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.
Deep breath in, then slow exhale. Again. It's starting to become almost hypnotic, which he suspects that Bruce wants. That drift to something less restrained, less overwhelmed with base needs and desperation. A space John can admit he struggles to reach at times; as much as he seems willing to give in easily to alcohol, drugs, and sex, it's always on his own terms, and always maintains careful walls of how much he lets people in. Giving up some of that control and letting someone else decide for him... it's not easy, but he trusts Bruce.
Enough that he slips further into the rhythm, and as Bruce tightens his grip again, John lets the dizzy feeling sweep over in the carefully controlled waves that Bruce follows, feeling his pulse racing and slowing against the other man's hand in turn. He's still achingly hard, but there's a measure of distance to it, enough to hold off any imminent risk of ending too soon. Probably for the best as Bruce guides him back forward and down, hands dragging over aching skin and sending distant tremors through where the pegs still pinch his skin painfully.
Then there's a slick, chill touch against him and John practically groans in relief shifting to try and spread his legs further in open invitation. After the spanking and with the sharp tug where the pegs still dig in, the coldness of the lube is almost a balm, and he's certain Bruce planned that too.
Well, he didn't have too much time to plan this. But Batman is always prepared.
The lubrication is cold, slick, oil-based; no fear of ruining bedsheets, with his expendable income. He warms it up by working it into John, steady and practiced. Massaging him open and stretching him while only giving him any pressure where he'd like it best incidentally. He spills the oil on the small of his back, strokes it down, rubs his erection against it there, the head of his cock pressing against John's balls between his legs, taking his time in a way that suggests he's checked out of reality, for at least a second. Absently enjoying himself, apparently oblivious for taking a glacial fucking age.
(His relationships - such as they are - have ever remained painted in quick meetings and shadowed truths. Desperate encounters on rooftops, leaving before dawn, comping hotel rooms and vanishing. The longer he says the more dangerous it is. Not just for the scars, the bruises, the damning evidence, but for what he might feel. Drawing it out is a rare luxury that threatens real intimacy. But it's as much of a drug as the alcohol had been.)
And then his fingers are clear, and he's rubbing himself against the rim of his hole, tugging lightly at that clench of muscle. Bruce leans over and snags a pin off one nipple without warning, and then pushes.
Bruce's hands are large and surprisingly dexterous for anyone who doesn't know him, and another time John might appreciate the skill with which they press into him, slowly working him open with the same finesse as they would a lock. But it is, indeed, taking enough time that what distance Bruce had managed to push him into is starting to waver, and John grinds out another curse as it becomes more and more clear that Bruce has decided that now is the best time to zen. He can feel the thickness of the man's cock rubbing against him with just enough contact to be a bloody tease and absolutely nothing near enough for him to have a hope of getting off himself.
"Come on, you bloody wanker," he curses, and maybe it finally gets through to whatever nirvana of making John's dick explode from need Bruce is trying to achieve, but at last Bruce is moving. The fingers are gone and John attempts to press back against the thick head of Bruce's cock, but the angle is all wrong. Likely also on purpose, he feels. He's at Bruce's mercy and nothing else is going to happen until the other man chooses to.
He's about to curse him out again, for all the good it might do, when Bruce jerks a peg free and the words become a choked out cry of pleasure and shock as he's rewarded at the same time. It's such a mix of pain and pleasure that despite how much he wants it, John's muscles clamp down around Bruce immediately and his body tenses against the harness.
John's always desperate to get away from what he wants, Bruce thinks.
He doesn't keep shoving inside of him when the other man goes tense. He gives him a second, rocking instead, rubbing over the spot of stricken flesh where the pin was. Over to his flank, just holding him. Fingers tapping a few times, a silent reminder that he's supported, literally as well as figuratively. Bruce isn't here to maliciously hurt him. He's not going to let him collapse and suffocate, or hurt himself while bound.
"Gonna be mad at me for liking how you feel?"
Goading instead of breathe, you idiot. Though he should also breathe. Bruce rubs the small of his back with his other hand, strays his thumb lower, pressing into the cleft of his ass over where his cock is starting to sink into him.
