Work Text:
“Mr. Superman, sir, can I ask you a few questions?”
Clark gently lands next to the reporter, keeps surveying the smoking ruins for any sound of someone still trapped inside the recently-exploded building. When he doesn’t hear anything, he turns to the woman in full, giving her a grin.
“Of course. Hi.”
The reporter - a Ms. Joneston, her name tag lets him know - pushes her glasses up her nose and asks, “well, how do you feel after saving around, what, fifty people? from the building before it collapsed?”
“Fourty-seven, actually,” Clark corrects her. He kept count as he flew them out of the danger zone so he can reconcile the number with emergency services once they arrive. “I’m just glad nobody got seriously hurt. I hope everyone knows that I’ll do everything in my power to find whoever did this.”
“Right.” Ms. Joneston scribbles something down on her notepad, then squints up at him. “And what about you, Mr. Superman?”
Clark frowns. “What about me?”
“Well, the people of Metropolis are curious about you. For example, are you single?”
Shoot. If he says yes, will people try to date him and figure out his identity to do so? He can’t have that. Clark puts on his best besotted grin and says, “no, actually, I’m actually seeing someone.”
He watches the reporter’s eyes widen in excited surprise like one would watch an oncoming train crash, because the next thing she asks is, “Oh! Can you tell me who you’re dating?”
He doesn’t really have an excuse for what happens next.
“You said WHAT?”
“I know, I’m sorry, I just sort of blurted it out.”
“You just sort of blurted it out.” Clark winces at Bruce’s unimpressed stare. “You blurted out that you, Superman, are dating me, Bruce Wayne?”
Pacing up and down Bruce’s bedroom - and it’s a big bedroom, so he can pace with longer and faster strides than he usually would, barely taking in its gothic splendor as he does - Clark exclaims, “I’m sorry! I panicked! I didn’t want them investigating my private life!”
“And you thought telling them you’re dating me of all people would achieve that?” Bruce sounds more incredulous by the second and Clark almost regrets immediately flying over to Gotham to tell Bruce himself instead of having him find out through the press which, he’s sure, is in a frenzy right now.
“Look, I’m not media trained like you.”
Bruce throws his hands up. “You’re a journalist!”
“Not when I’m Superman I’m not!”
“God, it’s too early for this.”
“To be fair, it is two in the afternoon.”
“Well, some of us work the night shift and don’t just magically recharge on sunlight.” Bruce sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Black makeup is still smeared under his eyes and Clark suddenly realizes that it was probably very rude to burst in on him while he was still sleeping - and climb in through his cracked-open window, no less.
“I need coffee to think,” Bruce announces, dragging himself out of his bed and through the grand wooden door towards where Clark knows the kitchen is. Clark stares at his naked back for a moment, eyes catching on all the old and new scars and the angry bruises littering his skin, before he rushes to catch up, falling into step with the other man as they round the corner and enter the kitchen.
“Look, I’m sorry for bursting in on you, I just thought you should hear it from me and not read it online when you wake up.”
Bruce groans, sets to tinkering with his expensive portafilter machine on the counter. “I don’t even want to know what your people are writing about this.”
“My people?”
“You know, journalists. Coffee?”
“People writing for gossip sites aren’t journalists. Yes, please, that’d be nice.”
He watches as Bruce pulls four shots of espresso, pours them all into the same cup, pulls another, which he hands Clark. Then, he slumps down on a chair at the kitchen island and inhales the steam from his coffee. Clark absentmindedly notes that they both drink it black, only that Clark is used to the sludge at The Daily Planet’s offices while Bruce has a coffee machine that probably costs more than he makes in a month - or, more likely, in two.
“So, what are we gonna do?”
Bruce takes a big gulp from his cup, winces as the coffee burns his tongue, and immediately takes another sip. “I can set up some paps tomorrow. We can, I don’t know, be seen talking secretly” - Clark can practically hear the air quotes - “in a back alley or something. Would you be willing to be in some photos without the getup but still as Superman?”
Clark frowns.
“You’re not going along with this, are you?”
“What, did you have another solution in mind?” Bruce stares at him from below the hair falling into his face, eyes an almost unsettlingly bright blue with the black still smudged around them.
Shrugging, Clark admits, “not right now, to be honest.”
“Besides, if we spin this right we can use it as an excuse to get you into places, and to get me information. You know, I know things because my boyfriend Superman does. You’re at a gala not as a reporter but as my date.”
