(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.
"Well you're not doing it right now, are you?" Each slap manages to be placed differently than the last, jolting through him and leaving the skin hot and aching in its wake. Never easy to predict, never too much for him to take, and all of it with enough speed to be impressive that Bruce can be so precise and so fast. The gentle, reassuring touch at the back of his head and neck is an equally precise and perfect counterpoint to the stinging pain; all of it unsurprisingly well planned considering who was behind it.
When it does stop, Constantine drops his forehead to the bed, taking a moment to breathe and process the rush of adrenaline and endorphins flooding through him. The weight of Bruce above him helps in that regard, a heaviness that feels as though it's pushing him down and keeping him grounded, a reminder that there's still more to look forward to.
Bruce is still retrieving what he needs next when Constantine raises his head again, turning his neck as much as he can manage to try and get a glimpse of the other man's face. Not that it would help much; Bruce hardly needs the cowl to mask any and all expression.
"'Sides, I think you could be out there all day every day and still never be rid of it." Men like them always found new goals to strive for, something else that they could push and push themselves to pursue, a wrong to right. Something else that they could break apart against.
Clink, clack; sounds like he's got all sorts of shit in this drawer. And he does. With a head's up he can make sure to have a more curated selection on hand, but because John surprised him, it's whatever happens to be immediately available. He supposes he could tie him up and spend an hour tediously sorting things just to drive him bananas, but if he's honest with himself, Bruce is a little eager for it, too.
"It's just what makes sense."
Intensity. Focus. Drowning everything else out. The chance of his mind skittering away to think of - take your fucking pick - is too great, when sex is ordinary. Drinking and abusing prescriptions during socialite hookups had helped, but now, he's back to this. He would sub more if anyone could push him into that space successfully, and he'd have gentler affairs if he didn't find kindness directed at him so impossible to understand.
So here they are.
Done with scavenging, Bruce pulls himself up with a number of items. They go clunk onto the bed beside John, long strips of real leather, metal fastenings, the tinny jingle of something with buckles. Bruce is more of a shibari and adjacent guy, when it comes to bindings, enjoying the meditative process, but this custom in-between gear is also fun. And quicker to get on, thus minimizing wizard bitching.
"Elbows and knees." And he will get pulled there ungently, if he isn't quick about it.
"Keep telling yourself that, let me know how it works out for you."
He can hear Bruce rummaging around for something - or several somethings - in those drawers of his and Constantine starts trying to pick out what it might be based off the sounds. Bruce is more of a leather fan than latex, and they aren't in the right space for anything as tame as silk. There's the heavy clink of metal on metal, and he tries to think what might involve chains or anything similar that he's seen before. He's coming up empty, and the pin is making it difficult for Constantine to even try getting a look.
Fortunately it seems he'll not have to wait long before getting a much better idea of what Bruce is planning. He's already rising the moment the weight is off of him, but with that order, Constantine shifts to the demanded position. Hard not to feel excited like this, ass in the air, cock still hard and aching between his legs, and the slight chill left from Bruce's absence making his skin prickle.
A good question. One he doesn't think he has an answer for. Violence is only a part, and he isn't sure if it's a symptom or a motivating factor, anymore. The simplest truth is that he is too in the habit of it all. He's been this way for so long that he doesn't know how to do anything else. Superman has fundamentally shifted him, but those shifts don't go as far as his sex life.
Imagine if they did. Sorry, I'm vanilla now because an alien was nice to me.
Christ.
Bruce chucks the tangle of straps beneath the other man and straightens his spine out, aligning his head, his shoulders. Holding him with a palm flat in the center of his chest for a moment, pressing up, almost like he's trying to lift him, but really just seeing what it makes his shoulderblades do as he jams a thumb under one on his back. People who do this all have their own tricks and quirks. One of Bruce's is perfectly precise physical arrangement. Less risk of injury means prolonged activity, increased recovery time. And more security felt, in the midst of it.
So. He goes about getting a harness on him, folding things over, wrapping them around, snug and correct. As he works his own erection pushes against John's hip, and after he gets the main shape done, he tugs on the cross-section over his ribcage with one hand and gropes over his ass with the other. Ranking nails over his skin, dragging his touch lower to press up behind his balls, too firm to be teasing, but too slow to get anywhere.
