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Clark's internal clock keeps his cycle regular enough that after the first three times, Bruce is able to block out time for the foreseeable future to help him through the next scheduled occurrence.
“Make it sound more like you're doing me a favor,” Clark says dryly when Bruce tells him this over equipment repairs. He's seated backward on a chair, casually lifting the front of the Batmobile off the ground with one hand. No one else on the team is around today, so Bruce thought it would be a fitting time to broach the subject. He knows the others suspect that they're involved, but this arrangement isn’t exactly what they think it is. Given the specifics of Clark’s needs, neither of them thinks anyone else needs to know.
“Am I not?” Bruce says archly, and a smile slips onto Clark's face.
“No, you are. But I’d like to imagine you get something out of it too. You seemed to enjoy yourself the last few times.” The hint of smugness in his tone is a sure sign that he remembers how absolutely wrecked Bruce was after each previous encounter.
“You have no idea how taxing it is to surrender to the wanton needs of a young, virile boytoy.”
“Boytoy? I don’t think I’m dressed for the job.”
“A loincloth and tanning oil isn’t seasonally appropriate. The flannel will do.”
“Hmm. I remember you telling me on more than one occasion that you found the flannel 'repugnant',” Clark says, amusement bright in his eyes when Bruce wheels out from under the Batmobile to glare at him. He'd tried several times to foist a wardrobe upgrade on Clark by simply sending new clothes to his apartment, but they always ended up returned. At least Clark wasn't stubborn enough not to let Bruce replace his water filter or ugly carpet.
“It, like other things, grew on me.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
The smile on Clark’s face is a shade too fond for Bruce to continue to look directly at him. Even an eclipse can burn out the eyes. Even now, after all they’ve been through, Bruce still has some reservations about allowing Clark to trust him so thoroughly, to open up his heart so willingly to Bruce after he destroyed it once before. Clark is far too kind and forgiving, lax in his standards for people worth giving his friendship to.
It’s a privilege that Bruce can only accept obliquely, through layers of pretense and overtures of assistance so that he can pretend that he’s retained enough distance to be safe. As if he wouldn’t drop almost everything on a dime to give Clark anything he asks. As if his own mortifying affections aren’t on blatant display whenever their eyes meet across a room.
This relationship isn’t about that. This is about providing a service. About doing his part, and helping an ally. The emotions are just an unfortunate reality that don’t play into their agreement. Bruce can keep them under control.
He can bury them beneath pragmatism and duty like everything else.
“Good evening,” Clark says, holding out his bouquet of flowers. He never fails to bring them, which bemuses Bruce. He’s told Clark before that he doesn’t need to be wooed before proceeding forth with their business, but his words are never heeded. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s because Clark is a romantic or because it’s also part of the Kryptonian biological drive that has Clark seeking him out for help.
Alfred, on the other hand, finds the behavior infinitely charming, and insists on placing each bouquet in a vase at the dining table until they wilt. And if Bruce finds himself toying with faded petals before he ultimately dumps them in the garbage, he makes sure to do so outside of Alfred’s line of sight.
Fortunately, he’s not in tonight, having been informed of Bruce’s imminent plans, which leaves only Bruce to go rummaging for a vase on his own while Clark watches in poorly concealed amusement.
“I think they can last the night without water,” he says as Bruce searches yet another cabinet. He’s standing right behind Bruce, barely a breath away. Bruce has gathered by now that Clark craves closeness whenever his cycle is upon him. He wants the reassurance of being able to touch Bruce with ease, so Bruce allows him to breach the distance he normally maintains for his own sanity.
“Alfred will have my hide if he finds I’ve carelessly left your gift lying on a counter to wilt. I was sure that he put the vase here last time…”
“Use a tall drinking glass or a pitcher instead,” Clark suggests, his hands coming to rest on Bruce’s hips as Bruce closes another cabinet door after his fruitless search. Bruce resists his suggestion, continuing his pointless quest until Clark rests his chin on his shoulder, hands sliding forward to wrap Bruce in a loose embrace. His chest is solid and unnaturally warm as it presses against Bruce’s back, and Bruce lets himself relax into the hold.