Clark feels his cheeks heat up at the thought of going anywhere as Bruce’s date, much less some gala where Bruce’ll be in one of his gorgeous tight tuxes that hug his shoulders just right in every photo making its way into the Planet. As he forces himself to actually think about what Bruce just laid out, he realizes it’s probably the smartest way out of this mess.
“I’ll come somewhere with you in normal clothes without the hypno-glasses,” he thinks out loud, letting his journalist brain take over. “Date night at some restaurant. We go to a few events together, tell people we met when I saved you from some crook on your way home, or something.”
Bruce nods along. “We can tell the press we broke up amicably in, say, two or three months?”
Clark nods, and ignores the way his chest tightens at the thought of breaking up with Bruce. He’s probably just still hurting a bit over his breakup with Lois last year. He’ll be fine.
Love is in the Air!
It seems that our very own favorite Kryptonian has found his match - and it’s none other than Gotham’s Bruce Wayne, billionaire heir to Wayne enterprises and philanthropist in his own name. Find out everything you need to know about this new power couple - Superwayne? Bruceman? - in our latest article!
“Just try to be as oblivious as possible. It’ll look better in the pictures.”
“How can I be oblivious when I can hear about seven camera shutters going off right about now?”
“That’s how pap walks work! Just pretend you’re on a real date.”
Clark rolls his eyes as they amble down the sidewalk, ignoring the staring passerby’s and the very conspicuous photographers, one of which may or may not be Jimmy. “If this were a real date I wouldn’t have coincidentally bumped into you on your way to a business meeting after I defeated some alien creature,” he hisses.
Bruce sends an amused grin his way. “What, did you expect roses and chocolate? Are you secretly a romantic, baby?”
Ignoring the way the term of affection makes his heart flutter, Clark replies, “well, one of us has to be for this to work. I’m planning the next date.”
“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a next date.”
Clark gasps dramatically.
They’re nearing the office building of Bruce’s semi-real business meeting now and come to a stop at its doors.
“I’m not giving them any PDA.”
Clark chuckles, reaches up to straighten Bruce’s tie, even if it was already perfectly tied. It’ll have to do for cozy cuteness in the pictures. “Yeah, I don’t think Metropolis is ready for that yet.”
“What, and Gotham is?”
“That den of sin? Absolutely.”
Bruce cracks a smile, which makes Clark grin even wider. “I’ll see you soon.” He enters the building but turns at the last second to call back, “and don’t forget the roses!”
Super-Sweet Superman
Bruce Wayne and Superman were seen giggling together in Metropolis today. All the pictures on our website - plus: a source close to Wayne says the pair is just about ready to move in together- read all about it!
“So this is what you meant when you said romance.”
Clark pulls out the chair at the little table for Bruce, waits until he has sat down to sit down himself, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does so. It’s always harder not to fall into his clumsy Clark-ness when he’s not in his usual Superman costume but a suit, but it helps that this suit at least fits properly and isn’t bunching over his arms like his other suits do.
“I told you, one of us has to be the romantic for this to work, honey.”
He watches Bruce take in the atmosphere of the little restaurant around them, wonders if he made the right choice bringing him here, if he picked the right table at the back where it looks like they want privacy and Bruce, with his back to the wall, can observe the room as much as he wants to.
“This is cozy.”
“And their pizza is great. The owner’s from Napoli and all of the recipes have been passed down for three generations now.”
“And you know this because…”
Clark sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “I might’ve come here so often I became friends with her.”
Bruce throws him an amused look. “Knowing the speed at which you make friends, that doesn’t mean much.”
Clark decides to take that as a compliment and beams.
They study their menus for a moment. That is, Clark, who knows the menu by heart, only does so out of politeness and pretends he’s not glancing over at Bruce. In typical Bruce fashion he’s in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, and he looks good, and Clark probably shouldn’t stare this much but it’s not his fault that - the owner, an elderly Italian lady who calls herself Mrs C, thankfully interrupts his thoughts with a booming, “Good evening, you two lovebirds. What can I bring you?”
They order, and Bruce quirks an eyebrow when Clark asks if he can have his pizza extra-large. When Mrs. C leaves, Clark shrugs and explains,
“Fast metabolism. I eat a lot more than most people from this planet.” He squirms a bit under the way Bruce’s eyes linger on him, flicking away from his face to mentally measure up his shoulders, his arms, looking fascinated.
