Greedy fly

Disclaimer: No one belongs to me.

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He reminds himself there’s nothing particularly special about this as he bends to take John’s cock into his mouth.

Nothing unique about its well-pearled head hot in his palm; nothing exceptional about the way his shaft jumps beneath his fingers when he ghosts his tongue over its slit, swollen and pink, polished to an earthly luster with the saline shine of saliva and pre-come. His mind is telling him the hitching breath of diseased lungs is of no particular consequence as it drafts softly across sighing lips, parted and pouting, mouth wreathed in the wine-red stains of kisses and bites - and he believes it, or would like to, and watches the shallow trembles wave across the concaves of breastbone, his chest fluttering around each ebbing pant like the beat of a butterfly’s wing, quick and shivering and delicate.

And human.

White skin seems to glisten, hot and slick, painted in blushing tones beneath the brackish veneer rolling down his chest in shining beads, pooling in the hollows of his navel, his hips. Surely there could be nothing so fascinating about it, nothing to capture his attention, and the hard ridges of stomach are surprisingly forgiving beneath him as the demon settles against the sheets to rest his cheek on John’s flat belly, breathing soft, shallow in his ear. It’s somehow quieting, allaying in ways he can’t quite pinpoint; he lets out a sigh, lets his mind dull in the ether’s static hush, breath murmuring softly across the rosy tip of the human’s straining length, and watches it twitch and weep in his hands.

The body beneath him stiffens, and then shudders. Pin-prick thrill traces navel and thigh in tapered waves and a groan spills out across bruised mouth, a pitiable little sound; soft and feeble and rasping. Any other time, in any other bed he would’ve found that amusing – any other cock in his hands and he would’ve laughed out loud. But he doesn’t; whether in boredom or a simple lack of spite, he just lowers his head and flicks out his tongue, twin-tips tracing along the underside to tease up and over its opening, tasting the salt there, the sweetness, spidery fingers soothing across his scalp in the modest beginnings of something that fell just short of affection.

Eyes gleam wetly beneath the heavy fall of lid, dark, pupils blown wide; hips flex, twist up into his mouth, begging softly, silently for his tongue and his touch. He knows he should know better, knows this could be any other mortal lying in his bed, sweating in his sheets – except that it isn’t.

Except that this mortal is an exorcist, and he is a demon, and for that he knows he’s surely damned them both.

To descend was forbidden. Humans were cattle, and little more; even the god-slaves could concede to that. A mindless, cowardly species, lesser beasts kept simply to fuck and to fuck with, whatever momentary usefulness they may hold to be stripped of them and their carcasses thrown to the scavengers. That was demon law. You didn’t take them home, to lie in your bed and sweat in your good sheets like a lover – and you most certainly didn’t go to your knees before them, at any rate. To be seen lowered to a human was the most disgraceful offense a demon of any status could commit.

But to be on his knees to the exorcist? He nearly laughed aloud – what Lucifer didn’t know certainly wouldn’t hurt him…

In his weaker moments, he still found himself faulting his mother for such things, the mortal blood she instilled within him, left to fester in his tainted veins – her sins, as he’d come to call them, the lasting vestiges of his debilities and lesser breeding. It seemed fitting, somehow. The heiress to one of Hell’s most noble families, her notorious dalliance with her human pets bordered on obscene, giving her a half-caste son – beautiful and cruel, but unable to absolve himself of his mother’s tastes in flesh. His one true fault, she would say, and smile so softly, and her reddened talons would soothe through his boyish curls with all the love a demon mother could impart upon her child as she bent to wipe away the mortal blood spilt across his still small mouth.

Oh, they tried to teach him – Lilith help them, they all tried. His grandfather, uncles, his tutors; his human hide still recalls the floggings, the beatings, the faded criss-cross down his back and thighs where his skin had been pierced so deeply it couldn’t regenerate itself to its prior distinction. In certain light, one could still see the mark he wore across his ribs from the first time he encountered the boy-exorcist, the night he’d stolen from his mother’s bedside to play with the suicides, and was met instead by pale, unmarked skin and dark, dark eyes. It was the first time he’d sunk his emergent fangs into the softness of human skin, and tasted salt instead of blood, the tight, white thrill of lust and fear invading his senses like an electric current – the night he was whipped so mercilessly the leather plaits peeled away at his flesh until they snapped their thickness around bone, and dug further still.

He was 16 at the time, in human years, 150 in demon; John was 17. He swore he’d learned his lesson then.

Weakness is a harsh and magnificent thing, isn’t it?

Too-hot fingertips lower to play across his nape, curling in the soft, short hairs that meet at the junction of neck and scalp, their rough pads a tickling irritation over the sensitive skin. Something inside him shivers, every translucent thread trembling with a sick thrill his body can’t suppress, a reminder of his human side, weak-willed and covetous, like a greedy little insect – like a fly, he imagined, in some distant part of his mind, wringing its spiny hands of its guilt to let its sins rest forgotten upon someone else’s shoulders.

“Oh, Christ.” Laughter now, in that weary baritone the demon’s come to know so well, soft and sluggish as fingers move to slip past his neck and downwards, tracing uncaring patterns across the hard definition ridging along his shoulder blades. The gesture is an empty one, but something he’s come to accept nonetheless. “You really are a fucking cock-tease,” comes the biting obscenities John so often passed as pillow talk, voice lazy and endorphin-slurred, “in every sense of the word.” He finds he’s come to accept a lot of things as he draws away, snaking out from beneath the human’s touch and levering himself up to meet syrupy eyes, and he fixes his expression into something the human can recognise, mental walls sliding up; prompted without thought, and the ether’s hiss dies in the silence. It’s all image now, pretense; a lengthy charade of such disgust and recrimination, and dark eyes don’t even blink to register the change.

It never fails to surprise him just how gullible the exorcist has become. It’s almost pathetic, in a very John Constantine sort of way – stupid but endurable, and entirely too entertaining.

“That would be the idea, Johnny-Boy,” and the smirk that snakes across his mouth feels natural enough as he leans to snare John’s lips with his own, “I can’t risk being seen as predictable, especially when your cock in particular is so delightfully easy to tease.” He ignores the unpleasant glare, because the exorcist’s body is warm against his own, slicked by cooling sweat as they press into one another, and he slips his tongue passed parted lip to lap at the expanse of soft pink tissue inside, laving at gum, hood, whatever he can find. The mouth around his is hot and wet, tasting of salt and smoke, bitter with the essence of cigarette paper but laced with something sweeter, smoother just underneath, like ginger or arrowroot, spicy-soft and masculine. Something very John.

Another shudder then, because he’s pathetic in his own way too.

His traveling tongue milks a groan deep from John’s throat, and between them his trapped erection digs into the demon’s hip, still hard, still aching for attention; he’s hard too but it can wait for now, because John’s leaning back against the sheets, lying himself out, fingernails ghosting up his back in piercing crescents and thighs shifting to spread around him and twine themselves loosely around his waist – and he’s such a whore for it, and in a way they both are, and he fucks him then, like he always does, because if he’s going to damn himself over a human it may as well be this one.