"Wise men say,
'only fools rush in'
but I can't help
falling in love with you."

-Elvis Presley

"Who is that?" Clark Kent casually pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, watching the black roadster pull smoothly to the edge of the red carpet. He hadn't originally wanted to work the gala, but Lois was out on some other assignment and Jenny had flat-out refused, stating that it was much easier for a guy to get ready for a formal event in one day than a woman. So, he was stuck holding the bag. He'd arrived about half hour before, feeling rather neutral about the undoubtedly boring night that would take place. The ballroom was surrounded by glass wall that gave a generic view of the city around it, and inside it was all white and sheer draping and fancy chandeliers. Clark felt as out of place as he did bored.

The gala was an annual one, one they did every spring for the benefactors of Gotham City's educational and literacy programs—basically, a 'congratulations, you're rich' party.

"Figures you wouldn't know."

"Should I?"

"That's Bruce Wayne."

"Oh." Clark watched the man smoothly hand his keys to the valet, and then smoothly turn to the flashing cameras, and then smoothly make his way on to the red carpet, and then nod smoothly, and answer questions with his smooth voice and smooth smile, and then he smoothly ran his hands along the edge of the smooth black jacket of his perfectly tailored suit, smoothly refastening the button before making his smooth entrance into the gala.

"You really don't know who Bruce Wayne is?"

Clark gritted his teeth, irritated by how smooth the man was. "I wasn't aware that I had to know."

He had only been in the room five minutes and he already hated it. Lex Luthor was a conniving brat. His weird, psychotic welcome speech was par for course, really, but oddly disturbing just the same, and the stuffy people that said they 'cared' about Gotham's literacy rates from their gleaming Metropolis skyscrapers were congratulating him for his contributions, shaking his hand, posing for newspaper photos, and patting his back whilst secretly judging him for throwing money at Gotham's shitty education systems while he could be doing literally anything else with his money (like donating to their city council's campaigns).

He went to the bar and ordered a double scotch. The liquid was both soothing and uncomfortable as it went down its throat. He figured liquor was probably a lot like criminals in Gotham: the more expensive it was, the better it tasted and the prettier the packaging. Cheap liquor probably tasted disgusting (not that he'd know) and looked shitty too. But in the end, cirrhosis of the liver, or hepatitis, or any of that other bullshit didn't give a fuck how expensive the liquor was that caused it.

He downed the rest of his drink in one long pull.

"Mr. Wayne?"

He lowered his glass and was startled, for a change. Not by the fact that there was a person in front of him—it was almost impossible to sneak up on Bruce Wayne after all—but by the fact that said person had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, except the top left corner of his right eye, which was light brown. Holy shit. He tried to listen, really he did, but his lips were moving, and they were just full enough and a healthy, fleshy pink that he could see himself nibbling on, or wrapped around his—

"Mr. Wayne...?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, I—I, my foundation already gave my statement to the—"

"To the Daily Planet?" The reporter raised an eyebrow. He extended his hand, his amusement evident. He probably thought Bruce was already drunk.

"Right. Do I own that one? Or was that the other one?" Bruce asked, mostly to take him down a peg. He wasn't allowed to be amused by Bruce's sudden befuddlement, he was off-puttingly handsome and it just wasn't fair. But he watched as his expression turned bemused, his chin dropping just a little bit although his smirk stayed in place as he lowered his hand. He realized that the man's glasses, a thick, glossy, black frame, made his eye color stand out even more, but it hid the length of his eyelashes. Holy God, when the hell had he ever noticed someone's eyelashes? Well besides noticing how ridiculous some women looked when they wore fake ones.

The bemused expression turned into a speculative expression. "I doubt you'd have any interest in owning the Daily Planet. You seem to have a problem with the topics the Planet tends to find relevant."

Bruce went from turned on to utterly pissed. "Oh, you mean the fact that you write fluff pieces for your man in the sky every time he saves a kitten out of a tree because the copies fly off the shelves?"

"Cute. Actually, I'm more interested in Gotham. See, all of this is really nice but while you're bitching about Metropolis's man in the sky, Gotham its hiding its very own man in the dark. What do you have to say about the so-called Bat of Gotham?"

Bruce let his expression turn as frigid as possible. "Nothing that people like you could ever understand."

