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For I Have Sinned	By : Salienne Category: 1 through F > Constantine Views: 2806 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Constantine, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-For I Have Sinned
- 1
A/N: This was a one-shot I wrote after hearing “Figured You Out” by
Nickelback, and listening to it over and over and over again. Mucho credit to
that band and that song, and they’ve been honored by having their song playing
in Midnite’s. XD But yes, this fic is VERY dark, meant to be somewhat
disturbing. It shows the depths of despair to which our dear old Constantine
sinks to one day, and what happens. Critique encouraged! Make sure to R&R!

Disclaimer: I don’t own Papa Midnite’s club, Constantine, Chaz, or
anything else somehow affiliated with Constantine, no matter how much I
want to. All of these belong to Vertigo/DC Comics, WB, the writers and
producers, etc. This is just what my messed up mind thinks up after seeing the
brilliant work all of these people do. :D

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For I Have Sinned

About Two Months Pre-Movie

John Constantine was feeling especially
self-pitying today, and consequently, rather sadomasochistic. Today was just
one of those days—or nights by this time, really—when he just couldn’t give a
damn about anybody satin ball gown or anything, not even himself. Lucifer
himself could have walked up in a with the Seven Horsemen in tow, telling him
the End had come, and Constantine would have just cocked an eyebrow, raised his
shot glass, and toasted the Apocalypse before downing the liquor. Let Death
come. Hell, let Hell come. He was going there anyway.
He could very easily have sat at his kitchen
table, drinking, smoking, and cutting designs in the flesh of his arm, if he
were that sort of person, watching the crimson streams, rivers, and canals
flow, like lava forcing its way out of cracks in dead, rotting ground, nothing
but eventual stone doomed to erosion, doomed to become nothing but rubble,
nothing but the dirt beneath humanity’s feet.
As it stood, he did the next best thing.
Constantine went to Papa Midnite’s, and with
a “bear tap-dancing,” he was in, not to sell relics or get information or aid
but to submerge himself in those of the other planes, immerse himself in
“living,” breathing proof of the hypocrisy that had gobbled him up, chewed him
up into little pieces, swallowed him, digested him, and shit him back out. It
was the most efficient way to torture himself, to remind himself of his
damnation and worthlessness and of those that had helped bring it about, those
who were now perfectly alive and content.
That and getting plastered.
Nicotine, alcohol, and hatred of absolutely
everything, including himself; all in all, it was a grand old combination.
At a secluded table in the corner he sat,
nursing his third glass of straight vodka. No dilution for him. His third
cigarette was the only thing that kept him from downing shot after shot after
shot in minutes if not seconds.
What the fuck was he doing here?
Deep within the cavernous, lightless chasm
that was his mind and the dark thoughts that inhabited it, Constantine didn’t
even notice the 5’6” 20-something year old half-demon that stalked up to him,
moving past well-dressed half-breeds from all over, through the club which was
permanently tinged red by the overhead, Oriental lamps. She was stick thin with
semi-prominent breasts and long, pin-straight raven hair, and she wore a
rumbled tube-top, a half-length leather jacket, a leather mini-skirt, and
knee-high black leather boots with a three-inch heel, all black. She was more
than attractive, and there was a conniving, seductive smirk on her blood-red
lips, a wicked, hellish glimmer in her deceptively warm, gray-blue eyes, as she
plopped down across from him. She gave him a quick once-over before speaking, taking
in the white, expensive collared shirt—rumpled—the black overcoat, the black
tie, the mussed jet-black hair, and the stubble that she couldn’t quite make
out in the reddish lighting but that she was sure was there. He looked like
he’d just come from the office after a long, hard day.
Perfect. This was an easy target.
“Constantine, right?”
He gave no indication that her arrival had
in anyway startled him, but merely gave her a look before bringing the
cigarette to his lips once more.
That was all the answer she needed.
“The name’s Shayna. It’s a real pleasure to
meet you.”
Thanks to his psychic sight, he could see
her skin fading away like the gray of a developing Polaroid in fast-forward.
Constantine let the demon-vision come, let the image of wispy, dead white hair,
rotted teeth, and emaciated mummy-flesh come to the forefront. Disturbing or
not, it was what she was, and it was what he’d come to see.
“Yeah, a real pleasure,” he said
sardonically, tapping his cigarette so that a few scattered ashes fell onto the
table. What the hell did she want, to annoy him, to bug the crap out of him? If
so, it was working already.
Her
smile widened. This exorcist was amusing.
“I’d
like to thank you, Constantine,” she told him, sitting up straight, close to
the table, with her legs crossed, a licentious smile an apparently permanent
fixture upon her face.
He
watched her skeptically. “For what, exactly?”
“Why,
for killing that bastard Clemence and shipping his ass back to Hell,” she
replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Clemence?”
What was she talking about? Which half-breed was this? Did she honestly expect
him to keep track of names?
“Yeah,
tall black guy, hair down to here—“she motioned to her mid-neck—“mouth of a
motherfucker. You can’t miss him. Well… at least you couldn’t.” She winked, her eyelids heavily made up with shimmering blue eye
shadow, eyeliner, and mascara. However, this makeup might as well have not even
been there in a club this dark, and especially not on a half-breed from Down
Under. Constantine couldn’t even see the womanly disguise except for short
flickers. Instead, he saw the demon. He was tired of fighting it. He wanted to See.
Ironic.
“He
was an annoying bastard,” she continued. “Got on my nerves, gone now, thanks to
you. Did I mention thanks?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.
