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It wasn't uncommon for Batman and Superman to find themselves in a post-mission argument. They both shared the same instinct, or perhaps it was a psychological disorder at that point, to blame themselves for the injuries of those they protected, even in situations they could have done nothing to prevent. This time it seemed worse, though no other League member could pinpoint the exact reason.
Bruce sounded bestial. His voice was more animalistic than anyone present had ever heard. Which was surprising, since Batman never missed an opportunity to deliver harsh reprimands to the other team members, but this time he sounded especially brutal.
On the other hand, Clark's reaction to each verbal attack with another verbal attack was much rarer. His blue eyes shone with indignation, but his hands trembled slightly. They knew they should look away, leave the room, but curiosity seemed to have a force of its own. Then, the next exchange froze everyone present.
"Why are you being such an idiot, Bruce?" I—I don't understand you—Clark sighed painfully—"Do you really think yelling at me in front of everyone, calling me reckless when I saved those people, is really the best way to show you care?" The Kryptonian's words came out in a single breath, as if they weren't allowed but simply escaped his lips.
"Is that what you think is happening?" Bruce asked coldly.
"You can't fool me, B. I know you. Just once, just once, use your real words, damn it." The unexpected curse made the younger members gasp silently.
Clark felt exhausted from the mission, his ribs still throbbing, but what tormented him most was the impasse that had been growing on the fringes of their relationship for some time. It wasn't about that mission, at least not exclusively about it. The push-and-pull between them was complicated. Both men were ready to break the other's heart—albeit in very different ways.
The plea in his sentence was both an ultimatum and an olive branch; it was up to Bruce to choose. Admit, for once, that you were worried because you love me, don't push me away. A blow seen coming from afar shouldn't hurt so much.
"I couldn't care less about you, Superman. Just because you occasionally warm Bruce Wayne's bed doesn't mean you're anything more than a necessary resource, a tolerable presence at best. If you weren't useful, you'd be nothing. Not to me, not to the fucking world."
The deathly silence stretched for less than a minute, but it could have been years for how uncomfortably it stretched. Clark blinked against the pain of the words, his throat burning.
"Did you like that?" he asked softly. "Did it make you feel good? I hope so, because we both know the truth." His voice trembled, something in his chest tightening. "But it's good to know how willing you are to humiliate and despise me to cover your own cowardice."
And with that, Clark had left the room. Bruce looked like a taut rope ready to snap, his fists clenched angrily. It wasn't surprising that he followed Clark out of the room. It was, however, a relief to the onlookers.
Clark took a deep breath, a part of him wanting to leave the tower and fly straight home, anywhere away from this mess of a relationship, really. He wanted to cry until his eyes dried up forever, to shrink into nothingness. Bruce's words bordered on cruelty, but it was the truth of them that hurt the most.
Bruce took every insecurity Clark had and used it to despise him. Useless, incompetent, a weapon or a warm body, but never a person, never enough.
Clark wasn't stupid, as many liked to say. He knows there's no way Bruce could have faked (or Clark himself could have invented) the sweet gestures, the soft kisses, the shared laughter, the intimate whispers of secrets, fears, and hopes.
The denial of something deeper than sex between them was not only unfounded, but poorly conveyed. Bruce couldn't lie to Clark, not after all that time spent side by side. In the end, that wasn't what really hurt him. He could have dealt with the lie if it had come alone.
But no, Bruce truly wanted to hurt him. He took every vulnerability Clark confided in him and turned it into a spectacle, spitting his feelings at his feet as if it were reasonable to use them to achieve his goal. Clark couldn't even pinpoint the exact purpose. What did Bruce gain from all this? Nothing, really. But maybe, for a man addicted to self-sabotage, that's exactly what he was after. Honestly, it doesn't matter. Clark is hurt, but he knows he can't escape the footsteps behind him—well, maybe he can, but he doesn't want to.
A masochistic part of him wants to see how much Bruce can hurt him. Another, slightly vengeful part, wants to hear pleas and requests for forgiveness, wants to see tears and tremors of repentance, wants Bruce on his knees and devotion in his eyes. So, against the sanity of his conscience, he enters his "room" in the tower, but doesn't close the door.
Bruce felt his bones tremble beneath his skin. Whatever lived there was foaming with rage, like a beast blind to anything but blood; his rationality, which he prided himself on, was abandoned to the vultures. He didn't feel human, like on his worst nights as Batman. Adrenaline, violence, and vulnerability mixed like a drug in his veins. And the only thing he could see was him.
