He's going to lose his mind like this, and it's going to be Bruce's fault and the bastard isn't even going to care. Trussed up and facing away like this, Constantine can't even tell if Bruce is getting anywhere near close as well, or if he's just going to keep setting the same frustrating pace of sharp, shorter thrusts that are almost agonisingly close to what he wants and yet still not enough.
As Bruce's hand moves to the straps around his arms he finally, finally gets some of what he wants. The feeling of power in Bruce's arm as he pulls John back to meet his thrusts, the thickness of his cock punching out a mix of curses and sharp, panting groans. It hardly matters if Bruce is managing to hit the best angle or not; being held like this and fucked nice and rough does it for him just as much, and he arches his head back into the other man's hand. Bruce hardly need to pull for John to follow his grip, his throat pressing against the bed and certain to have burn marks from it later.
"Christ, just about anything you do seems to get me harder," he admits, and Bruce further proves the matter by following it up with a smack to his thigh, the skin still smarting from the pegs in place.
"God above, yes you're a distracting bastard and I'd lose my bloody mind trying to fuck myself on you and into her at the same time, you'd break me and I'd love every second of it." Like... what he felt like is happening right now, especially when Bruce sinks in and grinds against him, hips flush against his ass. How his own cock hasn't already exploded is beyond him, but he doubts he'll manage much longer with Bruce talking like that in his ear.
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.
The change is apparent, even when he can't see Bruce's expression. He's seen it enough that he can still picture it though, the slight flicker in his eyes as he finally falls out from the distance that he seems to hold like a shield between himself and the world and grounds himself in the now.
'course, it helps that the change also means Bruce loses the carefully controlling actions of before. Hard to miss it when the man starts fucking him almost animalistically, like he's trying to punch the breath out of John with his cock alone. It's never quite enough to completely silence him, but he does fall to sharp curses, fragments of sentences and complaints cut off as Bruce draws back and slams into him again. Even the periods where he pauses only serve to drag more protests from John, too aware of the hot pressure of Bruce's cock at his entrance, deliberately kept back only to pound into him again when he's off-guard.
And he bloody loves all of it, the feeling of Bruce giving in to his own desires and desperation in turn. The only pity is that he'd already been half out of his mind with pleasure (well, maybe more than half) by this point and there's only so long a man can keep it together like this, with the sound of Bruce breathing heavily behind and above him and those hands gripping his hips roughly, keeping him still as he's fucked hard enough he knows he'll be a mess of bruises later.
It's like a jolt of power right up his spine, almost as powerful a rush as magic gives him, and John strains against he leather and Bruce's hands, every muscle feeling taut with effort.
He fucks him to get himself where he needs to be, sinking into that feeling of nothing else existing in his brain. Just for a little while. It's about as long as he can ever manage, only ever letting go when he's having sex.
(Anymore. He slipped too far, into prescriptions and alcohol and downing whole bottles of mood stabilizing medications with other whole bottles of wine. Just to stop thinking. Nothing will ever stop the dark claws dug deep into his mind, and these moments become—
worth something.)
Bruce wants to come, the tension building in him rushing too quickly now towards breaking. He pulls John up, haphazard despite his strength, enough to impale him further on his cock and get one hand beneath his jackknifed form. He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, catching the other man between the force of his hips and the calloused circle of his fingers.
"Shh," he says, a rough rasp against the back of his shoulder.
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no subject
As Bruce's hand moves to the straps around his arms he finally, finally gets some of what he wants. The feeling of power in Bruce's arm as he pulls John back to meet his thrusts, the thickness of his cock punching out a mix of curses and sharp, panting groans. It hardly matters if Bruce is managing to hit the best angle or not; being held like this and fucked nice and rough does it for him just as much, and he arches his head back into the other man's hand. Bruce hardly need to pull for John to follow his grip, his throat pressing against the bed and certain to have burn marks from it later.
"Christ, just about anything you do seems to get me harder," he admits, and Bruce further proves the matter by following it up with a smack to his thigh, the skin still smarting from the pegs in place.
"God above, yes you're a distracting bastard and I'd lose my bloody mind trying to fuck myself on you and into her at the same time, you'd break me and I'd love every second of it." Like... what he felt like is happening right now, especially when Bruce sinks in and grinds against him, hips flush against his ass. How his own cock hasn't already exploded is beyond him, but he doubts he'll manage much longer with Bruce talking like that in his ear.
no subject
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.
no subject
'course, it helps that the change also means Bruce loses the carefully controlling actions of before. Hard to miss it when the man starts fucking him almost animalistically, like he's trying to punch the breath out of John with his cock alone. It's never quite enough to completely silence him, but he does fall to sharp curses, fragments of sentences and complaints cut off as Bruce draws back and slams into him again. Even the periods where he pauses only serve to drag more protests from John, too aware of the hot pressure of Bruce's cock at his entrance, deliberately kept back only to pound into him again when he's off-guard.
And he bloody loves all of it, the feeling of Bruce giving in to his own desires and desperation in turn. The only pity is that he'd already been half out of his mind with pleasure (well, maybe more than half) by this point and there's only so long a man can keep it together like this, with the sound of Bruce breathing heavily behind and above him and those hands gripping his hips roughly, keeping him still as he's fucked hard enough he knows he'll be a mess of bruises later.
It's like a jolt of power right up his spine, almost as powerful a rush as magic gives him, and John strains against he leather and Bruce's hands, every muscle feeling taut with effort.
no subject
(Anymore. He slipped too far, into prescriptions and alcohol and downing whole bottles of mood stabilizing medications with other whole bottles of wine. Just to stop thinking. Nothing will ever stop the dark claws dug deep into his mind, and these moments become—
worth something.)
Bruce wants to come, the tension building in him rushing too quickly now towards breaking. He pulls John up, haphazard despite his strength, enough to impale him further on his cock and get one hand beneath his jackknifed form. He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, catching the other man between the force of his hips and the calloused circle of his fingers.
"Shh," he says, a rough rasp against the back of his shoulder.