It’s not the best place they’ve ever spent the night in, but it’s hardly the worst.
Not that Chas gets much of a look at it, really; the door’s barely closed behind them before John’s taking up all of his attention, grabbing at his arms and pressing their hips together and looking up with him that very particular John Constantine look of his, the one he only gets when a very specific set of bad decisions are about to be made.
And all John says is “Yeah?”, like it’s the answer as well as the question, like that’s all it’s going to take.
It is, it always has been, probably always will be, and it’s not even the first time since Ravenscar, but Chas hesitates anyway. Takes a step back; shakes his head when John sighs dramatically and slips off his coat.
“Playin’ hard to get, are we?”
He sighs. “John."
“Want me to beg, mate? ‘cause I will, you know that—“ he drops to his knees and clasps his hands in front of him, all Catholic schoolboy proper. “Got no problem beggin', me."
Chas rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t do it for me, John.”
“Yeah? Since when?”
He walks back over to him; it’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that—the inevitability of it, the expectation, rankles him. John’s been trying to be good, trying to cut down on collateral damage, and this, the two of them, is nothing more than the matter of convenience it’s always been. And that’s fine, generally, but tonight—it rankles.
John leers, and hooks his fingers into Chas’s belt-loops. “Not what I remember.”
Chas lets himself be dragged closer, even drops his left hand onto John’s head. Runs his fingers through the dusty blond hair. John leans into the touch, not unlike a cat; the fact that he's grinning like he just ate a canary only cements the impression. He looks up at Chas with shining eyes and a smug expression; Chas meets it with feigned resignation and a slightly exasperated smile.
John presses something into the palm of his hand. Chas looks down and frowns as he realizes what it is. "Haven't you lost enough blood for one day?"
"Don't break the skin if you're feeling queasy," John says, flippant. "Now, will—" Chas yanks his head back, and John gasps: sharp, surprised, and relieved.
"Are you going to behave, or..." he twists his fingers in John's hair, uses the knife in his other hand to trace a firm line from the still-defiant jut of John's chin down his throat, over his Adams apple, straight to his sternum. He doesn't break the skin, but there'll be a welt there, come morning.
John looks up at him with wide pupils and a wavering smirk. "Or?"
"You're the smart one." He twists his fingers in John's hair again, rough enough that John stifles a groan, then lets out a long, heavy breath. The sound of it hits Chas right in the gut. "Figure...it...out," he growls, punctuating the statement with a sharp twist of the knife tip against the hollow of John's throat. John lets out a particularly melodramatic whimper and Chas considers letting him go, stepping back, respectfully declining to play, for real this time.
John must see it in his eyes, because the sardonic twist of his mouth straightens into a pressed line of concentration, and he begins rubbing the palms of his hands up and down Chas's thighs. He drops his gaze, which is difficult given that his head's still pulled back, and speaks, quiet and even. "I'll behave."
"I doubt it.”
And John grins, quick and broad and normal, before he puts his game face back on and goes for Chas's belt.
He's quick about it: no fumbling, no teasing. He draws Chas out and jerks him off one-handedly, with a brisk, thoughtless ease. His calloused palm is rough and warm, and his grip is tight. It's all very mechanical, though not unpleasant: Chas feels his pulse quicken, his breaths catch, his cock fill, as John closes his eyes and clutches at Chas's sweater with his other hand.
John looks up at him again once he's hard and leaking; licks his lips; swallows.
"May I?" he says, dark-eyed and breathless, straining at the Chas’s grip.
In lieu of speaking, Chas drags him forward, dropping the knife to the floor beside them as he does; John’ll be disappointed about it later but right now Chas needs to have both hands in John’s blond hair.
John's mouth is hot and wet and seemingly endless; he sucks and swallows and then starts humming, something Chas doesn’t recognize but knows to be entirely inappropriate anyway. John’s head bobs at a stuttering, inconsistent tempo, which Chas tolerates for longer than he thinks John expects him to. He waits till John’s stopped, has started to slide his mouth off, before he wraps his hand around the back of John’s head and pulls him back.
