There are a lot of benefits to the relocation. Of them all, what Clark likes is, perversely, having a place for this at all. Neutral territory. (One day, they'll do some training.)
He also likes: making out, particularly in the lead up to now. Sitting around and waiting is its own kind of tension build, and he's not sure he needs anymore of that right now. Would prefer to be distracted by warm kisses and the odd rake of blunt nails over his skin, than to be distracted by his brain paranoidly circling around each little change as his strength diminished, as his senses dulled. The potential for nervous energy build is expended in languid kisses, his hands feeling along all the familiar territory of Bruce's chest, shoulders, receiving attention in turn.
Slowly, that's how he knows, how they both know, when these touches leave subtle little marks on his skin, quick to fade, hard to discern in the red wash of light, but there if you're looking for it. Feeling for it, in Clark's case.
Anyway. Favourite colour. Clark has a ready answer, where the only pause is just clocking that he was asked it at all before he says, "Blue," because obviously, and then there's that pinch of sensation, and the reaction is a hitch in breathing, a tension that ripples up along his spine as he glances down. Where the fuck did he get that, both just now and in general. Billionaires don't hang up clothes.
"Ow," he reports, like they're still taking notes, trace humour. "Yours is black."
no subject
He also likes: making out, particularly in the lead up to now. Sitting around and waiting is its own kind of tension build, and he's not sure he needs anymore of that right now. Would prefer to be distracted by warm kisses and the odd rake of blunt nails over his skin, than to be distracted by his brain paranoidly circling around each little change as his strength diminished, as his senses dulled. The potential for nervous energy build is expended in languid kisses, his hands feeling along all the familiar territory of Bruce's chest, shoulders, receiving attention in turn.
Slowly, that's how he knows, how they both know, when these touches leave subtle little marks on his skin, quick to fade, hard to discern in the red wash of light, but there if you're looking for it. Feeling for it, in Clark's case.
Anyway. Favourite colour. Clark has a ready answer, where the only pause is just clocking that he was asked it at all before he says, "Blue," because obviously, and then there's that pinch of sensation, and the reaction is a hitch in breathing, a tension that ripples up along his spine as he glances down. Where the fuck did he get that, both just now and in general. Billionaires don't hang up clothes.
"Ow," he reports, like they're still taking notes, trace humour. "Yours is black."