“This is why you shouldn’t bother; they inevitably end up in a water jug.”
“I’ll bring you some rare earth minerals next time instead.”
“On second thought, the flowers are great,” Bruce says, pulling out the first suitable vessel he sees. The last thing he needs is to explain to the defense department why Superman is digging around for rare-earth elements. He tugs himself free of Clark long enough to fill the glass and unceremoniously plunk the bouquet right in. Right after he places the glass on the kitchen counter, Clark is in his space again, for a frontal attack this time.
Despite the handful of inches Bruce has on him, Clark is very good at leveraging his height to his advantage. With his arms he brackets Bruce against the counter, face close enough that he could kiss Bruce if he wanted, or nip at his throat, or scent him. But he does none of these things. He just continues to stare at Bruce, the clearness of his eyes obscured just slightly through his frames, a patient smile on his lips. Bruce can tell from the heat radiating off his body and the fairly evident bulge in his slacks that his instincts are telling him to take and to claim, but he won't do a thing until Bruce grants his permission.
Bruce reaches up and runs his fingers through Clark's curls, enjoying the way Clark's eyes flutter closed. He leans into Bruce's touch, a soft rumble of sound emanating from his chest. It's almost akin to a purr, a sign of pure contentment that both baffles and pleases Bruce. How did they ever end up here? How was Bruce gifted this trust without having yet demonstrated that he's earned it?
There's no use dwelling on it now. Clark is so warm under his touch that Bruce is half-concerned he'll combust if he doesn't get inside Bruce soon.
“Alright then, Kent, let's get started.”
Clark's eyes slit back open, and he presses one broad hand to the small of Bruce's back. “May I carry you?”
Some twisted part of Bruce wants to refuse, to assert his dignity and walk his way up to the bedroom instead, if only to push Clark's buttons. But no matter how possessive Clark gets, how rough, how relentless, he never fully releases himself of his restraints. Bruce doesn't know that he physically ever could, too cognizant of the power difference between himself and every other creature on earth. In these moments with Bruce, he can relinquish enough self-control to satisfy his biological needs, but he would never cross the line and hurt him in ways he doesn't ask for. It's difficult to remember sometimes how Clark ever inspired such consuming fear in him. Basically impossible to recall when he grins at Bruce like sunlight personified.
“You may,” Bruce agrees, and Clark lifts him into a bridal hold, laughing when Bruce grumbles at the undignified way his legs dangle over the crook of Clark's arm. He gets placed very gently on the bed and then Clark is kissing him at a sweet, languid pace, stealing away his oxygen and at least some of his higher brain functions. Bruce kisses him back, and they remain like this for several minutes, until Bruce releases Clark so he can undo his tie.
“I think you wear all this for the sole purpose of driving me mad,” Clark mutters as he watches Bruce carefully set aside his cufflinks.
“I wouldn't expect a lumberjack like you to understand,” Bruce teases, unable to help smirking when Clark takes charge of freeing Bruce of his clothes.
“There's absolutely no reason you needed to wear a waistcoat to work. Are you- are these sock suspenders? Sweet Jesus, why are you like this. You did this specifically to torment me.”
“Perhaps.” Bruce knows that as much as Clark wants to just literally tear his suit off, he'll take the time to fastidiously unfasten and unbuckle everything. The least he can do is agreeably shrug off each garment as Clark finishes undoing all the buttons.
“One day I'm going to lose my patience and just fuck you while you're still decked out in all your feathers and frills,” Clark says as he finally gets Bruce nude and begins stripping himself with much more speed. His glasses get tossed on the pile of the rest of his clothes that lie next to Bruce's meticulously divested suit.
“I'll look forward to it. Come here.” Bruce normally isn't one to jump straight into the main event without foreplay, but he can practically feel Clark vibrating with his pent-up, restless energy, and he wants nothing more in this moment to have it all directed at him.