“I’d love to study you,” Bruce blurts out.
Clark feels his face heat up.
“I mean, for science, and, um -“ Bruce clears his throat. His own cheeks are tinted a lovely pink. Clark notes - not for the first time tonight, because it was pretty much the first thing he noticed when Bruce arrived at the restaurant - that Bruce is, for once, not clean-shaven, stubble dusting his gorgeous face. Clark wonders what it would feel like against his skin, and tries to push the thought far, far away.
Bruce is clearly still trying to find his voice again, so Clark puts him out of his misery and starts off with, “so today, Jimmy got such a shocking text that fell into a trashcan in front of the whole office.”
It’s a story than can be embellished with two of Jimmy’s ex-girlfriends, one of which happens to be who Lois is currently dating, a mail carrier both him and Lana had a crush on last year and used to send each other longing looks every time he brought their mail - he blushes at this part - , and a dramatic divorce of one of the Daily Planet’s board members. By the end of it, Bruce has cracked at least four smiles and even chuckled once, and Clark thinks he might have a new favorite sound.
Conversation keeps flowing and by the time they’ve reached dessert - tiramisù that they split between the because by now, some very conspicuously-inconspicuous photographers have made their way to the restaurant’s window - they’re bonding over comic books they both used to like as kids and Clark realizes he doesn’t want the evening to end yet.
So, when the plate between them is empty, he asks, “Can I fly you home?”
Bruce looks up to the ceiling like he needs a moment to consider it, then sighs. “Okay.”
Clark beams. “Okay,” he repeats, then turns to ask for the check.
“Oh, it’s already paid for, dear,” Mrs C tells him. Clark swivels around in his chair to glare at Bruce, who flutters his eyelashes innocently.
“Oh, you mother…”
“Come on, swear, I dare you.”
“I won’t,” Clark protests. “But you’re one bad, bad man, Bruce Wayne. I wanted to woo you, did you forget that?”
“Hey, sue me, I like treating my date right.”
At this rate, Clark’s heart is getting dangerously close to beating out of his chest. “Alright, Romeo, now I’m definitely seeing you home to Gotham. It’s the least I can do.”
Bruce smirks, clearly put in an affable mood by good dinner and conversation. “The man most of Metropolis has fantasized about is going to hold me in his strong, strong arms as he flies through the night. Woe is me.”
Clark pays no heed to how hot his cheeks are growing as he leans forward in his seat and retorts, “I’m willing to bet that at least some residents of Gotham have fantasized about it.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Bruce shoots back, and winks.
A strand of hair has fallen into his eyes and Clark reaches out instinctively, sweeps it to the side, fingers grazing Bruce’s cheeks, the rasp of his stubble.
Bruce blinks, clears his throat.
The sound has Clark suddenly remembering that this is all just an act for the press, so he drops his hand again.
The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches. “Come on, Superman,” he says as he gets out of his chair, “take me home.”
Clark follows him out into the night.
Swept off his Feet!
Watch the swoon-worthy moment when Superman picks up billionaire Bruce Wayne after their date - presumably to fly him home to Wayne Mayor. Sources say he stayed the night…
“Mr. Wayne hasn’t come down yet,” Alfred tells him when Clark arrives for their next date with a grin on his face and a bouquet of roses in his hands.
“Oh.” Clark looks at his watch. “Maybe I got the time wrong, I think I’m early.” He knows he didn’t get the time wrong, because when Bruce told him to pick him up at seven on Friday night, Clark noted it in his little pocket agenda, and then promptly wrote it down on five different post-it notes that he stuck to places around his apartment so he definitely wouldn’t forget. The time has been staring at him from the fridge door every time he went to get milk this past week. He’s perfectly punctual.
Alfred’s face doesn’t move a muscle, but after a moment of hesitation the butler says, “if I may say so, I think the last night was quite rough on him.”
Clark frowns. “Can I go up to see him?”
“Up the stairs and to the right,” Alfred tells him, and Clark doesn’t mention that he knows where Bruce’s bedroom is. It might insinuate something that hasn’t happened - even if Clark would maybe like it to happen - and Clark was better than to ever insinuate such a thing about anyone.
He heads up the staircase, hand lingering on the gorgeous wooden banister - he helped out with building enough barns around town growing up to be able to appreciate some good carpentry -, and knocks on the door gently.
