A long day, for Bruce Wayne. Not the socialite, but the owner of a multibillion dollar conglomerate; he is careful and surgical in the way he keeps the company under his control, but just barely. There are hawks and sharks desperate to pry the reins from the faded tabloid darling, and some of them are even on the board. Now and again (and especially when they want to 'renegotiate' employee health care, or try to contract with the Department of Defense), he has to set his careful chess game aside and go in with a shotgun. So to speak.
It's more annoying than being Batman. Definitely more tiring.
But it means he quarters in the city proper, and not the lake house. (Definitely not the ruins of the manor.) He can almost taste the ghost of it in the air in the elevator, which would be a giveaway if he lacked his particular security. No lock can keep out a magician's teleport, but his automated surveillance can still send him a polite text about it.
Motherfucker. Cigarettes in his penthouse.
"One of those windows had better be open," he says, shrugging off his jacket. The sprawling rooftop estate has plenty, the whole of this awful city visible from end to end, broken up by dark ribs of art deco steel.
"'course it is, luv," comes the response, all blatant disregard for any kind of niceties. Neither of them is the kind to ask how someone is or about their day even without their unusual partnership. The main politeness Constantine can show is the fact that there are, in fact, a couple of windows open and an uncannily accurate breeze that seems to filter the smoke that rises from his cigarette towards them and out into the evening air.
Constantine himself looks similarly worse for wear, tie even more askew than usual, shirt and skin alike marked with grime and dried blood and a couple of bruises starting to blossom in places. The coat is tossed aside and shirtsleeves rolled up, a sign he's been here longer for a few moments, and he's sitting in one of the expensive chairs with two bare feet up on the desk and what he hopes is some important paperwork. All the better to get a rise or at least leave a sign he was here at all.
Once Bruce is closer, he does give him a once over, although there's enough heat in his gaze that it's clearly not just checking the state the billionaire had arrived in.
"Looks like you could use a release, luv. And it just so happens I could do with something to take my mind off things too."
"A business visit, huh." Dry, as he makes his way over. Careful in his movements, not faking anything, but not yet off the clock long enough to fully bleed into his thoughtless, predatory grace. Bruce comes up alongside him and reaches out with one hand, capturing Constantine's jaw and pushing him back into the chair, head tipped back. His other hand snags that cigarette, and a flick sends it soaring away out a window. Impressive, until you realize he could probably hit a bird with it from twenty yards away, and then it's just petty.
That done, he releases him and steps away, circling back towards the kitchen, undoing cufflinks, tie bar, buttons. Always so made-up, like he can't conceive of not wearing armor.
"Was it very bad this time, or are you just very bored?"
Sometimes it's awful. I have to forget. Sometimes it's just because there's no one else who can fill the right gap. Bruce understands both. There's no alcohol anywhere in the penthouse, but he finds himself checking anyway, a tedious buzz starting in the back of his head. Withdrawal from alcohol dependency was only half as bad as recovering from some of the poisons and toxins he's got an immunity for, not it's been frustratingly long-reaching. Sometimes when he's agitated, his mind reaches out for it without his permission.
Sugar-free ginger ale it is. (Goddamnit, Alfred.) He twists the cap on it, closes the sleek refrigerator with his foot, and mentally maps out what he has immediately at hand. Out here, or in the bedroom, or in the bath. Takes stock of the other man's gaze and just how much of a frayed edge he seems to have (or not) as he returns, moving a little more like himself.
"Would you prefer if I had your slippers and a paper ready for you when you got in? Dinner on the table?" He drops his feet from the desk as Bruce approaches, but before another snide comment can follow there's that hand, firm and controlling and leaving no room for argument as Bruce presses his head back. It's one of the few times he doesn't protest the loss of his fix because Christ if he isn't here for a different one entirely and that alone has left his mouth dry.
But even so, it takes more than a casual show of domination to shut John Constantine up for more than a moment or two.
He rises from the chair as Bruce steps away, momentarily debating just producing another cigarette to piss the billionaire off more but deciding against it. Packs were only getting more expensive and he wanted a least one left for later. Instead he settles for watching Bruce remove the little bits that tied him to the carefully constructed mask. Maybe another day he'll see how far he can push that mask before Bruce has a chance to remove it completely, but not today.
"Who doesn't like travelling to the past and almost getting tortured to death for a bloody black magic ritual?" The medical bay on the Waverider and Gideon's expertise meant that the wounds always healed fast, but the rest of it... that's harder. The kind of hard that drove him here or halfway down a bottle. Here at least he got the chance to feel some control back when it came to his own skin.
He can hear Bruce in the kitchen, the sound of disappointing bottles that aren't full of what they'd both like right now clinking together, and Constantine briefly wonders what would have happened if he'd turned up with a bottle of his own. It's the kind of thing that might end with him never being allowed back in to whatever it is they've settled on though, or at least ran the risk of ruining it all one way or another. He doesn't think it worth the risk.
So instead he wanders after Bruce and leans in the doorframe, his fingers digging out his lighter to flick it open and snap it shut in a habitual gesture. Watching Bruce as the walk shifts so something suggesting a prowl, someone ready for anything that might come his way and expecting the worst. Someone not to be trifled with unless you were willing (hoping, in Constantine's case) to deal with the consequences.
"There he is. You should really think about ditching that cover some time, luv. That board of yours wouldn't last a moment against you like this."
If Constantine brought alcohol, Bruce wouldn't have any; he's not the sort to be agitated by what other people do, like that. It's only what his own head does to him. What he'd do is make him drink it just to get the ashtray taste out of his mouth. Ginger ale probably won't cut it.
Sometimes he wonders if every jump through time creates a perforation in reality. If these leaks let something worse in. He wonders if they pull a thread loose on those that jump through, bit by bit. They aren't insulated from it like Barry Allen, who can trip over a can and find himself in last week. Bruce closes his hand over Constantine's, stilling the click of his lighter and holding there. He sips his ginger ale unenthusiastically, and watches him.
"Are you alright?"
