"Mmn."

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.