dceu_kinkmeme | DCEU Prompt Post #1

OP here, I replied to you above, and all those things sound amazing. <3

AO3 link:

Position Awareness: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11677029

Chapter One

~”In making tactical dispositions, the highest pitch you can attain is to conceal them;”~ -Sun Tzu

Clark’s not proud, that it makes him happy. He’s not proud to feel this joy, this delirium. He’s not proud of how it makes him whimper and shake; not proud of how the silence and the shadows and the strength of Bruce’s grip and the weight of Bruce’s body and the absence of Bruce’s attention make it clear. Dedicated and hallowed as these grounds may be, this is no veneration, and Bruce is no supplicant. Bruce isn’t body shy—he’s never been a man easy to humble or bluff. Bruce and his Mission; the Mission and Bruce—they were inseparable. Clark could never have one without the other, and Bruce. Bruce would never have Clark without Superman. Bruce is rage and will, a Presence that he hides behind a soft-eyed, soft-minded mask. Bruce is darkness and brilliance; secrets and masks, incredible fortitude. Bruce endures.

The man in question, the man Clark loves enough to not let the world burn. Resting heartbeat steady at 38 beats per minute, breath tightly controlled as he fucks up into Clark for the second hour with what should be bruising strength. By all rights, Clark should be screaming. Clark should be begging for mercy. Clark is just fine, only distantly aware that he’s staring up at Bruce from under his lashes; that he hasn’t stopped staring since Bruce laid hands on him tonight.

“Bruce…” He can’t recognize his own voice these days. He’s never sounded like this before, like he’s drunk, like he’s starving, like he can’t get enough.

Clark begs for more, and Bruce shifts silently, always graceful. Always deadly. Bruce presses down, gives him more. A dry caress of lips across Clark’s bent knee, a profoundly still space of deep even breaths. A slight tremor to the callused hands gripping Clark’s hip and thigh is the only warning before Bruce surges forward again. Steely eyes remain distant, fixed into the distance above Clark’s head.

He’s probably reviewing the results of his latest metallurgy test or running the odds of nanomesh-induced allergic reactions to the newest wave of Wayne Technologies HazMat protection gear. It really shouldn’t matter to Clark; this is enough, really it is. If only Bruce would kiss him, he thinks, that would be even better.

And then he does.

~”Therefore the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.”~ -Sun Tzu

There are Rules.

One is explicit, the rest remain Unspoken, but Clark knows them all the same.

Bruce Wayne the mask is ineffective, ridiculous—he’s what everyone wants to be and yet he’s no one at all—his weaknesses are legendary and endless. Stupidity, culpability, lecherousness, an authoritarian possessiveness; he’s undeserving of his riches and cavalier of them; a squanderer, a sleazy drunkard and a weak-armed handshake, the worst kind of businessman, the worst kind of man—the list is exhaustive. A more perfect waste of space hadn’t yet been invented.

Batman is too imperative to have weaknesses. Clark can’t be his weak point, any more than Robin—any Robin—ever could be. Bruce would never forgive Clark, for making this weird. Fine, weirder. This is exercise, training, this is Bruce being the first Human to understand the Monitor-servants of Clark’s Colony Ship. This is Bruce learning things about Clark that even Clark didn’t know, and stopping a disaster of untold proportions caused by nothing less than the unsanctioned signature of Clark’s mixed-caste DNA. This is Bruce helping Clark curb some very adult Kryptonian urges that Clark wouldn’t admit to having until Bruce shoved his nose in them. This is Bruce, being allowed to let off steam with someone he unequivocally cannot hurt unless he intends to. This is as safe as it gets.

Clark has to be strong. And yet…

He really doesn’t.

There’s the Case, full of what Bruce calls ‘K’. The one they don’t—cant—talk about. The only reason Clark gets this privilege; the only reason Clark is allowed even this close. Clark should be grateful, really. He should, he should be thankful that there is someone who can put him in line.

Bruce never lets his debutantes and fuck-boys undress him—never lets them see him. He may tongue-fuck them in public restaurants and get caught receiving suckjobs in the kind of sophisticated places that cost more for a plate than Clark’s apartment does per month, but they don’t know these shadows. Truthfully, Clark isn’t even sure if Bruce fucks any of them. He knows they don’t kiss these chapped, hard lips or this scarred skin, though admittedly, the kissing is a new thing. They don’t know how Bruce kisses, like each one is a cryptogram for him to interpret and unravel with his tongue; like Clark is a lock he has to finesse open or coax to surrender his secrets. Kisses like breathing and biting, tarnished conduits that light up the dark in fast-dying flares. Kisses that make Clark feel exactly as he sounds right now—no, he can’t get enough.

~”By holding out advantages to him, he can cause the enemy to approach of his own accord; or, by inflicting damage, he can make it impossible for the enemy to draw near.”~ -Sun Tzu

Bruce never should have kissed him if he ever expected Clark to want less.

Bruce wears scars like constellations across the conditioned map of his body—Clark is endlessly fascinated. This man has lived, and suffered, and is still standing. Bruce has taken hits, and gotten back up. Clark has no scars, not on his back, pressed into the uniform and the bedrock underneath him; not on the bare sculpted planes of his chest where Bruce’s sweat is dripping onto him.

Not that any of those Society Gothamites could take it, but they also don’t get this particular skill-set of brutal efficiency wringing them dry, hour by hour of pleasure until it’s anguish; until even Clark doesn’t know up from down, until Bruce has had enough.

Only Clark gets this. So only Clark gets…well, this; the deliberately vacant lack of focus, the absence of Bruce. Not the Bat, not Bruce Wayne—both and neither—something, someone altogether different. Someone who doesn’t quite exist at day or in the night. Someone who has enough control that they can make even the Man-of-Steel feel pliable and loose, sparks shooting up his spine and reaching out and out and out until it feels as if the entire world is shaking and Bruce is the only solid thing left to cling to.

This is Bruce, protecting himself. It doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out why Bruce would need protection from Clark, of all people. In this situation, of all situations. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s to blame.

Bruce is sliding his hand up to Clark’s cock and Clark-

“Nnngh-”

—Clark doesn’t want him to—he wants it just like this, grounding touch and unflinching hands.

Bruce knows, pauses when Clark’s stomach tenses, Bruce always knows; his jaw is taut in resolve and his sweat bathes the backs of Clark’s thighs, and he clasps Clark’s waist instead, and he perseveres, unrelenting.

Which is why Clark moans in shame as much as in pleasure. This is why Clark can’t be proud. This is why Clark never feels less a hero than when he’s trapped oh so willingly under Bruce. Wide-eyed and terrified, because it’s an obscenity, it’s shameful that he doesn’t want to be a hero, when he’s, when Bruce is—

“God, Bruce.” He can’t think.