His are hands that never fidget, or shake. Everything but steadiness has long been exorcized from him. That board wouldn't last a moment, but will you. Bruce is close enough that he could bridge the gap and kiss him, but he doesn't. Plastic soda bottle between them. An unusual brand, in-house from whatever terminally posh grocery store services orders from Gotham's elite. Constantine will have to rip his hand out from under Bruce's solid hold if he wants to back away, answer (flippant or hostile, he anticipates) with more feet of empty insulation between him and a too-observant gaze.
For all the Legends lives seem unbelievable to the point of stretching reality at times - bound to happen when time travel and magic mix - there's times as well when it's harder to live with what happens. They all have their moments when it gets to be too much, some of them are even well-adjusted enough to try talking about it, but Constantine isn't one of their number.
"Of course I am, have you forgotten who you're talking to? It'd take more than some amateur with a sacrificial dagger and designs on my organs to do me in." It's dismissive, with a grim smile. And not enough on it's own to make Bruce stop looking at him like that.
His own hands tremble faintly with nervous energy, a desire to do something with them if he's not smoking, and Constantine tilts his head back to stare up a Bruce. That bloody stare seems intent on picking out every crack and bit of weakness and he hasn't the patience for it now. His hand grabs for the billionaire's tie, all neat and pressed, and wraps it around into a fist to pull him down and in closer.
"Don't you forget, luv," he growls, "I never had a mother growing up and I certainly don't need one now. So take off the damn gloves and stop treating me like china, alright?"
It's a reaction that tells him what he needs to know. And one that doesn't feel like he's hiding magic internal bleeding, or some other damn thing. Bruce lets himself be jerked closer, unflinching, liking that growl. The earlier observation was correct: he, too, could use a release.
"I have a right to know exactly what drags itself into my house," Bruce says lowly. He pushes his thumb beneath the lighter in Constantine's hand, pressing into the center of his palm. "I know what you're here for."
That old joke. Hit me, begs the masochist. The sadist whispers back, no. What, you're not getting off on the cruelty? Isn't this what you wanted?
Alright. Bruce isn't nearly that bad. But he's always taking the measure of things. Only once or twice a cursory measure of the situation has prompted him to immediately spring into action; the more someone wants it, the more he needs to understand just how thin the ice is first. He lets his hand go, thinking about his pulse and his eyes and the depth of his breathing, and shoves the soda bottle against his chest. Here. Drink that. It has the distinct air of an order.
When he steps away, he pulls his own tie off, and begins undressing on the way to the main bedroom.
"Trust me, sunshine, if it's ever not me that's coming here, you'll know." But the flare of anger at feeling coddled is tempered with the press of Bruce's thumb into his palm. It's oddly intimate, more so then some of the other things they do, and even after he pulls away, Constantine can feel the echo of that pressure.
He's left holding the bottle and scowling after the other man, half tempted to lob the thing at Bruce's head. "Next time I'll bring my own refreshments, thanks."
Non-alcoholic and sugar free as well, it tastes like ginger flavoured water and not the whiskey he'd prefer. No wonder Bruce is such a miserable bastard, trying to fend off cravings with this. He's well aware it's likely an attempt to mask the smoke on his own breath rather than anything else at least, and while Constantine grimaces and grumbles about the taste, he does finish the bottle, tossing it off to the side as he follows Bruce.
And it's hard to keep being irritated when he is getting something to look at all the while. By the time they've reached the bedroom proper, Constantine's almost his old self again, lips quirking in a smile as he lingers in the door way.
"Don't stop on my account, although if you need a hand getting the rest of your kit off..."
Wouldn't that just be the worst. If Bruce tied him up to be nice to him. Suffer.
"Don't know any blasphemous party tricks?" Water into wine. What's your magic even good for. (A lot, he thinks. He thinks Constantine could be an incredible force for good, far better than Bruce and his anger issues, if he could just get a fucking grip.)
His waistcoat is off, discarded, and he's unbuckling his belt. But he stops, and looks at the other man.
"Alright."
Do it, then. He stands and waits, eyes already adjusted to the dark of the room. Beneath his clothes, Bruce is as ever, grotesquely scarred and improbably fit. He's pushing fifty; there is an inevitable loss of skin elasticity in the beginning stages of plaguing him, and he'll never again be in his prime. The spare parts that make up his spine do an excellent job, but he's always one back injury away from being permanent tech support. And yet he's still out there, night after night, beating the shit out of people half his age like it's the easiest thing in the world.
But not tonight. He reaches out when Constantine is in range, jerks him forward, careless of whether or not he might unbalance him.
Does he know any blasphemous party tricks... Constantine knows tricks that would make Bruce's toes curl, has even demonstrated a few (no point in giving up all his tricks out the gate...) as if that weren't enough.
"I've certainly caused a few to blaspheme in the past, luv," he returns. And he might just see if he can get a rise from Bruce now. There's a challenge in the taller man's acceptance, and Constantine isn't about to back down that easily.
He chuckles to himself, a bit overconfident and as though he's already won somehow, and crosses the distance between them, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt and loosening his tie further as he goes. He's flicking through spells in his mind, settling on one just as Bruce yanks him closer. It's rough and demanding and exactly what Constantine wants tonight; he's always enjoyed a bit of roughness and being pushed around like this, particularly when his goal is to use sensation to drown out memory.
Bruce is strong too, for all his age and the brutalities he forces his body through again and again, the damage that Constantine knows is beneath the surface, deep in muscle and bone. Just the force of him pulling him closer has Constantine stumbling against him, both hands pressing down against the taller man's chest as if to brace himself.
But what comes out of his mouth isn't anything understandable so much as a swift chant, magic flaring like gold from his palms and seeming to spread and burn Bruce's shirt away, leaving only ashes and smoke curling away from his torso.
Constantine stumbles, and Bruce doesn't budge. (The immovable object to Superman's unstoppable force; that he's human, nothing special besides his own manic stubbornness, has never seemed to matter.) And he doesn't flinch when the spell hits him, though he does raise his head, which might be a concession to what the fuck.
