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jamjarTitle: What a swell party this is
Fandom: DCU, Superman/Batman
Notes: Title from here, inspiration frompetronelle, who wanted Brucie/Clark. Well, she says it was for others, but... So Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. Nothing explicit and utterly frivolous, but arguably identity porn.
You meet such a range of people at a Gotham party.
Bruce secretly (publicly) admits to loving and loathing these functions at random. "So little privacy," he tells a charming young debutante. "So many friends!" he tells another. They blush and look flattered and no-one particularly cares if he's being honest, when he looks as good as he does.
Still, he is arguably the host of this little charitable do, so it behoves him to ensure his guests are comfortable. He makes a suitable vicious remark to Madeleine to keep her happily scandalised, sends Alex chasing after Evelyn when they have another of their little tiffs.
And leans against the wall where a Metropolis reporter, not known for covering social functions, is attempting to hide. He might have better luck if his brown suit didn't somehow manage to clash with the oak he was leaning against and if his hunched shoulders and awkward posture didn't scream "I do not belong here!"
But, Bruce is the host. As long as the man has a ticket, Bruce should not point out the many and varied shortcomings in his outfit. Really, some people just cannot be trusted to dress themselves, and should leave that to others who can.
He walks over and hands him a glass of champagne, despite the echo of Alfred's disapproving voice pointing out that champagne is not exactly appropriate for the time or occasion.
"Clark Kent, isn't it?"
Kent blinks behind his glasses and looks at the champagne flute in his hand like he's not sure how it got there. "What?"
"Your name, it is Clark Kent? I have a terrible memory for names."
"Oh! Yes, it is. And you're Bruce Wayne, which we both knew already."
"I certainly did," Bruce says agreeably. "Can I congratulate you?"
"On what?" Kent says, frowning a little.
"On your promotion! Presumably, you've moved up the ranks of reporters from scut work to covering Gotham's dazzling social scene."
"My promotion," Kent says, quirking an eyebrow. "Can we just say that my editor is a great believer in 'trial by fire' and leave it at that?"
"We're not that bad," Bruce says, obliged to protest on behalf of his city and his peers. "We hardly ever bite uninvited." He glances at the suit --brown and he can practically smell the polyester blend-- and refrains from pointing out that showing up at a place like this in an outfit like that might count as an invitation to some.
"I was under the impression that you normally worked with a partner. Will I have the pleasure of seeing Lois here as well?" He glances around, hopeful even though he knows it's unlikely. Lois is generally hard to miss, unless she wants to be unnoticed, and then she's generally impossible to spot.
"It's always so enjoyable, watching her at one of these events," Bruce says, a little nostalgically. "All that sharp wit and charm and style." He can picture her now, in that little red dress, her hair up and her neckline just low enough to make a man hopeful that--
"Lois is working on something back home," Kent says. "I'm sure she'll regret not seeing you."
His tone his amused, but slightly sharper. Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Am I treading on your toes?"
"I didn't think we were dancing."
"Can you?" Bruce says. He holds out his hand, gracious as ever, but Kent nods at the crowd behind him.
"It's a little public for my tastes. I report news, I don't make it."
"Really?" Bruce says, raising an eyebrow. "Just what kind of 'dancing' were you thinking of doing?"
Kent shrugs and leans back against the wall, rather than hunching against it. The casual position draws attention to the breadth of his shoulders. "Just the normal kind you do in pairs."
"But not in public?"
Kent laughs, ducks his head and fiddles with his glasses, pushing them more securely on his nose. "I get a little self-conscious, dancing in public."
Bruce leans against the wall next to him, running an assessing eye over the length of his body. Among Bruce's many and varied gifts is that he knows what flatters, what brings out the colour of someone's eyes, what conceals a paunch or emphasizes a slim waist. It's a gift that lets him see past the badly fitting suit to the body that lies underneath. Corn-fed, farm-raised goodness.
Bruce should get out of the city more. The countryside may have something to recommend it.
"I don't think you have anything to be embarrassed about," he says, leaning in to touch Kent's arm, just enough to feel the strength underneath. He winces at the feel of the fabric. Definitely a polyester blend. "Or you wouldn't, if we got you out of that suit."
