Work Text:
The look on the man's face when he realized that John Constantine was, in fact, not dead, instead very much alive, and had kissed him was almost funny. Almost. He looked rather shocked that the man he’d been obsessed with for the past— what, twenty years, hadn’t died in that prison riot and was standing right in front of him as he bled, strung up like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. Jesus Christ, John really was going to go through with this, wasn’t he? He was about to honey pot illegal arms and drugs dealer billionaire SW Manor, or more intimately known as Stanley Manor. The whole seduction-sexspionage shite was a commitment, in more ways than one. John had no love or sympathy for Manor whatsoever but he knew damn well he had to act like it. He didn’t survive that prison riot after surviving the other inmates, manage to not castrate that cop who performed a ‘cavity search’ after waking him up in the middle of the night, take down a bunch of neo-nazis after escaping prison, come this far just to give up. He had to play into that obsession. Seducing the man would be the more or less easy part, he knew how to get men like Manor into bed, but keeping up that guise would be the hard part. On the slight bright side, the two men had a few shared kinks… okay more than a few.
After their run-in at the club, and the intense rough hate sex that ensued because of the aforementioned run-in— which was so fucking good. It was so good that John felt a little disgusted by the fact he enjoyed it as much as he did. They said little next to nothing to each other as they made their way to Manor’s estate. They somehow made it to the bedroom, unable to keep their hands off each other, passing a hall with live vampire bats which was totally not concerning, like at all. It was almost too easy to forget about the estate’s staff being present while he was shoved roughly up against a wall in yet another hallway, a rough calloused hand shoved down his trousers, teasing him through his underwear. Once they’d actually gotten inside the bedroom it was basically just a blur of rough kisses, clashing of teeth, grinding bodies, clothing being yanked off, and a pair of underwear actually getting ripped apart at the seams until they both made it to the bed, completely undressed. From there they continued— bodies pressed together, teeth biting at lips, neck, and flesh; hands roaming as they fought for a sense of dominance over the other. It was rough and intense, both trying to overpower the other.
John Constantine never considered himself the most dominant person when it came to sex so eventually, he let Manor take the lead. Stanley did little to prepare him, spitting onto his cunt, which was probably more for show than anything else since John was already soaking wet by the time the American had shoved his cock inside him. He spread his legs for him, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck while his hands created deep red angry scratches, breaking already tender skin that was still healing from being whipped and drawing blood, that only seemed to encourage the billionaire. Both men eventually came, John clenching around Manor as he dug his nails deep into the muscle on the man’s back, Stanley shoving himself deep inside the man underneath him, biting his neck hard enough that he drew blood while coming inside him— which John wasn’t the happiest about. After they were finished he’d made a snide remark, suggesting the use of protection, taking a long drag from a cigarette. They did use birth control the rest of the times they had sex though so there was that. After that, the two men sort of unofficially moved in together. Living with Manor proved to be oddly normal as if the man he was living with was just another boyfriend he’d moved in with just like he had in the past.
Which was unsettling and uncomfortable, to say the least. It wasn’t easy having to pretend to be in love with Manor, John wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the knobhead but he needed to be patient. What he did find to be helpful was that if he just shut off his brain, refused to acknowledge the American’s transgressions, and played the part of Stanley Manor’s boyfriend, the whole act he was putting on was considerably less unappealing. Again, the two men shared a lot of kinks, and John certainly didn’t mind getting roughed up or being rough with another. It did help that Stanley was also quite attractive. Correction: very attractive; Dark hair, sculpted jawline, that toned muscular figure— and oh God, those shoulders, those big broad fucking shoulders. Didn’t hurt that his dick was pretty damn impressive as well. It felt like a waste, really; for a perfectly handsome man to be the corrupt, rich, orphan-killing piece of shit that he was. It was one of the many nights where it was just them, alone in bed; the American on his back, John straddling his hips, both men naked, kissing each other roughly, the kiss mostly teeth and tongue. He snaked a hand down to Stanley’s already straining erection, grabbing the other man’s cock and balls, squeezing painfully, taking pleasure in hearing Manor hiss and moan. Manor’s hands came to rest on John’s hips, hands kneading at his ass, rough and haphazard, too busy being distracted by the way the blond’s hand held his sex with a crushing grip. John squirmed in his lap, letting out a small growl when the man beneath him squeezed down on his hips, definitely bruising the skin and muscle.
“How many times did you think of me?” John asked him, his voice low and sultry, subtly threatening.
“I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you for the past twenty years,” Stanley told him breathlessly, hushed and shaky as if he was confessing his darkest most reprehensible sins to him. John smirked,
“About how you’d kill me or what you’d do to me after you’d gotten me in bed?”
“Both— Fuck,” he gasped, the other squeezing him harder, making him buck up into John’s hand, groaning at the pain.
“Stanley Manor,” the man in his lap scoffed, practically purring into his ear, condescending yet undoubtedly turned on by the confession. “For the past twenty years since we met, you’ve been wanking off to the idea of shagging me, even while you were planning on framing me for murder. You’re such a dirty old man.” He let go of Manor, delighting in the way the American’s cock twitched when John had called him a ‘dirty old man’, crawling down to put his mouth on the man’s cock, wasting no time taking it all the way in at once. It had taken years before John was able to fully suppress his gag reflex like that and it took a little less time to get pretty damn good at sucking dick. He bobbed his head up and down, teeth tantalizingly scraping against the top of the man’s cock, soaking in the broken sounds he drew out of him. There was something special about the way another man’s dick felt as it dragged across the inside of your throat, and God did it make John wet. His hand came back to knead at Stanley’s balls, rough and unforgiving, only stopping his ministrations to pull his mouth off his lover and to unceremoniously sink down onto it, the scorching wet tightness of his cunt sheathing Manor’s hard aching length. He let out a low moan, squirming a little, laughing to himself, “You’re lucky I happen to like dirty older men who do bad things.”