Though he did basically dare the man, so, this is just what he gets.
Bruce raises one hand, watching gold-flecked pseudo-fire vanish around his wrist, consuming the last thread of a shirt cuff. He always thinks he can smell something, around magic. Like the molecules that make up air have changed somehow. It seeps in between the cigarette aura, but only for some fleeting, half-imagined moment.
"That's very specific."
Didn't even burn off the waistband of his pants or anything.
His raised hand then finds Constantine's jaw, not so different from when he'd grabbed him earlier. This time, though, it's just to hold him firmly in place when he kisses him, hard and scraping. There's no punishment in it, but no real affection, either. He isn't sure if they have any for each other - that they'd be willing to admit. But there is familiarity in it, and that counts as something. Bruce pulls at Constantine's tie and thinks - even more askew than usual, shirt and skin alike marked with grime and dried blood - that even though there's no helping that he tastes like stale tobacco, at least he got some electrolytes in him. Tie off, he reaches lower, yanks up his shirt.
"Could have taken the rest of it, but I wanted to leave something to enjoy." Smugly self-satisfied with himself, Constantine's hands take the opportunity to explore Bruce's chest, following the lines of hard muscle and puckered scar tissue, a map of every battle the Batman has ever been through. It's something he enjoys being able to see and touch, a part of him wondering if he's the only person that gets to see this and know where the wounds really came from, not hear bullshit stories of skiing accidents and sports injuries.
He's never really asked if Bruce fucks anyone else; neither of them expect or are the type for exclusivity in this, a kind of sentimental garbage they haven't the time for, but he does wonder all the same how many know both Bruce's lives. How many just one or the other.
The probing touches are also to seek out anything that might be new, wondering if the Batman has been injured recently, if there's anything he should know about or be careful of as they continue. Nothing ruins a moment like unexpected and unplanned pain and blood.
His hands rest on Bruce's hips as they kiss, return the hard demand of it with yanking at his belt, half to pull him closer and half to see if he can get the Batman to move a step. Unsurprising if he doesn't; physical strength isn't his forte, nor does he need it to flick open the button of Bruce's trousers and trace a sigil against his skin. A sparkling energy ripples over the exposed skin, radiating from that point and feeling not unlike nails dragging lightly against flesh.
Skiing accidents. Sports injuries. Shrapnel from the car bomb that killed his son. (Sometimes he wonders, if he hadn't had to fake and stage a civilian cover story, if he wouldn't have become quite so unhinged about it. There is no time for mourning when you're trying to work out how to not submit Beaten to death by the Joker to a coroner's office.) Most people don't ask, these days. Bruce Wayne may be an airhead, but he's been through a lot.
A few weeks ago, there had been residual bruising from a particularly nasty few nights, but he's had a decent run of it lately. Nothing dramatic added to the graffiti that spans over him. He's just not getting younger.
Bruce allows himself to be pulled, which presses them together for that twist of magic. He gets one hand on Constantine's ass, keeping him crushed close, and shifts his mouth to the side of his neck. Other hand in his hair, grabbing hold of it. The feeling is interesting, good, clever. He wonders if John feels an echo of it, since they're touching; he wonders if John uses his magic like this with many other people. Who knows you?
Safer never to ask.
Stubble scrapes down his throat, to where Bruce sucks lightly at his adam's apple, then lower, sinking his teeth into his shoulder. Some shirt in the way, but that can be yanked off. Pop, some button meets its demise. A quick transition, then, between a moment when Bruce nearly says Any reason you're taking forever—
Changes his mind. Pivots, instead, and throws Constantine down on his bed.
There's an echo of magic, his own racing under Bruce's skin, and it's tempting to sink into it entirely. But if he isn't careful, that could end up in the sort of feedback loop that would short both of them out and ruin what is shaping up to be a rather pleasant evening, reason for being here in the first place none withstanding.
He can feel Bruce pressed hard against him, the grip on his ass and the hand buried in his hair the right amount of forceful and controlling. There's always a rush of pleasure in being pushed around, letting himself be thrown down or shoved against a wall. If he were back in that psych ward they might say it's reclaiming himself for when he hadn't been in control, but Constantine just thinks maybe he's a bastard who knows what he deserves.
He hisses a curse as teeth sink into his skin, but his hand is burying in Bruce's hair and sketching another of the same sigil against the back of his neck, sending magic skittering over Bruce's scalp and shoulders. It threads down his spine, but Constantine makes a conscious effort to try and redirect as much as he could from anything that might end up too painful.
The problem is, it takes concentration to direct magic that precisely, and being thrown bodily onto the bed is a fantastic way to break that concentration. The spell ends abruptly and he grins, already thoroughly dishevelled on Bruce's bed.
"You said you wanted blasphemous magic, sweetheart."
Bruce looms over him (unavoidable, given his stature, but he can lean into it, too), rolls his shoulders. Odd sensations down his spine just hit patches of nerve damage and skitter through steel replacement vertebrae; that scar is a nearly invisible one despite running from tailbone to neck. A plastic surgeon's talented hand doing the stitches, and billions of dollars worth of extendible income doing the skincare.
"Well, I already don't believe in god," he says, reaching out to snag one of John's ankles. There is little dignity in being undressed like this, but that's what wizards get when they take a glacial age to do anything. "So we're probably covered, even if you summon a birthday cake."
Don't do that, though.
Bruce drags the other man's trousers off (did he have shoes on, are the socks a funny pattern, is he judging him for Hello Kitty stockings, tell me), and kneels properly on the bed so he can shove one of Constantine's knees up and out, prowling between his legs. Pushing him down with a hand on his chest, scraping blunt nails through wiry hair.
"Colors?"
—Or? Bruce operates just fine with plenty of options; green, yellow, red, just fucking saying stop, specific safe words. He is also - the other man may know by now - experienced (and dangerous) enough to operate without any at all.
