Bruce locks eyes with him as he pulls in a breath, finding it - of course - difficult. It's not like a boa constrictor; there's no give at all, Clark is the most uncompromising being in existence. There's no guesswork. He can't find a way out of this. The only variable is Clark, and when, or if, he will choose to move his hand. What does it feel like? The rough constructs of cartilage around all the soft structures that keep him alive, all as easy to pass through as water. His heart pounds, but it isn't from fear.

His hand grips so hard at Clark's wrist but it's just holding him, not pushing him forward, not trying to pull him away. Slowly, because of course he's the sort of lunatic who can hold his breath for long minutes and ignore the potential pain of bruising on his larynx, Bruce's awareness narrows to Clark's face, and the sound of his pulse hammering in his ears, everything going pinpointed. His other hand has lost its focus and is just clutching at Clark's hip with that same aimless viciousness, holding without intent to push him one way or the other.

As if he could.

(He's still so fucking hard. Maybe more.)