Kent blinks, wide-eyed behind the glasses. "Mr Wayne, I'm not sure-- you don't like my suit?"
"I think I'd like you more out of it," Bruce says. Blunt, perhaps, but he doubts Kent needs anything particularly sophisticated.
"But I don't have anything else to wear," Kent says with that same wide-eyed expression and-- yes, he's definitely playing with Bruce. He relaxes out of it, his expression sharpening. "Besides, this is work for me. Can't afford to skip out early."
"One of the advantages of being the boss," Bruce says, taking a sip of his own champagne, "is always having competent subordinates to take over if I'm otherwise engaged with more-- frivolous pursuits."
"It sounds a little self-indulgent," Clark said. "Hardly what I'd expect from someone who gives so much time and money to helping out at events like this." He gestures at the crowd of sparkling people. "You can't expect me or any reporter with half an instinct to think you're quite as frivolous as you pretend."
"You've been spending too much time with Lois," Bruce says. "She always had bizarrely high expectations of me, despite my best efforts to strip them from her."
"I'm sure you were very thorough," Kent says. Bruce takes some pride in the fact that he's dropped the wide-eyed, aw shucks attitude. He carries it off too well for comfort.
"You didn't answer my question," Bruce says. "Unless you want me to be more--" he leans in and brushes his hand against the front of Clark's trousers, making sure his body his blocking his action from anyone watching. "--more upfront about it?"
"Really, Mr Wayne," Kent says.
"Bruce, please. Mr Wayne was my father."
Kent nods slightly. "Really, Bruce. What will they all think, if they see you leaving so early with a strange man on your arm?"
"I think they'd be rather unsurprised," Bruce says. "Gotham is not particularly narrow in her appetites, and neither am I."
"And what about my reputation? Good reporters don't get into bed with billionaire industrialists."
"Lois manages," Bruce says. "With almost excessive competence, if I recall."
Kent's expression changes, his eyes darkening behind their glasses, and Bruce smiles charmingly. A little anger can make for effective foreplay. It may not have been anger -he hardly knows Clark Kent well enough to judge- but the other options are just as pleasing.
"You really might want to take a page out of her book," Bruce says. "She does have more experience in the field than you. Isn't that why you were partnered with her? So you could benefit from her expertise?"
"I like to think our skills compliment each other," Kent says. "I think that's the point of any kind of relationship, so you have someone to be strong where you aren't, someone to watch over the things you can't see."
"You're a romantic," Bruce says, keeping his tone amused, his expression tragic.
"Funny, I've always thought of myself as a realist," Kent says. "I was raised on a farm, you know. Practicality and common sense are prime virtues."
"I'm amazed they every let you off," Bruce says. "Sending you off to the big city, or as close as Metropolis can get."
"You Gothamites are so damn snobby about your city. Metropolis isn't exactly small time, you know."
"No? And yet you're still so concerned about being alone with me, even though you haven't told me you're not interested," Bruce says. "Really, if you wanted me to stop bothering you, all you'd have to do is say it and make me believe you."
"So this is you convincing me?" Kent says. "They really do do it differently in Gotham." He sounds amused and relaxed and his eyes leave Bruce to track across the room. Looking for a story, Bruce assumes, frowning at Kent's distraction.
Bruce smiles and snags another glass from a waiter, this one red wine. He holds it between his hands, just for a second, then slowly and deliberately spills it on to Kent's awful shirt, down his crotch. "Oh, dear!" he says. "What have I done? Let me clean that up for you." He pats at the spill, absolutely failing to blot it but succeeding extremely well at groping Kent.
Kent is looking at him with open-mouthed surprise and Bruce feels a sharp pang of joy, of victory, at having put that expression on his face. "I can't believe you just--"
"How terrible of me, but you really can't stay here with your suit like that. Really, I insist that you come with me right now and I'll help you clean it off."
Kent gapes at him, then pushes his glasses up his now, frowning. The light hits the lenses, the gleam making them impossible to see through. "You--"
"You really do need to get out of that suit," Bruce says. "It's absolutely unwearable." He smiles at Kent, showing his teeth. "Come with me, I'm sure I can help you find something more appropriate."