There might be little dignity in it, but Constantine could never really claim to be on speaking terms with 'dignity' at the best of times, and his pulse spikes at being pushed down and forcibly stripped. He's clearly been expecting - hoping - for this to happen one way or another; the shoes and socks already discarded long before Bruce had arrived, and the boxers are just as easy to drag off with the trousers. Look at him, planning ahead to make sure he could get his kit off faster than certain others wearing so many damn layers of flashy suit.
He'd had some time to change, but there's still the bruises and smears of blood that he hadn't cleaned up, and a couple of long lines of skin that are slightly too pink and new. Sensations there feel as though they're stronger somehow, as though the flesh hasn't had time to get used to life, and Bruce's nails dragging against it raises gooseflesh in their wake.
"Do I look like I need that kind of safety net to you?" Maybe in the beginning he had, before they'd done this as often as they had. Before they'd started to learn each other's limits almost better then their own (Constantine at least regularly pushes his own limits further than he should, but keeps in mind exactly where Bruce's are). Now all he does is drag his nails over Bruce's back in return, giving him a devil-may-care grin.
"We both know I could toss you across the bloody room if I wanted to," he promises, pushing himself up to nip at the other's ear. "Or turn your bones to ash inside you. Anything you do to me, I'm letting you do."
(Everyone always says that and then oh no, where'd the Kryptonite spear come from, how could this have happened.)
He leans in, presses a kiss to his mouth. It's gentler than the bruising he initiated before, a contrast to the harsh way he's putting weight onto the other man's chest, hand splayed out wide over his solar plexus. But he doesn't linger. He shifts up, mouth ghosting over his jaw. "Who are you reminding?"
Me or you?
John's magic is interesting. It seems so intricate at times, and like a flailing sledgehammer at others. An art, wielded by an artist, capable of masterpieces and errant doodles on napkins - an artist who is getting both his hands pinned over his head in one of Bruce's. He strokes over the other man's body with his other, firm and questing. He squeezes over muscles, pushes deep into pressure and chakra points. Curls his fingers into nerve-dense tangles of fascia. He finds a spot on his ribcage, presses on it. Not a massage. Even deep-tissue ones hurt less.
"Huh." If Constantine wanted a dom who would just leave hickeys on him as a warmup, he's got plenty of options. But nope, he's here. Bruce releases his pinned arms so that he can pull one straight up, aligning his shoulder and spine while he palms over his ribs. "Inhale."
"Maybe both of us, maybe I'm just shit at talking dirty." But it gets results all the same, doesn't it? Both hands pinned and held up high while Bruce's hand sweeps further over him, digging into muscles with the ease of someone familiar with exactly how to dismantle someone by hand if it came down to it. And Christ if that doesn't turn him on more than he cares to admit.
There's always a strangeness when Bruce works his chakra points; Constantine doesn't know much about their link to magic beyond basics he's learned for his own purposes. He's a gutter mage, a mix of any and every kind of magic he can get his hands on, not an educated purist. But he can sense some effect on the flow, not unlike a massage on a spiritual level. Then those fingers dig in deeper and Constantine arches, snarling out a curse.
"Bloody hell, Bruce! I don't need you trying to dig around in my organs as well!" Not in this particular way, anyway. But despite the protests, he lets himself be manipulated, hissing another curse as there's another press and a popping sensation. The fact it's followed by relief isn't immediately reassuring, as Constantine can't tell if it's genuinely needed or just relief that no one was currently trying to massage his heart through his ribs.
"Not the kind of release I was hoping to get here," he grumbles. His free hand snags the waist of Bruce's trousers and gives them a tug, slips inside to dig his own fingertips into the billionaire's ass.
"How much has a bastard got to beg for you to stop being a bloody tease?"
"So quit slouching and getting punched in the side," he says mildly, about digging around in organs, "and I won't be able to tell when you have a rib-head about to float out of your torso."
Real, or Bruce being a brat in his own way? A mystery. He does know an awful lot about the human body, and furthermore, an awful lot about a bunch of hippy-dippy shit like chakras and paths of energy, for a guy so science-minded. Meditation, extreme physical limits, roots and internal tides. When he focuses so closely, and when he has experience with the body he's focusing on, it's hard not to see things.
Beyond the osteopath vision, he also sees desire, and it mirrors his own. Obligingly, he pushes down his own trousers and underwear, also ninjaing off his shoes in the process. (Maybe HE had the Hello Kitty socks.)
"You never sound all that convincing."
Bruce slides a hand over the inside of John's thigh, and palms his cock, pressing it against his belly and rubbing the underside with his thumb.
"Next time I'll try not to get drugged and dragged around," Constantine complains, shifting under Bruce and trying to find some other way to distract the man. Unfortunately if anyone has incredible focus, it's the man currently putting all of that focus on if he needs physical therapy and not on Constantine's dick, where he'd prefer it.
He sends another fluttering pulse of magic through Bruce's body again, less focused and more simple warm sensation rolling over him like a tide, and that does seem to help. Finally there's a hand where he wants it and he rocks up as much as he can manage against the touch.
"Figure you only give in to shut me up anyway," he returns. One hand is still free and he drags it up Bruce's spine to tug him in for another kiss. "Come here."
Bruce makes a low sound at that slip of magic, pinches lightly at Constantine's side. He relents, though, leaning in to kiss him. It's good like this - cigarette taste aside - close and nearly grappling, kissing wet and just rough enough. Bruce doesn't quite bite down on his tongue, grazes it with his teeth before sucking on it, enjoying the contrast between that and the prickling discomfort of stubble-on-stubble. Too much and it turns to sandpaper, but they've got a minute. And another, to slot hips together, and rock down. Bruce gets his cock pressed in alongside the other man's, stroking them both before letting the leverage of the position do the work. He's only just half hard, and it fills and stiffens as it's rutted there into the other man's skin.
"I think you'd only shut up with a gag," he says, mouth brushing against his as he speaks. He drives down, forward, moving one knee up to spread John's out, so the can grind in harder. It's not completely comfortable. He knows he's heavy, muscles bordering on too solid. But the bite of everything is present and real. "But you'd probably magic your voice out anyway, if you could clear your head enough to do it."
