It's incredibly strange. Pushing against Clark has ever been a sensation that is wholly different from pushing against a human body— even when he'd gassed him with kryptonite, there was a sense he was hitting something else. Like trying to crush a stone in your hand and having it go soft instead of shatter. Now, he can feel the way they collide and it's all normal, standard almost-pain, knees against fascia, hands and fingers gripping, the elbow he nearly collides with would just hurt, and not risk crushing his entire ribcage.

Bruce is pinned. He could get out of it. Perhaps Clark can even tell. But this deliberate surrender is about more than not wanting to break Clark's nose; Bruce looks up at him, curious and daring.

"Here," he says, pitched a little lower without thinking. Getting his hand under Clark's, encouraging him into a mirror of their earlier position.

"You don't have to stop."

His wrists won't shatter. His shoulders won't go through the floor. Maybe he'll get a boner and forget about the way he's planning on comically tumbling Clark over his head in a second.