~”You may advance and be absolutely irresistible, if you make for the enemy’s weak points;”~ -Sun Tzu
Bruce presses Clark flat lightly, with one hand, and Clark yields, warm runnels glistening on his chest, covered in his own come, and,
“Kal.” Abrasive. Deliberate, with that particular inflection of High Kryptonian—of course. Bruce is too insightful, too vigilant to miss this, which means, it means that Bruce knew, that he’s KNOWN, and Clark has been hiding in plain sight all over again for nothing—
—and the world is shaking and he’s pouring himself out in stabbing hot spurts while Bruce looks into him like he’s never seen Clark before, while he fucking studies him—
—and Clark realizes that his face is wet, that he’s crying, that he’s been crying for God knows how long, and Bruce, Bruce flexes inside him and Clark—
—loses track for an endless breath, panics, hovers above the smooth ground, fingers anchoring him into the polished floor.
“Mm.” There are worlds of meaning shading that hum. Satisfaction and a discerning worldliness, wonder and the razor’s edge of disbelief. In all the permutations of shading, though, Clark can’t hear one drop of mockery.
Bruce’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second and Clark is suddenly deeply afraid. The body against his is tense, Bruce hasn’t allowed himself relief, hasn’t relaxed one inch. He isn’t masking his heart rate, or maybe he’s decided to let Clark hear just enough to settle. Bruce is generous, so generous with his time and his care and his very mortal life, but Bruce is also a cruel man. Bruce has done things, said things to the people he loved that he knew were unforgivable, because they were unforgivable. Because Bruce loved them and needed them, and so they—
Made him weak
—had to go.
Fear is so familiar on Clark’s tongue that it’s almost a relief. Clark has always been afraid - afraid of himself, afraid of what he might do, afraid of what he can do and what others will do to him. Clark loves. Clark can’t afford to be unafraid.
Perhaps Clark is braver than Bruce gave him credit for. Being vulnerable is a death sentence in their world. Clark should know better. He does know better, but he’s not half as good a liar as Bruce is. Why can’t Clark remember? Why can’t Clark keep his head on straight?
—Because being safe is more important than being happy—
Maybe he’s lulling Clark into a false sense of security to make the hit have better impact when it comes. He would never hit Clark—never break his hand on Clark’s impervious face, but he knows—he knows—and he can hurt Clark, and improve the efficacy of the Mission, and get rid of an untidy arrangement, an unsavory obligation, an irresponsible addiction. He can make Clark walk away—he knows more than enough to use Clark’s temper against him; use Clark’s everything against him.
Clark doesn’t know which option to wish for, or which is worse. Which one says worse things about him?
That he wants Bruce to accept this, to accept him and keep him, or that he wants Bruce to tell him to go? He wants this to be about him, and he wants it to have nothing to do with him at all. Which is more selfish? Clark is—
(irresponsible)
Bruce can break Clark.
Clark is the one hiding behind his eyelids now, and he wants to be brave, but he’ll never be the kind of brave that Bruce is. He can’t. He’ll never know what it is to be hurt again and again and to get up and return to the fight. Clark can’t—every time Clark’s been made vulnerable, Clark—
Well.
Clark doesn’t have endurance. Clark loves desperately, for as long as he can. He’s self-aware enough to know that. Endurance has to be earned. Life has taught Clark that he may be strong, but strong isn’t good enough. Strong isn’t tough. Clark doesn’t recover from emotional injuries like Bruce. Clark loved and Clark died and Lois mourned him and there is no going back. Clark doesn’t have enough, that he can just put himself back together with a smile and a wave to the cameras and get on with his life. His life.
If Bruce—
If he—
How will Clark—
His frustrated super-processing comes to an abrupt halt as a hard mouth slots over his, and he moans because he didn’t even notice the finger leaving, and yes, Bruce had a front row seat to all of Clark’s doubt.
“Tell me.” Bruce murmurs into the space between, before he presses and slides and yes—that—
And Clark knows Bruce doesn’t mean that, he can’t mean that, so,
“I’m—sorry—” Clark manages, he tries to be good, he tries to be thoughtful, while Bruce grinds into him filthily, tongue assaying Clark’s mouth and with the heat and the wet slide and his own fevered mumbling making a mess of things, it should be awkward, it should be—
Bruce gives a wry sounding pant of laughter even though there is absolutely nothing funny about this, licks into Clark lips and Clark needs to see.
“Are you.” Bruce says, pupils blown so wide that Clark can see every bitter-nib and butterscotch-tinted shade from centimeters away; forbidding in that way that reads pissed off, and it is its own kind of statement that he shows even that much. Clark doesn’t know how to answer.
no, yes, please forgive me, no, no, no
Clark wonders if Bruce is continuing this because Bruce needs to, or because his body needs to, and can’t decide which is more difficult to bear. He can’t imagine Bruce undisciplined, out of bounds like Clark, out of control of his own body—
—and then it’s too late, and Bruce gives a tight hard nod as if he’d answered anyway, grips Clark with what he knows could be a bone-breaking hold and lets loose. He’s pouring with sweat, Bruce; hair matted in tufts from wearing the cowl earlier, chest dark with hair and shoulders so broad. Clark thinks of the rich earth in his eyes, the wide Kansas sky and the width of Bruce, places him there in his mind, tries to see it - Bruce on the farm—feel it—before everything is over and done and taken away from him.
“Hands.” Bruce snaps curtly, hips rolling against Clark with the predictable swells of a perfect bell curve and Clark shouldn’t—
Clark doesn’t want to—
There are Rules, foremost being that if Clark can’t control himself, he has to listen to Bruce, and he doesn’t trust himself—but he trusts, so Clark—
Re: FILL: Position Awareness 5/?