"You know a lot less about people like me than you think," the man said, his blue eyes also turning ice cold. They stared at each other, stony, gray-brown eyes dueling with ice blue ones. Bruce was impressed by how utterly unaffected the reporter was by the practiced glare that made lesser men cower. This was definitely not one of those men.

As he watched, the twin ice chips in the man's face morphed into an expression that Bruce knew and understood all too well. It was haunted loneliness surrounded by the thickest walls that anyone could ever build around themselves. This man was hurting, and he was hiding something. He relented. Maybe the reporter was right.

Bruce finally released the unyielding stare, running his hand through his hair and watching the way the reporter's eyes flickered as they followed the movement. "Look... let's change the subject. Don't you want... some official statement about my donation or something?"

His pretty pink lips pursed again, but he acquiesced, although his eyes were still cold.

Bruce felt the need to give him something more. He'd clearly come here for a scoop, and Bruce didn't really intend to piss him off. Actually, he realized that he really wanted the man to stick around. "Let me be honest with you about it then."

Finally, the ice melted away from his eyes, and he nodded.

Clark couldn't believe what he was hearing. The level of corruption and misinformation that ran rampant in the city made him literally nauseous. The schools literally would force kids to go even when they lost their heating in the winter. Kids were failing their grades in literal droves. In Gotham City alone, there were close to forty thousand students. Out o those, less than one hundred tested in their grade level in mathematics, and less than fifty tested at their grade level for English, reading, or language arts. Lack of after-school programs and literacy programs were practically non-existent. And all the while, the school was raising the salary of the superintendent and cutting pay for teachers and teaching assistants. Crime was going up in school, especially drug-related crimes, at an alarming rate.

Bruce seemed genuinely afflicted with the issues that were plaguing that city. His shoulders seemed to sag the more he spoke, and his fingers went to pinch the bridge of his nose more than once.

His fingers were long. Actually, for some reason, Clark found himself watching his hands a lot as he talked. He kept his hand gestures to a bare minimum—probably an effort to still look composed—but Clark saw when they would clench, either his left hand wringing his right, or clenching into fists before stretching as far as they could go. Every time his fingers curled, it made Clark's mouth dry out just a little. He suggested that they go to the bar.

He noticed that Bruce ordered only sparkling water. Clark decided he should do the same. The water helped with the random cottonmouth Clark kept getting when he paid too much attention to Bruce's fingers. Smooth. His hands are smooth just like the rest of him. I hate him. Truly, I hate him.

He decided to distract himself by actually engaging in the conversation. He focused on finishing his notes and then he looked up, meeting Mr. Wayne's eyes. "I'm going to investigate this, Mr. Wayne. What you've told me about tonight is a severe injustice. The people of Gotham deserve better. Their children deserve better."

Bruce gave him a tired smile, and Clark found himself disappointed when it didn't reach his eyes. "I hope you get farther than anyone else has."

Clark was determined to see that exhausted look go away. "I will, you'll see."

This time, Bruce's smile was genuine and amused. "Suddenly, I don't doubt that at all."

"I can send you a copy before it prints, if you'd like."

Bruce shook his head. "You don't have to do that."

"Of course I do, Mr. Wayne. It's... well, it's in my job description."

Bruce met his eyes, earthy gray-brown and shrewd. He studied the reporter's entire countenance, from the way he was sitting to the expression on his face. He decided that this man was just what he wanted. "Call me Bruce," he said finally.

At some point, they moved on to other topics. Bruce felt comfortable just talking. He should have been unnerved by how suddenly unguarded he felt, but he just... basked in it. It was so rare for him to not have to pretend with someone. Time was flying by without his notice, and he couldn't find it in him to care about that either.

He eventually had to confess that he had completely missed the reporter's name, much to said reporter's amusement. "Clark Kent," he said, chuckling. He liked the way Clark Kent's eyes shimmered when he was laughing. He stretched his hand out for Bruce to take. Bruce clasped it, not letting go.

"We should get out of here, Clark Kent."

He watched the way Clark Kent's blue eyes darkened slightly. The way his pupils dilated, and the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed made him want to lean over and drag his tongue over Clark Kent's Adams apple.

There was a barely-there flush rising in Clark Kent's cheeks when he nodded. "I would like that," he finally said.

Bruce eventually took Clark to his penthouse. Clark tried not to let his eyes fall out of his head, but it was honestly difficult. "This is amazing," he said as he stepped into the living room. The space had high ceilings and floor to ceiling windows. Everything seemed comfortable, but it was clearly and obviously all expensive, luxury décor.