Clark comes over as ordered and lifts Bruce by the hips, shifting him up the bed. He's about to start his usual routine of scenting Bruce until he notices the slickness already there between his thighs. Bruce tries not to laugh at the puzzled expression on Clark's face as he presses a finger to Bruce's hole and finds him already wet and ready.
“Did you prep yourself before I got here?” he asks as he pushes even deeper, nudging against Bruce's prostate and startling a spark of pleasure through him.
“Well, you were in my schedule,” Bruce gasps out as Clark withdraws his hand. “I figured I might as well be ready for you.”
“You're unreal,” Clark murmurs against Bruce's skin as he leaves his first mark right beneath Bruce's jaw, the long length of his body searing against Bruce's own. And then his brow furrows and he pulls back. “Wait. This means you went out of your way to put all those layers-”
Bruce silences him with a kiss, rolling them so that he's seated on Clark's lap, grinding against his thick cock. “Time to stop talking and start moving, Kansas. C'mon now. Take what's yours.”
“Sometimes I think...” Clark starts, before shaking his head and cutting off the rest of his thought. He smiles, his lovely eyes crinkling with fondness as he leaves a quick kiss at the corner of Bruce's mouth, and then he's pressing into Bruce. His slide in is sweltering hot and endlessly long, and Bruce feels stuffed to the gills even before Clark starts trying to breed him. Once he’s fully seated inside, he plants his feet on the bed and grabs Bruce by the waist to lift him.
This position is absurd, but Clark likes being able to see Bruce’s face as they fuck, and at this point Bruce still has the energy to sit up straight and ride him. The pace starts off slow, Bruce rocking down to meet each of Clark’s slow thrusts. It would behoove Bruce to let Clark start off gradually, but he needs something to distract him from how quietly intimate the situation is. Clark’s gaze scorches through him, and he can’t stand how stripped bare it makes him feel. He needs a distraction.
On the next lazy thrust, Bruce splays a hand over his own stomach and frowns down at his partner. “Clark. It’s never going to take at this rate. I’m starting to think you don’t want this with me. Should I go find someone else to knock me- ah-” His goading is cut short by a sharp roll of Clark’s hips. The motion leaves him holding onto Clark for balance.
“You really can’t help playing with fire, can you?” Clark asks, tightening his grip around Bruce’s waist. The heat of his hands brands Bruce’s skin and the sudden acceleration in his rhythm leaves Bruce breathless as he’s bounced ruthlessly on Clark’s cock. This is exactly what he needed.
“When it comes to you? Never. Now hurry and fill me up.”
“So many demands, Mr. Wayne,” Clark grouses good-naturedly. “You, uh- you don’t have to play along, if you don’t want,” he says after a moment, looking slightly embarrassed. The first time they’d done this Clark had been muttering the most filthy things into his ear the whole time he was doing his level best to fuck Bruce through the mattress.
Bruce has to take a second to gather his scattered thoughts before answering. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything besides the heavy thickness slamming into him again and again. “I thought…after the third time you would have realized that I clearly don’t mind.” It isn’t like Clark can actually impregnate him, oddities of Kryptonian physiology or not. While he wouldn’t mind birds in his empty nest again, he’s definitely on the wrong side of 40 and biology for whatever his body would have to go through to really bear any of Clark’s children. Still, it doesn’t stop him from enjoying the way Clark’s instinctive need to sow his wild oats manifests in the best sex of his life.
He reaches up to push back the strands of hair falling into his eyes before giving Clark one of his camera-ready smirks. “Now put your hips into it, son, or I’m going to go find someone who will.”
Clark's eyes, too dark to even be called blue, narrow dangerously and he lets out a guttural snarl of sound before he surges forward, shifting so that he can pull Bruce into a bruising kiss while rutting deep. It's both more and less intimate than before, and Bruce lets his eyes fall closed as Clark drives into him.