The end.
Fandom: DCU, Superman/Batman
Notes: Title from here, inspiration from
petronelle, who wanted Brucie/Clark. Well, she says it was for others, but... So Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. Nothing explicit and utterly frivolous, but arguably identity porn.You meet such a range of people at a Gotham party.
Bruce secretly (publicly) admits to loving and loathing these functions at random. "So little privacy," he tells a charming young debutante. "So many friends!" he tells another. They blush and look flattered and no-one particularly cares if he's being honest, when he looks as good as he does.
Still, he is arguably the host of this little charitable do, so it behoves him to ensure his guests are comfortable. He makes a suitable vicious remark to Madeleine to keep her happily scandalised, sends Alex chasing after Evelyn when they have another of their little tiffs.
And leans against the wall where a Metropolis reporter, not known for covering social functions, is attempting to hide. He might have better luck if his brown suit didn't somehow manage to clash with the oak he was leaning against and if his hunched shoulders and awkward posture didn't scream "I do not belong here!"
But, Bruce is the host. As long as the man has a ticket, Bruce should not point out the many and varied shortcomings in his outfit. Really, some people just cannot be trusted to dress themselves, and should leave that to others who can.
He walks over and hands him a glass of champagne, despite the echo of Alfred's disapproving voice pointing out that champagne is not exactly appropriate for the time or occasion.
"Clark Kent, isn't it?"
Kent blinks behind his glasses and looks at the champagne flute in his hand like he's not sure how it got there. "What?"
"Your name, it is Clark Kent? I have a terrible memory for names."
"Oh! Yes, it is. And you're Bruce Wayne, which we both knew already."
"I certainly did," Bruce says agreeably. "Can I congratulate you?"
"On what?" Kent says, frowning a little.
"On your promotion! Presumably, you've moved up the ranks of reporters from scut work to covering Gotham's dazzling social scene."
"My promotion," Kent says, quirking an eyebrow. "Can we just say that my editor is a great believer in 'trial by fire' and leave it at that?"
"We're not that bad," Bruce says, obliged to protest on behalf of his city and his peers. "We hardly ever bite uninvited." He glances at the suit --brown and he can practically smell the polyester blend-- and refrains from pointing out that showing up at a place like this in an outfit like that might count as an invitation to some.
"I was under the impression that you normally worked with a partner. Will I have the pleasure of seeing Lois here as well?" He glances around, hopeful even though he knows it's unlikely. Lois is generally hard to miss, unless she wants to be unnoticed, and then she's generally impossible to spot.
"It's always so enjoyable, watching her at one of these events," Bruce says, a little nostalgically. "All that sharp wit and charm and style." He can picture her now, in that little red dress, her hair up and her neckline just low enough to make a man hopeful that--
"Lois is working on something back home," Kent says. "I'm sure she'll regret not seeing you."
His tone his amused, but slightly sharper. Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Am I treading on your toes?"
"I didn't think we were dancing."
"Can you?" Bruce says. He holds out his hand, gracious as ever, but Kent nods at the crowd behind him.
"It's a little public for my tastes. I report news, I don't make it."
"Really?" Bruce says, raising an eyebrow. "Just what kind of 'dancing' were you thinking of doing?"
Kent shrugs and leans back against the wall, rather than hunching against it. The casual position draws attention to the breadth of his shoulders. "Just the normal kind you do in pairs."
"But not in public?"
Kent laughs, ducks his head and fiddles with his glasses, pushing them more securely on his nose. "I get a little self-conscious, dancing in public."
Bruce leans against the wall next to him, running an assessing eye over the length of his body. Among Bruce's many and varied gifts is that he knows what flatters, what brings out the colour of someone's eyes, what conceals a paunch or emphasizes a slim waist. It's a gift that lets him see past the badly fitting suit to the body that lies underneath. Corn-fed, farm-raised goodness.
Bruce should get out of the city more. The countryside may have something to recommend it.
"I don't think you have anything to be embarrassed about," he says, leaning in to touch Kent's arm, just enough to feel the strength underneath. He winces at the feel of the fabric. Definitely a polyester blend. "Or you wouldn't, if we got you out of that suit."