Well then, thanks again.”
“You’re
welcome,” he responded dryly, and took up his vodka, taking a sip and feeling a
grim sort of satisfaction in the burn he felt as the liquid moved down his
throat and esophagus, into his stomach. Fire inside and fire outside, a
wonderful combination.
Yeah,
he remembered that half-breed. Broke the Rules, killed three kids and their
mother. Constantine had shipped him right back to where he belonged. And,
naturally, this would be the only gratitude he got for doing so, for avenging
the death of four innocents and preventing further ones; a thank you from
another bitch of a half-breed who’d probably step over the line herself one
day, a thank you because the guy had been annoying.
Oh
yes, you definitely had to
love the irony, just like you loved a really bad paper cut that got infected.
Constantine was beginning to regret coming
to Papa Midnite’s.
The half-demon stood, moved smoothly around
the table, like a crafty, sinuous serpent on the hunt, to come up behind him,
placing her arms over his shoulders and sliding her hands down his chest to his
abdomen while leaning forward, pressing the side of her face to his. She moved
her head an inch or two backwards, so that through a few strands of hair, she
could whisper directly into his ear. “I’d like to thank you,” she purred, “in
a… personal way.”
Constantine felt a swell of disgust and lust
move through him together, in one great surge. If he didn’t look at her and
didn’t think, she seemed almost human. Almost.
He swallowed more crystal-clear,
mind-numbing alcohol, but kept his eyes forward, barely acknowledging her
presence, her very existence.
“Come on, exorcist,” she said, and gave his
earlobe a light squeeze and suck, a soft, wicked caress, with her lips and
tongue. “What do you say? What’ve you got to lose?”
What’d he have to lose, indeed?
Self-respect, morals, boundaries, as if he had any of that anymore, and as if
the few vestiges that remained really mattered. He was fucked no matter what he
did, so why not live in transgression after transgression? Why not give in?
Constantine turned his head, twisting
sideways in his seat, his visage impassive, revealing nothing, as blank as a
full-coverage mask at a Masquerade. He could See her for what she really
was: once a horrible excuse for a human being, now a demon, a half-breed,
rewarded for her life of cruel, vicious murder and sin. She was a horrible,
revolting undead thing, and under normal circumstances, he would have
walked away right then, disgusted with himself for even considering what she
was offering, for letting her so much as touch him, for not leaving
earlier. Under normal circumstances, he might not have even made it home before
he threw up. That was how things would usually have gone.
But not this time.
This time, Constantine was mildly
intoxicated and feeling sorry for himself. He was pissed off at the world, at
all the people and non-people in it and the surrounding realms, at himself. And
all of this led to one thing: masochism. He yearned for something else to
regret, for another broken brick in the Great Wall that was his penitence, that
was his self-hatred, despair, and desperation. That was his damnation and
repentance all at once.
He needed something more than he was
getting, and this was it. Why the hell not?
Constantine forced himself to reel in his
Sight like a useless fishing lure, to see only her outer shell, to allow only
the red sheen of her eyes to get through and hint at her real, hidden self.
What the fuck are you doing, John?
the little voice of reason and sanity in his head demanded. Was he stupid?
Wasn’t going to Hell for suicide enough? Did he have to ruin any and all chance
of salvation for a one-night stand with a half-demon? Did he want
to end up dead the next morning, both inside and out?
He ignored his common sense, he pushed it
away. Just for one night, one fucking night, he wouldn’t give a damn.
Let him hate himself for it later. It wasn’t as if it would be a new feeling
for him.
He was dying both ways anyway. Why not speed
things up?
“What’s in it for you?” he inquired softly,
so softy that over the din of the music, “Figured You Out” by Nickelback, he
could barely be heard.
The song was more than fitting.
“I get to say I fucked the Great John
Constantine,” she said, running her left hand as far down as it would go, over
the most sensitive parts of his chest and downward to… other… sensitive parts.
Her right hand now rested on his shoulder so that she could face him better. “I
get to say I screwed a broken man.”
He smirked. At least she was honest.
“So what do you say?” She stroked the side
and crook of his neck with her thumb and nails, sending little chills through
the man’s body. Her other hand moved up, caressed his face before traveling
back down again.
What the fuck are you doing, John? Don’t
do this!
Fuck off.
“I say if you’re going to do something, do
it.” He was emotionless, bitter, as he spoke, but she didn’t care. This was
what she wanted: John Constantine, a true trophy for her wall. So he wasn’t
feared so much anymore, so the half-breeds’ respect for him had dwindled
as his Glory Days had passed. He was still a plenty impressive figure, and well
worth it.
If this had been a children’s cartoon or an
Anime show, her eyes would have positively twinkled and her grin spread off her
face, like the Cheshire cat’s.
The half-breed—now most definitely holding
the appearance of a woman, cockier than usual, who knew exactly what she
wanted—kissed him ever-so-tenderly on the lips, and immediately, he was
returning the embrace, placing his left hand on the bared skin of her side, his
right on the back of her head, his tongue into her mouth. She tasted of sweet,
ripe red wine and ashes.
I deserve whatever I get, he told
himself, not meaning any of the good, only the bad. He half-wished that she would
kill him after it was all over, during even, if only to put an end to it all,
to the endless waiting for when the Grim Reaper would finally claim him and
pass him along to his good friend Lu’ and into the depths of suffering ad
infinitum. At least his constant quest for absolution would be over.
