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Less than Zero
By : secondson
Category: 1 through F > Constantine
Views: 3170 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: 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
Disclaimer: No one belongs to me.
--Less than Zero
It takes too much to please
me
Attached but no real feeling
High fives and corporate anthems
Nothing comes to mindBound like an animal on its
knees, tied to the wall of the cage they slept in – he didn’t have to ask for
it.After twenty years, he didn’t
have to ask for anything.Sweat rolled in icy droplets
over the battered topography of his back and ribs, to kiss at weeping fissures
with a brackish sting that made him hiss somewhere within his abraded esophagus
and beg for more. Hips flexing, wrists twisting in their fetters, his body
alive and aching for the touch of learned hands and the bite of willing
leather.He’s sweating – they’re
sweating – the air heavy with the wet heat of fevered bodies and fresh blood
hissing up from the jagged furrows scored into his yielding flesh – and his
head rushes with the dark thrill of knowing the sight of his blood and his
opened hide can still get the other man so completely rapt.An approving sound is deep-throated
from behind him – he’s hard, because he knows he’s hard too. After twenty years
he doesn’t have to ask.Leather hisses through the
air and curls its thickness to the curve of his neck and back, bites at his
shoulder blade hard enough to break the skin. Its crack is hollow in the open
air, scattering poisonous blossoms across his nerve endings. Body tenses at the
contact; breath hitches high in his throat and catches there. Teeth snap down
into lip, trying to contain the groan teetering on the edge of red-stained
mouth – and failing, beautifully – doubled forward despite the impediment of
his bound hands to spit the sound out like his blood across the bare floor,
letting crimson seep down his lips, his chin.Another crack and stars
glitter behind his eyes.Another and he’s moaning.
Another across the base of
his spine and he’s begging for it like a whore.Crack – Crack – Crack –
Crack. 40
strikes in all.Breath comes hard from behind
and dark eyes skew to see the belt fall to the floor, stippled red with smears
of claret and white. It takes him a moment to realise where the white came
from, until he notices a sliver that looked like it would fit across a wound on
his ribs. Sick thrill tickles at the base of his spine and bare feet pad towards
him; he tries to move but can’t, chest heaving, face to the floor and arms
caught behind him.Sees him stoop to his knees
to meet his level and he can’t help but hold a breath as a hot hand snakes into
his hair.Inky eyes lull over him from
beneath the slant of lash as steeled fingers drag him up to meet their gaze;
feels the heat radiating from thinly drawn lips as breath comes in ragged
bursts from across their soft precipice – wants to snare them between his teeth
and lick and suck and bite until they bleed.His mouth waters at the
thought.“If I fuck you tonight who
will you belong to in the morning?” He doesn’t have to ask. The years and the
scars and the memories of salt and bloodstains tell him the answer.Pink tongue snakes out to
taste the red painted across his torn lip, mouth filling with the bite of salt
and rust; his own sharp aftertaste, like burnt flesh and cigarette ash. Grins,
an animal in the gloom – because he is an animal, because he lives and fucks
and sleeps like one – eyes shining like polished steel in the ruddy dark.“You, Johnny-Boy – always
you.”Warm fingers soothe through
sweat-tangled curls and John kisses the blood away.- 1
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