John’s hair is damp with sweat now, and his mouth goes slack and willing; he lets his head be yanked back and forth, lets Chas fuck up into his throat. His eyes are clenched shut and he’s breathing hot and quick through his nose, making wet, slurping sounds around Chas’s cock. One of his hands is tangled in Chas’s sweater, holding on to him as if the alternative is drowning, and the other’s still clutching at Chas’s hip. It makes Chas want to pull him closer, and he does. John lets him, makes a rough, choking noise as he presses his forehead against Chas’s stomach. He stays there, swallowing hard around him till Chas can barely breathe, can barely think, can barely stand, and can sure as hell barely keep himself from coming.
But he doesn’t want to come like this, not yet, not with John on the floor. He drags John’s head back, and gets the slight scrape of teeth for his troubles; it stings but he’s glad for the distraction, for the chance to catch his breath.
John glares up at him with dark, shining eyes. His cheeks are flushed beneath the stubble, his lips are swollen red, and his chin soaked with spit and precome.
“’s matter, mate?” he says, voice hoarse and tone mocking. “Am I not bein’ good enough for you?”
Chas drops his hands to John’s shoulders; John makes a half-hearted attempt to shrug him off, but stills when Chas slides his hand around the front of his throat and squeezes. “Get up,” he says, quietly, and John stumbles in his haste to obey. “Easy,” he says, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady.
“I know you are,” John drawls, swaying into him. He's close enough to kiss, and the scent of him, sweat and blood and sex and smoke, is almost overwhelming. “But what am I?”
Chas leans into him. “A regular pain in my ass.”
“And here I thought you weren’t into that, mate.” John grins, and flicks his tongue over his top lip.
Chas smiles back, and reaches down. John’s hard, straining against his pants, and all too eager to thrust into Chas’s hand once he’s pushed down the zipper. His breath catches and his eyes flutter closed for a moment, which is all Chas needs. He grabs John’s wrist and twists, dragging him around till he’s got John’s arm up against his back and John’s ass pressed against his cock, which is a fact that does not go unnoticed by either of them.
John squirms, thrusting against him even as he strains to free his arm from Chas’s grasp. Chas lets him struggle, knowing John’s wrist is going to be bruised to hell the next morning, knowing that’s pretty much what John wants, anyway.
It’s about two steps to the bed; they make them together, John stumbling again as Chas forces him down onto the mattress. John sprawls across it, pressed down by Chas’s weight on top of him, and muffles a low, aching groan against the sheets. It’s so familiar that Chas can’t stop himself from nuzzling at the nape of his neck and inhaling deeply. John sighs, and the tension in the lean column of his body eases.
“What do you want?” Chas says, soft, in deference of the sudden stillness between them.
“Your big fucking cock, Chas,” John snaps, gives a full-bodied, impatient shudder, and thrusts helplessly against the mattress. “Christ.”
“Okay,” he says, for want of anything more appropriate.
He keeps John still, pinning his wrist to the center of his back, before reaching down with his other hand and yanking John’s pants and underwear down past his ass. John grunts, and ruts against the mattress with sharp, contained thrusts of his hips.
Chas lets him; reaches up again, press his fingers against John’s lips. He parts them eagerly, gives a particularly wet, slurping suck. It won’t be enough; it’ll be rough and tight and John’ll spend the trip back wincing, but Chas knows better than to say anything, just does the best he can with blunt fingers and a copious amount of spit.
John, true to form, doesn’t make it any easier: he squirms and moans and curses like he’s in actual pain, like the agony wracking his body won’t be satisfied till he’s been properly fucked. It’ll never be that simple, but Chas keeps going. Works John open as much as he can, drops his other hand to the John’s now-soaked blond hair, presses his face against the mattress, and pushes in.
It’s as tight as he’d expected, and he goes slow, for his comfort as much as John's; John, who’s struggling to breath, who’s arching dangerously as he tries to thrust back onto Chas’s cock, who's at serious risk of dislocating his shoulder, doesn’t appreciate it in the least. He chokes in large gulps of air that he mostly uses to swear at Chas, burning, unfamiliar words that only stop when Chas is all the way in.