(’You’re not brave - men are brave’, and Bruce was half-right. Bruce was right, because if Clark had understood what it would cost him, then maybe-)

He wants this too much.

Bruce gives a wordless growl and yanks Clark impossibly closer. Clark feels inevitability kindle up his spine, neurons sparking. He wishes he could bite back that sound, that needy sound pouring out of him, and suddenly it’s a hundred—a thousand times worse, because Bruce is present and aware in a way that he hasn’t been for years. Bruce has shown him disdain; Bruce has shown him contempt; Bruce has let him see the cold calculating rage that burns inside him. Bruce has been patient and Bruce has been gracious, but Bruce has never been kind. Bruce had kept him at a professional length once and even now, Bruce has managed to keep himself at a polite and distant remove from Clark. Even when—no, especially when they were physically intimate. A seemingly aloof remove, an unbearable gulf of distance that made Clark feel sick to his stomach every time and hungry for more. A semblance of detachment, but Clark had forgotten. Clark had let himself actually believe that Bruce, of all people, was inattentive.

~”Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend; march swiftly to places where you are not expected.”~ -Sun Tzu

Clark is—

—sloppy, his heart thrums, negligent, thoughtless—

Clark’s world is upended, and he thought he was used to it, this sense of flight and exhilaration, the slow roll in his gut like gravity flipping over, but no. He’s never going to be used to this. Never going to take this for granted. Bruce.

Bruce is watching him, chestnut eyes gone dark. Bruce is here with him, in this moment and maybe it’s Clark’s heart, which feels like he’s been stabbed (and he would know), or maybe it’s his Kryptonian physiology, but Clark feels something. Something strikes beneath his skin, between his ribs. Something like fire, like the time he was hit by a bolt of lightning. Something that feels binding. Something incandescent that wrenches another cry from his throat.

“Bruce!” he can’t help the spasm that digs his fingers deeper into solid stone.

Bruce. It’s all he can think, all Clark can see, all he can smell. Clark doesn’t get much personal contact these days. For some reason people seem uneasy around him after his—after he came back to life. They’re wary of him in a way they never were before, all except Bruce. Bruce never shows Clark a hint of fear, approaches Clark like he’s a known entity, like he’s a person and touches him like—

Touches him. Every inch of his skin is hypersensitive, thrumming with the feel of skin and hair and traction. There, the drop of sweat, so rare, slipping down the curve of Clark’s jaw. He can feel the wideness of his own eyes, the trembling in his limbs as he oscillates within the bounds of Bruce’s arms. He has to stop - he has to -

There are Rules.

One is explicit, and the rest are Unspoken.

He’ll shake apart.

Bruce is watching, and Clark can see in the press of his lips, in the intensity of his eyes, that Bruce hasn’t missed a thing.

He can hear the words already. Words like unacceptable, reckless, unforgivable, regrettable.

Undisciplined.

Unsustainable.

Dangerous.

“Clark.” Bruce says, riding Clark’s shudders, and how is he, how can he stay so hard, how can he sound so calm, buried inside Clark, how can he trust Clark when Clark is shaking and any second Clark could, he could—

Bruce dips his head slowly, holding eye contact with Clark, and Clark startles like a yearling at all the variances, the glim of copper; he licks the sweat from Clark’s cheek, and stares.

Clark.

Down.

This is Bruce’s precious bravery, indelible and unshakable. Bruce’s eyes glint, but his pulse is as steady as ever. Clark’s not proud of himself, no, because it’s obvious, even to a Smallville boy like him. Fucking him, no—loving him, is just as painful for Bruce as it is for Clark. Bruce knows that he can hurt Clark and Clark…doesn’t know what to do with that. Clark’s not proud, because Clark is greedy; selfish; unable to hold back his noises, unable to do anything but grip into the slick rock of the Cave and let Bruce…let Bruce; unable to keep the just-audible edge of keening out of his throat because Bruce is giving it to him with methodical precision; giving him so much and nothing at all. Bruce is everywhere—above, around, inside and over Clark, heavier than he should be, analytical eyes, perfect and ruthless and Clark—

Clark is weak. He’s not strong at all, not enough for this. Every thrust is torture, every second of knowing and being unable to feel it is—

—and Bruce stops and Clark is suspended and surrounded and caged and freed all at once and he can Feel—

“Don’t move.” Bruce rasps, arched over him, teeth bared on the edge of pain and it’s enough. Every muscle that Clark’s tensed softens, and he feels Bruce grunt as much as he hears it. Bruce’s hand is large on his cheek, thumb pulling at his skin, sharp eyes drinking in every detail of his face as Bruce stares into him. Long nimble fingers stroke at the secret tender skin in the hollow of Clark’s hip and he knows this isn’t what it feels like, can’t be what it feels like—and he aches in a way that has nothing and everything to do with that implacable hold—even as Bruce’s other hand smooths down Clark’s thigh and around to anchor himself closer.

Bruce doesn’t smile with his mouth - never with his mouth, but there is a sly something in his eyes, a self-deprecating amusement that Clark knows.

~”Hence that general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack.”~ -Sun Tzu

And just like that, Clark’s world changes again.

Clark’s expression is open and shocked—he knows that. It’s not that this was unsee-able, it’s just that he was blind, and now he can see everything. Bruce lets him see everything. Clark can’t look away, he can’t shut his eyes, he can’t close his ears to that heartbeat. The heartbeat which is no longer steady and even. The heartbeat that is pumping, rushing, even as Bruce’s expression gives nothing away.

Clark opens his mouth to say—

—something—

—And he’s never actually been breathless before but this must be what it is. This must be the sensation, he thinks, feeling the flush creeping up his chest, up his neck, painting his face in warmth under the steady, deadly serious heat of Bruce’s bottomless scrutiny. Is he holding his breath or is it the world? Clark doesn’t feel much like Superman just at the moment, for all that he can feel slick and Bruce sliding down his inner thighs onto what is definitely his cape right now -

—and had they actually used his cape for a blanket, or were they just so hurried, so—

(reckless)

—eager, that they hadn’t even bothered to -

(dangerous)

Clark swallows.

“Don’t. Move.” Bruce says again, tone crisp and cool as if he’s making a withdrawal at the bank, as if this is just another sort of Protocol and Clark can’t help licking at the sea-salt and skin of the thumb resting on his lips. Bruce sighs. No - Bruce allows Clark to hear him sigh. It’s important, Clark thinks, suckling absently—an important distinction. “Kal.”

Bruce’s tone is. It is.