She kept one hand on his neck, this hand
moving up and down and around with light, teasing scratches and rubbing,
sending further chills up and down his spine. Meanwhile, her left was busy at
that special region below his flat, muscular stomach and between his hips,
rubbing, kneading through the fabric of his black pants. His body responded
fabulously.
In the meanwhile, their tongues battled,
plundered, explored, just like the conquistadors of days long past. It
was basically a full-out make out session in the middle of a crowded club, an
occurrence that was not really that uncommon at Midnite’s. What did make
this one unique, however, was the interest the others took in the whole affair.
The quasi-demons who cared, a surprisingly large amount, were either amused or
disgusted, and although many of those part-angel felt the same way, pity was by
far the most dominant emotion among their number. John Constantine, reduced to
this… Had Gabriel been there, he just might have shed a tear. Might have.
Probably not.
Constantine’s hand slid up her side, beneath
her tube-top, pushing the soft fabric upwards as his palm and fingers found
their way over her ribcage and to her breasts. She wore a strapless bra, and he
went both over and under it. In her own way, the half-breed was becoming as hard
for him as he was for her.
The spent cigarette fell from his other hand
to the floor, to be stomped on until all that was left was cinders and dust.
Midnite never really did like when Constantine littered in his
establishment like this, yet somehow, this didn’t bother the chain-smoker one
bit, not at that moment, not later on.
Constantine had now turned fully her way so
that he sat sideways in the chair, and she straddled him, grinding against his
hardness as best as she was able. The tight mini-skirt had become almost fully
pushed up, useless.
Oh yes, he would be hers tonight. There was
no question anymore.
The strobe lights had turned on, flashing
along with the next song, crazily fast dance music. The humans—however few of
them there were—and non-humans alike flickered in and out of sight—of
existence, even, at least as far as the human eye and mind were concerned—as
they gyrated and writhed on the dance floor or socialized around it, and
Constantine and his companion were no different as they toed the line of public
decency and club rules, getting closer and closer to saying “Fuck it,” quite
literally, and going all the way.
It was time to get out of there.
“Let’s go to my place, shall we?” she
murmured into his ear, and then moved downward, to his neck.
Constantine entangled his fingers in her
hair, tugging her head upwards so that he could seize her lips once more, again
and again and again. After a few more moments of that ardent act for which the
French receive all the credit, he pulled away. Both their lips were swollen,
his no longer a dull, sickly pink but an apple-red almost equal to that of her
lipstick. The fact that some of her makeup had rubbed off on him had barely
anything to do with this. “Let’s go.”
After one more kiss, one more shared glance
that had nothing to do with shared, loving intimacy, she got off of him,
pulling down her skirt and flattening it. As she did so, he stood, and
together, the two walked through the crowd and flashing lights. He had a small
amount of difficulty orienting himself as he moved, but he didn’t stumble.
Instead, he had another problem.
In his lungs, Constantine felt a pressure
building, and once they’d reached the green Exit sign, he was coughing into a
clenched fist, once, twice, three times, four, ready or not, here it came. Once
he stopped, he felt a wetness on the side of his hand, but in the alternating
blackness and unsteady blue-white illumination that did more harm than good, he
couldn’t make out what it was. He just wiped the moisture onto his coat, deciding
that it had just been mucus and saliva, and that if it were something else, he
just didn’t want to know, especially not while semi-drunk. The lingering taste
left on his tongue, that of warm, liquid copper, was something he ignored
entirely.
The half-breed whose name he didn’t even
remember—she’d told him, though, hadn’t she?—spared him only a glance before
moving through the short exit hallway and through the cheap, reflective curtain
at its end, one made up of many strips of a cellophane-like material.
Constantine was right on her heals. Wordlessly, they moved up the first set of
stairs, past the burly bouncer, and up the second stairwell, the one that this
bouncer was guarding; for his job was not to keep peace inside the club,
oh no, Midnite did that just fine on his own. His job was to keep the
common folk out, away from that which was too big for them.
The pair left the building at a quickened
pace, the glass double doors shutting quietly behind them. The air was cool,
crisp, and refreshing, yet reeking of gasoline and filled with the noise of
civilization: honking, the speeding of vehicles, and the jabber of people.
They moved down the crowded sidewalk,
between and around oblivious individuals out for a good time, those completely
ignorant of the true nature of the world, to her fire-red Corvette, its top
down.
Heh, fitting.
Constantine was glad that they were going in
her car, because there was absolutely no way he was going to call Chaz for a
ride, no way he was going to let the kid see how low he’d sunk. He would rather
have performed in The Phantom of the Opera as Christine with a touchy,
horny, bisexual Phantom.
At this thought, Constantine almost backed
out, almost stopped, turned, and walked away. Not because it was the right
thing, not because it was what he should do, not because of some
lingering threads of decency or self-respect, and not because of the traces of
sobriety, but because of the shame, because of how Chaz and Beeman and Hennessy
and even Midnite would look at him if they ever found out. He would pretend
that he didn’t care, put up a “Screw you, it’s my life,” façade, but inside, it
would just be one more thing destroying him bit by bit in secret, one more
wriggling, brutal worm in his core.
But John Constantine was notorious for not
doing the right thing, at least in instances such as these, when it came to
himself. The road to Hell might have been paved with good intentions for some,
but he took his own special path, one where self-injury was by far the most
prominent form of concrete.