John exhales slowly, focusing on breathing as he knows Bruce wants him to, letting himself take as long as he needs to recover from the dual sensations. The gentle touches of Bruce's fingers help a great deal, soothing over skin that feels throbbing and red, stroking over his sides lightly.
And despite what others might think of him or expect, the goading comment helps too. He snorts a laugh and exhales again, this time less like he's forcing the air out of himself and closer to normal.
"I'd be pissed if you were sunk even this deep and weren't appreciating it. All that work for no pay off is bound to upset anyone."
Christ, he can feel the press of Bruce's thumb, making it all the more apparent where his cock was pushing into him, and John shifts his weight back a little, meeting the gentle rocking motion of Bruce's hips and encouraging more from him.
He moves his hand, sparing him the further torment of that pressing thumb, but it's only to slap his asscheek. Ppft.
"Who doesn't like foreplay?" Bruce gets more of the oil, a messy application that nevertheless does the job of helping things along. "Are you like that with women?"
Slicked up extra, he feels less like he's going to wrench something truly pained out of him by rolling his hips forward in a proper stroke, holding the notch of one hipbone firmly. John's still so tight, a strangling vice of heat, perfectly contained here for him. The ball gag is still scattered off to one side, but honestly, Bruce would have only been really tempted to use it if the other man had gotten particularly mean. The kind of control that gets him going isn't the kind that asks for a silent, blank vessel to fuck.
"I'd watch you." Drawing back out, pushing in. Watching his cock slide into him, deep then deeper, snapping his hips when he's just about flush with his ass. "Fucking a woman. Sit right behind you with my hand on your neck."
He hisses as Bruce presses in deeper, but it's easier this time and then, fuck, the bastard starts talking and it's like an entirely new experience all over again. He can picture it as Bruce speaks, the heat of his body pressed flush against him watching as he fucked into her... The snap of Bruce's hips rocks him forward and he can picture that as well, three of them moving in tandem.
Now having his arms bound is starting to get frustrating, his cock twitching each time Bruce buries himself within him, aching from the thought of being touched or fucking someone else. He'd think it a miracle that he hadn't come yet, but he's certain it's less a miracle and more because some muscle-bound bugger keeps making sure he doesn't quite get close enough.
"Fuck, I knew you'd like that, watching me." Try as he might, John can't do more than rock back on his knees a little from this angle, and can't do the slightest for his own aching erection. "Fuck me like this at the same time, or just watching?"
Another sharp thrust and he rolls his head to press it harder against the bed, desperate need building again. "Bet you'd like to order me around all the while, wouldn't you?"
He's careful as he rocks in and out, even though it might not feel like it. Getting them both used to it. Slowing so that he can press in and give him short, quicker thrusts, loosening him up as much as he is trying to drive him crazy. Sometimes it can be tricky finding the best angle for his prostate, folded over like this, but Bruce has the right dimensions for it. He slides his hand down from John's hip to his bound arms, tucking his fingers around the leather ties, using that for a grip to pull him back onto his cock.
"Would it get you harder?" He leans forward, so he can tug lightly at his hair. As if the way he's shoved inside him, and the way John's torqued, isn't borderline too much already. His ass is bruised and Bruce is being nice about pulling his hair. "Having me instruct you? Make sure you got her off enough times?"
The hand in his hair vanishes, and he smacks his thigh, hard. Grinds in. "Or would you be too distracted thinking about my cock doing this to you?"
He's going to lose his mind like this, and it's going to be Bruce's fault and the bastard isn't even going to care. Trussed up and facing away like this, Constantine can't even tell if Bruce is getting anywhere near close as well, or if he's just going to keep setting the same frustrating pace of sharp, shorter thrusts that are almost agonisingly close to what he wants and yet still not enough.
As Bruce's hand moves to the straps around his arms he finally, finally gets some of what he wants. The feeling of power in Bruce's arm as he pulls John back to meet his thrusts, the thickness of his cock punching out a mix of curses and sharp, panting groans. It hardly matters if Bruce is managing to hit the best angle or not; being held like this and fucked nice and rough does it for him just as much, and he arches his head back into the other man's hand. Bruce hardly need to pull for John to follow his grip, his throat pressing against the bed and certain to have burn marks from it later.
"Christ, just about anything you do seems to get me harder," he admits, and Bruce further proves the matter by following it up with a smack to his thigh, the skin still smarting from the pegs in place.