Beautiful crystal blue eyes, lips shaped like hearts in a sweet smile, but then… the voice cracking over the comms, the sound of pain as a green explosion consumed the collapsing building, shallow breathing as he carried civilians away from danger, straining even as his nose bled like a red cascade across his face, then the way he collapsed to his knees, the fear that flooded his chest at the sight of Clark's nearly lifeless body.
The mission had been a mess, full of unexpected events and traps Bruce couldn't have anticipated, and that alone could have been enough to devastate his sanity, but it wasn't just that. Clark, beautiful and sweet, vulnerable and broken, tangled up with the damn villain, kryptonite, a building barely holding together, and a bunch of terrified civilians.
His blood was still on Batman's gloves. One more second they took to get to him, and Bruce might have had to bury his body. The image seemed etched in his head, playing on a loop and feeding that resident monster. Bruce entered Clark's room and slammed the door as if it were to blame for all his troubles. The hinges loosened against the harsh violence.
Clark didn't turn from where he pretended to fiddle with something on the end table. Bruce growled.
"I'm not finished talking," he growled, beside himself.
"I don't care," he huffed.
He still had his back to him, and wasn't that the worst provocation of all? Depriving an addicted man of his drug? Hiding bright blue that made your blood roar in your veins?
"Fuck, don't provoke me," he turned Clark around, holding him by the hips. How could a man made of steel be so soft and malleable?
"Me? Am I the one trying to provoke you?" Clark laughed sarcastically, a sound that seemed as out of character as it sounded provocative, something very much in character, the angry thing reminded him.
"Don't be a brat—"
"You're the one who stepped into the tower, wanting to start a fight! You wanted to scream, curse, and hurt me! But I'm the brat? Not the grown man who doesn't know how to communicate like a normal human being?" he muttered angrily.
"And you know?" The insinuation was low and cruel, filling Clark's veins with venom.
"Fuck you," he growled back.
Clark pushed him away; Bruce hadn't even realized how he'd trapped the man between the table and his own body. Both their breathing was labored, the air crackling with tension between them.
"You can't fool me, Bruce, you're just—"
"Quiet—"
"A coward."
In a second, everything was quiet. The next, Bruce's hand found Clark's throat, his warm body pushing him against the wall, and their lips collided almost painfully. Clark whimpered like a kitten as Bruce lifted him by his thighs. Before he could pretend to protest, Bruce pinned him against the wall with one arm around his waist, while the other returned to hold his face firmly, soft yet rough. Their lips crashed together viciously, Bruce tugging at his pink lips and biting his neck, his hands possessively squeezing. Clark could barely think, but when Bruce pulled away for air and those rough hands finally unbuttoned his path, the burning feeling in his chest resonated.
Clark pushed Bruce away with a gentle push, a contrast to the violent urgency they'd been having so far. He's getting this too easily, his thoughts echoed, where are the tears? Where is the forgiveness? Clark felt ashamed of this feeling, of the force that craved adoration and penance from the man he loved. On the other hand, he whispered in his head: How else could he balance this dance between them? No, he needed Bruce to choose to be true to his feelings for him.
Bruce looked at him, confused, but still too immersed in Batman's mindset to say anything. Clark smiled involuntarily; God, how he loves him. So handsome and brilliant, even with his blood-stained mouth and exposed teeth. Clark removed his lover's hood without resistance. Bruce still seemed a little frozen, but his eyes followed every movement like a watchful fox.
"I don't know if you deserve me after today's stunt."
Bruce froze, the words echoing in his brain. The man part was ashamed, but the monster part still wanted to bite and show that it was his fault in the first place, for getting into a fight that could have taken him away from Bruce forever.
"Enough growling, don't make me put you on a leash." Clark kissed his jaw, guiding him until Bruce sat on the bed and Clark could cuddle in his lap, while the older man's hands wrapped around his waist again.
The truth is, the sudden shift in power in the room was making Bruce's mind sluggish; the sweet kisses and sighs against his ear weren't helping.
"What do you think? You think you deserve to fuck me, B?" Clark asked as if talking about the weather, as he dismantled the Batman suit. "Or should I, as you said… Warm someone else's bed?"
Bruce could have been foaming at the mouth at this point with the way his noises sounded animalistic, his jaw clenched, his muscles spasming with adrenaline.
"Answer, B, please," Clark whispered, reaching down to undo the other man's belt.
"No," he murmured.
"No what?" he asked, sliding his hand down to the other man's cock, stifling a moan at the sensation of heat and pulsing against his hand.
