him with a controlled precision that made Clark’s chest tighten. The sensation of being held so completely by someone he could move without effort sent a thrill through him he didn’t expect.
He responded in kind, pulling Bruce closer by the lapel of his suit jacket, fingers clutching at fine fabric like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The world narrowed down to the sweet press of mouths, the sharp hitch of breath, the way Bruce’s warm hand slid up to steady him as if this had been inevitable from the moment they met.
Clark’s mind was a loop of static. None of this made sense. Bruce Wayne, the smug, infuriating billionaire who’d been baiting him, was now kissing him like he’d meant to all along. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the journalist in him tried to list all the reasons this was a terrible idea, but the rest of him couldn’t stop.
Clark’s hands roamed instinctively, tracing the line of Bruce’s broad shoulders and the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric. The kiss deepened, tongues peeking out to prod and taste each other, and Bruce pressed closer, hands roaming with a confidence that left no doubt about his physicality. Clark’s body responded before his mind could, hips pressing back against Bruce’s. He could already feel him through his slacks.
Clark’s hands slid over Bruce’s chest, feeling the solid weight of him through the fabric. Even with the shirt between them, Bruce felt big and firm in a way that made Clark’s pulse skip. His thumbs brushed over the swell of his chest, testing the give beneath the fabric, and before he could stop himself, he gave a slow, curious squeeze.
Bruce’s breath hitched. The reaction was subtle but unmistakable. He liked the touch. Clark, emboldened, reached for a button, trying to pull the shirt open. Bruce’s hand shot up, catching his wrist before it could go any further.
“Shirt stays on,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.
Clark froze, brow furrowing slightly in confusion, but the heat of Bruce’s body pressed closer again, rooting him in place.
Bruce leaned in, tilting his head, fingers brushing along Clark’s jaw and the side of his neck as he reached for the glasses, trying to make the kiss smoother. Clark reacted instantly, catching his wrist and shaking his head, breath hitching as their lips parted just enough for him to speak.
“Keep them on,” Clark said, voice low but firm, eyes locked on Bruce.
Bruce held his gaze for a beat, studying him as if wondering whether this was some kind of retaliation for the shirt. It wasn’t. They both had their secrets, and neither was letting them go.
Their lips met again. Breaths came faster, shallow gasps breaking through the kiss, but neither pulled away. The push and pull followed them as they moved toward the bedroom, the tension between them boiling over with every step.
Clark’s pulse hammered in his ears. He broke the kiss just enough to whisper as he stepped through the doorway. “I… need a minute.” Bruce’s eyes followed him, calm but amused. Clark stepped back, brushing against Bruce’s chest in a reluctant, teasing farewell.
The bathroom door closed behind him. Clark leaned against the sink, chest rising and falling. He peeled off his shirt and tie, careful not to let his heartbeat betray him any more than it already had because Rao forbid Bruce hear it from outside. Underneath, the familiar fabric of his Superman suit clung tightly. He never did one-night stands, so this problem—someone undressing him and finding the suit—wasn’t something he had to worry about. He slipped out of the suit, tucked it into the inside of his now discarded jacket, and redressed in his button-down and pants, giving himself a brief moment to steady himself before stepping back out.
When he re-entered the bedroom, Bruce was already there. He sat on the edge of the bed in only his button-down and a pair of fitted briefs. He leaned back on his forearms, legs spread with casual confidence and a silent invitation. His hair fell slightly into his eyes, tousled, and his gaze swept over Clark with a measured intensity that hit him like a physical jolt. Clark froze, glasses catching the soft light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, cheeks flushing, throat tightening. Bruce held his gaze as if daring him to look away.
“Took you long enough,” Bruce said, the words teasing, but with heat layered beneath them.
Bruce’s legs parted wider, commanding Clark to settle himself between them. The bed shifted under their combined weight as Clark positioned himself, and immediately his hands found the thick, muscular sweep of Bruce’s thighs. Every contour pressed into his palms, firm and unyielding, and Clark traced the line up to Bruce’s hips before leaning down to press his lips against the curve of Bruce’s neck.
