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There were many traits the Dark Knight possessed that inspired admiration in both citizens and heroes alike. His fierce combat skills that earned him both fear and respect; his determination to do good and his compassion in the face of suffering; his frightening intellect which planned for every possible scenario, saving multiple lives in the process; his discipline and control that held him to his strict moral code; his courage and perseverance that compelled him to keep wearing the mask despite years of battles lost and of debilitating hardships endured—all because of the single, relentless belief that there was still goodness worth fighting for.
All these traits, all these facets of Batman's personality, Clark had had the opportunity to see up close, to witness time and time again. Like anyone else, he admired the masked hero for these reasons.
Yet there was something else Clark could not help but admire too.
Although covered from head to toe in an armored suit, there was no denying the man had a remarkable physique. Standing at an imposing six feet and two inches, he had broad shoulders and the unmistakable outline of defined muscles that no amount of kevlar armor could conceal. It was to be expected, considering his nocturnal profession. The Bat's muscles were part of his arsenal, for it was with his strength that he could apprehend villains and protect civilians.
And for all of Batman's visually appealing traits, one in particular drew Clark's attention consistently. Never in his life had Clark seen a more beautiful behind than what Batman was carrying around. The vigilante's ass was not only generously ample, but also impossibly rotund, the arch of Batman's back rounding up to a perfect curve that then met at his solid thighs. It was such a sublime shape it did not seem real. The first time Clark had laid eyes on the perky bottoms of his colleague, he had needed to double check it was not in fact a trick of the eye, or an illusion caused by contrasting light and shadows. But no, Batman veritably had the greatest ass amongst all heroes.
After his initial discovery, Clark's eyes often drifted downwards whenever he and Batman worked together. At first, he contented himself with simply catching glimpses as they leapt into action, Batman's cape fluttering away to reveal the impressive endowment. But then, he noticed that the only part of the Caped Crusader's uniform that was not lined with lead was in fact his cape, meaning he could use his X-ray vision to completely ignore the fabric and focus on the backside it cloaked whenever he wanted.
Clark tried to not abuse his powers, truly, he did. But the astronomical proportions of Batman's behind were of such consequence, that it was as if it were a planet with its own gravitational pull, drawing Clark's gaze down to its surface regardless of how hard he tried to resist. So, he stopped resisting, simply glancing down every once in a while, checking that its form was unchanging, that its shapeliness remained unmarred.
Naturally, Clark did this out of admiration. He was impressed that a man's hard work could result in such a fine attribute, and considered it would be a waste not to appreciate the years of effort and training that bred the prodigious muscles. Batman had an aesthetically pleasing behind and it was only fair to objectively recognize it.
But after a while, even he had to admit it was less objective recognition and more infatuated reverence that spurred Clark's glimpses. It came to a point where the thought of Batman's ass followed Clark to bed, ponderings chasing his dreams as he began imagining the feel of it under his hands, its firmness between his teeth. So what if Clark had developped a crush on his colleague over the years? It was not like it was illegal to fantasize about your friend's perfect posterior.
Perhaps, Clark could concede, it was slightly concerning that he had mapped the shape and volume of it to such precision that he could envision it with his eyes closed; but, in his defense, there was no chance of ever forgetting the image of Batman's behind. Once witnessed, it was seared into one's memory by virtue of its assets and singularity. Clark was convinced he would recognize that ass under any circumstance, if it ever came down to it. Which, admittedly, was a pretty futile skill to have, but it was nonetheless one Clark possessed.
"Hey Smallville."
Clark accidentally snapped the pencil he was holding in half. His attention flew to the broken pencil on his desk. Splinters of wood were sprinkled over his notebook that had abstract circular drawings on the entire page. He then looked over his shoulder to meet Lois Lane's perplexed gaze. She had just come into the office and was shrugging off her jacket.
"That Batman article's really got you on edge, huh?" She asked, nodding her head toward his screen on which there was a grainy photograph of the Dark Knight swinging between Gotham buildings. Clark scrambled to turn the screen away but then realized there was nothing incriminating in the photograph itself, only his internal discourse was questionable, so he aborted the motion to dust the screen instead.