Clark doesn’t think, he doesn’t move—all of him, the heart of him, is pinned and penned in by Bruce’s arms, Bruce’s voice and his name—his name!—on Bruce’s tongue. It’s indecent, a rough caress, an impatient command. Clark can’t think. He can’t—

“Kal.” A hint of hardness, the barest edge of something sharp - intimate -

—and Clark is gone, body frozen in the blind determination not to be greedy, not to be selfish, not to cry and above all not to grab - not to hurt this man, not Bruce, anyone but Bruce, and Clark comes—

—and goes, waveforms shifting and shimmering in the air-

—convulses again, body curling inward tightly, fighting to stay where he’s been put-

—and gasps as a hard hand grips his jaw, tilting his face back up so Bruce can watch him-

—and Clark can watch Bruce watch him-

—and for a moment it is another night, another lifetime, and the rain pours down and Bruce’s boot is on Clark’s neck—

Queasiness and pressing weight. Burnished eyes seeing him and only him.

Exhilaration, so, “Yes, Bruce,” he chokes out, and he can see the Mainframe reflected in Bruce’s irises.

~”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—

—lets go.

~”Do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstances.”~ -Sun Tzu

Bruce is inventive, he has a range of ways to reap the most embarrassing noises from Clark. Take for instance what he’s doing right now, bracing and rolling his hips instead of thrusting, wallowing while his ass probably describes perfect little circles and Clark utterly fails to sound un-fucked. Bruce huffs,

“Yes,” he says, and “better.” A hot stroke of pride lances through Clark and it’s so very good that he can hear himself whimpering on overload.

Clark remembers endless eternities of cold and pain; coming to beneath banks of Waynetech ™ UV lamps, one pair of inscrutable eyes and the sound of ice tinkling in glass. Seven months of rehab in the sharp bones of the Glasshouse by the Lake. Two years of this bleak transitive life hanging in the dusk of what used to be and the cold that is now. Nine months of being liberally doused in enough Eau de Wayne to qualify as a bona fide Gotham attraction all on his own. Clark chokes on his gratitude.

He ’s letting Bruce get to him. Everything gets to him, these days.

Sharper movements now, Bruce’s mouth ravaging his, “That’s it, son—let it out,” bitten out into the shell of his ear in Bruce’s mile-wide Gotham vowels, and Clark quakes wildly, edging another long climb, and “Come on…come on, you want this, let me hear it. Tell me,” Bruce growls, licking and sucking at Clark’s mouth like it’s his personal property. The microscopically smoother glide of Bruce’s grey streak brushes his cheek, and Clark can’t help the tiny abortive head twitches, can’t help the way he twitches all over, moans loud and long. He’s almost there… “Hold that thought.” Bruce says, and pleasure makes Clark squirm inside; stutters hot breaths out that Bruce nips at. He has to work now to stay still, to keep relaxed. He has to let this wash over and through him. “Don’t come,” Bruce suggests calmly, right before he does something with his tongue that makes Clark’s eyes try to roll right back in his head.

Jesus.

The bottom drops out of Clark’s stomach. He’s not even sure what sounds are coming out of his mouth anymore, he’s so focused on that steady heartbeat; slow for any normally conditioned human body—racing, for Bruce.

“What do you want, hmm,” Bruce urges, rotating just so. “You want to stay here? Live here? You want to be my partner? Maybe patrol hand-in-hand?” He’s skating the near edge of vicious, a callous mulishness to his tone; it’s exactly what Clark wants, exactly how he likes it, and it makes everything in Clark want to give—

Wait. The words are new.

Clark’s brow furrows gently. There really isn’t a good way out of this line of inquiry; the more Clark shows how much Bruce hurts him, the deeper Bruce might just cut; that’s how this game works.

“Ah! Bruce…Bruce, please-”, he says, faltering, “No, Bruce—ah—I—don’t—”

“You want to kill me.” Bruce asserts with grim cheer, pace intensifying, and that’s not—

“No, Bruce!” He sobs.

“Oh, I see—you want to watch me die every night? Answer me, son,” and his voice jags low and sharp, while his cock drives in perfectly, pressing right there, and this is the worst timing, the absolute worst timing for this type of shit, in Clark’s opinion. It’s unfortunate that the rest of Clark doesn’t agree; that his body is, in fact, completely on-board with whatever Bruce is doing.

“Bruce…” Clark reaches for the stone and marble floor and gets his hands swatted away. No; Bruce wants him floating, anchor-less.

“Leave it and answer me. What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?” Bruce demands, furiously. Answer, or call time, and Clark has to choose one because those are the Rules.

“You! I—just you, Bruce. Just you. Fuck, just you, I just want to know you, that’s all I want—” he stammers.

“I don’t. Need. A partner.” Three sharp thrusts, and now they’re down to the real fucking. Clark sucks in a breath that feels wobbly and nebulous.

He knows he doesn’t need to breathe, but he needs to breathe.

Clark wants to turn his head aside, but Bruce’s hand is still on his cheek, Bruce’s eyes are still devouring him, and the way Bruce has them tangled up together now, he knows if tries to escape, he’s going to end up hurting Bruce; and no.

“No,no!” Bruce says with deceptive laziness, lavish Gotham accent roughened, “You want to learn, son, you damn well better watch. LOOK at me,” and, “You like this?” he asks conversationally. “You like pain, kid?” He’s genial, even.

Bruce, Bruce, what are you doing? Clark shakes his head frantically. “…what?” Clark’s voice is so faint in the wake of accusations that he can barely hear himself. Bruce pats at his cheek in a faux-friendly way that makes Clark’s cock throb and his heart hurt, and leans in.

“Do. You. Like. This?” There is no accent in these words but crisp autocratic elocution to the harsh rhythm of Bruce’s body.

Clark tries to sound strong, but Bruce—Bruce is piercing him. His eyes, his voice, his mouth, his skin, his cock, his mind and Clark burns so deeply, spiraling, and something, something new wells up from the center of Clark—

“Do you. Want. To get. Fucked. By. Gotham.”

What.

“…what?” Clark says it again, because words still aren’t making sense. It feels like he’s being milked from the inside.

“Come on, Kal—you can answer this one—you’re a smart. Boy. Time’s up.” Another of those terrible pats to the face and Clark is abruptly gulping air, eyes stinging. Each and every consonant is punctuated by Bruce’s hard-driving staccato. Each thrust accompanied by that low, gritty bass. Clark isn’t bleeding, but he feels broken, and Bruce’s fury is a pressure on his chest and acid his throat.

“If you. Don’t. Want to get. Fucked. by Gotham, Kal, then you had best. Pay. Attention. Are you listening? If you aren’t, kiddo-”

He can ’t close his eyes. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. His hands are shaking. He’s hit his limit.

“Well, you’d better get used to it, then- ”

No, Bruce—

Clark cries out something that isn’t English.

A plea for mercy.

~”On the day they are ordered out to battle, your soldiers may weep,”~ -Sun Tzu

Everything.

Stops.

A handful of heaving silences, each stiller and sadder than the last, linger. Bruce glares down coldly at him and Clark feels burning in his chest and a frightened species of awe. He hears himself swallowing convulsively.