He pinches him at the sensitive juncture of groin and thigh. Hard. Cheeky smack to one globe of bum after.
"What keeps you going?"
Pushing him down now, ass still up, face on the mattress.
What keeps him going? Constantine almost laughs at that, only keeping it to a wry huff to avoid throwing off all the delicate adjustments Bruce is making to his posture and stance. The man is precise and he's learned from past encounters that trying to throw him off often results in an even longer wait for what he desperately wants. Bruce also isn't above restraining him and leaving him to stew either, none of which is what Constantine feels like indulging in tonight.
So he keeps still, letting Bruce move him around with minimal protest, instead favouring a sigh of relief as it finally starts to head in the direction he wants and he's rewarded with the feeling of tightening straps and reassuring touches.
"You know me, sheer bloody-mindedness." He hisses, whole body twitching as Bruce drags nails over still sensitive skin and then manages to follow it up with just enough contact to be nowhere near enough.
Another crisp thwack, and he unbalances enough for Bruce to push him firmly into the mattress and Constantine can't help but feel that Bruce can see through his answer just as easily as he can likely see how hard he's gotten from this treatment.
"Fuck, alright! Bloody tease." Even positioned as he is, Constantine rocks back as much as he can, seeking more contact. "I keep going because maybe one day, I'll be able to make right for everything I've done and failed to do. Or at least I'll die trying and then get what's coming for me.
"Now will you stop mucking about and start fucking me already?"
Bruce smacks his ass twice in rapid succession, hard enough to really hurt and shove him forward. He keeps his other hand at his shoulder, preventing him from wobbling or collapsing. Grabs one asscheek and digs his nails in, holding him there, other hand circling the base of his neck. Caged in.
"No."
You're too wound up but not on edge, he might say, if Constantine hadn't rejected safewords wholesale. Do you want to get off right away and keep going? Will it help settle you?
But that isn't what happened, and so, it isn't what's happening.
Instead, Bruce hits him a few more times, lower on his thighs to spread out the bite and burn of impact, skating his touch up to the core of him and stroking roughly over the soft skin behind the root of his cock. But no further. Keeping him pinned heavily all the while - until he shifts up, leans over him to snag his opposite arm. The binding isn't finished, and he gets to work straightening his shoulders again and strapping his arms behind his back. He doesn't linger overmuch, but there's still a determined care to how he moves him; inescapable, laser-like attention. He runs his fingers hard and punishing over a meridian line from collarbone to wrist: lung lines. John won't notice. It won't help.
He finishes with the other man's forearms tucked parallel together and snug against John's body, one hand against each of his own elbows. Bruce grabs the rest of what he'd dragged up from the drawer, and tosses a ball gag towards the end of the bed like a threat. For now, it's merely left there.
Bruce moves. Fully behind him, erection brushing against his abused ass, like maybe he is actually going to fuck him, despite that No. But then he's getting a grip in the fulcrum of the custom harness and up the other man goes, back against Bruce's chest.
A series of curses leave him, all manner of nasty remarks about Bruce's parentage, what he'd do to the man given the chance, and a few threats in other languages (not that it would stop Bruce from understanding; the man was startlingly well educated in that respect). All things that they know he likely wouldn't deliver on even if he were given the opportunity at some point, but signs that he's starting to lose the focus to be more precise in his remarks. It's worse because he knows exactly why Bruce is doing this. Yes, Constantine is being a bastard and pushing back and complaining all the while, but he knows that what he's really here for, what Bruce knows that he's here for, is to be completely undone. And no amount of whining is going to get him what he wants before then.
It still doesn't stop him from cursing again as Bruce swats him again and again, still managing to avoid hitting the same place too often, spreading heat and redness over his ass and thighs only to sooth again with calloused fingers over more sensitive areas. Constantine exhales with a groan, trying in vain to get more contact where his cock feels heavy and swollen with need. He is frustratingly left untouched, Bruce instead focusing on getting his arms properly bound behind him. And despite his complaints, privately he can admit that it does it for him, being restrained like this. The harness digs in just enough to keep him in place and offer that sense of being held tight, but not enough to cause injury or damage later that might put a damper on the other plans for the evening.
