And Maybe That's Alright

Game

[TRIGGER WARNING: abuse, smoking, homophobic slurs, blood and general violence]

The smell of smoke was rancid, to say the least.

It licked its way through the room and seeped into Clark's lungs with a familiar ease. For a split second, Clark was a boy again, watching his father lean against the balcony and sob, hunched over a half-burnt out cigarette.

He didn't have the mind to feel pity for the man, however. Not now.

"I don't know what you think you're gonna get from sticking around, little man. They're not coming back." Clark shrugged easily but, through the camera's, Jethro was able to pick up on his antsy aura. "Do you love me that much that you want to stay? Finally cashing in that father-son bonding time?" He leant against the frame of the back door and crossed his bare arms over his chest, two steps behind Damien and three steps into frame. He'd made sure any and all scars he could possibly show were on obvious display.

"Look at us, a happy little family." Clark prodded, staring Damien down analytically. He watched the way Damien's muscles tensed and his shoulders set. Once again, he found himself able to count down until the moment Damien acted once more.

He whipped around, grabbing a fistful of Clark's hair and yanking back on it to tilt Clark's face up at him. Clark locked his hands around Damien's wrist, figuring it would look outwardly like a sign of struggle or self defence without it posing the risk of deterring Damien from his goal.

For a moment, they simply stared in a silent dare - Damien challenging Clark to fight against him and Clark challenging Damien to go through with every little threat he'd ever thrown. Then, Damien broke, suddenly aware of how very open the back porch was for a situation like this.

He began dragging Clark back into the sitting room, making sure to lock the door behind him. Clark let him, letting out faux hisses of pain through gritted teeth. Then, Damien returned to raking a cold glare over Clark's grimacing face.

"You know, once upon a life I believed you would be my living legacy. A little prodigy I could craft and mould into a man to be admired and envied." Damien began slowly with an unreadable expression, lifting the cigarette between his fingers back to his lips and taking a long drag, blowing the smoke across Clark's face. "In your eyes, I saw the shadow of myself for a short while."

"But you're the immaculate image of your mother. You always have been." His face turned sour and Clark felt something flare deep in his stomach. He ignored it. The plan was all too important to let trivial matters such as his own emotions slue his mind. "You inherited every ugly piece of that woman."

"Like these." Damien brought his free hand to trace a finger over the few small moles that dotted Clark's face, resting on the most prominent, that sat comfortably beneath his right eye. He seemed distant for a moment before tilting his wrist the barest fraction in order to press the lit end of his cigarette harshly over the mark.

Clark let himself yelp, pretending to attempt to tear away as Damien held the scalding stub in place before letting it fall heavily to the floor. He then readjusted his grip in Clark's hair to keep him in place. "Such muddy imperfections." He sighed, admiring the red raw imprint he'd left over the blemish.

"She'd say otherwise though, wouldn't she?" Damien hissed, watching Clark for a response. "Wouldn't she?" He repeated with a harsh tug upon receiving no reply.