Second Chances Part 11
Disclaimers in Part 1.
The demon left the man slumped in a chair while he searched the apartment for medical supplies.
When Sebastian returned, Constantine had fainted, face down on the table.
The occultist stocked a full set of medical supplies, not surprising given his line of work. Putting the selection down, Balthazar considered the limp body.
First item of business: that shirt had to go.
He slipped one hand under Constantine’s torso, helping the body to sit up, supporting the man’s head with a firm grip on the back of his neck. Continuing to hold at the base of the skull to keep the body upright, Sebastian unbuttoned the white shirt, marked with blood and sweat, and worked the fabric off one shoulder, then the other.
Constantine stirred, moaning, weakly trying to move his head against Sebastian’s grip.
“Stop squirming,” said the halfbreed. “The shirt’s a loss. Go back to sleep,” he commanded as he helped the sitting man lean forward to lie over the table again.
“No sleep,” mumbled Constantine. Sebastian shook his head. Damned exorcist was defiant even when unconscious.
Balthazar examined Constantine’s forearm, spending a moment to fondle the limp hand and run a finger along the scars on the underside of the wrist. The exorcist had white skin, blue where the blood vessels ran, long elegant fingers. Several nails were bitten ragged. The hand was slack, vulnerable.
The bite had ripped the skin of the forearm, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The flesh was punctured and torn in places but not completely shredded. It wasn’t deep enough to expose bone, and the wound had bled freely, which should have flushed toxins from the incisions.
Sebastian cleaned the injury, applied antiseptic, and bandaged the forearm. Thankfully Constantine remained inert through the procedure; the wound shouldn’t have been left untreated, even if he had had to wrestle the exorcist to the ground to do it.
Not that the wrestling wouldn’t have been fun, if it had been required.
Fortunately the entertainment value of the next task more than made up for the lack of wrestling. He had to get the unconscious man into bed. Which meant removing the rest of his clothes.
Sebastian easily hoisted the limp body and moved towards the bedroom, humming under his breath.
He stopped to wonder at the large metal cage surrounding the bed. Either the occultist had some serious enemies or some serious kinks. Likely both.
He toed cage door open, deposited Constantine on the bed. The man didn’t even twitch.
Sebastian took a moment to admire the man’s shoes. Constantine had good taste in footwear to match his good taste in suits. High-end black dress shoes, the cut sufficiently masculine rather than overly delicate. Too bad the exorcist didn’t take care of them; the shoes were overdue for a polish. Sebastian removed them and pushed them under the bed.
Socks next. Constantine had long feet with a high arch. Sebastian studied them. Feet seemed to him emblematic of the vulnerability of the human body. Usually hidden away and protected, the foot was a complicated mechanism, dozens of tiny bones, sensitive skin, ticklish, source of great pain when injured, slow to heal.
He put his hand on top of one bare foot, caressed the ankle.
Constantine didn’t stir.
The occultist had probably knocked his brains into next week with that stunt back at the Iranian family’s house. Trying to do a difficult exorcism when he was distracted and half ill. Idiot. It’s amazing the man had lived as long as he had.
Sebastian unbuckled the sleeping man’s belt, opened the trousers. He slid his hands inside the waistband and under the man’s hips - Sebastian supposed he didn’t have to remove the underwear as well, but it was easier that way, as well as more rewarding for him - he lifted slightly, running his hands along under Constantine’s bare flanks, pushing down the the clothes in the process. Once past the hips, the trousers slid easily the rest of the way down the legs and off.
He must have seen naked men before, in his past. He couldn’t remember. Surely there could be nothing that special about Constantine’s body compared to others - nothing particularly unique about the way his skin looked so white under Sebastian’s tanned hands, the dark hair at the juncture of groin, cock lying soft and tame, ink-black tattoos of sigils and protection glyphs on his arms and torso.
The exorcist was thinner than he should have been, abdomen sloping hollowly down from the cliff of the ribcage - man probably didn’t eat anything more than that damned nicotine gum. The rest of him was lean, muscle stretched over tall frame, skin soft and fragile under Sebastian’s fingers.
There were bruises too, several that Sebastian could see, like wine stains on that white skin. Dispelling demons was a full contact sport.
Sebastian stayed for a few more minutes, no excuse now with the clothes removed, just his own inexplicable need to look and touch. He desperately wanted to lick along the lower edge of those ribs, bite the peak of hipbone, nuzzle - but no. The man was exhausted and asleep, but he probably wasn’t *that* asleep.