The female half-breed nimbly hopped over the
driver’s-side door of her car, into her seat, an obvious display of her demonic
nature that only psychics, clairvoyants, and others familiar with the “world
behind the world” would pick up. By pressing a button on the inside of her
door, she unlocked the passenger’s-side-door, and he opened it and got in. It
was obvious she’d placed a spell on the vehicle, else it would have been
hot-wired and stolen before she’d even made it into Midnite’s. Hell, before
she’d even bought the damn thing.
Neither of them bothered to put on a seat
belt. Instead, the moment he was comfortably seated in the plush, black leather
seat, he reached into his coat pocket for his pack of Lucky Strikes just as she
took out her car keys, located on a worn, black leather, Jolly Roger key chain
along with her house keys, mail key, various other large and small keys to
other, more secret places with strange symbols, letters, words, and numbers
engraved on them, and a cute, little fuzzy purple kitty with its plastic
ocean-blue eyes gouged out and an upside-down cross carved onto its tummy. She
started the car, just as Constantine was tapping the bottom of the half-empty
pack, shaking it slightly until a cigarette slid out. He took it, coughed once,
swallowed, put the pack back into the right pocket, and took out his old,
brass, intricately engraved lighter. He flicked it open and brought the flame
to the cigarette already held at his lips, igniting the end so that the
poisonous fumes that helped deaden the pain could flow. Flicking the lighter
again, he closed it and put it away, proceeding to take a drag from his
cigarette. He brought it away from his mouth, letting the lovely toxins flood
his lungs and become absorbed into his bloodstream, before blowing out smoke
from his nose and mouth.
They drove in silence for a while, she
navigating, he smoking. He broke the silence not with conversation, but with a
simple question, one that his survival instincts demanded, almost against his
will. “Where are we going?”
She flashed him a smile. “Why, my apartment,
naturally. I thought I told you that, already.”
Oh, for the love of… “Where’s your
apartment?” His face didn’t even register his exasperation. Constantine wasn’t
exactly a very expressive person.
“You’ll see,” she teased, giving him another
wink and winning smirk before turning her attention back to the road. He
glanced at her, blowing smoke from his lips, before bringing his attention back
his surroundings. Whatever.
It would have been simple for her to kill
him then, even without bringing him to some secluded area or to a whole bunch
of her influenced friends. A car crash would be easy enough to pull off, and it
wouldn’t even hurt her, whereas it could easily end his miserable life.
And although this occurred to him, he didn’t much care but only continued to
smoke, watching passing buildings, streets, cars, and people as they rolled by,
almost as if he were the more or less stationary one and they the ones
moving. Only the wind rushing over her, through his hair, and across his face,
hands, and clothing destroyed this impression.
Nevertheless, again almost against his own
will, he found himself on guard, peeking at her periodically, his other senses
on high alert, just in case…
But though she considered causing a traffic
accident, she decided against it. What she had in mind was just so much more fun,
and it wasn’t as if he’d ever done anything to her.
That never stopped you before, a
little voice inside her mused, but she brought up a very good point in
response.
Before, she’d killed for fun, and only when
she was in the mood for it. Now, she was in the mood for something far
different, but something that, with Constantine like this, would be equally as
enjoyable. Besides, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to break the rules and risk
going back to Hell for him.
“You’re very talkative, aren’t you?” she
commented over the roar of wind, turning a corner at daredevil speeds. They
narrowly missed a silver BMW that beeped its horn angrily.
He didn’t even bother to look at her. “Yeah,
loquacious to a fault.”
She chuckled.
After twenty minutes or so of driving, they
pulled into a space between a forest-green SUV and a bright blue Camry.
Apparently, this half-breed was able to parallel park without difficulty.
His cigarette already gone, its stub thrown
into some gutter at a red light somewhere, Constantine got out of the car on
the sidewalk side. Even though there was no reason for it—force of habit,
maybe?—she locked the vehicle upon getting out, and she proceeded to walk
around its front to the sidewalk. He gave her a look that clearly said “Uh…huh”
in response to this oddly normal behavior, but she disregarded it entirely and
walked right past him. He followed her and ignored the craving for another
cigarette. A familiar feeling of hunger rumbled in the depths of his
stomach—he’d had a whole of one peanut-butter sandwich and a few glasses of
tap-water all day, not counting the vodka—but he ignored that too.
It was a nice neighborhood, not the best,
but nice. By far it wasn’t the richest, but it was a typical, middle class
place, one with a relatively low level of violence, although this level had
risen recently—gee, what a surprise.
They walked past buildings that looked far
too carefully and beautifully crafted for the 21^st century,
stone-made ones reminiscent somehow of the desert and Native Americans, yet
this was still unmistakably Western architecture, and these were most certainly
buildings created in the here and now. They all most certainly needed some
touching up as well. The landlords didn’t strain themselves in an attempt to
keep up a flawless, wealthy appearance.
Finally, they reached her building, a
nondescript, tan 4-story, not exactly the place he’d envisioned for her. They
mounted the dull, dead gray steps, and she opened the clear, glass door,
walking in with Constantine right behind her. They were now in a small room,
with mailboxes and buzzers located on the wall to his right, little white tags
marking the occupants of the apartments. Some of these labels were handwritten,
some typed. The half-breed walked right past these—who checked their mail at 11
PM, even if they usually didn’t get home until much later—and walked
right up the dull, black, white, and gray marble steps, ones that were almost
but not quite scuffed and reminded Constantine of one of those old films where
background music was an accomplishment. There was another door there, one just
like the previous, except for just one thing: this door was locked.