“Bruce? Can I come in?”
He hears a muffled sound that might translate to “yeah,” if one were to get very creative, so he opens the door and is greeted by the sight of Bruce’s back, mottled with bruises that look very fresh, just as it’s getting covered by a white shirt that Bruce is pulling over his head.
“Sorry, I fell asleep because of the pain meds. I’ll be right down.”
Clark watches Bruce struggle with buttoning up the shirt for about three seconds until he decides, “absolutely not.”
Bruce looks up from his fingers on his chest, eyes wide and beautiful and entirely too bloodshot. “Huh?”
“You’re not going out like this. You’re not going out like this for the next week. Come on, back to bed.”
“I’m fine! I’ll take some more pills and we can -“
“Nope, not happening.” Clark crosses the room in three big strides and pulls the shirt right back up and off Bruce, lifting his arms up as gently as possible as he pulls them out of the sleeves. He recognises the sight of a broken ribcage when he sees one.
Bruce folds his arms across his now-naked chest, clearly suppressing a wince at the movement. “You can’t just decide how I’m doing.”
“You’re slurring your words. You’re in no state to go out, dude. Now off to bed, or I’m carrying you there.” Bruce huffs and tries to grab his shirt back, but Clark is faster, getting one arm around his shoulders and one around his knees, lifting him into some sort of a bridal carry and definitely not letting himself think about this situation for even a split-second.
He carries Bruce over to his bed, gently placing him down on the mattress, fluffing the pillows so he can lean against them more comfortably, pulling up the sheets to cover his bare skin. It’s cold and rainy in Gotham, as usual, and he wonders if Bruce is cold, his pale, bruised skin suddenly looking so very vulnerable to him.
“Are you cold?” he asks, “do you need a sweatshirt?”
The corner of Bruce’s lips twitches, which, knowing Bruce, might as well be a grin.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a ridiculous mother-hen?”
Clark grins, puffs out his chest. “Many have.”
Bruce rolls his eyes, but Clark is pretty sure it’s a fond eye-roll and not an annoyed one. “What are we going to do about the date?”
Clark ignores the way his stomach flips at the word date. “We can have our date here. I’ll make us some pancakes.”
“Breakfast for dinner?”
“Knowing your sleep schedule, this is breakfast for you. And I’ll have you know that breakfast for dinner is actually the best kind of dinner.”
Bruce actually cracks a smile at that. Clark doesn’t interrogate why his heart beats a little faster at the sight.
“What about the paps I called for the restaurant?” Bruce asks even as he burrows himself further into the nest of blanket Clark has been building over him. It feels strange to call a six-foot-something beefcake like Bruce cute, but with the smudged black color under his eyes and the duvets covering most of his body he really does look pretty adorable.
Clark can’t stop himself from booping the tip of Bruce’s nose, grinning even as he hops out of the way of Bruce’s teeth snapping at his finger. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Now you relax, and I’ll see about dinner.”
They eat the pancakes right there on the bed, talking until Bruce’s eyelashes start to flutter and his responses come slower and slower. When he finally drifts off to sleep, Clark quietly collects all the dishes to bring back downstairs, tucks in the blankets around Bruce more tightly, brushes a strand of hair out of his peaceful face and closes the door behind himself with a quiet click.
Blossoming Love
Multiple citizens of Gotham photographed Superman flying over the city with a bouquet of roses - could this have something to do with Bruce Wayne being mysteriously absent from the charity gala thrown by his very own Martha Wayne foundation two days ago?
Insiders say the city’s favorite billionaire is either sick with the flu or resting after breaking his leg when taking a tumble down some stairs in his mansion, but one report has him out of commission after a drunken bar fight in downtown Gotham. Granted, the source on that version of the story was drunk himself the night he supposedly saw the fight and could have easily confused the business man with another handsome brown-haired stud.
Either way - never one to sit on the sideline, trusty Superman is making sure his boy is well taken care of, if the flowers are anything to go by! We wish Bruce all the best - and get well soon!
Bruce picked the restaurant this time.
It feels like a thank you of sorts for taking care of him when he was down, picking just about the priciest restaurant Gotham has to offer, having a ludicrously expensive - albeit beautiful - tux delivered to Clark’s apartment that fits him perfectly - Clark doesn’t let his thoughts linger on how, exactly, Bruce got his measurements -, sending him a bouquet of roses on the morning of their date.
