He's wondered before. If Clark ever sounded so intentionally furious, before the night he showed up to tell Bruce he was dead.

What other voices are just mine?

There's no weight on his arm, but to move it, he'd have to rip it off. Like a fox gnawing off a limb to escape a trap. He lets his legs move - like he has a real choice - and hitches one knee up, calf curling around the back of Clark's thigh, coaxing, daring. His unpinned hand moves to snag the lube, clicking the top open, getting some on his fingers. He is still sat up an inch over the mattress, forcing Clark to force him.

"As if there is anything," his voice is a deep hiss, rasping like cold water over gravel, "Anything at all, that could be mistaken for you."

He'll know because it's Clark. The only inescapable thing. He grabs the other man's hand, covering it with that slipper substance. (High quality shit. Neato.) He is not suicidal enough to just slick his cock for him, he wants it rough, not requiring a visit to the emergency room. Though the thought of it, so on the edge, is its own kind of tempting. Instead there's that, a pointed instruction as biting as Tell me. Don't you know what you're supposed to be doing with that, Kansas?