The half-breed took out her keys once more,
and in no time at all, they were inside the belly of the beast, moving towards
its inner sanctum of stomach acid and heat: her place. Across hardwood floors
they walked, still saying nothing, and up a steep stairwell to the second
floor. There were four apartments here, and 2-C was hers. She unlocked the
skin-colored door and stepped in, Constantine right behind her. On the inside
of her white doorframes were delicate carvings, ones so carefully and lightly
etched that they were only noticeable if you actually looked. Out of habit, he
did, and from the glimpse he got, he became very happy that he wasn’t part
angel or out to do any harm to her. Apparently self-mutilation wasn’t something
this door was meant to prevent, at least not when it was willing and/or not
physical.
Passing over this threshold, hot and cold
flashes seemed to pass through him in split-second succession, repeatedly, but
just as soon as he was fully inside, shutting the door behind himself, they
stopped, leaving him with a somewhat elevated body temperature and a slight
feeling of nausea. He was sure the alcohol in his system didn’t help him any.
Somewhat off-balance, Constantine began to
See her for what she really was, a corpse reanimated by hatred and Hell. He
pushed this vision away, forcing himself to seize control of his powers and
emotions while he took in his surroundings with careful precision. It wasn’t
big, this apartment, although depending on your point of view, it seemed either
considerably larger or considerably smaller than his. For one, it had more
rooms, four to be exact. There was this room—the kitchen—which the front door
led directly into, and then, directly to his left was a short hallway, three
rooms branching off. To its left and right side were two bedrooms, one this
half-breed’s, the other converted into a living room, and at the very end of
his hallway was the bathroom, a small affair with a sink, a toilet, and a
two-in-one bathtub/shower.
Constantine couldn’t really see any of that,
though. True, he could see both bedroom doors, sort of, and the bathroom door was
ajar, revealing some of the interior, but mainly, all he could see was the
kitchen he found himself in, and what a kitchen it was. Spacious enough to be
a living room, it had a sparkly-clean white-tile floor, new appliances—such as
a large black fridge, a black electric stove, and a black dishwasher—a
stainless steel sink that you could practically do your hair and makeup by, and
freshly painted black cabinets and countertop. A container of filtered
tap-water stood beside the sink, also black, and a freshly polished, dark,
wooden, oval dining table stood off to the far side of the room, five chairs
all pushed neatly in around it.
It was so impeccably clean, well-ordered,
and empty that it was eerie, and even in his intoxicated, uncaring
state, he was somewhat creeped. You went to the apartment of a Satanist with
OCD, this was what you expected to find. Constantine wouldn’t have been
surprised to find carefully labeled jars of human hearts, spleens, and kidneys
in the cabinets, perhaps some nice hands, feet, and intestines in the
refrigerator. It was Hannibal Lecter’s twisted, demented version of Heaven. All
that was missing was the altar for human sacrifice.
The half-breed didn’t linger in this
way-too-surreal-room-straight-out-of-the-Twilight-Zone but instead moved
straight into the hallway, over to the door on the left. It was her bedroom,
and it, at least, was more normal. It was small but not too bad, with a
queen-sized bed against the middle of the back wall, towards the left, its red,
purple, and black sheets rumpled and unmade. There was a mirror on the left
wall, circular with a golden brass design as a border, and on the right were
two mahogany dressers, makeup, change, paper, pens, and various trinkets
scattered across their tops. Between the far dresser and the bed was a
jammed-in bedside table with silver, adjustable lamp and alarm clock, its red
numbers glowing: 11:06. The hardwood floor was mainly clear, but a purple, off
the shoulder, long-sleeved shirt and a plum pair of panties lay on the floor,
the rest of the outfit conspicuously absent. Perhaps it had slipped under the
bed. In the far, left corner was a black radio with two-CD and one-tape
capacity and an extended antenna. Although it had a carrying handle, it was
just past the limit of being comfortable to transport on account of sheer bulk.
In the dark, he could only just make it all
out by the city lights streaming in through the window behind and extending above
the bedside table, and he was relieved. This place, at least, looked
normal, as if a real person and not some twisted, demented specter lived within
its walls.
In sooth, the kitchen was truer to her real
form, but Constantine didn’t want a fix of reality then and there. He wanted a
lie, a fix of untruths straight into his brachial artery, one that would sate
him until he could face his actions at some later date.
Finally, it was time for what they had
started in the club. He still had time to back out, still had time. This was
his last chance.
He didn’t.
Instead, John Constantine merely stood
there, deadpan, as he watched her leather jacket fall to the floor. Her face,
her entire figure, was engulfed in shadow, as if the darkness were a second
layer of clothing that she wore. Only the red glow of her eyes was clear, and
in the blackness, these twin lights seemed almost like two entities unto
themselves.
This darkness could be taken both as good
and bad. Although this did mean that he didn’t have to see her, which seemed
like a good thing in case the demon-form flashed in, it was, in reality, one of
the worst things that could have happened. It was easier to lose control of his
Sight this way, with a false sense of blindness, and when a stray beam of
luminosity hit her face, just a flash, he would see exactly what he was with.
Not exactly the thing anyone wanted to see
in the midst of sex, or in the midst of anything that involved any sort of
close contact, really. Hell, even a handshake would be disturbing and
revolting, much less intercourse.
A lascivious smile on her face, one he could
just make out, she slowly got to one knee, unzipping a boot with patience and
care. She slipped it off, followed by the sock, careful to linger in a position
that would reveal a good portion of her inner thigh, though not all the way up.