"Ha, yeah, it's a real doozy this one," he chuckled nervously.
Lois peered more closely at the screen, her eyebrows pinched in that way that they did when she was considering how to best approach a problem. Then she leaned back and shrugged. "Well, good luck. It's always such a pain writing about that shadow and his secrets."
"Mh," replied Clark, willing himself to focus on his article and not on its subject's backside.
It had been a slow morning so far, hence why his mind easily drifted to more enticing materials. Each of his colleagues were diligently working at their desks or having meetings in the conference rooms. Even Jimmy Olsen was hard at work, squinting at his screen as he edited his latest photographs. Clark looked over to Lois' desk across from him. Despite having just sat down, she was already flipping through some files while she chewed on a busted pen, clearly upset about whatever field notes she had previously taken.
But just as Clark resolved himself to concentrate on his work, the elevator dinged as its doors slowly slid open. His eyes drifted over to the end of the office to see Cat Grant stride in with an impish smile on her bright red lips. She headed straight for Lois and dropped a magazine on her desk. It glided on the surface until it hit a pile of paperwork, after which Lois slowly raised her gaze to meet her colleague's.
"What is this?"
Clark peeked around his computer to get a look at the magazine. It was Esquire's latest issue with Gotham's infamous billionaire on the cover. The lighting was minimal but warm-toned, framing Bruce Wayne against a dark background. Body facing the camera, he was straddling a vintage wooden chair with his arms draped against the back rest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and one of his suspender straps hanging off one shoulder. A manicured hand pulled his face to the side, tilting his chin slightly upwards so that the silhouette of his profile was distinct against the dark. His eyes were lidded but looking up to the off-camera woman, mouth languidly agape as her other hand poured liquid from a brandy bottle onto his face. The amber alcohol dripped down his jaw and onto his open collar, glints of gold pearling along his face from the spotlight's reflection. The image felt sultry and warm, the rich browns and golds from the chair and brandy blending harmoniously with the white of Wayne's disheveled shirt and the paleness of his skin. There was a timeless air of sensuality that permeated the cover image, creating a sense of longing and enchantment.
Lois picked up the magazine, eyeing it skeptically. "You know I don't really give a damn about Bruce Wayne's questionable modeling career."
"Oh I know," replied Cat, a smirk in her voice though her face was deliberately nonchalant. "No one really cares about that. Still, page seventeen is a must-see, regardless of our opinions on the insipid pretty boy."
Aware that he would not be focusing on his article any time soon, Clark stood up to get a glass of water from the old water fountain against the wall. He heard Lois sigh and flip the magazine pages while the fountain hummed to life. Then, she let out a very sincere, "Wow."
"I know right?" chuckled Cat. When Clark turned back around, fresh cup of water in his hand, he saw she was perched over Lois' shoulder, the two women examining the magazine. Clark could not see what they were looking at as they were blocking the magazine from his view.
"Has he always carried such a... cumbersome load?"
"No idea. What I do know is that I sure as hell wouldn't mind taking a bite out of that cake."
"Cat," chided Lois, but her tone was light and the smile on her face suggested she agreed with the sentiment. "I doubt you'd get through it on your own, he's packing enough to feed a whole country."
The two women laughed and Clark covertly took a detour to his desk so that he could pass behind them and sneak a glance at what they were talking about.
"It's a shame he's such an idiot, but at least he's nice to look at," said Lois. She noticed Clark hovering behind her and aimed the magazine at him. "What do you think, Clark? He might even give your pretty little butt a run for its money, huh?"
But Clark was in no measure to reply seeing that he was not paying any attention to what Lois was saying. It was as if the room he was standing in had vanished, leaving just him and the double spread of Bruce Wayne in a suspended void. He stared at the image, getting lost deeper and deeper into it.
