Parent insults are always cute. His saintly, dead parents. It no longer takes Bruce out of anything, but once in a while, just for fun: I remember sitting in the police station, scuffing something off my shoe because I was looking down, anything to not look at any of the cops around me, and I realized it was my mother's dried brain matter.

You know, sexy.

Bruce maintains upright posture, letting Constantine press into him but not actively taking any of his weight. He's got something going on with the hand not securing him, but he keeps it out of view.

"What do you think is stronger?" Bruce hitches him back even closer, rocks his hips forward so that his cock slides into the cleft of his ass. He's not as hard as he could be, but holding steady nevertheless. Hot and firm against impact-reddened skin. "Failure or stubbornness?"

A question for them both.

Once his dick is somewhere comfortable, he tugs John back, leaning just enough to take his weight. He trails his hand over his front, bypasses his cock, bring a smack down onto the outside of his thigh. His hip. Gets in close, so the small shockwaves will reach the nerves spreading into his groin. Keeps it up for a while, until a new sensation breaks in: a dull pinch at one nipple. Then the other. Clothespins. Plain wooden ones with a metal spring like you get in a 50 pack at the grocery store; there's no need for anything gimmicky or 'stronger', the longer these things stay on, the more they'll hurt, period. Bruce flicks one, hums in consideration. Brings both hands down over his hips and below. Still not touching the magician's cock.

"Aching for it," he observes. "Can you feel yourself leaking?"