Bruce looms over him (unavoidable, given his stature, but he can lean into it, too), rolls his shoulders. Odd sensations down his spine just hit patches of nerve damage and skitter through steel replacement vertebrae; that scar is a nearly invisible one despite running from tailbone to neck. A plastic surgeon's talented hand doing the stitches, and billions of dollars worth of extendible income doing the skincare.

"Well, I already don't believe in god," he says, reaching out to snag one of John's ankles. There is little dignity in being undressed like this, but that's what wizards get when they take a glacial age to do anything. "So we're probably covered, even if you summon a birthday cake."

Don't do that, though.

Bruce drags the other man's trousers off (did he have shoes on, are the socks a funny pattern, is he judging him for Hello Kitty stockings, tell me), and kneels properly on the bed so he can shove one of Constantine's knees up and out, prowling between his legs. Pushing him down with a hand on his chest, scraping blunt nails through wiry hair.

"Colors?"

—Or? Bruce operates just fine with plenty of options; green, yellow, red, just fucking saying stop, specific safe words. He is also - the other man may know by now - experienced (and dangerous) enough to operate without any at all.