Comfortable, is how Clark would describe the weight of Bruce settling over him. As are the fingers in his hair, the gravity of Bruce's attention. He is caught a little wide eyed in all these things, hands retracting where they'd rested on his thighs. Hips shifting against the chair and Bruce both, just a fraction.

Comfortable is nowhere to go, and comfortable is the practically limitless depths of Bruce's—desire seems like a small word. Love strains at its definitions too.

If the question hedges on slightly too Socratic for him—a querying twinge of his eyebrows, what is he gonna do about it—it's really his own heartbeat that spurs him on. His hands when he slides them up under Bruce's open shirt are achingly warm, and when he grips the edges of his collar and pulls him down unstoppably into a kiss, so is that.