"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?"