He felt Bruce's hand on his back, and he turned to him instinctively, happy to find himself so close to the older man. He found that he liked Bruce's height, not towering over him, but just right for him to have to tilt his head up to kiss, and he did. He pulled at the lapels of Bruce's jacket until he slipped it off. As soon as it was gone, Clark went right to work on the tie and the buttons of his shirt.

Bruce for his part, didn't mind being disrobed with hands as practiced and sensual as Clark's, but he wanted to revel in the experience. He reached down and placed his hands over Clark's, forcing him to slow his frantic displacement of the buttons.

Clark wasn't pleased. He pulled his lips away, looked at him and frowned.

"Slow down," Bruce whispered by way of explanation.

Clark shook his head. "No," he said.

"No?" Bruce echoed with an arched eyebrow.

He shook his head. "No," he repeated, leaning up to his lips again, but keeping his eyes locked on those earthy, dark ones. "I don't want to go slow," he said against Bruce's lips. "I want you to fuck me."

Bruce looked positively evil as he said, "I will."

"Now," Clark countered.

"Now," Bruce agreed, kissing him slowly. "And all night."

Clark couldn't help his moan. Bruce was now working on Clark's jacket and shirt buttons, teasingly letting his fingers slip underneath and smirking at every time he managed to make Clark's muscles twitch. Once the shirt was open and off, Bruce smoothed his palms over Clark's skin. It was addictively warm as he pressed his hands down toward his waist, and then around to his back, pressing their chests together as he did. He lowered his lips to Clark's neck, waiting for just a breath so that he could feel the shudder that skittered its way across his skin and down his spine. He smiled. "Do you want me to kiss you here?"

"Yes, please," Clark whispered.

Bruce let his lips touch Clark's skin, but he didn't move them. Instead, he stayed still, listening to how Clark's breaths turned ragged. Then he dragged his finger tips up Clark's spine at the same time he sucked that warm, perfect skin between his lips and against his tongue. Clark Kent tasted like something indescribable but also familiar. He let himself taste the skin with great care, minding the way he was writhing against him, soft moans falling from his lips every time Bruce found a new spot to taste.

His tongue finally made it up near Clark's ear, and he tugged the fleshy lobe between his lips, loving the unashamed and wanton sounds that were pouring out of Clark. "Come with me," he said, taking his hands and tugging him towards the bedroom.

Clark had other ideas, and once Bruce was focused on moving, pulled him toward the couch and shoved him on to it, planting himself in his lap and pressing his lips to Bruce's mouth before he could protest. Bruce let himself relent, too swept away by the amazing lips against his, the strong hands liberally roaming his body, and the way Clark was grinding against him. His lips were finally free enough for him to say, "Wh—the bedroom is... that way."

Clark shook his head, letting his tongue carefully trace Bruce's bottom lip. "Mm-mm. No bedroom."

"Why not?"

Clark's face fell. "No bedroom."

"Hey, okay," Bruce acquiesced quickly, worried that he'd try to bolt. "Right here," he said, leaning up and pressing light kisses to his lips and bucking his hips up to match Clark's grinding. He smiled when Clark groaned, letting his head fall back. "Stand up and take this off," he said, gripping Clark's ass in his hands and squeezing. He couldn't wait to feel each cheek skin to skin, because right now all he felt was how firm they were.

For now, he watched Clark slowly undo his belt, and then his fly. He stepped out of his pants, the fabric pooled on the floor and leaving him standing in nothing but black boxer briefs and socks. Bruce eyed him greedily, swallowing when he took in the impressive battle Clark's arousal was having with the thin fabric. He gestured with his finger and a lewd smirk for Clark to remove his boxer briefs.

Clark pulled them down and stepped out of them too, and Bruce couldn't help how his hands reached out, one reaching for that gloriously firm ass again, and the other wrapping around and stroking his erection. "God," he whispered, stroking up and down his length. He pulled the tip of it into his mouth, lavishing it with his tongue and teasing the leaking slit until Clark's legs were trembling with his effort to stay still. He pushed himself to his feet, letting go of Clark's dripping cock with a loud pop. "Be right back," he said, patting Clark's ass. "Lay down."