He can hear what’s coming, too. He can already hear ‘Nobody to fuck in Metropolis, son?’ on Bruce’s breath and he curls his shoulders in as though Bruce is a battering ram, hunches up as though that will protect him.

But, “That’s what I thought,” Bruce murmurs, strangely gentle. “Good. Good, Kal.”

Clark is making a noise. He shivers and over them he hears his own keening.

“I don’t want to fuck Gotham, no, Bruce-”, head shaking wildly.

Bruce is stroking Clark’s hair and his face, wiping away tears, breathing the meaning of “Dammit, Clark,” and the shape of ‘sorry’ into Clark’s hair and mouth, silently, eyes as wide as Clark’s feel.

“You need a new hobby,” Bruce pronounces solemnly.

Clark shakes and cries and leans into him, and Bruce touches him, and says,

“Good,” and “There you go,” and best of all, “That’s it—Gotham fucks us all; cry, son,” and Clark cannot stop bawling.

Bruce pauses and says “Are-you-tapping-out,” so fast and low that it takes a couple of seconds for the sounds to register as more than noise in Clark’s mind. Clark can’t remember if he did or not, but he answers.

“No, Bruce,” he moans, sobbing, still hard. Bruce kisses him, long swimmingly deep kisses that relax and put him back inside his skin; puts hands on him and turns the world back into something he can comprehend and feel.

“Go ahead and cry, Kal.”

He’s coaxed with lips and strong, firm hands and he is known and he blinks dazedly up at Bruce when he realizes that Bruce has begun already, and his senses are being urged back up.

He feels disconnected so he reaches, hollow—

-and gets deflected with purposeful ease and a slap on his wrist that’s more push than impact.

“Hands, Kal.” Bruce doesn’t want to be touched, either, it seems.

And Bruce kisses with his dark eyes open, pushes off the floor, just as assured and bold in ascent as Clark. His left leg tangles, locks with Clark’s right as Bruce stretches out rangy and long against Clark; his right hand slides up Clark’s left arm and around underneath, locks, and it’s an embrace, and Bruce shifts and the muscles of his ribcage ripple and his hip presses and oh, alright, Clark can do this. His arm fits perfectly around Bruce’s back and his hand—Clark twitches but,

A hissed curse and, Yes you can, yes - do it, nodded into the base of his throat and Clark blinks heavy eyelids open, senses saturated.

Oh.

His hand rests light behind Bruce’s right lung, fingers shifting restlessly across a cold smooth bolt of scar tissue and the uneven ridges of healed bone. Once, someone somewhere fractured four of Bruce’s ribs and the thought makes the air rush out of Clark.

Bruce is staring at him, eyes gleaming in the dark. Clark doesn’t know what to do with what he finds there, except flatten his hand against that ribbon of tight skin. His other hand slides down Bruce’s side, glides over heated skin, skimming pocked seams and flexing muscle.

Clark can’t find his equilibrium, but he knows what the floor looks like, and that is not it.

—is Bruce really taking him to the arc of the Cavern—

—where it squirms with the movement of roosting bats—

—a wave of angry chirps and warm musk avoiding them and—

How.

How is Bruce indulging him?

Clark can’t.

Can’t do anything but let himself have this because even if Bruce never speaks to him again, he’s giving Clark this—his sheer vitality, one hundred percent of his attention and Clark so rarely gets what he wants; Clark had never dreamed—and he feels so young—and it’s dangerous.

It is dangerous, this thing—it’s reckless and negligent and unsafe, and he thinks Bruce is cursing the both of them in silence, but Bruce—Bruce speaks Kryptonian and if Clark never gets the chance again in his life, at least he’ll have said it once and meant it—

There are …

There are …

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~”On the day they are ordered out to battle, your soldiers may weep,”~ -Sun Tzu

Everything.

Stops.

A handful of heaving silences, each stiller and sadder than the last, linger. Bruce glares down coldly at him and Clark feels burning in his chest and a frightened species of awe. He hears himself swallowing convulsively.

He can hear what’s coming, too. He can already hear ‘Nobody to fuck in Metropolis, son?’ on Bruce’s breath and he curls his shoulders in as though Bruce is a battering ram, hunches up as though that will protect him.

But, “That’s what I thought,” Bruce murmurs, strangely gentle. “Good. Good, Kal.”

Clark is making a noise. He shivers and over them he hears his own keening.

“I don’t want to fuck Gotham, no, Bruce-”, head shaking wildly.

Bruce is stroking Clark’s hair and his face, wiping away tears, breathing the meaning of “Dammit, Clark,” and the shape of ‘sorry’ into Clark’s hair and mouth, silently, eyes as wide as Clark’s feel.

“You need a new hobby,” Bruce pronounces solemnly.

Clark shakes and cries and leans into him, and Bruce touches him, and says,

“Good,” and “There you go,” and best of all, “That’s it—Gotham fucks us all; cry, son,” and Clark cannot stop bawling.

Bruce pauses and says “Are-you-tapping-out,” so fast and low that it takes a couple of seconds for the sounds to register as more than noise in Clark’s mind. Clark can’t remember if he did or not, but he answers.

“No, Bruce,” he moans, sobbing, still hard. Bruce kisses him, long swimmingly deep kisses that relax and put him back inside his skin; puts hands on him and turns the world back into something he can comprehend and feel.

“Go ahead and cry, Kal.”

He’s coaxed with lips and strong, firm hands and he is known and he blinks dazedly up at Bruce when he realizes that Bruce has begun already, and his senses are being urged back up.

He feels disconnected so he reaches, hollow—

-and gets deflected with purposeful ease and a slap on his wrist that’s more push than impact.

“Hands, Kal.” Bruce doesn’t want to be touched, either, it seems.

And Bruce kisses with his dark eyes open, pushes off the floor, just as assured and bold in ascent as Clark. His left leg tangles, locks with Clark’s right as Bruce stretches out rangy and long against Clark; his right hand slides up Clark’s left arm and around underneath, locks, and it’s an embrace, and Bruce shifts and the muscles of his ribcage ripple and his hip presses and oh, alright, Clark can do this. His arm fits perfectly around Bruce’s back and his hand—Clark twitches but,

A hissed curse and, Yes you can, yes - do it, nodded into the base of his throat and Clark blinks heavy eyelids open, senses saturated.

Oh.

His hand rests light behind Bruce’s right lung, fingers shifting restlessly across a cold smooth bolt of scar tissue and the uneven ridges of healed bone. Once, someone somewhere fractured four of Bruce’s ribs and the thought makes the air rush out of Clark.

Bruce is staring at him, eyes gleaming in the dark. Clark doesn’t know what to do with what he finds there, except flatten his hand against that ribbon of tight skin. His other hand slides down Bruce’s side, glides over heated skin, skimming pocked seams and flexing muscle.

Clark can’t find his equilibrium, but he knows what the floor looks like, and that is not it.