Bruce sighed, throwing his head back in pleasure. When Clark threatened to slow down, Bruce snapped, flipping them over on the bed. The creak of the wooden bed almost breaking echoed through the room, but went unnoticed by both men.
The man from Gotham didn't hesitate to finish ripping off any remaining clothing from the beautiful creature trapped in his arms. He lifted Clark's wrists with one hand, pushing them against the mattress as one of the bedposts finally broke.
Clark looked at him with a fucking pout on his face, which Bruce couldn't resist kissing until they were both in a dirty dance of tongues. Beautiful angel, he thought, staring at the black curls tangled against his sweaty, red skin. So sensitive, my beautiful angel. Bruce wanted to devour him.
"Bruce," he moaned, slowly opening his knees so the man fit between his legs. Bruce had to stop to appreciate the scene.
Clark bit his lip, watching Bruce rip off his own clothes in automatic movements, his gray eyes barely straying from his pussy. Heat rose to his face and, shamefully, between his thighs.
Bruce groaned, almost defeated, watching the blush run down his cheeks to his chest, and from there to the sweet, soaked folds of his pussy. His rough fingers massaged his clit vigorously, and Clark moaned like a whore. Bruce felt a wry smile appear, unable to contain it, so he decided to hide it between his love's thighs.
The feel of his stubble always sent an electric shock through him. The way Bruce felt hungrily against his vagina made him embarrassed, but equally wet. His hand gently gripped the straight, black, slightly gray hair, while the other violently smashed something on his nightstand (probably everything).
Bruce rose to kiss him and guide his own cock to where they both needed it. Their pupils were blown black as they watched Bruce's thick cock sink into Clark's hot, wet entrance. The thrusts had barely begun and were already hard and demanding. Clark was a vision of the gods, flushed and mewling with each thrust Bruce made that seemed almost to reach his cervix.
Gray and Blue stared at each other, revealing their secrets. If Clark saw the possessive, cruel beast that lived beneath Bruce's skin, Bruce could see, beneath all his insecurity and shame, his overwhelming need to be loved and worshipped like an altar. The things smiled at each other. Bruce and Clark kissed as if sealing a pact, as if they understood without words.
Bruce came deep inside Clark, and the sensation finally brought him to his own orgasm. Both bodies trembled. When Bruce tried to pull away, Clark held him with his thighs and leaned in for another kiss. This one was slow, both in a haze of calmer pleasure.
"No."
Clark blinked, a little confused.
"I don't deserve you, my love," Bruce said, his hand cupping his face as he placed a kiss on his temple. "But I couldn't bear to live without you. How do you taste heaven and then go back to hell, huh?" —he whispered in his ear—“I can't bear the thought of losing you, and seeing you bleeding makes me jealous. You're mine, no one can touch you, no one can take you from me, not a single piece, not a single drop of blood or tear.”
“I know,” he said firmly. “It wasn't the lie that hurt me.” Bruce nodded slightly, holding their hands together, fingers intertwined.
“What must I do to earn your forgiveness?” Small tears welled up amidst the gray.
Silence seemed like an answer in itself, Bruce thought. If Clark never forgave him, if he never allowed him to touch him again, but still allowed him the mercy of breathing the same air as him, watching him from afar, then it would be more than they ever deserved.
"There's nothing to be done."
"Oh," Bruce felt something tighten in his chest.
Clark lifted his chin to look back at him.
"I've forgiven you, Bruce. You don't have to deserve it," he said, kissing her cheeks lightly. "It's all forgiven."
The breath escaped him again.
"I don't deserve it—"
"You don't decide that."
"I can't always control myself," he said, his voice breaking, more stupid tears streaming down his face. "I'll hurt you again."
Clark flipped them over, straddling his lap (and his cock, but now wasn't the time to think about that).
"I don't care," he whispered, moving his hips slightly.
"You should," he argued, grabbing his ass possessively (and a bit hypocritically). "I'm broken, something inside me isn't right, Clark." He looked away, but Clark didn't let him for long, cupping his chin and kissing his lips.
"Whatever your soul is made of, mine is made of the same," he said, their foreheads touching after the kiss.
And as if he hadn't destroyed Bruce and remade him in one sentence, Clark rocked his hips until they both moaned in a second orgasm—faster, but just as intense as the first. Bruce groaned softly when they separated, a little overstimulated. The younger man snuggled against the broad body beneath him, content as a kitten as Bruce pulled him into a proper embrace.
"I love you," he murmured.
The answer came quickly, without hesitation.
"I love you," he held his partner tighter.
For that moment, everything would be okay.