Displayed across two pages was Bruce Wayne laying on his stomach atop rumpled bedsheets. There was the manicured hand again, this time resting at the foot of the bed, right beside Wayne's unkempt hair, a cigar poised between her two fingers. The smoke from the cigar rose into the air in wisps, clouding the space above Wayne's body so that the entire scene appeared muddled with only Wayne in focus. His face was nestled behind his crossed arm, leaving only his blue eyes peeking above his shoulder. Their penetrative, bewitching stare shot through the camera, piercing the lens and printed paper to strike right at Clark. Wayne's shirt was no where to be seen, his bare shoulders and back glistening in the warm light as his suspenders were sprawled by his hips. A single red lipstick mark was pressed onto the back of his shoulder.
And although the debauched scene was highly evocative by virtue of the lascivious innuendos and striking play of light and shadows, what knocked the wind out of Clark's lungs was what he found when his eyes glided down the dip of Wayne's back. Packed tightly in coffee colored dress pants that were tailored beyond perfection was an unforgettable mass that rose in an impeccable arch. Wayne had an ass sculpted by the skillful hands of an adoring god who was determined to defy laws of gravity and rewrite principles of anatomy. It was one like no other, and Clark knew this to his core, because it was a posterior he had spent years ogling; a backside he had always known would have no possible equivalent. He would recognize that ass anywhere.
This was Batman's ass.
There was no denying it, Clark was staring at Batman's voluminous behind on page seventeen of the Esquire's fall issue. Which could only mean...
"You OK there, Clark?" Clark vaguely heard Lois ask. "Are we witnessing some sort of bi-awakening here, or..?"
"I think it's pretty normal for Bruce Wayne to have that effect on people, regardless of personal preferences." Cat took the magazine from Lois' hands. "The man's a hottie. A rich, ditzy, hottie. Those are the facts." She slapped the magazine against Clark's chest and he clumsily reached to catch it as she walked past him. "You keep it, darling. You'll make much better use of it than I will." And if Clark was not already red in the face before, he was certainly burning with embarrassment now. Without looking back, Cat made her way to the elevators and returned to her floor, as if she had not just come up to cause chaos and had completely overturned Clark's life in the process.
Lois rolled her eyes with a snicker. She twisted in her seat to look at Clark, her arms crossed against her chest. "What's going on, Smallville? Got a new celebrity crush?" she teased.
Clark was incapable of answering. He swallowed with difficulty and tried to control his breathing but the blood rushing in his ears was too distracting. He wobbled over to his desk and dropped the magazine there. "I— Sorry, I— I have to go, um, I'll be back," he stammered, absentmindedly throwing things in his beat up messenger bag.
"What?"
"Be back before lunch. Promise." Clark rushed toward the stairs.
"Clark? Clark!"
The door to the stairwell closed behind him, blocking out Lois' cries—or it would have blocked them out had Clark not had super-hearing, but regardless, Clark was too engrossed in his recent revelation to pay attention to any external influences.
He rushed up the stairs and sprung onto the roof, changed into his Superman suit in midair, then launched himself toward Gotham.
Clark was not thinking. Or rather, he was not thinking rationally. All that ran through his mind was the possibility of finally knowing Batman's identity, despite years of curiosity being cast aside in favor of respecting the stoic man's boundaries. But now that he had an inkling of who Batman could be, he could not sit back and pretend he was none the wiser, he had to confirm his suspicions. And there was a way he could verify his discovery, a measure he had put off for years.
The image of Batman's backside was not the only thing about the man that Clark had committed to memory. The exact pace, pitch and rhythm of Batman's heartbeat was engraved in Clark's synapses. He had memorized that man's pulse like a prayer he whispered to himself every night before falling asleep and every morning when he woke up. His ears were able to tune out the world's screams to search for that familiar murmur, the steady ba-bump that meant Batman was alive. It had become a comforting melody over the years, one that he could tune into whenever he needed consolation.
He knew Batman's heartbeat like he knew the sound of rain against a windowpane, like he knew a lullaby from his infancy, like he knew his own voice. He no longer had to think about it in order to hear it, his mind just knew the sound and his body was guided to it.
In this way, Clark flew to Gotham, letting the steady beat of Batman's heart pull him closer. If the heartbeat led him to Bruce Wayne, then his assessment was correct. If it led him to someone else, then he would apologize to Batman for jeopardizing his secret identity. Either way, Clark would know today.