The first round usually ends with Clark coming first, the incandescent heat in him pushing him to the edge until Bruce’s body helps quench his thirst. Today is no exception. Clark breaks their kiss long enough for Bruce to catch a gasp of air before Clark’s rhythm stutters and he grinds upwards to pump his first load into Bruce. It's as copious as ever, which means it's no wonder that the sheets are always ruined by the time Clark is completely sated.
Bruce shivers, clenching helplessly as Clark continues to fuck through his own orgasm, pushing his seed in as deep as he can. Bruce is so hard he aches, but he knows Clark will get him there soon enough so he just lets himself relax into Clark’s arms as they slow to a temporary stop.
“That all you’ve got?” Bruce asks, trying to lower his heartrate so his words don’t come out as breathless as he feels.
“You’re well aware that it isn’t,” Clark pretends to grumble, before mouthing at Bruce’s pulse point as if Bruce isn’t soaked in enough of his scent yet.
While they’re still, Bruce takes the chance to press the back of his wrist to Clark’s forehead, feeling for a decrease in heat. Clark just laughs before pulling out enough to lay Bruce on his back. The momentary loss hits Bruce with a pang of irritation, but Clark nudges back into him almost immediately, bottoming out without difficulty.
The second round usually lasts longer than the first, the original frantic burst of energy having burned out with Clark’s orgasm. This used to drive Bruce crazy, Clark’s leisurely pace sending him tortuously slow toward his own release, but he’s grown unfortunately acclimated to it.
“It's not a fever,” Clark says warmly, sweet as cherry pie again now that he’s let out some of his rut haze on Bruce. He rubs against Bruce's prostate on every glide forward, almost mechanical in his steady, unfaltering speed. Bruce hates how much he enjoys it.
“Not for you, maybe. I might be melting from the inside out,” Bruce grumbles, letting Clark manhandle his legs so that he can angle himself in better.
“Don't worry, I've got you.”
Bruce loses sense of time as Clark moves in and around him, feeling somewhat adrift in the sensation as he tries not to be too obvious in the way he watches Clark. He and Diana are beautiful in similar ways, but in this moment, with his curls sticking to his forehead and a blush painting his skin, he doesn't look otherworldly. He simply looks real. Attainable.
Loving, almost.
Bruce absolutely refuses to dwell on the fact that it's this thought, plus the possessive hand that traces his throat, that finally pushes him over the edge. Clark follows soon after, spilling so hot inside Bruce again that he feels like his melting comment wasn't hyperbole. He gives Bruce a minute to clear his head before he's rearranging them again, lying Bruce on his side so he can curve around him from behind.
During the third round, Bruce's job is simply to lie there and look pretty as his body recovers. Clark is gentle but relentless, his body still hardwired to continue filling Bruce until there's no chance he hasn't been bred. Bruce's cock gives a valiant effort to react to the unending stimulation, but it ain't happening. When Clark comes, he presses his palm against Bruce's abdomen, as if to confirm that he's properly mated Bruce.
“How are you holding up?” Clark asks as he pulls out and turns Bruce so that they're facing one another again.
Bruce can tell that in Clark's absence he's dripping with his partner's cum, and the sound that escapes him is suspiciously close to a whine, so he shuts it down and rasps out, “Never been better. Intermission before the second act?”
“Sure,” Clark says easily.
Clark slots himself between Bruce's legs, pressing back into his hole until he's firmly hilted again, but they're content to simply lie there together and make out like reckless teenagers until Bruce's cock stirs again. But Clark is in no hurry, his hands too busy wandering over Bruce's chest, his back, his thighs. His mouth wanders too, leaving marks all along Bruce's neck and collarbones. It isn't until Bruce digs his heels into Clark's back that he begins rocking in and out again.
“Need it a little faster than that, sweetheart,” Bruce says after a few minutes.
“You sure?”
Bruce hums in agreement. “You're still too warm. I don't think you've given it all you've got yet.”