Clark smells the roses, laughs at the card - Wanted to send these to your desk at The Planet, just to hear what your colleagues would speculate about you -, and spends the rest of the day ignoring the way his whole body just feels lighter every time he thinks about his evening plans.
When he arrives at the restaurant, Bruce is already waiting for him. He gets up from his seat to pull out Clark’s chair, eyes roaming over his body as he watches him follow the waiter through the room towards him. He’s probably inspecting the work of his tailor, so Clark takes a little twirl when he gets to their table.
“Like what you see, honey?” he asks.
Bruce clears his throat. “Very much, baby” he responds, voice a bit hoarse.
He looks devastatingly handsome in his own suit, black on black as always, and Clark allows himself a brief moment to take him in once they’re both sitting.
Bruce frowns. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Clark grins. “You just look good tonight.”
There’s a light pinkness to Bruce’s cheekbones, but his face remains blank. “What, and I don’t usually?”
“No, I just meant -“ Clark stops himself when he notices the corner of Bruce’s mouth twitching upwards. “Oh, you jerk.”
Bruce shrugs and looks generally very pleased with himself.
“Well, at least I know why you invited me here.” Bruce raises a questioning eyebrow raise. “No chance of me beating you at the windmill.”
Bruce huffs. “You wouldn’t have beaten me if you hadn’t cheated!”
“I just whistled! That’s not cheating!”
“It is if you use your super-breath to manipulate the ball!”
It might’ve been a mistake to propose mini-golfing as a date for two very competitive people, but in Clark’s defence, they had a blast and the press, a field day at the pictures of Bruce on his tiptoes leaning over Clark’s shoulders with his arms around him, pretending to explain to him the best angle to hit the ball while actually distracting Clark with his body heat and the smell of his aftershave and his lips very, very close to Clark’s ear, all because he is a dirty cheat who had no intention of being helpful and used every strategy he could think of to manipulate him.
Or maybe Clark is reading too much into it and Bruce just wanted the photographers to get some good shots.
A waiter places plates of some kind of red mousse in front of them - clearly the first of many courses, judging by the portion being just about the size of a bite - and Clark is briefly distracted by the sight of Bruce licking his spoon clean.
Clearing his throat, he gets their argument back on track. “You’re just sore that you lost because you couldn’t defeat the windmill. You’re basically Don Quixote.”
“Except that I’m facing an actual giant.”
Clark huffs. “I’m not that big.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow, eyes never leaving Clark’s. “I’m sure you are.”
Clark feels his cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t get what Bruce is doing tonight, spending this much money on their date, letting his glances linger just a little bit longer than usual, saying things like that.
“Gosh, I don’t -“ He stops himself at the sound of a shutter outside - indiscernible for anyone but him, but it might as well be as loud as a gunshot. Clark feels very, very stupid all of a sudden, and he needs to get out of here as fast as possible. “I don’t think we should keep doing this.”
Bruce frowns. “Doing what?”
“Playing it up for the press.” Clark nods his head over towards the window where he can hear a photographer bustle around and watches as Bruce turns to look himself, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh.”
“Well, we should end this, anyway. It’s been getting out of hand, and we haven’t even been using it as an opportunity for sleuthing, or whatever we planned in the beginning.”
Bruce’s face is a blank slate and it’s clear that he is choosing his next words carefully when he says, “I was having a good time.”
“Me too! That’s why I’m saying we should stop! We’re getting too used to this and I don’t know what would happen if one of us - “
“If one of us what?”
Clark winces. “Well, you know. Wants to date someone else, or something.”
“If you want to get out of this, just say so.” Bruce sounds cold, and Clark kind of wants to die.
“Look, I’m just saying we’re getting distracted from what really matters.”
“I still don’t get what -“
“You’re gonna want to date someone for real, one day soon, and then this whole thing will blow up in my face. So. I’m gonna leave now, and we can ignore this ever happened.” There’s blood pounding in his ears as Clark blurts the words out before he can stop himself, and now that he has said his part, he pushes back his chair - with too much force, curse his damn super strength, and the chair topples backwards.
He picks it up and gently places it back on its feet sends one last look at Bruce’s blank face, the almost indiscernible frown and rushes out the door as fast as he can.
Wayne-ing Feelings already?