It also clearly has more than enough spots for him to be grabbed and moved around, he'd wager even anchored somewhere if it took Bruce's fancy. Kinky bastard.
With what he hopes is the last strap in place, Constantine snorts at the gag and the implied threat it holds. "What, can't keep me quiet enough on your own? Here I thought you had the skill to fuck a man sensele--"
It turns into a yelp as he's yanked back, hard up against Bruce's chest, throbbing ass pressed back against the other man's cock just enough to remind him that it's there and just as hard as Constantine himself is. He grins, lolling his head back against Bruce's shoulder and arching his back to try and grind against him despite the precious little motion available to him.
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?"
"Hand in hand, aren't they? Failed once, stubborn not to fail again. All tangled up in each other." He can feel Bruce's cock against the sensitive, stinging flesh of his ass, frustratingly present but failing to offer much more than that. Even his hands aren't giving him a inch of relief, carefully avoiding where Constantine is starting to desperately want some contact or friction, making it apparent that one part of getting him up like this is likely to avoid any attempts to just rub one out against the bed. Bastard.
He's running out of focus to offer many more retorts to the treatment; the stinging blows bring that tingling heat around to his thighs and hips, have his cock twitching with each blow and a hiss leaving his lips as the smarting skin is left to the air. With his head tipped back and eyes closed, Constantine's focus is entirely on that area of his body, so much so that he jerks as the attention suddenly shifts higher.
"Fuck-!" Trussed up with clothes pegs on his bloody nipples, Bruce's hands smoothing over aching skin... little wonder he's starting to struggle with coherency. Even cracking open an eye to look down at himself doesn't help, seeing his own erection framed by Bruce's hands is something he will definitely keep in mind for later times.
"Christ, Bruce... Come on, mate. Help a man out, will you?" He's fairly certain that if he pleaded, Bruce will give him what he asks for, but never let it be said that Constantine starts pleading easily.
Bruce smacks the side of his thigh with one hand, the other coming dangerously close to the base of his cock. But it vanishes before contact can be made, and Bruce leans back to do something-or-other. Really taking advantage of the fact that he can deadlift several times more than his own body weight, letting Constantine rest against him in such a potentially unstable position.
Who wanted more clothespins. Was it John. Oh good. Because there are more being applied, Bruce pinching up lines of skin on his thighs and clipping the wooden things on.
"Sometimes I can't tell if I'm trying to correct a failure, or if I'm trying to forget," he admits, his voice quiet beneath ragged breathing and the echo of complaints. One pin gets neatly clipped below his belly button. And then Bruce wraps his hand around his cock, gives him a slow, loose stroke. Ends with his fingers gently circling the tip of him.
"None of us can go back."
Not even in time. They're still there, themselves.
More pegs, Christ. He's not sure how Bruce is managing to fit them on at this point; Constantine's entire body is starting to feel strung tight with need and as though there's no space in him for anything more beyond that. There's a keening whine in the air when Bruce's hand grazes against the base of his cock for the barest moment, and he almost misses that he's the one making the sound.
"Please, Bruce-" he knows that the man is talking, but while he can make out the words, they're almost impossible to focus on for the moment "-please touch me."
The relief when that hand wraps around him is almost painful, and John is fairly certain that he sobs and only avoids coming immediately through sheer willpower alone.
Bruce hitches his hips forward, grinds his own cock against John's ass, holding him hard at one hip. His other hand stays in that loose grip, moving up to let his open palm rub just over the tip of him, knowing that if he gives him anything more significant he'll come - and knowing that this is completely crazymaking, too. He leans his head back, takes and releases a deep breath, centering himself. Not unaffected.
When he pulls himself back, he runs his fingers lightly up the magician's stiff cock, from the head down to the base and up his abs, to his chest. Higher, until he can wrap his broad hand around his throat. Bruce presses his face against John's, nuzzling close and almost affectionate, while he squeezes his windpipe. Controlled, careful. Lets him get a breath, constricts as he's exhaling. Again.
Holds there, for a long moment.
Thinking about nothing.
When he removes his hand, he yanks off one pin from his thigh at the same time.