"God above, yes you're a distracting bastard and I'd lose my bloody mind trying to fuck myself on you and into her at the same time, you'd break me and I'd love every second of it." Like... what he felt like is happening right now, especially when Bruce sinks in and grinds against him, hips flush against his ass. How his own cock hasn't already exploded is beyond him, but he doubts he'll manage much longer with Bruce talking like that in his ear.
Bruce doesn't know how John does it, but he manages to get under his skin. He wears down Bruce's thick layer of apathy and touches something, all scrambling nails and claws and grating complaining that hook into him. It's not that Bruce doesn't feel, or care, but it's become so fucking difficult to let go—
How good it feels sparks into him like a slap in the face, finally inhabiting his own body fully, not detached on some plane that lets him go on and on for an age like he does when he's fighting. Bruce's breath catches, not really thinking about the picture their words paint, but falling into the sound of his voice, the feeling of being buried inside him, the fact that he's here, under Bruce's hands, prone but still struggling for more, more, trying to fuck myself on you, every second of it.
Maybe John can feel it when Bruce tunes in finally. He fucks him hard, harder, heavy grinding strokes that push in as deep as he's able, snapping in to savor it. When he pulls back he lets himself slip all the way out just so that he can press the head of his cock against the tight rim of his hole just to feel it again, just to drive John mental with frustration. Because he likes that. Likes hearing him bitch about it. It feels real. He shoves his cock back inside, grabs him by the hips, and pounds into him. Brakes off completely.
The change is apparent, even when he can't see Bruce's expression. He's seen it enough that he can still picture it though, the slight flicker in his eyes as he finally falls out from the distance that he seems to hold like a shield between himself and the world and grounds himself in the now.
'course, it helps that the change also means Bruce loses the carefully controlling actions of before. Hard to miss it when the man starts fucking him almost animalistically, like he's trying to punch the breath out of John with his cock alone. It's never quite enough to completely silence him, but he does fall to sharp curses, fragments of sentences and complaints cut off as Bruce draws back and slams into him again. Even the periods where he pauses only serve to drag more protests from John, too aware of the hot pressure of Bruce's cock at his entrance, deliberately kept back only to pound into him again when he's off-guard.
And he bloody loves all of it, the feeling of Bruce giving in to his own desires and desperation in turn. The only pity is that he'd already been half out of his mind with pleasure (well, maybe more than half) by this point and there's only so long a man can keep it together like this, with the sound of Bruce breathing heavily behind and above him and those hands gripping his hips roughly, keeping him still as he's fucked hard enough he knows he'll be a mess of bruises later.
It's like a jolt of power right up his spine, almost as powerful a rush as magic gives him, and John strains against he leather and Bruce's hands, every muscle feeling taut with effort.
He fucks him to get himself where he needs to be, sinking into that feeling of nothing else existing in his brain. Just for a little while. It's about as long as he can ever manage, only ever letting go when he's having sex.
(Anymore. He slipped too far, into prescriptions and alcohol and downing whole bottles of mood stabilizing medications with other whole bottles of wine. Just to stop thinking. Nothing will ever stop the dark claws dug deep into his mind, and these moments become—
worth something.)
Bruce wants to come, the tension building in him rushing too quickly now towards breaking. He pulls John up, haphazard despite his strength, enough to impale him further on his cock and get one hand beneath his jackknifed form. He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, catching the other man between the force of his hips and the calloused circle of his fingers.
"Shh," he says, a rough rasp against the back of his shoulder.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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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Enough that he slips further into the rhythm, and as Bruce tightens his grip again, John lets the dizzy feeling sweep over in the carefully controlled waves that Bruce follows, feeling his pulse racing and slowing against the other man's hand in turn. He's still achingly hard, but there's a measure of distance to it, enough to hold off any imminent risk of ending too soon. Probably for the best as Bruce guides him back forward and down, hands dragging over aching skin and sending distant tremors through where the pegs still pinch his skin painfully.
Then there's a slick, chill touch against him and John practically groans in relief shifting to try and spread his legs further in open invitation. After the spanking and with the sharp tug where the pegs still dig in, the coldness of the lube is almost a balm, and he's certain Bruce planned that too.
