Bruce splays his hand out, rubbing over Constantine's scalp, almost gentle - but then curls it again, re-establishing that grip in his hair, pushing him flat down on the mattress. The other man could try to wriggle out of the position, but he'd probably hurt himself; Bruce leans just enough weight over onto that arm to make it feel just to one side of dangerous.

Meanwhile, spanks him again. "Do you really think it's pent-up?" Smack, another. "When you know exactly what I do every night?" Crack. Hard enough to feel a sharp sting on his own palm, but too precise for the impact to run up to his elbow. Bruce knows just how to hit him, spread out the pressure, get his ass a perfect, even shade of red, and push musculature around in a way that won't leave lasting damage. He'll never hit him incorrectly, or too hard at a certain angle, and end up bruising the tendons around his tailbone; still, he hits so hard and quick, it might be hard to imagine he's not just doing it blindly.

The hand pinning the back of his head slips lower, rubbing at the base of his skull. Nicely, almost. Bruce gives his ass a squeeze and then leans over him crosswise, heedless of how much he weighs, so that he can lean over the edge of the bed and open a drawer beneath it.