Of course there's no relief that easily. He dug this blasted pit on his own, after all, and Bruce has always been one to make sure that he reaps what he sows. Especially when it comes to his mouth writing cheques his ass can't deliver. Despite how much John arches, chasing that touch, he gets no more than the fleeting brush of a calloused palm over the wet head of his cock and the sound of Bruce breathing to control himself. That the play is having an effect on the other man isn't as much of a reward as he'd think; if anything it's all the more frustrating to know that Bruce wants this just as badly but is pushing through.
Those blasted fingers trail over him again, teasingly light, and John groans as Bruce's hand comes to rest at his throat. He can feel his pulse thumping against Bruce's fingers, the rub against his Adam's apple as he swallows. You'd think with the number of times someone has tried to choke the life out of him in the past, this wouldn't be as much of a turn on as it is. But there's the pressure of Bruce's grip pressing down, long enough that his body tenses to try and fight for what oxygen he needs, muscles straining against the straps, then release and relief as he sucks in a breath. Only for it all to start over again. Once, twice. Enough for their to be a rhythm that he's expecting the third and taken by surprise as the peg is pulled away sharply.
"Jesus, fuck! Christ, Bruce!" It's not a protest exactly, nor any sign that the other man should stop despite how put upon John might sound. The fact he still has words at all is sign there's still ways to go.
This time he's bracing for the same treatment, although suspects that Bruce is going to be anything but predictable.
"Relax," sounds like a command. It also sounds ominous. As in, Relax, or you're not going to get what you want.
Bruce digs his fingers into a pressure point near Constantine's shoulder, high on his chest, jolting nerves that span over his pecs and ribcage. Shaking out tension. It'll hurt, like schoolyard kids punching each other in the arm to deaden sensation, but not go numb. Bruce rubs over it a moment later, encouraging bloodflow. The bindings around him are too well-placed to interfere with circulation, but Bruce can always do it manually. Like so.
He scrapes his hands down, pressing around where the other man's skin is pinned, then back up. One hand loosely around his throat again, but this time he waits.
Bruce nudges his face up against John's, holds him against his chest, breathes. Waits there, doing nothing else. Shakes him a little to get him to draw breath in deep, and let it out. Come on.
Relax, he says, like he hasn't deliberately been trying to get John's dick hard to the point that he could conceivably set records with it. He jerks, curses again as Bruce hits yet another pressure point, this time sending uncomfortable needling sensations across his torso, but tries to do as directed. That voice doesn't brook much argument and where he might usually protest, John just exhales and relaxes back against Bruce. The man is packed with muscle and tall enough that there's no real concern about overbalancing them both, and despite the ache in his cock he does try to breathe.
Tension slowly unwinds in his gut and he feels more himself, more John Constantine again instead of strung out desperation. Enough to appreciate, despite the faint frustration, that he was very much going to end up wrecked by the end of the night. What he'd wanted, even if it was also what he'd complain about.
"Alright," he grumbles after another deep breath. In and out, like Bruce wanted. The only thing that was going in and out for the time being. "Don't tell me that you've picked now to have a bleeding cuddle."
Even if he is, tough shit, John can't do anything about it right now— sort of. Bruce is always mindful of the potential for a magic mishap, but he is also always mindful of when and how John tries anything. The paranoid detective in him unable to turn off the note-taking. Maybe, when he demands that his partner relax, he's talking to himself, too.
Here they are again. Deep breath in, and out. Bruce slowly closes his hand around Constantine's throat, a steady constricting. This time aiming to actually make him dizzy, get him to another headspace, or as close as he can. It's borderline hypnotic for Bruce, too, feeling his heartbeat and his breath and having it just here so literally in his hands.
When he begins to loosen it back up, he keeps a kind of rhythm with it, so that when he pushes John forward it's a fluid movement in time with an exhale. He doesn't let him fall flat, controlling it, letting him rest against the mattress on shoulders-and-knees, and then, finally, dragging his hands back over his sides to his ass, touch intent. Click, pop, telltale sounds of a lube container, and then slick-cold touch against abused skin.
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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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When it does stop, Constantine drops his forehead to the bed, taking a moment to breathe and process the rush of adrenaline and endorphins flooding through him. The weight of Bruce above him helps in that regard, a heaviness that feels as though it's pushing him down and keeping him grounded, a reminder that there's still more to look forward to.