She then proceeded to do the same with the opposite leg, teasing him. When her
womanly shape was all he could see, Constantine had to admit, she was attractive.
Hell, she was more than attractive. She was damn sexy, ravishing even.
She stood, but still she did not approach
him. Instead, she continued to undress, removing her tube-top with smooth,
provocative motions. Her bra followed, but in its own due time as her hands
made unnecessary contact with the flesh of her torso. There was no doubt about
it—she was putting on a show, and having fun with it. A lot of fun.
If whatever job she was working at now
failed her somehow, there was always the option of stripper. Definitely.
Constantine was expressionless, but not
immobile. As she put on her “so close but just out of reach” act, he slid off
his coat, letting it fall to the ground behind him. His shoes each got pushed
off by the opposite foot, and he balanced against the door, now shut behind
him, as he removed his gray and red socks. Not once did his eyes leave her.
I’m damned, damned to Hell. I’m fucked,
this proves it.
It was about to be proven even more.
The half-breed’s breasts were still shapely,
still perky, and it was obvious she’d done her crunches and sit-ups. She’d been
plucked off of the Tree of Life at just the right moment in time, her beauty
now immortalized.
Constantine openly feasted on her body, his
eyes roaming as he undid his black tie and threw it to the ground. He then
began to unbutton his shirt, but still, his visage betrayed nothing, no
longing, no lust, no awe or disgust or even appreciation. Nothing.
She did not let this faze her.
There was a zipper on the side of her tight
skirt, a garment that barely reached halfway down her thighs, and she undid it,
so that she could push the skirt down until gravity took over. Stepping out of
the crumbling heap was an easy feat, and she kicked the skirt behind herself,
so that both it and the previously removed items would slide backwards across
the floor, out of the way. She was left in only a black thong now, but she did
not take the undergarment off. Instead, she merely stood there, her arms
crossed, a wanton smile on her face as she watched him. She was enjoying this
almost more than she was willing to admit.
Constantine was almost done with the buttons
on his shirt, and in an unhurried pace, he finished, his eyes never leaving her
body. Once he had finished unbuttoning, the two hundred dollar shirt followed
the way of his coat and tie, and right as it fell, his eyes met hers. He was
faced with the very fires of Hell, condensed into eyeshine, and he stared them
dead on, unafraid, undaunted, perfectly fine.
Yeah, right, because this was
perfectly fine.
He was kidding himself, but he didn’t much
care. You had to love alcohol mixed with a bad mood.
He didn’t move onto his pants, and she
didn’t touch her underwear. The two just stood in silence, staring each other
down, a dark electric undercurrent of loathing, lust, and lies past, present,
and future passing between them. This moment might have passed in seconds or
eons, neither could tell, but it certainly passed, but when amidst it, neither
wanted to break it. Neither dared.
She moved first, practically gliding across
the floor as if they were in a ballroom and she was Cinderella, he her Prince
Charming. Her eyes fixed on his, she reached for the sides of his face and
pulled him in for a kiss.
He didn’t resist.
Constantine was in no mood for foreplay, for
delayed gratification, for time to let doubts and self-reproofs rule his mind
and what was left of his heart and soul. He kissed her passionately, ardently,
demandingly, and she answered with equal fire. Fire that, if it did not consume
him then, would get him soon enough.
His hands slid up and down her body, across
her breasts and back and sides, but also to her thong. His thumbs hooked over
the sides, and he began to pull it down, his mouth latched onto hers with
desperate want and need.
The half-breed decided to play hard-to-get
for just a little while longer, wriggling away and backing up. “Now, now, now,
patience,” she began to whisper, but didn’t have an opportunity to finish. In
the state he was in, his senses and judgment numbed by a combination of despair
and vodka, he wasn’t about to wait for her to stop playing her stupid little
game. Fuck no. He’d already gone this far, he wasn’t about to keep to
boundaries and limits, not with some half-breed piece of shit. She was an
object to him then, nothing more. Just an object, a plaything, and naught else.
Constantine grabbed her arm, pulling her
forcibly towards him once more, this time pushing her thong down more roughly.
A small ripple of fear, one that she barely
even recognized as fear, went through her. Shit.
She sensed, she knew, that to struggle or resist would be
futile. She also knew that she had brought this upon herself, that she had
taken him here for just this purpose, that this was better than her wildest
dreams come true.
Yet
she was also afraid, and almost wanted to back out. Almost.
But
in a way, just as his overbearing force and actions deadened her want, they
awakened it further in another, more feral and secret way. She was almost the
dream girl of every rape victim out there; she wanted it rough, on the
borderline of unwilling, and had she said no, she would have taken the
consequences and maybe even gotten into them. Maybe even enjoyed it. There
would have been claw marks on his back had he taken her “against her will,” and
not ones of rage or fear or self-protection.
Not
quite brave or willing enough to go through things that way, she made up her
mind.
She
would go along with this.
The
helpless half-breed aided Constantine in the removal of her underwear and
kicked the garment off after it had reached her ankles, her hands reaching for
his pants. He was more than willing to let her undo them, and she did,
proceeding to get rid of both them and the boxers all at once. They were gone
in no time, and just as she was stewing in her own juices, he was rock-hard.
Her
hand went down to that which was most obviously male, and she stroked, once,
twice, teasingly. Constantine froze, his entire body twitching almost
imperceptibly. Her smile reappeared as she gave him one last, long caress
before taking her hand away, bringing her tongue back into his mouth.