Well, folks, it looks like the Gotham-Metropolis alliance too good to be true is exactly that - last night, business tycoon Bruce Wayne and Kryptonian Superman were spotted in Gotham leaving a restaurant separately after reportedly getting into an argument during dinner. The billionaire heir rushed off to his car without any statement to the press, while Superman flew off into the night.
Neither of them has been seen since or made a statement to the press. While it certainly reeks of trouble in paradise, we hope this isn’t the end to these adorable lovebirds’ story! Find out all there is to know about what could be the saddest breakup of the year in our latest instagram story.
“Still moping?”
Clark groans into the couch pillow, the same response he has been giving all morning.
His Ma tsks, pats his shoulder and bustles off again.
He sighs even more dramatically than before and allows himself to wallow in self-pity for exactly five more minutes - he counts the seconds ticking on the wall clock like he used to when he was bored on slow afternoons as a kid - before sitting up on the sofa and heaving himself to his feet.
He finds her in the kitchen kneading bread dough. Clark presses a kiss to the side of her head pushes her over, getting his hands into the flour, listening to the familiar sounds of her turning to wash her hands and flitting from cabinet to fridge to counter as she gets to preparing lunch.
“I’m sorry for coming here in the middle of the night just to sulk, Ma.”
“Nonsense. You’re helping me make bread, too, aren’t you?”
Clark smiles down at where his hands are slowly kneading flour and water into one uniform ball of dough.
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, you’re always welcome to mope on my couch.”
Clark laughs at that.
“Wanna tell me about it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought Bruce might like me back, finally, but of course he was just playing along like we were supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to catch feelings.”
“So your grand idea was to run off in the middle of your lovely date. The restaurant looked real expensive, by the way, you could have at least finished dinner if he was paying.”
“What, are you keeping up with the tabloids now, Ma?”
His Ma just snorts, and they keep working in comfortable silence until she speaks up again.
“You can’t just run away from this forever, honey.”
“I know, Ma.”
She hums, pats his shoulder in sympathy.
Clark places the ball of dough into a bowl, covers it with a kitchen towel and gets to washing his hands. There’s the sound of a car rolling up the driveway. It’s not Pa’s, but it might be a neighbor with a new car or someone just passing by, so Clark doesn’t strain his ears too much. That is, until the car stops, and someone gets out, and there’s a soft knock on the door.
He listens up, then, and finds that he recognizes the heartbeat.
He’s at the door before Ma can even leaves the kitchen, throwing it open to find Bruce there, his hand raised to knock.
Clark realizes he’s in too-short sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s covered in flour and resists the urge to run a hand through his messy curls.
“It’s you.” Even though he drove here, he sounds slightly out of breath.
“What’s me?” Clark asks, drinking in the sight of Bruce lit up by the midmorning sun. Judging by the rings under his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks, he didn’t get much sleep last night, just like Clark.
“That I want to date.”
Clark frowns, brain not quite catching up to what’s happening right now.
“You said I’d want to date someone for real, one day soon. Well, I want to date you, for real. I kind of thought last night would be a real date. I didn’t even realize reporters were outside until you did.”
Slowly, Clark pieces things together. “So the flirting and the flowers and the suit -“
“I wanted to treat you right. Maybe I should have said something.”
Clark guffaws. “Yeah, you should’ve.”
“Well,” Bruce shifts from one foot to the other, unsure in a way Clark has never seen him before. “I’m saying it now. I hope I’m not misreading things here.”
“You should have said something,” Clark says, slowly, “because then I could’ve done this last night.”
And with that, he closes the gap between them, cradles Bruce’s face between his hands and, before a grin can fully form on his lips, pulls him for a kiss.
Bruce tangles his fingers into his curls and tugs his head sideways to slot their lips together, slips his tongue into Clark’s mouth, pulls him closer with an arm around his waist. Clark lets himself be kissed and gives back just as good, delights in the little gasp Bruce lets out against his mouth when he grabs a handful of his ass, gets lost in the moment for a while.
When they finally trail off into a series of quick pecks, Clark can’t hold back the beaming grin spilling onto his face anymore. He finds its mirrored in Bruce’s soft smile.
“Hi,” he says, presses a kiss to the tip of Bruce’s nose.
“Hi,” Bruce echoes, his hand still in Clark’s curls, thumb caressing his cheek gently.
Suddenly, Clark has a thought that makes him chuckle. “What are we gonna tell the press about this?”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “To hell with the press,” he growls and pulls Clark back in for another kiss.
All Clark can do is melt into it.