"Why don't you try me sometime, see how much you can distract me from it?" It's the kind of challenge Constantine can get behind, wanting to see how far Bruce will go and, as always, pushing further than he knows is probably good for him.
"Think you can come up with other things to put in my mouth to shut me up." It's said in gasps and grunts, the harsh grind of skin against skin raw and rough and what he'd come here for. Sensation too powerful to allow memory to leak through.
He hooks a leg awkwardly behind Bruce's, striving to meet him as they rut against each other and hissing as the friction starts to feel almost too much. Bruce is right; he's not quiet by any means, never has been, punctuating the air with curses and fragments of begging, even kissing wet and with a lot of vocal enthusiasm.
But he's not one to refuse a challenge either, and as Bruce grinds down on him, Constantine tips his head back, his hand splaying down the back of the larger man's neck and eyes rolling up as he mutters an incantation under his breath. This time there are sparks, dancing over his fingers and peppering sharp, needle-like jolts against Bruce's skin, buzzing pleasantly up his own arm and chest. Never let it be said he didn't try to keep Bruce on his toes.
Bruce grunts at the sparks and jerks one hand over, up to the other man's face. Shoves his fingers in his mouth. There, you little brat. Obviously the move there is 'my dick', but he's busy, right this second. Maybe later. (Or not. Bruce is sometimes cagey about receiving oral. John isn't the only one with self-worth issues currently in this penthouse.)
With his mouth occupied, Bruce kisses at his jaw instead, and lower, finding that same spot on his shoulder to bite into again, and go about leaving him a significant bruise. Taking his time, as he rocks his hips, sliding their cocks together. Sketching out a plan in his head. Having a precise one with a partner so wily doesn't always work, but it can't hurt to try. It's a nice mental exercise, at least.
Without warning, he sits up, detangling himself and flipping the other man over onto his front (ducking, one hand on John's thigh, appropriate use of combat know-how). He gets one of the magician's hands behind his back, pinning him, pushing him down into the mattress with a firm hand on his head. He digs fingers into his shaggy blond hair and pulls, leaving that there and moving his other hand out of the pin to go lower and deliver a heavy smack to his ass.
It might not be what he'd implied, but it works well enough and Constantine is quick to take the hint. His tongue presses against them and between the digits, rolling around Bruce's fingers before he sucks with as much lewd noise as he can manage, almost as if trying to prove that it's never going to make him completely quiet. Short of a silence spell, he's fairly confident he can make a great deal of sound, even if it's not exactly coherent sentences.
Like the throaty noise as Bruce follows gentle kisses with teeth. Same spot as before, the glorious bastard is definitely giving him some marks to remember him by. Not high enough to be seen by anyone else, but he'll feel it every time he moves his arm. Definitely going to lead to a couple of uncomfortable moments on the Waverider, and possibly another visit here sooner than he'd care to admit. Although with Bruce pressing him down, teeth in his shoulder, fingers preventing any incantations and the rough grind of them against each other wearing down his focus, he finds it hard not to see a problem with more of this.
Constantine also finds it hard to see what's coming. In hindsight he should have realised that Bruce had been planning something, but the sudden absence of the other man's body atop his leaves him blinking for a moment, panting and with a raging hard on. Then just as swiftly he's flipped, the yelp that escapes him turning into a groaning laugh as Bruce jerks his head back painfully hard.
"That's the spirit! All that pent up aggression I just know is seething away in there, don't you just want to--" Crack. Constantine jerks and hisses, the instinctive twitch yanking on the grip at his scalp and blossoming pain and heat in two places. "Christ-!"
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.
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It's more annoying than being Batman. Definitely more tiring.
But it means he quarters in the city proper, and not the lake house. (Definitely not the ruins of the manor.) He can almost taste the ghost of it in the air in the elevator, which would be a giveaway if he lacked his particular security. No lock can keep out a magician's teleport, but his automated surveillance can still send him a polite text about it.
Motherfucker. Cigarettes in his penthouse.
"One of those windows had better be open," he says, shrugging off his jacket. The sprawling rooftop estate has plenty, the whole of this awful city visible from end to end, broken up by dark ribs of art deco steel.
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Constantine himself looks similarly worse for wear, tie even more askew than usual, shirt and skin alike marked with grime and dried blood and a couple of bruises starting to blossom in places. The coat is tossed aside and shirtsleeves rolled up, a sign he's been here longer for a few moments, and he's sitting in one of the expensive chairs with two bare feet up on the desk and what he hopes is some important paperwork. All the better to get a rise or at least leave a sign he was here at all.
Once Bruce is closer, he does give him a once over, although there's enough heat in his gaze that it's clearly not just checking the state the billionaire had arrived in.
"Looks like you could use a release, luv. And it just so happens I could do with something to take my mind off things too."
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That done, he releases him and steps away, circling back towards the kitchen, undoing cufflinks, tie bar, buttons. Always so made-up, like he can't conceive of not wearing armor.
"Was it very bad this time, or are you just very bored?"
Sometimes it's awful. I have to forget. Sometimes it's just because there's no one else who can fill the right gap. Bruce understands both. There's no alcohol anywhere in the penthouse, but he finds himself checking anyway, a tedious buzz starting in the back of his head. Withdrawal from alcohol dependency was only half as bad as recovering from some of the poisons and toxins he's got an immunity for, not it's been frustratingly long-reaching. Sometimes when he's agitated, his mind reaches out for it without his permission.
Sugar-free ginger ale it is. (Goddamnit, Alfred.) He twists the cap on it, closes the sleek refrigerator with his foot, and mentally maps out what he has immediately at hand. Out here, or in the bedroom, or in the bath. Takes stock of the other man's gaze and just how much of a frayed edge he seems to have (or not) as he returns, moving a little more like himself.
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But even so, it takes more than a casual show of domination to shut John Constantine up for more than a moment or two.