He
had yet to touch her there, and she wanted it. Satan, did she want it.
He
sensed her want, could almost feel it as it pulsed along with her heart, but he
wasn’t able to narrow it down to specifics, to just what it was a desire for, not that he really tried to find out, so deep into the whole affair
was he himself already. All he knew was that she wanted him, and this only
added to his own passions.
Point
of no return, he was so far beyond it he didn’t so much as remember what it
looked like anymore.
He
pulled himself up, onto his knees so that he towered over her, his breathing
hard, heart racing, dick aching.
He
coughed once and cleared his throat before speaking. “Turn over.”
She
looked up at him curiously, her hands fallen onto the bedspread beneath her.
“What?” Hell fucking no! She was not about to let him go in the back way.
“Turn
over, get on your hands and knees. I don’t want to look at you while I do it.”
She smirked. “While you do what?” she
pressed softly, her voice a rush of air.
“While I fuck you until I’m done.”
But he was done already, done for,
really, just not in the way that he meant.
A
thrill went through her at these words. She certainly hadn’t been expecting this
from John Constantine, the figurehead of the good fight in LA, although one who
was fast losing face and respect. He was worse off than she’d originally
anticipated.
Perfect.
“Sorry, hon’,” she said in that breathy,
sultry voice of hers. “Not into that. I don’t do the back way.”
She prayed he wouldn’t force her, and at the
same time, she almost prayed that he would.
It was a Hell of a thing to pray for.
Blasphemous certainly. And it was all his doing.
He smirked. “Neither do I.”
She looked up at him, her gaze smoldering.
Should she concede and give into his demand?
The obvious answer was yes.
“Whatever you want…” He got off of the bed,
stood beside it and watched her. It was unnerving and exciting all at once.
Obediently, like a well-trained mutt, she did as she was told, pulling herself
up by the elbows and turning around, getting onto her hands and knees, her legs
slightly spread. That sneer stayed on her face. “Whenever you’re ready, big
boy.” She still yearned for him to touch her, for some gratification for
herself, but she said nothing. What was there to say? Besides, she had a
feeling it wouldn’t make any difference.
She was probably right.
He got on the bed once more behind her, ran
his hands up the outsides of her thighs. He forced himself to see the woman,
the woman only. No hell-spawn, no murderess, no mummy. Just a woman.
She prepped herself, trying to relax her
muscles as they instinctively strained to contract. She had a feeling, just a
feeling, mind you, that he wasn’t going to take it slow.
This time, she was definitely right.
When Constantine entered her, he was nowhere
near tender but instead rough and quick, concerned only with his own carnal
pleasure and forgetting.
Again and again, he pounded into her, giving
her not an iota of a chance to adjust. At first it hurt, but she got used to
it, and finally, that smirk was gone from her countenance. Any traces of a
smile were gone. Instead, she looked just like any mammal, beyond thought and
cunning and planning and reason. Her eyes were shut tight, teeth grinding,
nails digging into the sheets and mattress as she was forced further and
further forward, moaning, gasping, whimpering. It took a great force of will
just to keep herself erect and not collapse onto the bed.
And from behind, Constantine kept thrusting
and thrusting and thrusting, each shove a stab at his rage, at the unfairness
of it all, at his doom, at the world, at both Lucifer and God (“Take that,
assholes.”), though he would never admit to this last affront, not even to
himself.
Oh yeah, he was getting into Heaven.
He kept his eyes closed, just in case. Just
in case he could suddenly See, just in case his barriers fell, which they would
invariably do. At least, that was why he kept the eyelids clamped initially.
But after a while, this caution drifted to the very back of his mind as pure
instinct took over, as he went harder and harder and faster and faster.
Although it was the one thing he held on tightly to, that he had to keep his fortifications up no matter what, it was like trying to
grip a wriggling, 15-pound fish with buttered hands. It just didn’t work, and
the thought escaped.
All
that was left was he fucking her, that was it.
And
as he neared the edge, neared his release with low grunts, the remnants of
control slipped away. He couldn’t keep his psychic abilities under wraps
anymore; he’d forgotten they even existed. Pleasure and a need to finish, to
traverse that peak, were all that drove him onward, and so, all barriers fell
away. The fortress crumbled.
He
became what he was: a psychic, and she became what she was: a quasi-demon on
temporary leave from Hell. The texture of flesh underneath his fingertips—her
flesh— changed, became altered, transforming from smooth, soft, and firm, to
rough, hard, and dry, like brittle raisins glued together in rows and columns.
Like
the true flesh of a half-breed from Hell, as it appeared to those on Earth who
could See.
And
the feel of being inside her… it was sickening, to say the very, very least.
Constantine
remembered, and like a climber who stumbles after his safety line has snapped,
he felt himself tumbling and sliding away from that pinnacle, away from that
release. Revulsion seized him, revulsion of her and of himself, both inside and
out. He felt ill.
He
was having sex with a rotting corpse.
No,
hell no. He had not gone this far out of bounds, taken things
to such an outrageous extent, that he was about to let a little thing like
reality stand in his way. He wasn’t about to let his “gift” betray him yet
again, just as he was giving into the curse and his fate. It was like a man
who, after months of agonizing, finally decides to steal that Porsche he
couldn’t afford, but once he breaks into the dealership, he finds that all the
cars are gone before being caught and arrested for breaking and entering and
attempted burglary. Constantine might as well not have even done anything in
the first place, but he had, and for what? For nothing?! He’d permanently
damned himself for nothing?!