Sebastian pulled only a single sheet over the exposed body - the night was hot, even with the windows open - and went back to the other room, to strip and lie down on the couch, and watch the flickers of car headlights as they reflected through the gaps in the shutters.
***
When the whimpering sounds started, Sebastian awoke from his doze and sat up.
He cast about in the ether, but he couldn’t detect any supernatural interference in the apartment. Constantine had to be having an ordinary run-of-the-mill nightmare.
The man in the other room continued to whimper.
That pathetic noise was irritating. And besides, the occultist needed to sleep restfully if he didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s exorcism debacle.
Sebastian rose from the couch and went to wake the man.
The cage door squeaked when he opened it, but the man in the bed didn’t hear, his hands fisted in the sheet, face contorted.
“Hey,” Sebastian tried. “Hey. Just a dream. Wake up.” He reached out and touched a shoulder -
-- Constantine’s hand snapped shut around Sebastian’s wrist. John looked at him, confused, still half in the dream -
“’s all right,” said the halfbreed. “Just a dream.” He moved his hand back, and Constantine released his wrist.
Sebastian kept standing there.
John kept looking at him.
Some instinct made Sebastian lean over, feel in between the upper and lower mattress, find the small bottle that had been tucked away there.
When he saw the bottle, John’s face looked scared and aroused and angry all at once, and much younger than his thirty-something years. In silent protest he pulled away to the far side of the bed, seemed as if he might get up.
Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh. He tossed the bottle at Constantine. “Fine, then. I’ll go first.”
Sebastian climbed into bed and lay face down, head turned towards the wall, and waited.
Nothing happened.
Sebastian said to the wall, “Come on, get over yourself. We both know what we want. You aren’t getting chickenshit in your old age, are you?”
There was no reply - but suddenly there were hands on him, and that was better than words.
It was awkward, and painful at moments, and incredibly, mindblowingly hot. He said John’s name once unintentionally -- got such an energetic reaction that he kept doing it on purpose. Constantine muttered obscenities that were actually appropriate to the circumstances, rather than just his usual bad temper.
The exorcist was rough, but Sebastian got the impression that was less from intent and more from desperation and lack of practice. He doubted that the man got laid on a regular basis. Constantine was too hostile and too strange for most humans; too wary and suspicious of most demons and rightly so; and most angels lacked the capacity, even if the exorcist had been attracted and a winged one had been willing to condescend.
Later, Sebastian got to touch and look as he had earlier, except this time John was awake. Sebastian discovered that although he didn’t consciously remember certain things, he seemed to remember what to do when he had the opportunity to do it. Sebastian finally got to use his mouth as he’d wanted to, and Constantine tasted of sweat and lust. When John rolled on his side, giving silent permission, Sebastian was very careful and very slow and very thorough, and it was worth the sacrifice of a potential fast hard ride to have Constantine moaning and shuddering in his arms.
Sometime even later in the night, John returned the favor, and although Sebastian was sore from their first time, he didn’t tell the man no. With the fear and anger seemingly purged out of him, the occultist was more deliberate, more aware of his partner’s reactions. Constantine was both creative and willing to take direction -- except when he wasn’t, and that was good too.
When it was finally was over, in the remote hours of the early morning, Sebastian thought they had both enjoyed themselves well enough.
With that, he fell asleep.
The demon left the man slumped in a chair while he searched the apartment for medical supplies.
When Sebastian returned, Constantine had fainted, face down on the table.
The occultist stocked a full set of medical supplies, not surprising given his line of work. Putting the selection down, Balthazar considered the limp body.
First item of business: that shirt had to go.
He slipped one hand under Constantine’s torso, helping the body to sit up, supporting the man’s head with a firm grip on the back of his neck. Continuing to hold at the base of the skull to keep the body upright, Sebastian unbuttoned the white shirt, marked with blood and sweat, and worked the fabric off one shoulder, then the other.
Constantine stirred, moaning, weakly trying to move his head against Sebastian’s grip.
“Stop squirming,” said the halfbreed. “The shirt’s a loss. Go back to sleep,” he commanded as he helped the sitting man lean forward to lie over the table again.
“No sleep,” mumbled Constantine. Sebastian shook his head. Damned exorcist was defiant even when unconscious.
Balthazar examined Constantine’s forearm, spending a moment to fondle the limp hand and run a finger along the scars on the underside of the wrist. The exorcist had white skin, blue where the blood vessels ran, long elegant fingers. Several nails were bitten ragged. The hand was slack, vulnerable.
