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Graceless
folder
1 through F › Constantine
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,569
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Constantine
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,569
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
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.
Graceless
Disclaimer: No one belongs to me.
--
I’m open to fall from grace.
Dark eyes trace the scattered fissures splintering the breadth of the concrete ceiling and he doesn’t bother to wonder how he got here. It’s nothing worth questioning, and the answer doesn’t merit the effort.
There’s no love here, no tangle of words and idealistic gestures. Just hands and mouths - just his prick and the promising slither of forked tongue behind a too-white smirk. Spread legs and the taste of smoke.
Nothing and everything – usually at the same time.
There’s nothing particularly special about the way bedsprings squeak and shudder beneath his weight; nothing particularly appealing about the rustling sound his knees make in the tangled sheets as he shifts his hips back. Feels body heat slide behind him; spreads for it. Waits. The warm fingertips ghosting his ribcage are forgettable enough (except that they aren’t) as the cigarette is brought forward to waiting lips, still wet with the taste of the demon’s mouth.
Crackle.
Hiss.
Sigh.
Nicotine twists through his system in inky organic coils as he sucks the smoke deep into his lungs, cherry-tip dropping ash into the bedclothes. Mock intimacy, like everything else that goes on in this bed. A moan inadvertently catches in the clutch of his throat and he hears the demon laugh from behind, hot breath on the nape of his neck like an iodine kiss. Acid flares to life on the tip of his tongue – dies the second hot fingers stroke along his throat and cock-head takes seat.
There’s nothing tender about the fingers curling around the base of his drooling cock.
Where he’s going, these things don’t matter anyway.
--
I’m open to fall from grace.
Dark eyes trace the scattered fissures splintering the breadth of the concrete ceiling and he doesn’t bother to wonder how he got here. It’s nothing worth questioning, and the answer doesn’t merit the effort.
There’s no love here, no tangle of words and idealistic gestures. Just hands and mouths - just his prick and the promising slither of forked tongue behind a too-white smirk. Spread legs and the taste of smoke.
Nothing and everything – usually at the same time.
There’s nothing particularly special about the way bedsprings squeak and shudder beneath his weight; nothing particularly appealing about the rustling sound his knees make in the tangled sheets as he shifts his hips back. Feels body heat slide behind him; spreads for it. Waits. The warm fingertips ghosting his ribcage are forgettable enough (except that they aren’t) as the cigarette is brought forward to waiting lips, still wet with the taste of the demon’s mouth.
Crackle.
Hiss.
Sigh.
Nicotine twists through his system in inky organic coils as he sucks the smoke deep into his lungs, cherry-tip dropping ash into the bedclothes. Mock intimacy, like everything else that goes on in this bed. A moan inadvertently catches in the clutch of his throat and he hears the demon laugh from behind, hot breath on the nape of his neck like an iodine kiss. Acid flares to life on the tip of his tongue – dies the second hot fingers stroke along his throat and cock-head takes seat.
There’s nothing tender about the fingers curling around the base of his drooling cock.
Where he’s going, these things don’t matter anyway.