He rises from the chair as Bruce steps away, momentarily debating just producing another cigarette to piss the billionaire off more but deciding against it. Packs were only getting more expensive and he wanted a least one left for later. Instead he settles for watching Bruce remove the little bits that tied him to the carefully constructed mask. Maybe another day he'll see how far he can push that mask before Bruce has a chance to remove it completely, but not today.
"Who doesn't like travelling to the past and almost getting tortured to death for a bloody black magic ritual?" The medical bay on the Waverider and Gideon's expertise meant that the wounds always healed fast, but the rest of it... that's harder. The kind of hard that drove him here or halfway down a bottle. Here at least he got the chance to feel some control back when it came to his own skin.
He can hear Bruce in the kitchen, the sound of disappointing bottles that aren't full of what they'd both like right now clinking together, and Constantine briefly wonders what would have happened if he'd turned up with a bottle of his own. It's the kind of thing that might end with him never being allowed back in to whatever it is they've settled on though, or at least ran the risk of ruining it all one way or another. He doesn't think it worth the risk.
So instead he wanders after Bruce and leans in the doorframe, his fingers digging out his lighter to flick it open and snap it shut in a habitual gesture. Watching Bruce as the walk shifts so something suggesting a prowl, someone ready for anything that might come his way and expecting the worst. Someone not to be trifled with unless you were willing (hoping, in Constantine's case) to deal with the consequences.
"There he is. You should really think about ditching that cover some time, luv. That board of yours wouldn't last a moment against you like this."
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Sometimes he wonders if every jump through time creates a perforation in reality. If these leaks let something worse in. He wonders if they pull a thread loose on those that jump through, bit by bit. They aren't insulated from it like Barry Allen, who can trip over a can and find himself in last week. Bruce closes his hand over Constantine's, stilling the click of his lighter and holding there. He sips his ginger ale unenthusiastically, and watches him.
"Are you alright?"
His are hands that never fidget, or shake. Everything but steadiness has long been exorcized from him. That board wouldn't last a moment, but will you. Bruce is close enough that he could bridge the gap and kiss him, but he doesn't. Plastic soda bottle between them. An unusual brand, in-house from whatever terminally posh grocery store services orders from Gotham's elite. Constantine will have to rip his hand out from under Bruce's solid hold if he wants to back away, answer (flippant or hostile, he anticipates) with more feet of empty insulation between him and a too-observant gaze.
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"Of course I am, have you forgotten who you're talking to? It'd take more than some amateur with a sacrificial dagger and designs on my organs to do me in." It's dismissive, with a grim smile. And not enough on it's own to make Bruce stop looking at him like that.
His own hands tremble faintly with nervous energy, a desire to do something with them if he's not smoking, and Constantine tilts his head back to stare up a Bruce. That bloody stare seems intent on picking out every crack and bit of weakness and he hasn't the patience for it now. His hand grabs for the billionaire's tie, all neat and pressed, and wraps it around into a fist to pull him down and in closer.
"Don't you forget, luv," he growls, "I never had a mother growing up and I certainly don't need one now. So take off the damn gloves and stop treating me like china, alright?"
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"I have a right to know exactly what drags itself into my house," Bruce says lowly. He pushes his thumb beneath the lighter in Constantine's hand, pressing into the center of his palm. "I know what you're here for."
That old joke. Hit me, begs the masochist. The sadist whispers back, no. What, you're not getting off on the cruelty? Isn't this what you wanted?
Alright. Bruce isn't nearly that bad. But he's always taking the measure of things. Only once or twice a cursory measure of the situation has prompted him to immediately spring into action; the more someone wants it, the more he needs to understand just how thin the ice is first. He lets his hand go, thinking about his pulse and his eyes and the depth of his breathing, and shoves the soda bottle against his chest. Here. Drink that. It has the distinct air of an order.
When he steps away, he pulls his own tie off, and begins undressing on the way to the main bedroom.
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He's left holding the bottle and scowling after the other man, half tempted to lob the thing at Bruce's head. "Next time I'll bring my own refreshments, thanks."
Non-alcoholic and sugar free as well, it tastes like ginger flavoured water and not the whiskey he'd prefer. No wonder Bruce is such a miserable bastard, trying to fend off cravings with this. He's well aware it's likely an attempt to mask the smoke on his own breath rather than anything else at least, and while Constantine grimaces and grumbles about the taste, he does finish the bottle, tossing it off to the side as he follows Bruce.
And it's hard to keep being irritated when he is getting something to look at all the while. By the time they've reached the bedroom proper, Constantine's almost his old self again, lips quirking in a smile as he lingers in the door way.
"Don't stop on my account, although if you need a hand getting the rest of your kit off..."
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"Don't know any blasphemous party tricks?" Water into wine. What's your magic even good for. (A lot, he thinks. He thinks Constantine could be an incredible force for good, far better than Bruce and his anger issues, if he could just get a fucking grip.)
His waistcoat is off, discarded, and he's unbuckling his belt. But he stops, and looks at the other man.
"Alright."
Do it, then. He stands and waits, eyes already adjusted to the dark of the room. Beneath his clothes, Bruce is as ever, grotesquely scarred and improbably fit. He's pushing fifty; there is an inevitable loss of skin elasticity in the beginning stages of plaguing him, and he'll never again be in his prime. The spare parts that make up his spine do an excellent job, but he's always one back injury away from being permanent tech support. And yet he's still out there, night after night, beating the shit out of people half his age like it's the easiest thing in the world.
But not tonight. He reaches out when Constantine is in range, jerks him forward, careless of whether or not he might unbalance him.
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"I've certainly caused a few to blaspheme in the past, luv," he returns. And he might just see if he can get a rise from Bruce now. There's a challenge in the taller man's acceptance, and Constantine isn't about to back down that easily.
He chuckles to himself, a bit overconfident and as though he's already won somehow, and crosses the distance between them, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt and loosening his tie further as he goes. He's flicking through spells in his mind, settling on one just as Bruce yanks him closer. It's rough and demanding and exactly what Constantine wants tonight; he's always enjoyed a bit of roughness and being pushed around like this, particularly when his goal is to use sensation to drown out memory.