After that, it’s just an desperate litany of “fuck” and “yes” and “harder”; his hips push back against Chas like he’s trying to set the rhythm, till Chas leans, and hisses “Stop,” into the flushed skin of his neck.
John stills. Chas slams into him, hard enough to ram the headboard into the wall behind it. He pulls out, then slams in again, even harder than before, harder than he’d like, but he can’t deny the thrill he gets from it, from having John, tight around him, strong beneath him, yielding but present, as safe as he ever gets. John lets out what sounds very much like a sob as he comes, and groans in pleasure till Chas comes too.
They’re slow to part; John barely moves, just pants roughly against the sheets and shivers when Chas pulls out, lies still as Chas straightens, runs a hand through his own hair and zips up his pants. John’s white shirt has ridden up practically to his armpits, and Chas resists the temptation to stroke at the exposed skin of his back.
He rolls John over instead, and finds him more than half asleep already. He sighs, and slaps John lightly across the face. John’s eyes flutter open, filled with petty malice, and he scowls. It’d be more intimidating if he didn’t currently have his pants mostly down his thighs and his tie half in and half out of the collar of his shirt.
“You can’t sleep in your clothes,” Chas says, patiently, and waits for John to give a long-suffering groan and nod his assent.
He leans in as John starts undoing his tie, and presses a kiss to his forehead. John grabs at his shirt automatically, but Chas shakes his head and crawls off the bed. “I’ll be right back. Just stay put.”
“Can stay put or can take off my clothes, mate,” John calls out. "Can’t exactly do both."
“Try,” he calls back, ducking into the bathroom.
When he returns with two complimentary water bottles in tow, John’s down to his underwear and leaning casually against the headboard. His expression is smug as he rolls his shoulder, testing its range of motion. Chas throws him a bottle and John catches it easily, breaks the seal, and drinks it all in one gulp. “Thanks, love,” he says, tossing the empty bottle back at him; Chas swats it away.
“You’re welcome, jackass.” He settles into the bed next to John, who grins, and reaches over for something on his night table. Chas doesn’t even have to bother looking to know what it is. “I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here."
John snorts. "Yeah? Odd of them to leave us an ashtray, then.” He lights up, placing said ashtray between them on the bed. Chas shakes his head and flips on the television.
He watches the news for a while; feels John’s gaze on him, and decides to ignore it.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
“You all right with all this?” John’s eyes are narrowed; it’s not an unusual look for him, suspicion, but Chas isn’t used to being the recipient, or at least not that he’s noticed.
“I’ve said I was.”
“Yeah, but,” John inhales, exhales, and drops his eyes. “People’re changeable, and all that."
Chas huffs. Reaches over, and plucks the cigarette from John’s fingers. He takes a drag as John stares at him.
"You don't smoke."
"Yeah? Odd that I just did, then."
"Don't be an arse." Chas blows smoke at him; John scowls and tries to grab the cigarette back, clutching at the arm Chas is using to keep it out of his reach, trying to drag it back down. He's practically on top of Chas and almost pouting when something sparkling and amused flashes in his eyes, and then he lunges.
John tastes mostly of ash. He usually does.
Chas opens his mouth to him anyway. He usually does.
It's a soft, strange, lingering kiss. John’s still warm from the sex, still loose as his body settles over Chas's. His hands grasp Chas's shoulders as he swings his leg over Chas's lap to straddle him. Chas runs his palm up John's bare back, lets it travel the uneven terrain of scars old and new.
After a moment, John pulls away. He brings the cigarette to his lips; Chas hadn’t even noticed him taking it. He smirks. “Christ, but you are easy.”
Chas smirks back. “I know you are,” he says, leaning up to press a quick peck to John’s lips. “But what am I?”
And John snorts, low and delighted, before letting a thin stream of smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. He ducks his head a little, enough that Chas can’t see his eyes. “Too bloody good to me, I know that much,” he says, shifting like he’s about to return to his side of the bed.
Chas winds an arm around his waist, and tugs him closer. "And here I thought you weren’t into that.”
“Well,” John shrugs, wincing a little. “There’s no accounting for taste, I s’ppose."