Hell.
No.
He
had not done this and dug his eternal grave even further for nothing.
The
half-breed felt his motions slowing, faltering, could feel a shift in his
passions. She cocked her head curiously, not quite comprehending, lucky that
she’d even caught his altered motions. “Constantine?”
The
exorcist forced the filter back onto his eyes, his ears, his skin, his entire
self. He dropped the screen down, obscuring the demon, straining out the truth,
putting the costume of humanity back onto her. She was just a person now, just
a mortal woman and nothing else. Just a warm, good, supple, simple fuck.
But
although that last part may have been true, the rest was not, and he knew it.
Constantine
began his climb anew, although not from the very bottom of the mountain but
from a spot some three quarters up. His climb was took longer this time, as he
could not focus all of his attention on the source of his pleasure but was
forced to keep control at all times, forced to make absolutely certain that no
glimmer of her true nature could peak through.
But
eventually, eventually, he made it to the summit. After a period of time that
seemed far longer than it really was, he came, spurting into her, and with a
strangled grunt issued, his eyes and teeth clenched together like an airtight
clamp, his organ relaxed, leaving his entire body a hot, sweaty, and sticky
spent mess.
And
cruelly enough, she was almost there. Just a few more seconds, a few more, and
the female half-breed would have had an orgasm as well. To be so close and have
it snatched away… it was torture. Nothing compared to the Hell she’d
experienced before being sent back to Earth, no, nothing like that, but it was
torture nonetheless.
She
almost begged him, pleaded with him, to finish what he’d started, to take her there as well, and not to luck as that boy with the rocking horse had
sought, but to release. Almost.
She
had more pride than that.
For
a second after he was done, unable to do anything more with this beast,
Constantine once again saw the half-demon underneath the human disguise, but
just as quickly, he took control again and got unsteadily up, away from her,
off of the bed. As he did so, she didn’t move, only kept her four-legged
position, quivering. Damn him, this had not been what she’d been
planning or expecting!
Without comment, he reached for his pants
and boxers, the clothing nearest to him, and pulled them up, refusing to look
at her. He couldn’t; he couldn’t face what he’d done. He didn’t want to.
While he dressed himself, she moved at last,
sitting down, her legs in front of her, watching him. There was no smirk on her
lips, no trace of one. Damn was this uncomfortable. She needed something,
damn it! Something, anything. But she wasn’t going to get it from him.
He did up his pants, bent down to grab his
shirt. The tie fell off and onto his coat as he put it on. One arm in this
sleeve, the other arm in the other. The buttons were done up at not quite light
speed, but not quite as slowly and steadily as the Tortoise would have liked.
He picked up his tie and his coat, not bothering
to put on the former but instead jamming it into the pocket of the latter,
which he had by this time donned.
He couldn’t look at her, he wouldn’t, he
couldn’t. He couldn’t talk to her for the very same reasons.
To look was not just to See, but to see and
face what had just transpired.
To speak was to do so to an even greater
extent.
John Constantine wasn’t quite ready to admit
what a screw-up he was, what he had just done, how badly he had messed
up this time (to put it mildly), although the weakness in his limbs and the
lingering feelings in his groin wouldn’t let him forget.
He’d almost reached the door when he spoke,
her voice quaking with wrath and loathing, freezing him in his tracks. “You’re
a bastard, Constantine. A sick, demented bastard, a fuck-up.” This
coming from a half-breed from Hell. Interesting.
Had the consequences not been so dire, so
dark, so damn depressing and hopeless, Constantine would have cracked a smile
at this, albeit a bitter one. But as it stood, he was unable to even see this
situation as humorous in a most mirthless, macabre sort of way.
He made to walk away again, but she spoke
again. “You’re going to Hell, and when you do, I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh and laugh
and fucking laugh. Even if I’m there, even as I’m burning, I’ll laugh. And
you’ll hear it. You’ll feel it.”
Even coming from a half-breed, this hit him
hard. She was right, he was a fuck-up. He was a bastard. He
deserved her scorn, her hatred. He deserved to rot away in Hell.
But he wasn’t about to say any of this out
loud. He wasn’t about to let it show.
He didn’t turn as he made the final step
towards the door, but he could practically feel the pain and ire radiating off
of her as he turned the smooth, golden knob, pulling the door open. He needed
to get out of there.
Yet as he was passing through the doorway,
this one also marked by incantations of protection but none that would affect
his actions, he turned, looked at her once as she sat nude on the bed,
vulnerable, panting, on the verge of desperate tears, tears of pure fury and a
sense of betrayal, although just what had betrayed her, she wasn’t too sure.
Constantine took this in, and even as he let
himself See, whether to make things easier or more difficult for himself he
couldn’t rightly say, he felt the smallest, most miniscule quark of an atom of
a molecule of a spark of pity flare in his heart.
The Masquerade mask firmly on, as always,
Constantine turned and walked away, out of the apartment, as far away from this
place as he could get.
And as he exited the building and stepped
onto the street, distant car horns beeped, streetlights created more shadows,
ghosts, and phantoms than they eliminated, and it was typical nighttime LA,
nothing special about it. It was familiar, like an old book, its spine creased
from rereading. It was familiar, just like the phrase that popped into his
head, reverberating through his mind, taunting him. Yet it was also one of the
few true things he’d faced that entire night, one of the few true things he’d
felt or thought.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
- 1
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For I Have Sinned