While Bruce’s hands moved quickly, undoing buttons and ridding Clark of his clothes, he let himself get lost in the rules he had to follow. First, Bruce had set the boundary of keeping his shirt on. Strange, but Clark was a gentleman; he wouldn’t cross a line drawn so clearly. Second, there were all of his own self-imposed rules: keep the glasses on, don’t use too much strength, make sure Bruce didn’t try to leave marks as they’d just disappear, and keep some control (aka don’t break anything).
It was dizzying, all the calculations running at once, and Clark felt his focus waver. Bruce’s voice cut through his thoughts, fingers tugging at Clark’s curly hair to make him look up, “Not enough to keep your attention, am I?”
Clark’s eyes flicked up in surprise. The words were playful, but when he looked at Bruce, he saw it—the slightest crease in his brow, a hint of unease beneath the confident smile, a flicker of inadequacy.
Clark didn’t hesitate. He pressed himself lower, hands sliding over Bruce’s hips, thumbs brushing against the waistband of the briefs, leaning in to kiss Bruce’s thighs as if to show him exactly how much he wanted him. Bruce’s jaw tensed, and Clark felt muscles stiffen momentarily before giving in.
“Believe me,” Clark whispered against the inside of Bruce’s thigh, teeth grazing the meaty flesh teasingly. The closer he got, the harder it became to ignore the silver scars scattered across the wide expanse of Bruce’s legs. He wondered if this was part of the reason Bruce had insisted the shirt stay on, maybe his torso was marked as well, but he pushed the thought aside as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving faint red impressions. “You’ve got my undivided attention.”
Clark must have been drugged or cursed or something impossible, because he was spiraling. Every one of his senses was on overdrive, assaulted by Bruce in ways that left him dizzy and weak. Sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell all conspired against him.
Bruce’s whole body shivered, a low sigh escaping his parted lips. His fingers curled, tangling themselves in Clark’s dark hair as Clark moved upward, mouth tracing the hardness pressing against Bruce’s briefs. He lingered for a few moments, nose mapping the outline before pressing forward and taking a deep breath. The sharp, heady scent of Bruce’s arousal hit him, sending a shiver through his spine. Low groans slipped past Bruce’s parted lips, and he could hear the quick, stumbling beat of his heart.
His hand moved almost of its own accord, palming Bruce through the fabric of his briefs before tugging the waistband down to fully feel the heaviness of his cock in his palm. The briefs slipped off easily, Bruce’s breaths coming out sharper as Clark slowly dragged his fingers up and down the length in a teasing manner.
Clark finally lifted his gaze to Bruce above him. Every inch of him was mesmerizing. His cheeks glowed with heat, the color deepening along his jawline, his pupils wide and dark, and his lips glistened, slightly parted and inviting. Still lost in the sight, he lowered his lips to the pink head, tongue collecting the precum that had slowly gathered throughout his ministrations. This was the first time that a full moan ripped out of Bruce’s throat uninhibited, fingers curling tighter in Clark’s hair. He’d do anything to keep hearing those sounds, so he did. Clark’s mouth lowered, taking Bruce in completely, nuzzling in the black patch of hair at his navel. Bruce was certainly bigger than average, so the surprised gasp was expected when Clark took him in fully without gagging.
He hadn’t necessarily meant to show off, but each sensation magnified the next, leaving him dizzy and intoxicated by the man above him.
He found himself chasing down every shiver and sound Bruce could make, cheeks hollowing as his mouth pulsed in a steady rise and fall. In no time, Bruce’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him up until Clark’s lips slipped free with a soft, wet pop. Bruce leaned back against the bed, dragging Clark with him until their bodies met in a hard, searing press. Clark’s bare chest hit the heat of Bruce’s still-clothed one, the thin fabric catching faintly against his skin. The rest of them fit together too easily. Their bare legs brushing, hips aligning, cocks sliding between them as they grinded against each other. Bruce’s gaze caught him, heavy and unguarded, eyes dark with want. He gave another sharp pull, bringing Clark down until their mouths crashed together again, the kiss messy, breathless, and greedy.