Bruce is still retrieving what he needs next when Constantine raises his head again, turning his neck as much as he can manage to try and get a glimpse of the other man's face. Not that it would help much; Bruce hardly needs the cowl to mask any and all expression.
"'Sides, I think you could be out there all day every day and still never be rid of it." Men like them always found new goals to strive for, something else that they could push and push themselves to pursue, a wrong to right. Something else that they could break apart against.
"It's what keeps you going, handsome."
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"It's just what makes sense."
Intensity. Focus. Drowning everything else out. The chance of his mind skittering away to think of - take your fucking pick - is too great, when sex is ordinary. Drinking and abusing prescriptions during socialite hookups had helped, but now, he's back to this. He would sub more if anyone could push him into that space successfully, and he'd have gentler affairs if he didn't find kindness directed at him so impossible to understand.
So here they are.
Done with scavenging, Bruce pulls himself up with a number of items. They go clunk onto the bed beside John, long strips of real leather, metal fastenings, the tinny jingle of something with buckles. Bruce is more of a shibari and adjacent guy, when it comes to bindings, enjoying the meditative process, but this custom in-between gear is also fun. And quicker to get on, thus minimizing wizard bitching.
"Elbows and knees." And he will get pulled there ungently, if he isn't quick about it.
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He can hear Bruce rummaging around for something - or several somethings - in those drawers of his and Constantine starts trying to pick out what it might be based off the sounds. Bruce is more of a leather fan than latex, and they aren't in the right space for anything as tame as silk. There's the heavy clink of metal on metal, and he tries to think what might involve chains or anything similar that he's seen before. He's coming up empty, and the pin is making it difficult for Constantine to even try getting a look.
Fortunately it seems he'll not have to wait long before getting a much better idea of what Bruce is planning. He's already rising the moment the weight is off of him, but with that order, Constantine shifts to the demanded position. Hard not to feel excited like this, ass in the air, cock still hard and aching between his legs, and the slight chill left from Bruce's absence making his skin prickle.
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A good question. One he doesn't think he has an answer for. Violence is only a part, and he isn't sure if it's a symptom or a motivating factor, anymore. The simplest truth is that he is too in the habit of it all. He's been this way for so long that he doesn't know how to do anything else. Superman has fundamentally shifted him, but those shifts don't go as far as his sex life.
Imagine if they did. Sorry, I'm vanilla now because an alien was nice to me.
Christ.
Bruce chucks the tangle of straps beneath the other man and straightens his spine out, aligning his head, his shoulders. Holding him with a palm flat in the center of his chest for a moment, pressing up, almost like he's trying to lift him, but really just seeing what it makes his shoulderblades do as he jams a thumb under one on his back. People who do this all have their own tricks and quirks. One of Bruce's is perfectly precise physical arrangement. Less risk of injury means prolonged activity, increased recovery time. And more security felt, in the midst of it.
So. He goes about getting a harness on him, folding things over, wrapping them around, snug and correct. As he works his own erection pushes against John's hip, and after he gets the main shape done, he tugs on the cross-section over his ribcage with one hand and gropes over his ass with the other. Ranking nails over his skin, dragging his touch lower to press up behind his balls, too firm to be teasing, but too slow to get anywhere.
He pinches him at the sensitive juncture of groin and thigh. Hard. Cheeky smack to one globe of bum after.
"What keeps you going?"
Pushing him down now, ass still up, face on the mattress.
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So he keeps still, letting Bruce move him around with minimal protest, instead favouring a sigh of relief as it finally starts to head in the direction he wants and he's rewarded with the feeling of tightening straps and reassuring touches.
"You know me, sheer bloody-mindedness." He hisses, whole body twitching as Bruce drags nails over still sensitive skin and then manages to follow it up with just enough contact to be nowhere near enough.
Another crisp thwack, and he unbalances enough for Bruce to push him firmly into the mattress and Constantine can't help but feel that Bruce can see through his answer just as easily as he can likely see how hard he's gotten from this treatment.
"Fuck, alright! Bloody tease." Even positioned as he is, Constantine rocks back as much as he can, seeking more contact. "I keep going because maybe one day, I'll be able to make right for everything I've done and failed to do. Or at least I'll die trying and then get what's coming for me.