Kent blinks, wide-eyed behind the glasses. "Mr Wayne, I'm not sure-- you don't like my suit?"
"I think I'd like you more out of it," Bruce says. Blunt, perhaps, but he doubts Kent needs anything particularly sophisticated.
"But I don't have anything else to wear," Kent says with that same wide-eyed expression and-- yes, he's definitely playing with Bruce. He relaxes out of it, his expression sharpening. "Besides, this is work for me. Can't afford to skip out early."
"One of the advantages of being the boss," Bruce says, taking a sip of his own champagne, "is always having competent subordinates to take over if I'm otherwise engaged with more-- frivolous pursuits."
"It sounds a little self-indulgent," Clark said. "Hardly what I'd expect from someone who gives so much time and money to helping out at events like this." He gestures at the crowd of sparkling people. "You can't expect me or any reporter with half an instinct to think you're quite as frivolous as you pretend."
"You've been spending too much time with Lois," Bruce says. "She always had bizarrely high expectations of me, despite my best efforts to strip them from her."
"I'm sure you were very thorough," Kent says. Bruce takes some pride in the fact that he's dropped the wide-eyed, aw shucks attitude. He carries it off too well for comfort.
"You didn't answer my question," Bruce says. "Unless you want me to be more--" he leans in and brushes his hand against the front of Clark's trousers, making sure his body his blocking his action from anyone watching. "--more upfront about it?"
"Really, Mr Wayne," Kent says.
"Bruce, please. Mr Wayne was my father."
Kent nods slightly. "Really, Bruce. What will they all think, if they see you leaving so early with a strange man on your arm?"
"I think they'd be rather unsurprised," Bruce says. "Gotham is not particularly narrow in her appetites, and neither am I."
"And what about my reputation? Good reporters don't get into bed with billionaire industrialists."
"Lois manages," Bruce says. "With almost excessive competence, if I recall."
Kent's expression changes, his eyes darkening behind their glasses, and Bruce smiles charmingly. A little anger can make for effective foreplay. It may not have been anger -he hardly knows Clark Kent well enough to judge- but the other options are just as pleasing.
"You really might want to take a page out of her book," Bruce says. "She does have more experience in the field than you. Isn't that why you were partnered with her? So you could benefit from her expertise?"
"I like to think our skills compliment each other," Kent says. "I think that's the point of any kind of relationship, so you have someone to be strong where you aren't, someone to watch over the things you can't see."
"You're a romantic," Bruce says, keeping his tone amused, his expression tragic.
"Funny, I've always thought of myself as a realist," Kent says. "I was raised on a farm, you know. Practicality and common sense are prime virtues."
"I'm amazed they every let you off," Bruce says. "Sending you off to the big city, or as close as Metropolis can get."
"You Gothamites are so damn snobby about your city. Metropolis isn't exactly small time, you know."
"No? And yet you're still so concerned about being alone with me, even though you haven't told me you're not interested," Bruce says. "Really, if you wanted me to stop bothering you, all you'd have to do is say it and make me believe you."
"So this is you convincing me?" Kent says. "They really do do it differently in Gotham." He sounds amused and relaxed and his eyes leave Bruce to track across the room. Looking for a story, Bruce assumes, frowning at Kent's distraction.
Bruce smiles and snags another glass from a waiter, this one red wine. He holds it between his hands, just for a second, then slowly and deliberately spills it on to Kent's awful shirt, down his crotch. "Oh, dear!" he says. "What have I done? Let me clean that up for you." He pats at the spill, absolutely failing to blot it but succeeding extremely well at groping Kent.
Kent is looking at him with open-mouthed surprise and Bruce feels a sharp pang of joy, of victory, at having put that expression on his face. "I can't believe you just--"
"How terrible of me, but you really can't stay here with your suit like that. Really, I insist that you come with me right now and I'll help you clean it off."
Kent gapes at him, then pushes his glasses up his now, frowning. The light hits the lenses, the gleam making them impossible to see through. "You--"
"You really do need to get out of that suit," Bruce says. "It's absolutely unwearable." He smiles at Kent, showing his teeth. "Come with me, I'm sure I can help you find something more appropriate."
The end.
