A break in kissing without backing up, just to help—knees shifting to work fabric off completely, reaching backwards to unhook crumpled sweatpants off his own ankles, flipped aside. Another swell of a kiss, of kissing, a little hungrier than before, as if forgetting he was asked a question. Or intent on making Bruce forget he asked a question.

(Probably, Clark would not call them fucked up. But he'd probably get around to that same premise. Maybe with a twee puzzle piece metaphor.)

"Nothing," he mumbles against Bruce's mouth anyway, voice pitched breathier, kiss broken further with his smile, "I was being sarcastic." He's allowed.

At some point, his fingers have slipped into Bruce's waistband. Every part of him is always a few degrees warmer than most might consider comfortable, usually, and that extends right down to the knuckles now press against that divot between hip and pelvis.

Kissing graduates down to his throat.