Just What He Needs
Warnings: mild slash
Constantine. His reputation precedes him; half the demons on earth want to kill him, all fear him. I like to play with him, mess with his head. He could have killed me, was going to kill me, in Midnight's house. He would have broken the rules, had Midnight not been in the very same room. I could have ravaged him. But neither one of us did a thing; we exchanged words.
Constantine. He hates me, my kind, far more than we hate him. Or so it seems. It could just be me. He loathes me, I loathe him. I hate him, I love to watch him. Pleasures of the flesh. We can change all that; pleasure into pain. Just what he needs.
Constantine. He says he hates me, even as he presses his body against mine, whispers it in my ear like twisted love talk. And I, pulling hard on his hair, biting his lips, return the words. "And I hate you, Johnny-Boy." Hiss them like a snake, against his skin.
Constantine. A word, a name that means pain and pleasure and flesh and sex and memories, all jumbled together in my head. A word that means death. Death for me, death for him. Neither one of us will survive this.
Constantine. Lonely and dying a little every day. Human. He turns to me, because I can give him so much. Only in darkness can you see the light, only in pain are you free to enjoy the pleasure. He knows this, and so do I, and for now, we lose ourselves in one another, and we don't think about tomorrow.