Chapter 1
December 9, 2023 at 7:02 AM
It goes like this: Lex sends a drone with sex pollen to Bruce Wayne’s office - the sneaky tech bypasses all security measures. It’s a fucking shame. It’s also the second time Bruce encounters this annoying device. The first time he was clad in Batman’s clothes while patrolling the city. Shitty drone announced that for the next two hours everyone in it's vicinity will experience sky-high libido and slow deterioration of health unless some kind of fucking-related activity happens.
Bruce endured the experience by locking himself in the Batcave. It was hell. An ordinary body would've started shutting down without proper help in minutes. Mental abilities would be dimmed down to fulfill one purpose - to either find a partner or a release. Bruce had to put to use everything that he’s been taught about breathing, meditation and body-control just to get to the cave safely and suffer through the rest alone, jerking off to get at least some reprieve from the onslaught of overstimulated nervous system.
A week later Bruce was holding an antidote, tailored specifically to him - it was impossible to create one for the general public, not that Bruce stopped his research or gave up. He just needed time. And it was suddenly up.
Clark I-just-need-some-quotes Kent is sitting awkwardly on a guest chair. He’s trying to take as little space as possible, and he has as much grace and success with it as an elephant in the Apple store would. Bruce feels the coldness of the wall seeping into his forever tired bones. He stands by the window, legs crossed, and sighs as the drone finishes its speech and sprays particles all around. Bruce knows that it’s going to self-destruct next. He’d smash the damn thing in a second, but a lazy billionaire with slow reflexes can't perform such gymnastics, so Bruce stays put. The tech goes out with a puff of smoke. Bruce observes Kent taking small breaths and then coughing deeply like an idiot that he is.
The interview was an afterthought, an easy path to good publicity after another Bruce Wayne fiasco with a model - which was nothing new, but she mentioned that Brucie was always away, going somewhere every night, never staying for cuddles or at least an early breakfast.
Oblivious to the model's suffering, Bruce was visiting Metropolis to check on some fishy dealings as Batman. He busted a group of really bad, shady people, but there might’ve been an explosion or two afterwards - with an unfortunate footage of Batman fleeing the scene. That’s why Bruce couldn’t afford to let anyone make connection between his two personas - who had happened to fuck up at the same time. The model kept giving interviews, though she was getting less and less attention as reports of Superman’s latest heroics overtook the news-cycle. By the time Alfred very pointedly served reheated breakfast as the model continued to babble on a TV as a background noise, Bruce had no choice but to succumb to a little image-cleaning. Thus an innocent, puppy-eyed reporter was graced with an honor of interviewing generous Bruce Wayne before a charity-gala event that Wayne Foundation was so selflessly holding the very next week.
Bruce uses Kent’s coughing to push a hidden button on the table, presses a finger into self-injecting syringe and waits for the burning fog inside his mind to disappear. This sex-pollen is potent and fast. Bruce has less than a minute before the reporter will become a horny mess. Bruce can’t risk showing or explaining how he’s immune to this shit. So he’s going to pretend to be affected - after all, it’s part of the job. To protect Batman’s identity, so he can save Gotham over and over again. What’s the worst that can happen?
Kent furrows his brows, rubs his eyes and squints. Bruce waits a little. The whole building is in a lockdown right now and there’s no way to get away to a safe location without raising the reporter's suspicion. Bruce has calculated the probability of successful retreat - it is slim, to say the least. Even if he knocked the damn man out, poor guy would remember that the billionaire was absent for the most important part of sex-pollination, and it’d be too noticeable, too out of character.
Bruce knows he has to begin acting interested in the other man - Kent is going to make his move any moment now, and Bruce would prefer to start this dance on his own terms. He's under no illusion that some miracle is going to save him from a terrible love-making with a countryside’s bumpkin. Bruce looks at Kent’s hunched form, really looks, and wonders if this good-natured four-eyed romantic ever thought about kissing another man, let alone fucking one.
Bruce remembers his first time with a man, grinds his teeth, then rolls his shoulders back to alleviate some tension. That's when Bruce makes a decision that he's going to make sure the reporter’s (most likely) first time with a man will be as plain and forgettable as possible. It’s the best Bruce can offer. If he’s lucky, both of them will shake it off and end the meeting with an inspiring quote for the Daily Planet. Bruce glances at the reporter who finally stood up and now stares at Bruce, as if unsure what to do next, how to respond to the sudden desire that is currently overriding his whole being. Then the man - Clark, his name is Clark, Bruce reminds himself - takes a step forward, puts his notepad and pen on Bruce’s desk without looking, and moves into Bruce’s personal space. The reporter - Clark, damn it, Bruce better get used to it and fast - places a warm, tender hand on Bruce’s cheek, and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. It's the sweetest, most innocent gesture Bruce has ever been on the receiving end of. It's exhausting. Bruce takes a deep breath, shuts his thoughts off and grabs Clark to give him a proper kiss. He knows he’s going to regret this day one way or another.
