Bruce doesn't know how John does it, but he manages to get under his skin. He wears down Bruce's thick layer of apathy and touches something, all scrambling nails and claws and grating complaining that hook into him. It's not that Bruce doesn't feel, or care, but it's become so fucking difficult to let go—

How good it feels sparks into him like a slap in the face, finally inhabiting his own body fully, not detached on some plane that lets him go on and on for an age like he does when he's fighting. Bruce's breath catches, not really thinking about the picture their words paint, but falling into the sound of his voice, the feeling of being buried inside him, the fact that he's here, under Bruce's hands, prone but still struggling for more, more, trying to fuck myself on you, every second of it.

Maybe John can feel it when Bruce tunes in finally. He fucks him hard, harder, heavy grinding strokes that push in as deep as he's able, snapping in to savor it. When he pulls back he lets himself slip all the way out just so that he can press the head of his cock against the tight rim of his hole just to feel it again, just to drive John mental with frustration. Because he likes that. Likes hearing him bitch about it. It feels real. He shoves his cock back inside, grabs him by the hips, and pounds into him. Brakes off completely.