Clink, clack; sounds like he's got all sorts of shit in this drawer. And he does. With a head's up he can make sure to have a more curated selection on hand, but because John surprised him, it's whatever happens to be immediately available. He supposes he could tie him up and spend an hour tediously sorting things just to drive him bananas, but if he's honest with himself, Bruce is a little eager for it, too.

"It's just what makes sense."

Intensity. Focus. Drowning everything else out. The chance of his mind skittering away to think of - take your fucking pick - is too great, when sex is ordinary. Drinking and abusing prescriptions during socialite hookups had helped, but now, he's back to this. He would sub more if anyone could push him into that space successfully, and he'd have gentler affairs if he didn't find kindness directed at him so impossible to understand.

So here they are.

Done with scavenging, Bruce pulls himself up with a number of items. They go clunk onto the bed beside John, long strips of real leather, metal fastenings, the tinny jingle of something with buckles. Bruce is more of a shibari and adjacent guy, when it comes to bindings, enjoying the meditative process, but this custom in-between gear is also fun. And quicker to get on, thus minimizing wizard bitching.

"Elbows and knees." And he will get pulled there ungently, if he isn't quick about it.