"Now will you stop mucking about and start fucking me already?"
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"No."
You're too wound up but not on edge, he might say, if Constantine hadn't rejected safewords wholesale. Do you want to get off right away and keep going? Will it help settle you?
But that isn't what happened, and so, it isn't what's happening.
Instead, Bruce hits him a few more times, lower on his thighs to spread out the bite and burn of impact, skating his touch up to the core of him and stroking roughly over the soft skin behind the root of his cock. But no further. Keeping him pinned heavily all the while - until he shifts up, leans over him to snag his opposite arm. The binding isn't finished, and he gets to work straightening his shoulders again and strapping his arms behind his back. He doesn't linger overmuch, but there's still a determined care to how he moves him; inescapable, laser-like attention. He runs his fingers hard and punishing over a meridian line from collarbone to wrist: lung lines. John won't notice. It won't help.
He finishes with the other man's forearms tucked parallel together and snug against John's body, one hand against each of his own elbows. Bruce grabs the rest of what he'd dragged up from the drawer, and tosses a ball gag towards the end of the bed like a threat. For now, it's merely left there.
Bruce moves. Fully behind him, erection brushing against his abused ass, like maybe he is actually going to fuck him, despite that No. But then he's getting a grip in the fulcrum of the custom harness and up the other man goes, back against Bruce's chest.
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It still doesn't stop him from cursing again as Bruce swats him again and again, still managing to avoid hitting the same place too often, spreading heat and redness over his ass and thighs only to sooth again with calloused fingers over more sensitive areas. Constantine exhales with a groan, trying in vain to get more contact where his cock feels heavy and swollen with need. He is frustratingly left untouched, Bruce instead focusing on getting his arms properly bound behind him. And despite his complaints, privately he can admit that it does it for him, being restrained like this. The harness digs in just enough to keep him in place and offer that sense of being held tight, but not enough to cause injury or damage later that might put a damper on the other plans for the evening.
It also clearly has more than enough spots for him to be grabbed and moved around, he'd wager even anchored somewhere if it took Bruce's fancy. Kinky bastard.
With what he hopes is the last strap in place, Constantine snorts at the gag and the implied threat it holds. "What, can't keep me quiet enough on your own? Here I thought you had the skill to fuck a man sensele--"
It turns into a yelp as he's yanked back, hard up against Bruce's chest, throbbing ass pressed back against the other man's cock just enough to remind him that it's there and just as hard as Constantine himself is. He grins, lolling his head back against Bruce's shoulder and arching his back to try and grind against him despite the precious little motion available to him.
"That's more like it."
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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?"
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He's running out of focus to offer many more retorts to the treatment; the stinging blows bring that tingling heat around to his thighs and hips, have his cock twitching with each blow and a hiss leaving his lips as the smarting skin is left to the air. With his head tipped back and eyes closed, Constantine's focus is entirely on that area of his body, so much so that he jerks as the attention suddenly shifts higher.
"Fuck-!" Trussed up with clothes pegs on his bloody nipples, Bruce's hands smoothing over aching skin... little wonder he's starting to struggle with coherency. Even cracking open an eye to look down at himself doesn't help, seeing his own erection framed by Bruce's hands is something he will definitely keep in mind for later times.
"Christ, Bruce... Come on, mate. Help a man out, will you?" He's fairly certain that if he pleaded, Bruce will give him what he asks for, but never let it be said that Constantine starts pleading easily.
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Bruce smacks the side of his thigh with one hand, the other coming dangerously close to the base of his cock. But it vanishes before contact can be made, and Bruce leans back to do something-or-other. Really taking advantage of the fact that he can deadlift several times more than his own body weight, letting Constantine rest against him in such a potentially unstable position.
Who wanted more clothespins. Was it John. Oh good. Because there are more being applied, Bruce pinching up lines of skin on his thighs and clipping the wooden things on.
"Sometimes I can't tell if I'm trying to correct a failure, or if I'm trying to forget," he admits, his voice quiet beneath ragged breathing and the echo of complaints. One pin gets neatly clipped below his belly button. And then Bruce wraps his hand around his cock, gives him a slow, loose stroke. Ends with his fingers gently circling the tip of him.