“Don't want to hurt you, Bruce,” Clark says in between teasing Bruce's nipple with his mouth.
“You won't. You never would.” He clenches insistently, watching as Clark restrains himself from thrusting harder. “Please, Kal?”
Clark groans in defeat and he lowers his head to rest gently against Bruce's for a second before he begins moving faster, harder. “There's no way I'm the boytoy,” he mutters. “Not when you've got me wrapped around your finger.”
“I'm two decades too old to be called anything of the sort.”
“No, you're perfect,” Clark insists. He’s giving it to Bruce exactly the way he needs it, just a touch rough, hands clamped around Bruce’s waist pulling him down in time to meet each hard snap of his hips.
“Hm.”
“Perfect,” he mutters as he wraps a hand around Bruce's cock. “I think you were always supposed to be mine- it had to be you, you're so good, so wonderful.” His ramblings blur into white noise to Bruce, who feels the pleasure in him building towards its inescapable end.
“I'm all yours. Anything you want from me, everything: it's yours.” Clark must have fucked him brainless, because why else would Bruce allow himself to be so truthful?
“Want it all. Gonna make sure everyone knows you're mine- breed you full. Fill you all the way up, fuck-”
“That's it, give it all to me,” Bruce says, words disintegrating into a moan as he comes. He's half-blitzed out of his mind as Clark continues to pound into him, but he has the forethought to lock his ankles behind Clark's back, tying them in place as Clark reaches his climax. Clark gives him a heated look as he realizes Bruce is intent on milking every drop out of him, and then they're kissing again, and Bruce's world has narrowed down to every point of connection between himself and Clark. He's so full of fire, inside and out, awash with Clark's radiance, and he has no choice but to surrender to the tide, to the fate of letting Clark burn him alive.
For the fifth and final round, Bruce is exhausted. He gives Clark a parting kiss before he settles into Clark’s lap, leaning back against his chest, where he floats in and out of consciousness as Clark jackhammers upward, using Bruce as a fleshlight as he chases his last orgasm. Clark has finally almost cooled back down to normal, which is good, because Bruce has already been stuffed to the brim; if they had to go again, Clark would probably just have to use him as a fuckdoll. Bruce is barely awake for those last, filthy pulses of Clark coming inside again, and even less so when he leaves a soft kiss on Bruce's lips before disentangling them.
As he drifts off, he feels Clark's hands carding softly through his hair, his voice murmuring, “It doesn't have to be everything. I'll take anything you're willing to give.”
I've got nothing to give but the parts of me that haven't yet eroded away, Bruce thinks before he slips off.
Bruce wakes in a clean bed, wearing clean clothes, and feeling a bit like he got gently thrown off a horse. Or gently plowed into a sleep cycle by Superman. Who, incidentally, is lying shirtless next to him, his face lax with sleep. Bruce wants to reach out and touch him, trace the lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the column of his throat which can't ever be marked in the same way that Bruce is certain his is.
Bruce wants so much, and that's exactly why he does nothing.
He wonders briefly if he can fall back asleep before Clark rouses, but it’s already too late. Clark, apparently in tune with the minute changes in Bruce’s pulse and breathing patterns, is already beginning to stir.
“Good morning,” Bruce says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. “If you're up for it, I can go fix us some breakfast.” Alfred must be home by now, but Bruce likes to do the cooking himself after these encounters. It gives him a moment to get himself back in order while he prepares to see Clark off until the next time.
“Mornin',” Clark replies, squinting up at Bruce. “Breakfast would be great.” He's still slightly groggy, his nose crinkling in annoyance when he finds his leg trapped in Bruce's sheets, and the affection Bruce feels for him is so immense and so terrible that he can't help the the huff of amusement that escapes his lips.
“Bested by some silk, Superman? Should I add it to your short list of weaknesses?”
“Might as well,” Clark grumbles, as he gingerly frees himself. “Right after yourself and your ten-piece suits.”