“Can I...?” Clark asked against Bruce’s lips, the question unfinished but clear in intent between shallow breaths as the friction between them built.
Bruce froze for half a second, his breath catching before he managed a reply. “No,” he said finally, voice low but unsteady. “I don’t think I could walk out of here if you did.”
It was meant to sound firm, but the disappointment bled through anyway, undeniable in the faint tremor of his voice and the way his hand lingered at Clark’s side, like he didn’t really want to say no at all.
Clark nodded, opting instead to wrap a hand around both himself and Bruce. His hand was thankfully big enough to fully stroke both of their cocks simultaneously, precum and saliva mixing to make the motion easier. He braced himself with the other arm, holding steady above Bruce as their foreheads met.
Their breaths came hard and uneven, filling the narrow space between them. Neither moved to close the distance, too caught up in the rhythm of Clark’s hand. The slide of their cocks against each other sent waves of blinding pleasure through their bodies, and Clark’s grip tightened instinctively as his motions grew faster, rougher, and less controlled with every pulse beneath his palm.
Everything suddenly went still as their orgasms crescended simultaneously, hips rocking into one another as release shot thick and white between them. Clark’s hand tightened, drawing out the last of it, streaking warm across Bruce’s stomach and chest.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their heavy and uneven breathing filling the space between them. Clark’s hand slowed, then stilled, his chest rising and falling in sync with Bruce’s. The tension that had gripped them both seemed to unravel all at once, leaving only the dull thrum of heartbeat and heat between their bodies.
Bruce’s eyes fluttered open first. He looked up at Clark, still hovering over him, his expression soft in a way Clark hadn’t seen before. Clark’s hand finally left his chest, fingertips brushing against skin that still twitched from aftershocks.
The room had gone quiet, bathed in the silver light spilling through the tall windows. It touched Bruce’s face in soft strokes, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and the curve of his mouth, turning every detail into something achingly beautiful. Clark couldn’t look away. The sight rooted him, made his chest tighten with something unfamiliar and deep.
He felt a pull in his chest, small but insistent, guiding him closer. Before he could question it, he moved, easing down until he could rest beside Bruce. His arm slipped over Bruce’s middle, and their bodies found an easy fit. Bruce tensed, muscles tightening beneath the touch, but he didn’t pull away.
The silence stretched, warm and heavy, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Bruce’s breathing evened out first, slow and steady beneath Clark’s ear. Clark followed soon after, the rhythm lulling him until sleep crept in, quiet and inevitable.
The world around him felt strange. Too bright. Too warm. The air smelled of earth and grass. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, and realized he was smaller. His hands were tiny, and his legs were swinging freely around someone’s broad shoulders. A man’s steady laugh rumbled below him, the sound vibrating through his small frame.
He felt it before he understood it. Joy. Pure and uncomplicated. Laughter bubbled out of him, high and bright, as the man beneath him adjusted his grip and started walking across a field of green grass. Ahead was a little farmhouse, paint chipped but neat, surrounded by white fencing that glowed in the afternoon light.
“Dinner’s ready! It’s going to get cold!” a woman’s voice called from the porch, full of warmth and mock impatience.
The man chuckled, deep and fond. “Martha, honey, we are right here. No need to yell,” he called back, and the boy felt his small hands clutch tighter at the man’s hair, giggling again as they approached the house together.
The light swelled around them, soft and golden, wrapping everything in comfort. It was a memory that did not belong to him, and yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe.
Martha?
Bruce woke with a start, his mother’s name echoing faintly in the back of his mind. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He was supposed to be back in Gotham by now for patrol. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He shifted carefully, trying not to disturb the sleeping giant beside him. It was easy; Clark was buried deep in the blankets, chest rising and falling evenly, completely unaware.