Bruce presses Clark flat lightly, with one hand, and Clark yields, warm runnels glistening on his chest, covered in his own come, and,
“Kal.” Abrasive. Deliberate, with that particular inflection of High Kryptonian—of course. Bruce is too insightful, too vigilant to miss this, which means, it means that Bruce knew, that he’s KNOWN, and Clark has been hiding in plain sight all over again for nothing—
—and the world is shaking and he’s pouring himself out in stabbing hot spurts while Bruce looks into him like he’s never seen Clark before, while he fucking studies him—
—and Clark realizes that his face is wet, that he’s crying, that he’s been crying for God knows how long, and Bruce, Bruce flexes inside him and Clark—
—loses track for an endless breath, panics, hovers above the smooth ground, fingers anchoring him into the polished floor.
“Mm.” There are worlds of meaning shading that hum. Satisfaction and a discerning worldliness, wonder and the razor’s edge of disbelief. In all the permutations of shading, though, Clark can’t hear one drop of mockery.
Bruce’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second and Clark is suddenly deeply afraid. The body against his is tense, Bruce hasn’t allowed himself relief, hasn’t relaxed one inch. He isn’t masking his heart rate, or maybe he’s decided to let Clark hear just enough to settle. Bruce is generous, so generous with his time and his care and his very mortal life, but Bruce is also a cruel man. Bruce has done things, said things to the people he loved that he knew were unforgivable, because they were unforgivable. Because Bruce loved them and needed them, and so they—
Made him weak
—had to go.
Fear is so familiar on Clark’s tongue that it’s almost a relief. Clark has always been afraid - afraid of himself, afraid of what he might do, afraid of what he can do and what others will do to him. Clark loves. Clark can’t afford to be unafraid.
Perhaps Clark is braver than Bruce gave him credit for. Being vulnerable is a death sentence in their world. Clark should know better. He does know better, but he’s not half as good a liar as Bruce is. Why can’t Clark remember? Why can’t Clark keep his head on straight?
—Because being safe is more important than being happy—
Maybe he’s lulling Clark into a false sense of security to make the hit have better impact when it comes. He would never hit Clark—never break his hand on Clark’s impervious face, but he knows—he knows—and he can hurt Clark, and improve the efficacy of the Mission, and get rid of an untidy arrangement, an unsavory obligation, an irresponsible addiction. He can make Clark walk away—he knows more than enough to use Clark’s temper against him; use Clark’s everything against him.
Clark doesn’t know which option to wish for, or which is worse. Which one says worse things about him?
That he wants Bruce to accept this, to accept him and keep him, or that he wants Bruce to tell him to go? He wants this to be about him, and he wants it to have nothing to do with him at all. Which is more selfish? Clark is—
(irresponsible)
Bruce can break Clark.
Clark is the one hiding behind his eyelids now, and he wants to be brave, but he’ll never be the kind of brave that Bruce is. He can’t. He’ll never know what it is to be hurt again and again and to get up and return to the fight. Clark can’t—every time Clark’s been made vulnerable, Clark—
Well.
Clark doesn’t have endurance. Clark loves desperately, for as long as he can. He’s self-aware enough to know that. Endurance has to be earned. Life has taught Clark that he may be strong, but strong isn’t good enough. Strong isn’t tough. Clark doesn’t recover from emotional injuries like Bruce. Clark loved and Clark died and Lois mourned him and there is no going back. Clark doesn’t have enough, that he can just put himself back together with a smile and a wave to the cameras and get on with his life. His life.
If Bruce—
If he—
How will Clark—
His frustrated super-processing comes to an abrupt halt as a hard mouth slots over his, and he moans because he didn’t even notice the finger leaving, and yes, Bruce had a front row seat to all of Clark’s doubt.
“Tell me.” Bruce murmurs into the space between, before he presses and slides and yes—that—
And Clark knows Bruce doesn’t mean that, he can’t mean that, so,
“I’m—sorry—” Clark manages, he tries to be good, he tries to be thoughtful, while Bruce grinds into him filthily, tongue assaying Clark’s mouth and with the heat and the wet slide and his own fevered mumbling making a mess of things, it should be awkward, it should be—
Bruce gives a wry sounding pant of laughter even though there is absolutely nothing funny about this, licks into Clark lips and Clark needs to see.
“Are you.” Bruce says, pupils blown so wide that Clark can see every bitter-nib and butterscotch-tinted shade from centimeters away; forbidding in that way that reads pissed off, and it is its own kind of statement that he shows even that much. Clark doesn’t know how to answer.
no, yes, please forgive me, no, no, no
Clark wonders if Bruce is continuing this because Bruce needs to, or because his body needs to, and can’t decide which is more difficult to bear. He can’t imagine Bruce undisciplined, out of bounds like Clark, out of control of his own body—
—and then it’s too late, and Bruce gives a tight hard nod as if he’d answered anyway, grips Clark with what he knows could be a bone-breaking hold and lets loose. He’s pouring with sweat, Bruce; hair matted in tufts from wearing the cowl earlier, chest dark with hair and shoulders so broad. Clark thinks of the rich earth in his eyes, the wide Kansas sky and the width of Bruce, places him there in his mind, tries to see it - Bruce on the farm—feel it—before everything is over and done and taken away from him.
“Hands.” Bruce snaps curtly, hips rolling against Clark with the predictable swells of a perfect bell curve and Clark shouldn’t—
Clark doesn’t want to—
There are Rules, foremost being that if Clark can’t control himself, he has to listen to Bruce, and he doesn’t trust himself—but he trusts, so Clark—
—lets go.