“There's nothing to be done about my sartorial choices, but as for the rest- I've told you before, you can't prioritize the team over civilian lives,” Bruce chides lightly. “You have to trust that we can take care of ourselves.”
“Of course I do, but- you know I'm not just talking about in the field, don't you?”
Bruce forces himself not to startle when Clark scooches forward so their legs are almost touching. This close, Bruce can count the individual eyelashes framing his pale eyes, especially when he's staring so intently like this, entreating Bruce to understand. Bruce rapidly replays their brief conversation in his mind, but he can't find anything worth evaluating further.
Clark must read the quiet confusion on his face, because a wry smile crosses his lips and he glances away briefly up toward the sky, as if asking one of his gods to give him strength, before telling Bruce slowly, “You're not just a colleague to me.”
This declaration shouldn't catch him as off-guard as it does, but Bruce does have to take a moment to bite back his instinctive dismissal of the notion. He supposes that after many months of letting a man ride you until your alien mating drive fizzles out you might eventually become endeared to him, if only through the rush of endorphins alone. Bruce will never be as amiable as the rest of the league, but he does regard them with warmth. Or as much as he's capable of. It's nice to be considered in the same way in return, even if he'll never be the kind to readily join in their pizza dinners or whatever it is they get up to at their after-battle parties.
“I have to wonder about your mental lucidity to be counting me among your friends, but- I do appreciate it. Being thought of as more than a teammate. I know that I'm not exactly as social as the rest of you-”
The laugh that bursts out of Clark is tinged with disbelief. “God. How can you be one of the smartest people I know and still so- you amaze me, Bruce. You really do.” Bruce would be more offended if he couldn't read the softness in Clark's gaze.
“I know you don't mean that as a compliment.”
“Half and half,” Clark admits, before looping his hand around the back of Bruce's neck to pull him into a kiss. Bruce lets himself sink into it until Clark releases him.
He keeps his hand steady at Bruce's nape, as he asks, with a hint of exasperation, “You think I spent the last however many months repeatedly laying claim to you because you're my friend? Do you think we've been platonically engaging in Kryptonian mating practices?”
Given the tone of his voice, Bruce knows, intellectually, what Clark must be getting at.
He knows, but he can't believe.
“People who aren't romantically involved fuck all the time,” he says hoarsely, and Clark tilts his head minutely, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“Right, sure, but people who aren't romantically involved usually don't bring each other back from the dead, Bruce.” He holds up a hand when Bruce makes to protest. “People who aren't romantically involved usually don't make each other pancakes at three in the morning because one of you was awake for a case anyway and the other one needed a moment of rest after an earthquake. They don't flirt with each other in the middle of fundraisers, no matter how much champagne they've pretended to drink. They don't sit by each other's bedsides through the night, waiting for the injuries to heal. They tend not to send each other jokes over text because the comm lines are for emergencies only. They don't keep an eye on the other's city as a precaution. They don't take walks around the lake at sunset planning living quarters for their teammates. They don't buy back one another's houses and their mother's houses and way more farm equipment than anyone would ever need. They don't piece each other's lives back together shard by shard in the wreckage they wrought together.”
“People,” Clark says, pausing to curl his free hand delicately over Bruce's own fingers, “who aren't romantically involved don't look at one another the way I look at you. And — if I'm not completely misreading the situation and making a total fool of myself — the way you look at me.”
It's typical of Bruce to concern himself first with the realization that Clark knows, that he's been aware all this time. Of course, it doesn't take an investigative reporter to see exactly how Bruce feels about Clark, but it certainly didn't do him any favors that Clark didn't decide to become a zookeeper or accountant instead.
It's only after he breathes through the reflexive horror of this information that he truly registers what else Clark just revealed to him.
His hand turns in Clark's grip to clench his fingers around unbreakable ones, holding tight enough to ground himself to this moment. Too many times in his life has he confused reality with a dream, a mass hallucination, a prescient nightmare.
“You- you can't really mean it.”