Bruce is strong too, for all his age and the brutalities he forces his body through again and again, the damage that Constantine knows is beneath the surface, deep in muscle and bone. Just the force of him pulling him closer has Constantine stumbling against him, both hands pressing down against the taller man's chest as if to brace himself.
But what comes out of his mouth isn't anything understandable so much as a swift chant, magic flaring like gold from his palms and seeming to spread and burn Bruce's shirt away, leaving only ashes and smoke curling away from his torso.
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Though he did basically dare the man, so, this is just what he gets.
Bruce raises one hand, watching gold-flecked pseudo-fire vanish around his wrist, consuming the last thread of a shirt cuff. He always thinks he can smell something, around magic. Like the molecules that make up air have changed somehow. It seeps in between the cigarette aura, but only for some fleeting, half-imagined moment.
"That's very specific."
Didn't even burn off the waistband of his pants or anything.
His raised hand then finds Constantine's jaw, not so different from when he'd grabbed him earlier. This time, though, it's just to hold him firmly in place when he kisses him, hard and scraping. There's no punishment in it, but no real affection, either. He isn't sure if they have any for each other - that they'd be willing to admit. But there is familiarity in it, and that counts as something. Bruce pulls at Constantine's tie and thinks - even more askew than usual, shirt and skin alike marked with grime and dried blood - that even though there's no helping that he tastes like stale tobacco, at least he got some electrolytes in him. Tie off, he reaches lower, yanks up his shirt.
What are you waiting for?
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He's never really asked if Bruce fucks anyone else; neither of them expect or are the type for exclusivity in this, a kind of sentimental garbage they haven't the time for, but he does wonder all the same how many know both Bruce's lives. How many just one or the other.
The probing touches are also to seek out anything that might be new, wondering if the Batman has been injured recently, if there's anything he should know about or be careful of as they continue. Nothing ruins a moment like unexpected and unplanned pain and blood.
His hands rest on Bruce's hips as they kiss, return the hard demand of it with yanking at his belt, half to pull him closer and half to see if he can get the Batman to move a step. Unsurprising if he doesn't; physical strength isn't his forte, nor does he need it to flick open the button of Bruce's trousers and trace a sigil against his skin. A sparkling energy ripples over the exposed skin, radiating from that point and feeling not unlike nails dragging lightly against flesh.
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A few weeks ago, there had been residual bruising from a particularly nasty few nights, but he's had a decent run of it lately. Nothing dramatic added to the graffiti that spans over him. He's just not getting younger.
Bruce allows himself to be pulled, which presses them together for that twist of magic. He gets one hand on Constantine's ass, keeping him crushed close, and shifts his mouth to the side of his neck. Other hand in his hair, grabbing hold of it. The feeling is interesting, good, clever. He wonders if John feels an echo of it, since they're touching; he wonders if John uses his magic like this with many other people. Who knows you?
Safer never to ask.
Stubble scrapes down his throat, to where Bruce sucks lightly at his adam's apple, then lower, sinking his teeth into his shoulder. Some shirt in the way, but that can be yanked off. Pop, some button meets its demise. A quick transition, then, between a moment when Bruce nearly says Any reason you're taking forever—
Changes his mind. Pivots, instead, and throws Constantine down on his bed.
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He can feel Bruce pressed hard against him, the grip on his ass and the hand buried in his hair the right amount of forceful and controlling. There's always a rush of pleasure in being pushed around, letting himself be thrown down or shoved against a wall. If he were back in that psych ward they might say it's reclaiming himself for when he hadn't been in control, but Constantine just thinks maybe he's a bastard who knows what he deserves.
He hisses a curse as teeth sink into his skin, but his hand is burying in Bruce's hair and sketching another of the same sigil against the back of his neck, sending magic skittering over Bruce's scalp and shoulders. It threads down his spine, but Constantine makes a conscious effort to try and redirect as much as he could from anything that might end up too painful.
The problem is, it takes concentration to direct magic that precisely, and being thrown bodily onto the bed is a fantastic way to break that concentration. The spell ends abruptly and he grins, already thoroughly dishevelled on Bruce's bed.
"You said you wanted blasphemous magic, sweetheart."
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"Well, I already don't believe in god," he says, reaching out to snag one of John's ankles. There is little dignity in being undressed like this, but that's what wizards get when they take a glacial age to do anything. "So we're probably covered, even if you summon a birthday cake."
Don't do that, though.
Bruce drags the other man's trousers off (did he have shoes on, are the socks a funny pattern, is he judging him for Hello Kitty stockings, tell me), and kneels properly on the bed so he can shove one of Constantine's knees up and out, prowling between his legs. Pushing him down with a hand on his chest, scraping blunt nails through wiry hair.
"Colors?"
—Or? Bruce operates just fine with plenty of options; green, yellow, red, just fucking saying stop, specific safe words. He is also - the other man may know by now - experienced (and dangerous) enough to operate without any at all.
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He'd had some time to change, but there's still the bruises and smears of blood that he hadn't cleaned up, and a couple of long lines of skin that are slightly too pink and new. Sensations there feel as though they're stronger somehow, as though the flesh hasn't had time to get used to life, and Bruce's nails dragging against it raises gooseflesh in their wake.
"Do I look like I need that kind of safety net to you?" Maybe in the beginning he had, before they'd done this as often as they had. Before they'd started to learn each other's limits almost better then their own (Constantine at least regularly pushes his own limits further than he should, but keeps in mind exactly where Bruce's are). Now all he does is drag his nails over Bruce's back in return, giving him a devil-may-care grin.
"We both know I could toss you across the bloody room if I wanted to," he promises, pushing himself up to nip at the other's ear. "Or turn your bones to ash inside you. Anything you do to me, I'm letting you do."
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(Everyone always says that and then oh no, where'd the Kryptonite spear come from, how could this have happened.)
He leans in, presses a kiss to his mouth. It's gentler than the bruising he initiated before, a contrast to the harsh way he's putting weight onto the other man's chest, hand splayed out wide over his solar plexus. But he doesn't linger. He shifts up, mouth ghosting over his jaw. "Who are you reminding?"