Bruce let out a dry scoff and peeled off his soiled shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin. He couldn’t help but wonder where control had slipped from his fingers. He had thought using Clark to escape the gala, and to charm his way out of whatever assumptions the reporter had conjured about him, would be clever. Instead it had backfired spectacularly. Clark had chipped away at his defenses with ease, wearing him down until he had fallen into a rare, deep sleep. Two hours. The longest he had managed in over a week.
His life rarely allowed for rest. Balancing the public persona of Bruce Wayne with the shadows of Batman left almost no time for real sleep. Even short naps were difficult as insomnia and recurring nightmares were constant companions. Thirty-minute bursts of rest were all he could steal when he had the chance. Yet for those two hours with Clark, he had surrendered completely, allowing himself a reprieve he rarely permitted.
Alfred would have been overcome with joy if he knew Bruce had finally managed a lick of rest. He worried, naturally, but there was little he could do beyond asking Bruce, as politely as ever, to please try to sleep.
It was a battle Alfred rarely won.
He made it back to Gotham with just enough time to cover most of his patrol. The city was unusually quiet, the streets slick with rain, reflections of neon signs shimmering across the asphalt. The bat signal stayed dormant, leaving the sky heavy and empty.
His mind wandered back to the dream. When he let himself sleep long enough to reach REM, it was almost always filled with nightmares. Faces he couldn’t save, voices blaming him, the hollow absence of his parents, and every failure he carried piled on in merciless detail. He could not remember the last time he had an actual happy dream. This one had been different. He did not recognize the place, the people, or the sunlit green grass. It was certainly not a memory, and that made it feel even stranger.
Thoughts of that warmth and laughter mingled with the memory of Clark’s lips and hands on him, the heat of his skin and the way his presence had undone him. The collision of those images made his chest tighten in ways he could not reconcile with reason. He stayed perched on a rooftop, the cape draped over his shoulders, waiting for something—anything—to pull the him into action, but his mind refused to let go.
Clark woke with a groan, hands reaching out for a body that wasn’t there. His eyes snapped open, taking in the penthouse around him. The opulence was overwhelming, a stark contrast to his own small, sparse apartment. He was a farm boy turned reporter, used to simple rooms, plain furniture, and the hum of everyday life. This place was another world entirely.
He had known it was a one-night stand, but somewhere deep in him, he had hoped that falling asleep together might have meant something more. That maybe, just maybe, he could steal a little more of Bruce’s time. Their first interactions had been infuriating. Bruce was sharp, arrogant, and impossible, but even in that, Clark had felt something he couldn’t name. Every glance and touch left a trace he couldn’t ignore. It was maddening. It was magnetic.
Now, alone in the bright morning, the pull he felt left a hollow ache in his chest. The empty space beside him made the absence nearly physical. The thought that maybe Bruce was just a playboy after all cut sharper than he expected. He wanted more. He wanted to see Bruce, to feel the same closeness they had shared, and the lack of it made his chest tighten.
Clark shifted, trying to shake the emptiness, and noticed a flash of white on the bedside table. A note and a crumpled hundred-dollar bill. He grabbed the note and read the scrawled words aloud in disbelief. “Thanks for the fun night, Dent.”
His stomach twisted. Bruce had forgotten his name, but even worse, he had left money, treating him as if he were nothing more than a paid fling. The implication was sharp and humiliating, cutting through the pull Clark still felt toward him. He was furious—not just at the note, at the casual dismissal, but at himself for wanting more, for feeling the magnetic draw to someone who could so easily reduce him to something disposable.
His eyes burned red with anger, power coiled tight behind them as he fought to keep from cutting the bed in half with a stray laser. The phone rang, slicing through the tension. He snatched it up, barely registering Lois’s voice as she talked. She was rambling about how he was all over the internet after being photographed too close to Bruce Wayne, and that at least people were more interested in the revelation that Bruce Wayne wasn’t strictly straight than in who Clark really was.
Clark’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles ached and there was danger of it cracking under his fingers. He didn’t like to curse. Not in habit, not even in private. Ma and Pa had instilled the principle in him, and he usually obeyed it. But the words slipped out anyway.
“Bruce Wayne is an asshole.”