“Is it really so hard to believe?" Clark says softly. "That I could make you happy?”
“No, of course not. That was never in question,” Bruce tells him. His chest aches from what seems like a dozen different emotions trying to process themselves through his nerve endings at the same time. Did Clark always look at him with such tenderness? Did Bruce spend too many years rationalizing away anything that could be used against him to notice? "It just seemed like such a...statistical improbability that you would ever return my feelings.”
The smile that unfolds on Clark's face is incandescent, and it causes Bruce to flounder and falter. “So you do have feelings for me.”
Bruce looks helplessly at him, caught between his carefully cultivated habit not to reveal his vulnerabilities and his inability to deny Clark the truth any longer. “Since long before it would have ever been appropriate. Even now, I don't think-”
“Lies, you're always thinking-”
“Clark, I'm serious. Even if we feel the same way for each other, it doesn't mean that it's going to be easy for us to build an actual relationship instead of whatever it is we currently have going on.”
“You're not wrong. But I think we're partway there already, and I have faith that we can figure out the rest as we go. Nothing in either of our lives has ever been easy,” Clark reminds him. “I can't imagine that taking a chance on this could be much harder.”
He looks so deeply earnest that Bruce feels the need to extend an offer, an olive branch, a bare-bones contract outlining everything Clark will be bringing upon himself for daring to care about Bruce. Daring to love Bruce the way Bruce loves him.
He has so many excuses on his tongue, warning signs and red flags and reasons they shouldn't, but Clark shifts his hand around to run his thumb over a bruise he left blooming right above Bruce's collarbone, his eyes still fixated on Bruce's, and the words all fly away. Batman is only mortal, after all.
“It's not too late to change your mind,” is all he manages, leaving the burden on Clark to turn Bruce away, because for all his joking earlier, Clark is much more Bruce's weakness than the other way around. Bruce already lost him once. He finds himself loath to do anything that might cause him to lose Clark again.
“Actually, it is,” Clark says, watching Bruce with agonizing tenderness. “I've already chosen you. Let you into my heart and marked you as mine. You can refuse me if you want, but if you leave it up to me, I'm not letting you go." As if to illustrate his point, he frees himself from Bruce's grip to entwine their fingers instead. "I'm going to continue my plan of bringing you flowers and reluctantly allowing you to buy me coffeemakers and take me to overpriced restaurants until you decide to break things off. Given your personality, I'm hoping you'll take this as a challenge to outlast me.”
Bruce has to laugh in defeat, rubbing his fingertips against his temple as he wonders when exactly his resolve last crumbled so completely. He never really stood a chance, did he?
“Do you really think you can win a war of attrition against me, Clark? I did promise you everything, didn't I? It was the truth then, and it's the truth now.”
“Then let me have it. Let's give us a try.”
For another moment, Bruce studies his face, and the openness that he finds there does nothing but further pry open the walls on his already exposed heart. Since their first meeting, he'd known that Clark Kent would be his downfall. It only took him the end of the world to understand how.
“Alright. Let's see which of us is left standing at the end.”
Clark laughs, and presses forward to tip Bruce onto his back, bracing a hand against the mattress to linger over him.
“That's the realist I know and love. Maybe we'll make it a stalemate.” He lowers himself to brush a chaste kiss to Bruce's lips before his other hand finds its way to Bruce's hip. His fingertips slip under Bruce's shirt to trace circles on his skin, eliciting a small sigh.
“What about breakfast,” Bruce tries to ask, but his heart obviously isn't in it, given the way his own hands come up to wrap around Clark's waist.
“You know I won't say no to your pancakes,” Clark says, smiling. “On the other hand, you could let me reassert that what we've been doing is decidedly not friend behavior.”
It takes Bruce less than a second to choose. “Pancakes later," he decides, pulling Clark down to meet him. “Right now I want to be reminded of who I belong to.” He finally gives in to his urge to smile when Clark leans in to do exactly as Bruce says.