—is Bruce really taking him to the arc of the Cavern—

—where it squirms with the movement of roosting bats—

—a wave of angry chirps and warm musk avoiding them and—

How.

How is Bruce indulging him?

Clark can’t.

Can’t do anything but let himself have this because even if Bruce never speaks to him again, he’s giving Clark this—his sheer vitality, one hundred percent of his attention and Clark so rarely gets what he wants; Clark had never dreamed—and he feels so young—and it’s dangerous.

It is dangerous, this thing—it’s reckless and negligent and unsafe, and he thinks Bruce is cursing the both of them in silence, but Bruce—Bruce speaks Kryptonian and if Clark never gets the chance again in his life, at least he’ll have said it once and meant it—

There are …

There are …

<Your regard is my foundation. I esteem you, Bruce.>

Bruce’s hips rocket forward and he gasps—he gasps!—into Clark’s mouth, tasting of oranges and metal—

Adrenaline and fear.

“Kal-” not the low sweet drawl of Bruce Wayne nor the rough growl of the voice modulator; a demand from some raw, feral deep place between. It feels like reward and rebuke, rolled together into one barely restrained syllable. Clark doesn’t breathe, forgets the illusion completely in his fascination, stares openly, because Bruce wants him to see this; brushes a finger lightly over the delicate webbing between Bruce’s thumb and index finger, feels transgressive and Bruce snarls as if he’s wounded, rhythm arrested.

This is a tragedy, Clark thinks.

This is a tragedy. Stupid, reckless, dangerous.

Maybe it’s always been this way between them and maybe Clark is just seeing it for the first time, but a train-wreck is running through Bruce and Clark can’t look away.

Bruce comes like that, upside down against the ceiling of the Bat Cave with a death-grip on Clark and Clark’s name on his lips as though nothing could be easier. Clark watches him with eyes that feel far too wide for far too long, hearing the slick friction of Bruce working in him and the flutter of countless wings as pleasure hits him low and hard like a gauntlet—

“Situational context,” Bruce mutters, (then something else that Clark only half-hears in that second but will retrieve later) between the uneven span of Cavern and Clark,

“Now.”

—legs twitching enough to warrant the quiet warning, frozen in wordless static, in torturous stillness, with the tinny wash of magnetospheric waves popping in his ears like soap bubbles, the racing beat of his own pulse in his right wrist where Bruce’s fingers are wrapped tight and sure—

Clark blinks violently to keep his sight clear, eyelashes a blur, tracking as every detail sears into his memory; and it’s taken years for him to learn this, how not to be unwillingly destructive, but he knows his eyes are glowing; the pressure in his skull is incredible and it feels as if he hasn’t learned a damned thing. It feels precarious, it feels like impending disaster, but Bruce calms him, and Bruce breathes into his mouth and whispers,

“Yes.”

Yes, Bruce.

Bruce drinks Clark down; he never breaks eye contact. His thumb strokes up and down behind Clark’s ear, his palm cups the small bones at the top of Clark’s spine and Bruce’s covetous gaze darts over Clark’s face.

Yes.

Admiration.

This is the warmth Clark has missed since he woke cold to his core.

If Bruce finds what he’s looking for, he doesn’t act it.

~”[Like water,] the way is to avoid what is strong and strike at what is weak.”~ -Sun Tzu

There is a careful silence for long moments—Clark’s mind processing so quickly, subjectively an eternity to inhale, watch and feel his lover, and no, he doesn’t think a ‘Gosh, Mister Wayne’ is going to do anything but make what’s coming worse, but a ‘Jesus, Bruce’ can’t hurt—and Bruce’s body sounds like he’s grappling in the streets, like he’s fighting for his life and Clark wants, and in the space between what Clark thinks and what he’s opening his mouth to say—

“Down.” Bruce enunciates, tapping the landscape of Clark’s abdominal muscles firmly with two fingers. Inestimably less effort, and all the same compulsion as a Kryptonite spear. The heat banked in Clark’s head ebbs into near unbearable lucidity.

Full stop.

(Time.)

Clark doesn’t appreciate the patrician tone in Bruce’s voice, there is no stopping the blush—because yes, they are equals and no, they are not—but it isn’t the hill Clark wants this to die on—and so Clark opts to say nothing, allows the density of his body to settle, allows the Earth to pull him smoothly back to her surface. Back down to Batman’s floor.

No. Bruce’s floor.

Clark doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands when Bruce’s forehead, then briefly his lips, brush Clark’s temple. He doesn’t move a muscle as deft hands smooth down the sides of his neck and pause fleetingly on his upper chest before slipping down and away, as he listens to Bruce breathe and struggle with his demons. He already knows what wound Bruce is trying to staunch.

Please, Bruce, he thinks, please don’t.

Clark presses his face into the corded muscle of Bruce’s collarbone, silent, and listens to the hypnotic susurration of blood rushing through Bruce’s body, dares to contemplate touching the vulnerable nape of Bruce’s neck, thinks about Bruce allowing his caress.

Surely he could just…hug Bruce? Once?

Then he’s hesitated too long once more, because that pounding heart-beat is unexpectedly, eerily flat, unnaturally steady, and Clark-

Clark hates the artifice, hates the hypocrisy of Bruce’s ninja bullshit, and it’s irritating that he can’t help but feel humbled at the inexplicable that Bruce is capable of all at the same time. He forces himself into a loose sprawl, unsure if his checked hand movement even registered, sees Bruce’s pupils contract sharply and lifts his chin.

He ’s a grown man and he refuses to feel like he just reached into the cookie jar.

He realizes that it’s safe to stop blinking. Makes himself breathe in, and out—like a man Bruce could live with—even though it isn’t oxygen that he needs. He feels another bead of moisture slip down the line of his spine and goddamn.

Bruce extricates himself smoothly, teeth hidden behind tight lips, draws out - without another sound - and stands. He shifts his weight and startlingly, Clark can hear bone and cartilage popping and settling. He’s starting to feel as if he’s hit his staring limit for the night, but he and Bruce obviously aren’t on the same page. Clark finds himself frowning deeply, resigned. Bruce only has about two inches on Clark, but his posture makes that gap seem closer to mountainous. Clark wonders how transparent he is; if Bruce knows how intimidating he is, for how many reasons, rooted there so substantially when Clark’s entire world has crumbled, and of course he does.

Of course he does; Bruce knows how to use all of his weapons.

Bruce needs every weapon, and if he can’t find one, he’ll damn well make one.

Clark feels the dust and sweat heavy in his curls, so he tips his head back and eyes Bruce from the safety of his peripheral vision. His breath moves no air. He doesn’t last long and when he looks up, exasperated, Bruce is still watching him, mouth an unforgiving slant. There is no surprise, no emotion Clark can decipher in his eyes. Bruce is cataloging his responses, cataloging him with clinical detachment. What has Clark done, for Bruce to want to make him feel so small? Clark’s not in the least bit interested in asking.