Me or you?
John's magic is interesting. It seems so intricate at times, and like a flailing sledgehammer at others. An art, wielded by an artist, capable of masterpieces and errant doodles on napkins - an artist who is getting both his hands pinned over his head in one of Bruce's. He strokes over the other man's body with his other, firm and questing. He squeezes over muscles, pushes deep into pressure and chakra points. Curls his fingers into nerve-dense tangles of fascia. He finds a spot on his ribcage, presses on it. Not a massage. Even deep-tissue ones hurt less.
"Huh." If Constantine wanted a dom who would just leave hickeys on him as a warmup, he's got plenty of options. But nope, he's here. Bruce releases his pinned arms so that he can pull one straight up, aligning his shoulder and spine while he palms over his ribs. "Inhale."
Where is it? Ah. There. Costovertebral. Pop.
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There's always a strangeness when Bruce works his chakra points; Constantine doesn't know much about their link to magic beyond basics he's learned for his own purposes. He's a gutter mage, a mix of any and every kind of magic he can get his hands on, not an educated purist. But he can sense some effect on the flow, not unlike a massage on a spiritual level. Then those fingers dig in deeper and Constantine arches, snarling out a curse.
"Bloody hell, Bruce! I don't need you trying to dig around in my organs as well!" Not in this particular way, anyway. But despite the protests, he lets himself be manipulated, hissing another curse as there's another press and a popping sensation. The fact it's followed by relief isn't immediately reassuring, as Constantine can't tell if it's genuinely needed or just relief that no one was currently trying to massage his heart through his ribs.
"Not the kind of release I was hoping to get here," he grumbles. His free hand snags the waist of Bruce's trousers and gives them a tug, slips inside to dig his own fingertips into the billionaire's ass.
"How much has a bastard got to beg for you to stop being a bloody tease?"
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Real, or Bruce being a brat in his own way? A mystery. He does know an awful lot about the human body, and furthermore, an awful lot about a bunch of hippy-dippy shit like chakras and paths of energy, for a guy so science-minded. Meditation, extreme physical limits, roots and internal tides. When he focuses so closely, and when he has experience with the body he's focusing on, it's hard not to see things.
Beyond the osteopath vision, he also sees desire, and it mirrors his own. Obligingly, he pushes down his own trousers and underwear, also ninjaing off his shoes in the process. (Maybe HE had the Hello Kitty socks.)
"You never sound all that convincing."
Bruce slides a hand over the inside of John's thigh, and palms his cock, pressing it against his belly and rubbing the underside with his thumb.
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He sends another fluttering pulse of magic through Bruce's body again, less focused and more simple warm sensation rolling over him like a tide, and that does seem to help. Finally there's a hand where he wants it and he rocks up as much as he can manage against the touch.
"Figure you only give in to shut me up anyway," he returns. One hand is still free and he drags it up Bruce's spine to tug him in for another kiss. "Come here."
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"I think you'd only shut up with a gag," he says, mouth brushing against his as he speaks. He drives down, forward, moving one knee up to spread John's out, so the can grind in harder. It's not completely comfortable. He knows he's heavy, muscles bordering on too solid. But the bite of everything is present and real. "But you'd probably magic your voice out anyway, if you could clear your head enough to do it."
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"Think you can come up with other things to put in my mouth to shut me up." It's said in gasps and grunts, the harsh grind of skin against skin raw and rough and what he'd come here for. Sensation too powerful to allow memory to leak through.
He hooks a leg awkwardly behind Bruce's, striving to meet him as they rut against each other and hissing as the friction starts to feel almost too much. Bruce is right; he's not quiet by any means, never has been, punctuating the air with curses and fragments of begging, even kissing wet and with a lot of vocal enthusiasm.
But he's not one to refuse a challenge either, and as Bruce grinds down on him, Constantine tips his head back, his hand splaying down the back of the larger man's neck and eyes rolling up as he mutters an incantation under his breath. This time there are sparks, dancing over his fingers and peppering sharp, needle-like jolts against Bruce's skin, buzzing pleasantly up his own arm and chest. Never let it be said he didn't try to keep Bruce on his toes.
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With his mouth occupied, Bruce kisses at his jaw instead, and lower, finding that same spot on his shoulder to bite into again, and go about leaving him a significant bruise. Taking his time, as he rocks his hips, sliding their cocks together. Sketching out a plan in his head. Having a precise one with a partner so wily doesn't always work, but it can't hurt to try. It's a nice mental exercise, at least.
Without warning, he sits up, detangling himself and flipping the other man over onto his front (ducking, one hand on John's thigh, appropriate use of combat know-how). He gets one of the magician's hands behind his back, pinning him, pushing him down into the mattress with a firm hand on his head. He digs fingers into his shaggy blond hair and pulls, leaving that there and moving his other hand out of the pin to go lower and deliver a heavy smack to his ass.
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Like the throaty noise as Bruce follows gentle kisses with teeth. Same spot as before, the glorious bastard is definitely giving him some marks to remember him by. Not high enough to be seen by anyone else, but he'll feel it every time he moves his arm. Definitely going to lead to a couple of uncomfortable moments on the Waverider, and possibly another visit here sooner than he'd care to admit. Although with Bruce pressing him down, teeth in his shoulder, fingers preventing any incantations and the rough grind of them against each other wearing down his focus, he finds it hard not to see a problem with more of this.
Constantine also finds it hard to see what's coming. In hindsight he should have realised that Bruce had been planning something, but the sudden absence of the other man's body atop his leaves him blinking for a moment, panting and with a raging hard on. Then just as swiftly he's flipped, the yelp that escapes him turning into a groaning laugh as Bruce jerks his head back painfully hard.
"That's the spirit! All that pent up aggression I just know is seething away in there, don't you just want to--" Crack. Constantine jerks and hisses, the instinctive twitch yanking on the grip at his scalp and blossoming pain and heat in two places. "Christ-!"
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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.
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