He listened as Clark made himself comfortable while he went into the bedroom, retrieving condoms and a container of lube from the nightstand. He frowned at the bed for a moment, wishing he could see what Clark looked like in his bed, with his gray silk sheets clinging to the curve of his ass.

He throbbed. Fuck.

He went back into the living room to find Clark with one hand wrapped around his cock and stroking slowly, and the other thrown carelessly over his head, dangling down the side of the couch. He didn't know someone could be so effortlessly gorgeous and sexual. He ripped the condom wrapper open and slipped it out of the package, pleased with how Clark's hand froze for just one second before he continued stroking. He turned his head to watch him put it on, his hand faltering again.

Bruce finally sat and then knelt between his legs, taking Clark's erection into his mouth again. He reveled in the way he could cause Clark's moans to turn into curses with just his tongue. Clark was watching him with glassy eyes, his lips parted slightly, his breaths pushing past them in soft pants.

Bruce squeezed some of the lube out on to his fingers, working it all over them before using his index finger to trail some right over Clark's puckered hole. Clark's eyes slipped closed and his head fell back as he worked first one finger, and then another inside, all the while listening to Clark's groans with satisfaction, even though he was painfully hard. Clark was gripping into his hair and tugging with each movement of his fingers.

"Unh, God," Clark strained, "Fuck me already."

"Why so eager?" Bruce teased.

"Just..."

Bruce pinned both of his wrists to the couch and pushed into him without warning, causing Clark to scream into his teeth. He kept the pace hard, each stroke driving and addicting, until sweat beaded on his forehead and streamed on to his neck and chest as he watched himself move in and out of the stretched, pink ring straining so dutifully to accommodate him.

Clark's lips were irresistible, and his tongue was probably magical, Bruce decided as he leaned down and kissed him. Their kisses were all tongue and teeth and groans. Each sound only went as far as the other's mouth, each breath was only full of the other's air. It was intoxicating.

Bruce broke the kiss in favor of nipping at the perfect skin of Clark's throat again, twisting his fingers into the short, black waves on his head. They were soft just like his skin was. He couldn't get enough of this man. Fire was sparking in the very base of his spine, a kind of liquid fire that was leaking into his blood and spreading everywhere. He was close now. He wanted to slow down, but at the same time, he wanted Clark to have it the way he wanted: rough, and hard. They would have time for gentle later.

That thought shocked him. He didn't ever think of himself and any hookups with 'later' in any context. He frowned. There is no later, except later tonight. The thought made him feel hollow for the first time in a long time. It made him unreasonably mad at Clark, who would be taking his contentment with his singledom with him when he left. He wanted to punish him for it. He reached down and shifted Clark's leg, pressing his knee up toward his chest and holding it there with his hand. The other wound between them to stroke at Clark's cock, and he planted one foot on the ground, using his thigh to push Clark's other leg wider. The new position and angle made Clark cry out with every stroke, his back arching and his perfectly defined muscles trembling.

Clark reached up and pressed his palms to Bruce's skin, his hands wandering with purpose before pulling him close. "Please come," he pleaded. "Come inside, me, I need to feel you, please," he said into Bruce's ear.

Bruce pinned his wrists again, growling in his ear, "You do feel me. You feel how deep my cock is inside you and you feel how much I want you to scream when you come."

"Oh God," Clark moaned. "Yes, yes, I will. Don't stop, please."

"And you're going to scream my name when you do, won't you?"

Clark's hands were clenching over and over. He wanted Bruce to let go of him, but they both knew he wouldn't. It made him even more turned on, his whole body now hurtling at full speed toward bliss. "Fuck," he whimpered. "Fuck, I—I'm gonna—oh, god. Fuck! BRUCE!" That bliss was like a cliff, and nobody ever realizes how insane it is to drive toward the edge of a cliff at a thousand miles per hour until they're already flying over the edge and into oblivion screaming out of equal parts exhilaration and resignation as they went. His oblivion was heightened as he heard Bruce moan his release. Some part of him wished there hadn't been a condom so he could feel the way Bruce filled him.

Bruce was whispering praises in his ear, telling him he was beautiful, and that he was sexy, and that he felt so good like this, and that he was right there, all between soft kisses and nips to his neck, cheeks, and lips. He realized that his eyes were closed, and he peeled them open to find Bruce's own eyes studying him, an expression like tenderness on his face.

Clark looked away. He didn't want that expression.