Clark Kent had zero idea that he wanted to get manhandled until Bruce Wayne picked his big ass up, flung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and walked out of the League conference room with him like he weighed nothing at all. And damnit, Bruce didn’t miss a step or show any sign that he was heavy. He had the nerve to just keep walking, face blank and eyes forward, as though he wasn’t carrying well over 200 pounds of Superman around like a rag doll.
Clark has never been so conflicted.
On one hand, he’d been in the middle of speaking—and making a damn good point, thank you very fucking much. Bruce had disagreed with everything he’d said to the point that he’d snatched the cowl off mid-meeting, like he wanted Clark to see he was rolling his eyes in plain view. And Clark can admit that after the third eye roll, he’d gotten loud and belligerent. Then, out of nowhere, right after Barry had made some silly joke to break the tension in the room, Bruce had stood up, rounded the table, grabbed Clark by the waist, and flung him over his shoulder. And Clark, too shocked by it all, hadn’t done a thing to stop it.
Which leads to the other hand. Because yes, on one hand, Clark is outraged that Bruce went this far to shut him down in a disagreement. Mister dark and broody, Mister I’m Always Right Because I’m Batman, just couldn’t handle anyone with a different point of view, so he physically removed the opposition. Self-righteous, arrogant, bullheaded, stubborn, and yet—and yet—and yet…
Clark has never been so turned on in his fucking life.
It occurs to him, as Bruce exits the conference room with everyone else watching in shocked silence, that he should be furious. He can’t remember what he’d been saying—knows it was a good point but damn, what had the meeting even been about?—and now look at him. He’s face down, ass up, cape askew, wide-eyed and struck stupid. He thinks he even squeaked in shock when Bruce had adjusted him from his left shoulder to his right without so much as a grunt. Just seamless, effortless, strong, so strong and powerful—
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking (well, Bruce walking and him just dangling), but suddenly they’re in an empty break room and Bruce is sitting him down on the counter, arranging himself between his legs and opening his mouth to growl—
“If you’re determined to act like a brat, then I’m going to treat you like one.”
Did Clark say before that he’s never been so turned on in his life? Scratch that. Fuck that. Whatever he said then doesn’t even begin to compare to right now.
Bruce blinks and the fight in him seems to evaporate into thin air. “You…are not supposed to be enjoying this.”
Oh, great. Now, on top of everything else Bruce is inexplicably capable of, it seems like he can also see Clark’s toes curling involuntarily in his boots. Either that or the deep breath Clark took to calm down looked more like helpless swooning. Fucking wonderful.
And you know what? He could be embarrassed by all this. He probably should be. Maybe even righteously indignant at the disrespect, the absolute gall it took for someone who’s supposed to be his equal cutting him off in such an extreme way. But something about getting tossed around has his brain short-circuiting and his heart fluttering, so he takes years of mutual lingering glances and tension and decides to be brave (see: stupid and horny).
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Bruce grins. “If I’d known that was all it took, I would’ve done this ages ago.”
