(Everyone always says that and then oh no, where'd the Kryptonite spear come from, how could this have happened.)
He leans in, presses a kiss to his mouth. It's gentler than the bruising he initiated before, a contrast to the harsh way he's putting weight onto the other man's chest, hand splayed out wide over his solar plexus. But he doesn't linger. He shifts up, mouth ghosting over his jaw. "Who are you reminding?"
Me or you?
John's magic is interesting. It seems so intricate at times, and like a flailing sledgehammer at others. An art, wielded by an artist, capable of masterpieces and errant doodles on napkins - an artist who is getting both his hands pinned over his head in one of Bruce's. He strokes over the other man's body with his other, firm and questing. He squeezes over muscles, pushes deep into pressure and chakra points. Curls his fingers into nerve-dense tangles of fascia. He finds a spot on his ribcage, presses on it. Not a massage. Even deep-tissue ones hurt less.
"Huh." If Constantine wanted a dom who would just leave hickeys on him as a warmup, he's got plenty of options. But nope, he's here. Bruce releases his pinned arms so that he can pull one straight up, aligning his shoulder and spine while he palms over his ribs. "Inhale."
no subject
(Everyone always says that and then oh no, where'd the Kryptonite spear come from, how could this have happened.)
He leans in, presses a kiss to his mouth. It's gentler than the bruising he initiated before, a contrast to the harsh way he's putting weight onto the other man's chest, hand splayed out wide over his solar plexus. But he doesn't linger. He shifts up, mouth ghosting over his jaw. "Who are you reminding?"
Me or you?
John's magic is interesting. It seems so intricate at times, and like a flailing sledgehammer at others. An art, wielded by an artist, capable of masterpieces and errant doodles on napkins - an artist who is getting both his hands pinned over his head in one of Bruce's. He strokes over the other man's body with his other, firm and questing. He squeezes over muscles, pushes deep into pressure and chakra points. Curls his fingers into nerve-dense tangles of fascia. He finds a spot on his ribcage, presses on it. Not a massage. Even deep-tissue ones hurt less.
"Huh." If Constantine wanted a dom who would just leave hickeys on him as a warmup, he's got plenty of options. But nope, he's here. Bruce releases his pinned arms so that he can pull one straight up, aligning his shoulder and spine while he palms over his ribs. "Inhale."
Where is it? Ah. There. Costovertebral. Pop.