The steady pulse became louder and louder, leading Clark to the center of Gotham. He stopped short of the tallest building in Old Gotham, a towering feat of Gothic architecture with pointed arches, flying buttresses, honest to God gargoyles, and a glass dome at the very top. The heartbeat was coming from inside Wayne Tower.
Gently landing on a parapet, Clark changed out of his Superman suit—it would be easier to navigate the offices as a journalist than a superhero. He found a door leading inside the building and gave it a gentle shove (gentle by his standards, metal lock breaking by human standards). He bounded down the stairs, practically floating down until the heartbeat was ringing in his ears like a song from a nearby speaker.
The floor he stepped out on was a sort of lobby with high, vaulted ceilings and sleek marble floors. Warm, moody lighting illuminated the space from vintage light fixtures, and the waiting area consisted of large plush leather seats and a low coffee table. At the end of lobby, there was an antique wooden reception desk that matched the molding and the carved oak door behind it. A woman's head poked out from the edge of the desk, her face illuminated by a computer screen. When she noticed Clark standing at the end, she gave him a startled look, then a kind smile.
"I must have missed the elevator's ring, sorry. How may I help you?"
A wave of panic surged up Clark's throat instead of words as he desperately tried to think of something to say. He had not come up with a plan during his flight nor as he descended the stairs, simply letting himself be blindly steered toward Batman's heart. Now, he could hear both his heartbeat and Batman's pulsing in his head, mixing together in a dissonant cacophony. Maybe he should just turn back and leave—
"Sir? Did you have an appointment with Mr. Wayne?"
An idea finally sprung to his mind.
"Oh, yes, sorry. I was told to wait for someone up here, we have an appointment with uh... Mr. Wayne," Clark managed to lie surprisingly easily.
"Sure. Let me just check Mr. Wayne's schedule."
Clark walked over to the receptionist desk and purposefully knocked over a pen that was on its surface. "Ah, my bad. Let me get that." He bent down near the wall where the desk's wires all snaked together into a plug socket.
"Oh, thank you."
Before standing back up, Clark directed his heat vision at the mess of wires until they sparked and overheated, short-circuiting the electric system and shutting down the woman's computer.
"Oh shoot!" she cried out as she fiddled with the power button. "Sorry, must be a... I don't even know what's going on, actually." She tried the phone, but that too was down. Grabbing a set of keys, she pointed to the leather seats. "Please have a seat here while I go get someone from IT. We'll sort this out as soon as possible. Apologies for the inconvenience."
"It's no bother," replied Clark as he watched the woman scurry off to the elevators. As soon as she was behind the sliding door, Clark turned to the large oak door, separating him from Wayne's office.
He could hear the heartbeat thrumming on the other side. That alone should be confirmation enough. But Clark could not stop here. Not when he had come this far.
His knock resonated in the quiet lobby. There was a moment of silence as Clark wondered if perhaps he had not been heard, but then deep voice called out.
"Come in."
Steeling himself with a deep breath, Clark turned the doorknob and stepped inside the office.
There was Bruce Wayne, standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows with a file in his hands. His back was turned to the door, and immediately Clark recognized the ass he had seen that morning but more importantly, the ass he had been staring at for years.
When Clark did not announce himself, Bruce—Batman—looked over his shoulder. And when he did not recognize him, his eyes narrowed, though his pulse remained at the same pace.
"Hello," Bruce said calmly. "I'm sorry, did we have an appointment?"
Realization finally struck Clark, and he could not help the excitement that coursed through him. He was face to face with Batman. He finally knew who Batman was. And of course Batman was gorgeous under the mask.
A wide, gleeful smile spread across Clark's face. He shook his head bashfully, still grinning. "No, sorry, it's just that, well, you see, I'm Cl—."
"Ah," interjected Bruce, his eyes now wide with understanding. His features settled into an amused, knowing look. "Superman. How nice of you to drop by."
"What? How—?" Clark was now the one taken aback despite him being the one to have barged into Bruce's office unannounced.
Bruce allowed his lips to quirk up ever so slightly, something close to fondness flickering in his eyes.
"I'd recognize that smile anywhere."