"None of us can go back."
Not even in time. They're still there, themselves.
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More pegs, Christ. He's not sure how Bruce is managing to fit them on at this point; Constantine's entire body is starting to feel strung tight with need and as though there's no space in him for anything more beyond that. There's a keening whine in the air when Bruce's hand grazes against the base of his cock for the barest moment, and he almost misses that he's the one making the sound.
"Please, Bruce-" he knows that the man is talking, but while he can make out the words, they're almost impossible to focus on for the moment "-please touch me."
The relief when that hand wraps around him is almost painful, and John is fairly certain that he sobs and only avoids coming immediately through sheer willpower alone.
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When he pulls himself back, he runs his fingers lightly up the magician's stiff cock, from the head down to the base and up his abs, to his chest. Higher, until he can wrap his broad hand around his throat. Bruce presses his face against John's, nuzzling close and almost affectionate, while he squeezes his windpipe. Controlled, careful. Lets him get a breath, constricts as he's exhaling. Again.
Holds there, for a long moment.
Thinking about nothing.
When he removes his hand, he yanks off one pin from his thigh at the same time.
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Those blasted fingers trail over him again, teasingly light, and John groans as Bruce's hand comes to rest at his throat. He can feel his pulse thumping against Bruce's fingers, the rub against his Adam's apple as he swallows. You'd think with the number of times someone has tried to choke the life out of him in the past, this wouldn't be as much of a turn on as it is. But there's the pressure of Bruce's grip pressing down, long enough that his body tenses to try and fight for what oxygen he needs, muscles straining against the straps, then release and relief as he sucks in a breath. Only for it all to start over again. Once, twice. Enough for their to be a rhythm that he's expecting the third and taken by surprise as the peg is pulled away sharply.
"Jesus, fuck! Christ, Bruce!" It's not a protest exactly, nor any sign that the other man should stop despite how put upon John might sound. The fact he still has words at all is sign there's still ways to go.
This time he's bracing for the same treatment, although suspects that Bruce is going to be anything but predictable.
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Bruce digs his fingers into a pressure point near Constantine's shoulder, high on his chest, jolting nerves that span over his pecs and ribcage. Shaking out tension. It'll hurt, like schoolyard kids punching each other in the arm to deaden sensation, but not go numb. Bruce rubs over it a moment later, encouraging bloodflow. The bindings around him are too well-placed to interfere with circulation, but Bruce can always do it manually. Like so.
He scrapes his hands down, pressing around where the other man's skin is pinned, then back up. One hand loosely around his throat again, but this time he waits.
Bruce nudges his face up against John's, holds him against his chest, breathes. Waits there, doing nothing else. Shakes him a little to get him to draw breath in deep, and let it out. Come on.
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Tension slowly unwinds in his gut and he feels more himself, more John Constantine again instead of strung out desperation. Enough to appreciate, despite the faint frustration, that he was very much going to end up wrecked by the end of the night. What he'd wanted, even if it was also what he'd complain about.
"Alright," he grumbles after another deep breath. In and out, like Bruce wanted. The only thing that was going in and out for the time being. "Don't tell me that you've picked now to have a bleeding cuddle."
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Even if he is, tough shit, John can't do anything about it right now— sort of. Bruce is always mindful of the potential for a magic mishap, but he is also always mindful of when and how John tries anything. The paranoid detective in him unable to turn off the note-taking. Maybe, when he demands that his partner relax, he's talking to himself, too.
Here they are again. Deep breath in, and out. Bruce slowly closes his hand around Constantine's throat, a steady constricting. This time aiming to actually make him dizzy, get him to another headspace, or as close as he can. It's borderline hypnotic for Bruce, too, feeling his heartbeat and his breath and having it just here so literally in his hands.
When he begins to loosen it back up, he keeps a kind of rhythm with it, so that when he pushes John forward it's a fluid movement in time with an exhale. He doesn't let him fall flat, controlling it, letting him rest against the mattress on shoulders-and-knees, and then, finally, dragging his hands back over his sides to his ass, touch intent. Click, pop, telltale sounds of a lube container, and then slick-cold touch against abused skin.
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