What does he see.

What is he looking for.

Clark sits there on his cape, leaned back on his hands, and he thinks about it.

One of them has definitely broken a Rule.

Chapter Two

~”All men can see the tactics whereby I conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which victory is evolved.”~ -Sun Tzu

Clark knows what he’s supposed to do and say. He’s supposed to roll his shoulders forward, give an insolent grin and ignore this. He should be saying something. Maybe asking if the old man’s had enough, so Bruce can bounce a smooth riposte back. Something-something about how Clark needs to respect his elders, son, and let an honest man get some damn sleep. Then Clark will laugh and tell him how Bruce isn’t his father, so Bruce can say…

Something unbearably clever with just the right lashing of condescension. Something a little like, ‘Christ, the mouth on you, Kansas, I should hope not’; maybe a little something to reestablish that class barrier Bruce relies on when he’d rather use Clark’s last name.

Clark can already hear it.

Farm-boy, Socialite. Boy Scout, Playboy. Tiresome words that other people use against them so often that they can’t help but use them against each other: unkind, half-true words.

Clark knows the words.

Clark refuses to use them.

Silence pulls out of shape into momentum. The warmth puddles under him and he can only watch as a corner of Bruce’s mouth quirks up; and Bruce is turning his back and walking away, scars silvery over lean hard muscle. Clark watches and waits, isn’t entirely sure what just happened. He knows enough to know that this means something.

What does it mean.

Why won ’t you stay.

Why can ’t I stay.

Why did you come back for me.

These are very stupid, very reckless questions, very Smallville questions, and that is why they stay tightly behind Clark’s teeth.

He watches Bruce walk behind the partition to the en suite, head high and body lithe and powerful, striding with coiled energy as though he hadn’t ended a three-gang war from South Hinkley to Stevensburgh overnight and then screwed Superman senseless for almost three hours straight afterward. As though the bruises Clark can see in the blood pooling under Bruce’s skin don’t already hurt and Bruce has done nothing but win all night.

He must be exhausted.

How upset does a man have to be, to fight most of the night, then fuck the rest away? It’s the wrong question; Bruce is nothing if not singular in his eccentricities, but honestly it makes Clark tired just thinking about it. The right question is more likely, ‘what happened at the Docks tonight’, and Clark wishes he could just ask. The thing is, Clark is absolutely certain that there is a Red Carpet Charity Gala this evening, and he remembers Bruce tersely mentioning a Board meeting this morning, and with a sharp breath out, Clark acknowledges that he’s taken more than his fair share of time.

Clark listens to the water running and thinks I should go home.

His chest hurts and his face is wet and Bruce made him sweat this time.

Bruce made him sweat.

And that is about all Clark is willing to face until Bruce returns.

If Bruce returns.

Part of him already knows this dance.

Clark had been taught that it was no shame for a man to cry if he’d been hurt, which in theory had sounded good, sounded great. To a kid who thought he could never be hurt, it was easy to learn. When Johnathan Kent died, Clark learned that he could be hurt very badly, and the knowledge as much as the loss itself had forced tears from him. Clark has cried since, but he’d still believed there was no shame in it, until now. The world isn’t as clear as it was yesterday; today Clark had cried, because he was hurt. Clark had cried in front of Bruce. It wasn’t the first time, but,

Clark had cried in front of Bruce, over a hurt which would never scar his perfect skin, for himself, and it was everything he’d wanted it to be. Now, yes, Clark is somewhat ashamed. Maybe he ought to cry a bit more, now that he’s thinking about it. He could start right now - why save it up for sex?

~ ”You’re trembling; I like it too…Let me sink my teeth in.”~ -Mothxr

Maybe he should cry, but instead Clark lies there and he laughs sadly at the utter foolishness of himself. Scrubs a hand through his hair and feels billions of salt crystals snapping against his fingertips. Look at him - another notch on the wall of Bruce’s memorial to fucked-up relationship metrics. He knows better. He knows better. Fifteen minutes in a room with echoes of Jason, and Clark had known better. Bruce has a type, and Bruce has a routine. Here be dragons. Bruce walking away from him is the least of what he deserves for doing this to them.

Clark is full up with terrible thoughts. He gives it twenty minutes and focuses on breathing. If Bruce isn’t back in twenty minutes, well, that would be proof positive that Clark has made a terrible mistake.

No. He doesn’t need Bruce to tell him what he can figure out on his own.

In the meantime, he wants to soak in this. Remember this. Every grain of dust pressed to his skin. Every bruise he should have, every ache he should have to cherish but doesn’t. Every assumption. The scent of Bruce—leather, Kevlar, smoke, good coffee and grease. The sharp scent of circuitry mixed with the dry spicy scent of the Wayne Signature cologne that never completely leaves Bruce’s skin. The mingled smells of sex, sweat and blood, pleasure and torment. More—the heavy scent of male, pain and exertion. He’s surrounded.

Human scents.

It’s been ten minutes and the water’s been turned off, oh many minutes ago.

Bruce ’s scents.

Every inhale, every heartbeat is Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

Clark can’t make himself get up. A part of him wonders what Bruce will do, if Clark just sinks into the floor. He wants to. The near-frictionless fabric of his Suit is always the same temperature as his body, but Clark feels so naked, he doesn’t think it would do much good to put it back on. Bruce has already seen everything. Behind his eyes he can see himself with Bruce, with him, every moment spanning back to the first. He can see how hard Bruce worked, trying to bruise him, learning him, each time trying so hard to leave a mark. And Clark understands, he does, that there’s a little truth in each and every one of Bruce’s lies, and Clark, well, he’s seen how Bruce takes an idea and turns it into a symbol. How that symbol becomes his. How Bruce and the Bat brand everything that he considers his, from his cuff-links to his Wards. If Clark were Human, Bruce’s love would have killed him. He’s -not better, no - but stronger. Clark is strong enough to take anything Bruce can dish out -

Not anything, no.

If Bruce wanted to hurt him, he’d have gone for the Case.

Bruce thinks he couldn ’t mark him. Bruce looks at him and thinks he’s untouched. Bruce has—

Bruce—

Clark can hear himself panting. He’s tense, an awful knot of ugliness caught in his chest, and—

This is how Gotham treats its own. This is how Bruce treats people. The city that never sleeps and the man who never rests.

He has to calm down. He has to—

He doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand how Bruce was able to do that—get up and walk, get up and leave him lying here. Bruce speaks Kryptonian. Clark’s mind is on an endless loop,

Bruce speaks Kryptonian.

Bruce Speaks Kryptonian.

Not just—no:

Bruce understands Kryptonian, a syntactically treacherous language of extremely scientific and poetic accuracy. ‘I love you’ is a flawed phrase in Kryptonian; flawed, incomplete and vulgar. Clark had—

God, he’d just pledged his life to Bruce fucking Wayne. God, Rao, whoever. Whoever would come and make the last four hours disappear, that’s who Clark would pray to.

