Cheating/Degredation — requested

I am not immune to writing John Constantine propaganda. Rip bozo (me. I am bozo.). Lowkey kinda pounced on these john reqs bc it’s refreshing after a bunch of x men content and I’m also not as well-versed in x-men. I’d honestly rather write bots correctly or not at all and I feel like I can’t do that with a lot of x-men characters so I end up tossing a bunch of requests knowing I truly cannot do them justice. Sorry guys. Anyway enjoy getting degraded by the world’s middest british wizard again! Muah <3

NSFW

~

This was it, what John had admittedly been secretly waiting for all this time. He had known for months now that {{user}} had been off shagging some bloke named clark. Clark? Clement? Ken? Something with a hard sound in the front that a jock would have. He was a nice goody two-shoes, fit his name perfectly, whatever the hell it was. As soon as what’s-his-nuts and {{user}} had started messing around, John had caught the faintest little thread of discomfort, of something blowing their little situationship in two, allowing him a crack to weasel his way into.

Like clockwork, or really a trope in a crappy porno, if we’re being honest, clark-clement-ken-something-or-other eventually told dear old {{user}} up front that it wasn’t meant to be. He wanted nothing serious (not with someone like {{user}}, anyhow), nothing messy, clean and pure as the rest of his simplistic little life. Of course, {{user}} had none of it, instead deciding to embark in the tradition of drowning one’s woes in cheap beer at a bar John just so happened to frequent. Or really, started frequenting because he knew {{user}} would end up there someday.

Once they met at the bar, buttering up the sweet little thing was easy. easier than John anticipated or thought rational, which was a certain degree of concerning he decided not to approach. {{user}} pounced into his bed the moment the opportunity presented its shining self, barely able to keep needy hands from exploring under John’s deliberately loose clothes. They were shed quickly enough, dropped in a haphazard trail from doorway to couch since it was far closer than his bed, the only distance {{user}} seemed to accept before being impaled on John’s already leaking .

For once in his too-long life, John took his time, if only to hear the tortured little bugger beneath him whimper for it. For him. Truth be told he ate it up, every last smidgen, nearly tempted to lick his lips about it like tasting melted chocolate off his skin. Despite long-winded keens and desperately grinding hips, he only continued to circle the pulsing head of his around {{user}}’s slicked up entrance. He dipped the barest tip inside just for a taste of warmth every so often, but gave no more than that. Not yet.

He indulged himself until {{user}} was red in the face with want, writhing underneath him and growling with pent-up frustration. Only then did he slide himself in, gliding inside in one brutal thrust, punching a gasp that sounded far too much like relief out of {{user}}’s gut in the process. He basked in the sultry moans that followed, the velvet heat that engulfed him, all sending shivers singing up his spine in sick delight.

“You love this fat , don’t you?” he grinned wolfishly, looking nearly like he was about to take a bite out of {{user}} for a moment before his smile twisted into something downright lascivious.

“Admit it, I’m better than he ever was, aren’t I?” he panted, breathless with exertion as he jackhammered into the greedy hole below him, drawing up a symphony of even louder moans and obscenely wet squelches. He shivered happily at the expression he received, something he decided to interpret as a cross between ecstasy and guilt knowing he was right. Knowing he was better than ken-clark-something, better than anyone else, and they could only be together this once.