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The lubrication is cold, slick, oil-based; no fear of ruining bedsheets, with his expendable income. He warms it up by working it into John, steady and practiced. Massaging him open and stretching him while only giving him any pressure where he'd like it best incidentally. He spills the oil on the small of his back, strokes it down, rubs his erection against it there, the head of his cock pressing against John's balls between his legs, taking his time in a way that suggests he's checked out of reality, for at least a second. Absently enjoying himself, apparently oblivious for taking a glacial fucking age.
(His relationships - such as they are - have ever remained painted in quick meetings and shadowed truths. Desperate encounters on rooftops, leaving before dawn, comping hotel rooms and vanishing. The longer he says the more dangerous it is. Not just for the scars, the bruises, the damning evidence, but for what he might feel. Drawing it out is a rare luxury that threatens real intimacy. But it's as much of a drug as the alcohol had been.)
And then his fingers are clear, and he's rubbing himself against the rim of his hole, tugging lightly at that clench of muscle. Bruce leans over and snags a pin off one nipple without warning, and then pushes.
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"Come on, you bloody wanker," he curses, and maybe it finally gets through to whatever nirvana of making John's dick explode from need Bruce is trying to achieve, but at last Bruce is moving. The fingers are gone and John attempts to press back against the thick head of Bruce's cock, but the angle is all wrong. Likely also on purpose, he feels. He's at Bruce's mercy and nothing else is going to happen until the other man chooses to.
He's about to curse him out again, for all the good it might do, when Bruce jerks a peg free and the words become a choked out cry of pleasure and shock as he's rewarded at the same time. It's such a mix of pain and pleasure that despite how much he wants it, John's muscles clamp down around Bruce immediately and his body tenses against the harness.
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He doesn't keep shoving inside of him when the other man goes tense. He gives him a second, rocking instead, rubbing over the spot of stricken flesh where the pin was. Over to his flank, just holding him. Fingers tapping a few times, a silent reminder that he's supported, literally as well as figuratively. Bruce isn't here to maliciously hurt him. He's not going to let him collapse and suffocate, or hurt himself while bound.
"Gonna be mad at me for liking how you feel?"
Goading instead of breathe, you idiot. Though he should also breathe. Bruce rubs the small of his back with his other hand, strays his thumb lower, pressing into the cleft of his ass over where his cock is starting to sink into him.
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And despite what others might think of him or expect, the goading comment helps too. He snorts a laugh and exhales again, this time less like he's forcing the air out of himself and closer to normal.
"I'd be pissed if you were sunk even this deep and weren't appreciating it. All that work for no pay off is bound to upset anyone."
Christ, he can feel the press of Bruce's thumb, making it all the more apparent where his cock was pushing into him, and John shifts his weight back a little, meeting the gentle rocking motion of Bruce's hips and encouraging more from him.
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"Who doesn't like foreplay?" Bruce gets more of the oil, a messy application that nevertheless does the job of helping things along. "Are you like that with women?"
Slicked up extra, he feels less like he's going to wrench something truly pained out of him by rolling his hips forward in a proper stroke, holding the notch of one hipbone firmly. John's still so tight, a strangling vice of heat, perfectly contained here for him. The ball gag is still scattered off to one side, but honestly, Bruce would have only been really tempted to use it if the other man had gotten particularly mean. The kind of control that gets him going isn't the kind that asks for a silent, blank vessel to fuck.
"I'd watch you." Drawing back out, pushing in. Watching his cock slide into him, deep then deeper, snapping his hips when he's just about flush with his ass. "Fucking a woman. Sit right behind you with my hand on your neck."
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He hisses as Bruce presses in deeper, but it's easier this time and then, fuck, the bastard starts talking and it's like an entirely new experience all over again. He can picture it as Bruce speaks, the heat of his body pressed flush against him watching as he fucked into her... The snap of Bruce's hips rocks him forward and he can picture that as well, three of them moving in tandem.
Now having his arms bound is starting to get frustrating, his cock twitching each time Bruce buries himself within him, aching from the thought of being touched or fucking someone else. He'd think it a miracle that he hadn't come yet, but he's certain it's less a miracle and more because some muscle-bound bugger keeps making sure he doesn't quite get close enough.