What just happened.

He knows exactly what the fuck just happened, and that there is nothing at all in this world or any other that Clark can do to change it. He’s bred for loyalty - and yes, Nurture is a reality and Clark loves his Ma; he believes what he’s been taught about systems and social constructs and responsibility for one’s actions, but against a thousand years of advanced genetic modification for specific personality traits, Earth nurturing is nothing - especially when the people who took him in gentled him with the exact same traits. Clark gets called a lot of things, but he’s never been a Boy Scout; manners have seldom cost him more than he could afford and Superman, no—Clark is incapable of being disloyal. This is not a truism; it’s scientific reality written into every strand of Clark’s DNA. He is not capable of certain kinds of deception, for certain types of people. Currently the number is down to one specific person who is many types of people.

There is no one else on the planet that Clark could have said those exact words to, who would have understood them as thoroughly as Bruce must. Bruce does nothing piecemeal—he is single-minded in every venture, uses every speck of his intellect and willpower. Clark will most likely not find another Human to speak those words to for lifetimes, if ever again. If he ever could again.

And Clark isn’t stupid, he may be farm-raised but he’s not stupid, he may have been raised Human but he’s- he’s not stupid—

He doesn ’t expect declarations from Bruce.

He doesn’t—he shouldn’t expect anything. He knows this. Deep in his being, he knows this, like he knows the course of the pod that brought him to Earth, like he remembers the countless lessons and laws of Krypton and the curvature of her moons-

Why is he disappointed. Why? Why does he feel as though he tried to take something that wasn’t his?

Here, of all places? Here—in the Cave.

In the shadow of that other Case— It’s not a Case, it’s a Glass Coffin encasing a Memorial, much like Clark’s Memorial (Paid and laid by Waynetech™), and it stands where Bruce’s eyes usually fall when they do this, and Clark can’t even look at it, he can’t even turn to look at it, debauched as he is—in this Cave. He can’t look at It, but he can feel the echo of Bruce’s hands on his shoulders, and he knows enough, then. The heartbeat that Clark is listening for is moving away, moving upward and onward towards a day very like yesterday, a patrol as grueling as the last, and another night where Bruce will be not wholly himself nor anything else.

He must be insane.

Bruce should never have kissed him.

Dismay is a reasonable response to realizing that you’ve pissed on someone’s grave, even accidentally.

But no, Clark can’t claim that, dismayed as he is—he can’t say it was an accident. He didn’t accidentally trip and fall onto Bruce’s cock. He didn’t get so twisted up inside that he indentured himself by accident. He didn’t open his mouth and let fly one of the most binding verbal contracts he’s aware of by accident. There are no accidents in this Cave—there are only mistakes and training to correct those mistakes. There are contingencies and redundancies, weak points and nerve strikes, there are plans about plans within plans, and running hard under it all is pitiless Wayne bedrock.

Clark will spend the rest of his life striving to fulfill those words. In his book, that seems like a damn big mistake; an error of epic proportions.

Wait, he wants to say, panic rising, this is all an accident. He can’t. He won’t. Every part of Clark tells him that it would be a crime, the simple dread of it overpowering, and Clark is shaking again. He trusted Bruce to tell him anything relevant about the information he was mining from Clark’s Ship while Clark was dead. He can’t allow himself to believe that absence of proof equals absence of evidence - it would be another misstep, another reckless accident. Clark might be all out of accidents.

The Case, Clark’s Memorial, the Glass Coffin, the entire floor plan is one open wound of a reminder that accidents are unacceptable.

If Bruce dies serving Gotham, will Clark be passed along like another of his family antiquities? Is there, even now, a set of instructions for Clark’s care? Stifling, high-handed.

He has no right.

He had no right.

Is Clark really going to sit here, going to stay here, knowing that the conversation he’s reaching for has no amenable solution? Knowing Bruce is waiting for him to leave and giving him the courtesy of privacy to get himself together? Knowing that Bruce could ask anything of Clark right now and he chose to walk away? Is he going to spit on Bruce’s generosity by being—

Ungracious

Reckless

Dangerous

—No.

He called me Kal.

Bruce will answer in his own time or never. He is what and who he has made himself, and Clark can throw himself at Bruce’s sharp edges all he wants—all he’ll do is end up cutting himself. He knows this. Bruce is managing him—Handling him with the same deception of careless ease that he handles his sharpest blades. It’s Bruce’s way, the only way he knows, and Clark, Clark knows this.

Still.

He knew that Bruce could break him, but he thought it would be cleaner. Bruce is breaking him down. He thought he’d have some warning.

—he thought it wasn’t necessary—

He should have remembered that Bruce never retires his tools until they’re obsolete.

Even as he thinks it, Clark knows that things just aren’t that simple. This is as simple as things get, now.

Clark catches himself with burning eyes, and its not figurative, its not—he can’t—

They will never be equals. Not to Bruce.

His temper. No.

NO.

Carefully, Clark unclenches his fists and pulls them out of the broken stone of the Cave floor. He uses his anger constructively - he fixes Bruce’s floor, content that Bruce is more than perceptive enough to see the newly smoothed areas and avoid the hot stone. Then he does his level best to snuff that anger out. Clark’s Ma tried her hardest not to raise a fool. He knows to clean up his messes. This one is the biggest of all, but if he backs off, if he gives Bruce space, Bruce will—

—Bruce might—

—Bruce might never look at him again. Never call him by his name again. Never—

—Caution: Hot—

Enough. It isn’t his place to handle Bruce, if it ever was. Everyone who tries it whose name isn’t Alfred Pennyworth ends up pulling back a stump one way or another and Clark, Clark doesn’t have enough self to spare anymore. Clark was wrong—or rather, he was right the first time—he isn’t strong enough. Gotham holds its grudges but Clark hasn’t got the heart to add his to that pile. He’s barely strong enough to pick up his dignity and leave without causing a scene.

(Another scene.)

And another scene and another scene and another, and Clark doesn’t even know if Bruce realizes that Clark wasn’t Playing in that moment.

—and he thought Bruce was a smart man. Bruce is a very smart man.

~”No light, no light in your bright blue eyes; I never knew daylight could be so violent.”~ - Florence + The Machine

This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.

In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.

There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.

The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.

Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.

Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.

Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.

Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.

As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.

Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.

He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.

He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.

Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.

Clark Kent died.

He can’t.

~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used

He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.

It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.

However.

He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.

He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.

Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—

Be vigilant.

He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.

Kal is grateful.

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~”No light, no light in your bright blue eyes; I never knew daylight could be so violent.”~ - Florence + The Machine

This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.

In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.

There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.

The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.

Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.

Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.

Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.

Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.

As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.

Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.

He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.

He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.

Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.