“Do you, now?” the other asked him with a scoff, then groaning when the man in his lap began fucking himself on his cock. John moaned, looking down at Stanley with hooded eyes and an unapologetic smirk,
“Mm,” he shifted in the man’s lap, grinding down on his cock and letting out a small mewl, placing his own hands on Manor’s that had his hips in a death grip, the contact adding a sense of deeper intimacy as he replied to him. “Well, you can thank my dad for that, the sorry sod wasn’t exactly father-of-the-year. So I tend to go for bad men who could do unspeakable things to me.” He continued to raise and lower himself off and onto Manor’s erection, moaning at the electric sensation of his lover’s long and overwhelmingly thick cock hitting that certain special spot inside him, throwing his back his head and arching his back, crying out. John was right, if he was going to be honest with himself, his taste in men was absolutely abysmal and he probably had his father to thank for that.
“Fuck, John—” Manor moaned when the other man’s body contracted tightly against him. John moved his hands, wrapping them around Stanley’s neck, letting out another whine when the man’s hands gripped his hips tighter, fingernails digging into the skin. He kept his hands around Manor’s neck, not squeezing down but just keeping them there, a constant teasing threat.
“This what you expected when you had me locked up?” he goaded the man beneath him, grinding down on his dick, face flushed yet still infinitely more composed than his lover.
“No,” Stanley replied, swallowing hard against the rough dexterous hands wrapped around his neck. “But I didn’t know how much I needed ‘this’ until I had it.” If he wasn’t playing a role, John would’ve rolled his eyes and called him pathetic but there was something so fucking hot about someone telling him how much they needed him, while he had their neck and by extension life in his hands. He couldn’t help but let out a purr, smirking, lust glazing over his eyes,
“How long have you wanted to bugger me? How long have you been wanting to feel how fucking tight I am?” He leaned over to nip and bite at Manor’s jaw, growling in the man’s ear.
“I’ve wanted this since I first laid eyes on you, John Constantine.” John’s smirk grew a little wider,
“You have me now, Love,” he purred, biting down hard on the skin of Stanley’s neck, drawing blood and arousing both men. “And I’m the only thing you’ll ever need,” the way he spoke was just pure sin, low and sultry, confident, demanding. He was like a succubus, on top of the other man, painfully gorgeous, face flushed, chest rising up and down in exertion, hands squeezing a little tighter around Stanley’s neck, the way he arched his back so beautifully; the intoxicating way his body clenched and milked his cock, the absolutely sinful way his face looked in the throes of pleasure. He was everything Manor wanted and more: handsome, skilled, dangerous, and wild, unpredictable, yet more tempting than anything; the way his lips curled upwards, his hooded intense blue eyes, drawing him in with the promise of anything and everything he wanted, the irresistible temptation of forbidden fruit. If this was what the devil looked like Stanley Manor would sell his soul in a heartbeat.
Maybe not the devil, Manor could liken Constantine more to Lilith, probably: refusing subservience, rebelling, leaving a blaze of hellfire and destruction in his wake, incredibly attractive, but dangerous nonetheless— or whatever attractive irresistible dangerous creature he could also compare that man to, he could compare him to many. And he would be the cause of his downfall. John continued fucking himself on the American’s cock, coming fast, hard, and loud— probably loud enough for Manor’s nearby staff to hear. His orgasm was intense, he hadn’t come this hard in a while. He hadn’t been with another man in a while either; especially a man so well-endowed, handsome, and yet also despicable. His body tightened around Manor, milking him, the man thrusting up a few times into the hot wet tightness of the blond’s cunt, before emptying his load inside him. John hauled himself off of Stanley’s lap, reaching over to the bedside table and grabbing his lighter and a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long lazy drag from it. The man beside him muttered incoherently, shooing him off the bed. He cracked open the glass doors to the balcony, leaning on the railing, still completely naked, his mind was hazy from his orgasm, nerves still relaxed and calm. He knew Stanley was watching him from the doorway to the balcony, the other man joining him out there, coming up behind him and wrapping his muscular arms around his center, pressing a kiss to the nape of John’s neck, sighing tiredly. John squirmed at the feeling of Manor’s come slowly oozing out of him, the American lazily and thoughtlessly pushing it back in, his other arm still wrapped around the blond’s waist, kissing up the side of his neck.
“You’re surprisingly docile after sex,” Manor observed, mumbling against the smooth skin of his lover’s shoulders and back, his hand on the arm that was around John’s center, traveling to the warlock’s slim yet soft abdomen, fingers tracing the faded crescent-shaped scars on his chest. John leaned back against Stanley, almost pliant in the other man’s arms, taking another drag from the cigarette. He sighed, smoke leaving with it,
“Only when it’s really good sex,” he replied. “Which tends not to happen much at the moment.”
“Should I be flattered?” the other man scoffed between the sloppy lazy kisses he was planting on his neck.
“If you’d like,” John said with a small fond smirk. The smart and sane part of his brain was still very much aware of who the man holding him in his arms was, what he had done, what he was capable of. But at the moment, that part of his brain was overpowered by the way the American held him. He probably needed this, he’d gone on for so long without it. The endorphins of sex and his orgasm still had him blissed out and relaxed so he couldn’t care less. He’d deal with Stanley Manor when the time was right, but for now, he was content to spend the night in the arms of the man that framed him for murder. Yeah, not the best-sounding idea when you put it like that, but Jesus Christ those strong muscular arms that pressed his back against Manor’s warm-toned front. He could get used to this, maybe, for a bit.