"Fuck, I knew you'd like that, watching me." Try as he might, John can't do more than rock back on his knees a little from this angle, and can't do the slightest for his own aching erection. "Fuck me like this at the same time, or just watching?"
Another sharp thrust and he rolls his head to press it harder against the bed, desperate need building again. "Bet you'd like to order me around all the while, wouldn't you?"
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"Would it get you harder?" He leans forward, so he can tug lightly at his hair. As if the way he's shoved inside him, and the way John's torqued, isn't borderline too much already. His ass is bruised and Bruce is being nice about pulling his hair. "Having me instruct you? Make sure you got her off enough times?"
The hand in his hair vanishes, and he smacks his thigh, hard. Grinds in. "Or would you be too distracted thinking about my cock doing this to you?"
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As Bruce's hand moves to the straps around his arms he finally, finally gets some of what he wants. The feeling of power in Bruce's arm as he pulls John back to meet his thrusts, the thickness of his cock punching out a mix of curses and sharp, panting groans. It hardly matters if Bruce is managing to hit the best angle or not; being held like this and fucked nice and rough does it for him just as much, and he arches his head back into the other man's hand. Bruce hardly need to pull for John to follow his grip, his throat pressing against the bed and certain to have burn marks from it later.
"Christ, just about anything you do seems to get me harder," he admits, and Bruce further proves the matter by following it up with a smack to his thigh, the skin still smarting from the pegs in place.
"God above, yes you're a distracting bastard and I'd lose my bloody mind trying to fuck myself on you and into her at the same time, you'd break me and I'd love every second of it." Like... what he felt like is happening right now, especially when Bruce sinks in and grinds against him, hips flush against his ass. How his own cock hasn't already exploded is beyond him, but he doubts he'll manage much longer with Bruce talking like that in his ear.
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How good it feels sparks into him like a slap in the face, finally inhabiting his own body fully, not detached on some plane that lets him go on and on for an age like he does when he's fighting. Bruce's breath catches, not really thinking about the picture their words paint, but falling into the sound of his voice, the feeling of being buried inside him, the fact that he's here, under Bruce's hands, prone but still struggling for more, more, trying to fuck myself on you, every second of it.
Maybe John can feel it when Bruce tunes in finally. He fucks him hard, harder, heavy grinding strokes that push in as deep as he's able, snapping in to savor it. When he pulls back he lets himself slip all the way out just so that he can press the head of his cock against the tight rim of his hole just to feel it again, just to drive John mental with frustration. Because he likes that. Likes hearing him bitch about it. It feels real. He shoves his cock back inside, grabs him by the hips, and pounds into him. Brakes off completely.
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'course, it helps that the change also means Bruce loses the carefully controlling actions of before. Hard to miss it when the man starts fucking him almost animalistically, like he's trying to punch the breath out of John with his cock alone. It's never quite enough to completely silence him, but he does fall to sharp curses, fragments of sentences and complaints cut off as Bruce draws back and slams into him again. Even the periods where he pauses only serve to drag more protests from John, too aware of the hot pressure of Bruce's cock at his entrance, deliberately kept back only to pound into him again when he's off-guard.
And he bloody loves all of it, the feeling of Bruce giving in to his own desires and desperation in turn. The only pity is that he'd already been half out of his mind with pleasure (well, maybe more than half) by this point and there's only so long a man can keep it together like this, with the sound of Bruce breathing heavily behind and above him and those hands gripping his hips roughly, keeping him still as he's fucked hard enough he knows he'll be a mess of bruises later.
It's like a jolt of power right up his spine, almost as powerful a rush as magic gives him, and John strains against he leather and Bruce's hands, every muscle feeling taut with effort.
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(Anymore. He slipped too far, into prescriptions and alcohol and downing whole bottles of mood stabilizing medications with other whole bottles of wine. Just to stop thinking. Nothing will ever stop the dark claws dug deep into his mind, and these moments become—
worth something.)
Bruce wants to come, the tension building in him rushing too quickly now towards breaking. He pulls John up, haphazard despite his strength, enough to impale him further on his cock and get one hand beneath his jackknifed form. He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, catching the other man between the force of his hips and the calloused circle of his fingers.
"Shh," he says, a rough rasp against the back of his shoulder.