Clark Kent died.

He can’t.

~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used

He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.

It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.

However.

He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.

He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.

Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—

Be vigilant.

He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.

Kal is grateful.

<My regard is yours, Esteemed one. In whatever capacity you ask.>

There’s nothing else to say. Bruce is worth this.

It doesn’t make the hurt any less, but it lightens Kal’s heart to be free with this, as he should be. Anger is a poison. His regard is Bruce’s. What is given cannot be taken back. Reciprocation is not necessary. Validation is not necessary; not if he truly is who he’s meant to be.

And he can hear every time he ’s ever thanked Bruce, the thoughtful silence of Bruce weighing his words; Bruce’s briskly dismissive tone, “Not necessary.”

Bruce doesn’t do the unnecessary. There’s something to that.

There is a single red blink from a single camouflaged light in the wall.

There is the rustle and squeak and warmth of life in the cavern and hallways above.

There is nothing else to say.

Enough.

He leaves.

~”So open up my eyes; tell me I'm alive. This is never gonna go our way, if I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind.” -Mumford and Sons

The sky is still dark over Gotham—the sun won’t be up for another hour or two. It is enough time for Bruce to rest—Enough time for Kal to think before he commits to being fully Clark again. Enough time to think. Kal thinks long and hard about how Bruce watched him.

He is only as he can be, and exactly as he should be, and Bruce. Bruce hasn’t changed just because Clark changed. Bruce wont change if Kal changes. Bruce wont let Kal ruin his Mission. He’s gravely comforted by this fact.

Everyone who’s ever been marked by Bruce, has been taken from, or pushed away by, Bruce. Kal has never felt so Human, or felt the lack of his humanity so keenly.

Bruce is exactly the man he esteems. The same man who has been recklessly, dangerously accepting Kal-

—Kal, not Clark, not just Clark—

—in his life, in his lives, and against his body. The same man who keeps all the secrets and can’t abide having secrets held from him. The same man who was so unsurprised by Clark’s impulsive revelation that he had nothing to say about it. The same man who never starts a sentence that he doesn’t already know how to finish. No, Bruce was not unaware of Clark’s changes or of his own. With Clark silent, Kal has true clarity to retrieve and process the moments, the emotions, the perceptions of bodily tells; everything from the second to second beat of Bruce’s heart-rate to the individual involuntary ocular vibrations that swept Bruce as he refused to shut his eyes when he—

(weakness)

Focus.

Kal thinks about all the words Bruce did not say. He thinks Bruce must know that he’s already marked Kal in every way that counts.

(Accidents are unacceptable.)

He thinks,

—about leverage—

(long fingers, sweat and skin and the terrifying intimacy of Bruce’s face against his)

—and meticulous accuracy—

(There are no accidents in the Cave.)

—and trust—

(moonlight on a scarred back, the weight of hard eyes while Clark loses himself and Bruce ’s low muttering about oleander and the taste of sunshine)

—and traps well sprung.

He thinks about genocide wrapped in his House Sigil and he comprehends the why of this.

Lightning under his skin and he needs this; if this is what belonging is—what belongs to him, then he’s holding on gladly with both hands, the way he was taught; he’ll keep this, and thinks that this growth deepens him, and perhaps it will show in his eyes, and the people he saves won’t shy away from him, sometime soon. Perhaps they’ll call it bravery.

Clark may not expect a declaration, but Kal doesn’t need one. Bruce uses all his weapons.

Bruce is a weapon.

Kal knows this.

If he were still more Clark than not, Bruce’s tempering would crush him under it’s gravity. He would be a liar if he said it hasn’t made him more resilient, but somehow it’s also made him denser inside. Harder. Perhaps in whatever uncertain future Bruce sees when he sleeps and his pulse is a war drum in Kal-El’s perfect ears, this treatment makes Kal more durable. It certainly would be a pity, he thinks, if Bruce set marks to define how high Kal will jump, out of boredom. A pity, and pointless. Kal will fly over all of them, just to see the look in Bruce’s eyes, cold and exacting as the winter sky in Kansas.

Clark is only Human. Kal is not.

Kal wants to know how Bruce would order this world if he could set it any way he wished.

He thinks he may ask soon.

He could do more than ask, for certain types of people. For a certain person, under particular circumstances, he has the capacity.

He’s feeling capable of more and more by the moment.

It’s quiet up here. More than that, its one of those rare times when Kal doesn’t feel the entire world screaming at him to do something.

He feels compassion. He feels sorrow. He feels whole.

Just below the troposphere, he achieves neutral buoyancy; floats, letting the wind push him into a slow barrel roll, unable to process the depths of his gratitude for long minutes as the sky slowly lightens. Air traffic is minimal. He can smell the aspiration of that particular resin of the trees fed only by the spring running under Kent land, and it calms his heart. When he lands in Metropolis, when he goes about his day, when he wonders what could have been if he still dared write under his adopted name, Clark will be kind and self-effacing and at ease.

He will be at ease because he’s remembered that Bruce’s favorite form of self-flagellation is testing those he loves to see if they will leave him. Kal did not fail this test, and neither, surprisingly, did Clark. He’s sure of it.

Kal had to die in order for people to live, there’s an injustice in that and he’s ready to consider other, slightly more radical options. He’s ready to consider plans. All Kal wants is for no one else to have to die.

There will be Rules.

And the Rules will be explicit, and Spoken, and Known.

After another moment of thought, Kal adjusts his flight path and heads north. Nine thousand miles ahead is clear skies, cool ice and the hale, formidable silence Kal craves—enough quiet and reflection to block out an entire world.

The planet’s been fine for hundreds of thousands of years—humanity will still be here when Kal has finished opening himself to Truth.

After is not on his mind. After, is irrelevant. For the moment, there is only the joy of flight, the anticipation of the mental cleansing to come, and the endless now.

Kal isn’t proud—but Bruce is, and will be, and that salve is enough.

It’s going to have to be.

I'm aware that you've reposted this fill to the AO3 and I'm definitely going to catch up with it and (gladly!) take advantage of the excuse to reread the whole thing there, BUT I just wanted to take a second in this thread to say:

A) Just in general, I loved the whole tone/aesthetic of this, so thoughtful and insightful and descriptive, and with all these wonderfully poetic turns of phrase packed in. So lovely!

and B) This line: Bruce’s favorite form of self-flagellation is testing those he loves to see if they will leave him is PERFECT and punched me right in the heart. *___________* AMAZING.

(Anonfailing here since AO3)

I missed your fb, but hopefully it isn't too late to say how appreciative I am of your words. Thank you for the depth of your response!

It means a lot to me that you let me know exactly what moved you.

I hope the story continues to be enjoyable :)

AnonAuth here - Edited and easier to read version on AO3

DCEU Prompt Post #1

Re: Bruce/Clark, touch-starved Clark

FILL: Position Awareness

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