The bite had ripped the skin of the forearm, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The flesh was punctured and torn in places but not completely shredded. It wasn’t deep enough to expose bone, and the wound had bled freely, which should have flushed toxins from the incisions.
Sebastian cleaned the injury, applied antiseptic, and bandaged the forearm. Thankfully Constantine remained inert through the procedure; the wound shouldn’t have been left untreated, even if he had had to wrestle the exorcist to the ground to do it.
Not that the wrestling wouldn’t have been fun, if it had been required.
Fortunately the entertainment value of the next task more than made up for the lack of wrestling. He had to get the unconscious man into bed. Which meant removing the rest of his clothes.
Sebastian easily hoisted the limp body and moved towards the bedroom, humming under his breath.
He stopped to wonder at the large metal cage surrounding the bed. Either the occultist had some serious enemies or some serious kinks. Likely both.
He toed cage door open, deposited Constantine on the bed. The man didn’t even twitch.
Sebastian took a moment to admire the man’s shoes. Constantine had good taste in footwear to match his good taste in suits. High-end black dress shoes, the cut sufficiently masculine rather than overly delicate. Too bad the exorcist didn’t take care of them; the shoes were overdue for a polish. Sebastian removed them and pushed them under the bed.
Socks next. Constantine had long feet with a high arch. Sebastian studied them. Feet seemed to him emblematic of the vulnerability of the human body. Usually hidden away and protected, the foot was a complicated mechanism, dozens of tiny bones, sensitive skin, ticklish, source of great pain when injured, slow to heal.
He put his hand on top of one bare foot, caressed the ankle.
Constantine didn’t stir.
The occultist had probably knocked his brains into next week with that stunt back at the Iranian family’s house. Trying to do a difficult exorcism when he was distracted and half ill. Idiot. It’s amazing the man had lived as long as he had.
Sebastian unbuckled the sleeping man’s belt, opened the trousers. He slid his hands inside the waistband and under the man’s hips - Sebastian supposed he didn’t have to remove the underwear as well, but it was easier that way, as well as more rewarding for him - he lifted slightly, running his hands along under Constantine’s bare flanks, pushing down the the clothes in the process. Once past the hips, the trousers slid easily the rest of the way down the legs and off.
He must have seen naked men before, in his past. He couldn’t remember. Surely there could be nothing that special about Constantine’s body compared to others - nothing particularly unique about the way his skin looked so white under Sebastian’s tanned hands, the dark hair at the juncture of groin, cock lying soft and tame, ink-black tattoos of sigils and protection glyphs on his arms and torso.
The exorcist was thinner than he should have been, abdomen sloping hollowly down from the cliff of the ribcage - man probably didn’t eat anything more than that damned nicotine gum. The rest of him was lean, muscle stretched over tall frame, skin soft and fragile under Sebastian’s fingers.
There were bruises too, several that Sebastian could see, like wine stains on that white skin. Dispelling demons was a full contact sport.
Sebastian stayed for a few more minutes, no excuse now with the clothes removed, just his own inexplicable need to look and touch. He desperately wanted to lick along the lower edge of those ribs, bite the peak of hipbone, nuzzle - but no. The man was exhausted and asleep, but he probably wasn’t *that* asleep.
Sebastian pulled only a single sheet over the exposed body - the night was hot, even with the windows open - and went back to the other room, to strip and lie down on the couch, and watch the flickers of car headlights as they reflected through the gaps in the shutters.
***
When the whimpering sounds started, Sebastian awoke from his doze and sat up.
He cast about in the ether, but he couldn’t detect any supernatural interference in the apartment. Constantine had to be having an ordinary run-of-the-mill nightmare.
The man in the other room continued to whimper.
That pathetic noise was irritating. And besides, the occultist needed to sleep restfully if he didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s exorcism debacle.
Sebastian rose from the couch and went to wake the man.
The cage door squeaked when he opened it, but the man in the bed didn’t hear, his hands fisted in the sheet, face contorted.
“Hey,” Sebastian tried. “Hey. Just a dream. Wake up.” He reached out and touched a shoulder -
-- Constantine’s hand snapped shut around Sebastian’s wrist. John looked at him, confused, still half in the dream -
“’s all right,” said the halfbreed. “Just a dream.” He moved his hand back, and Constantine released his wrist.
Sebastian kept standing there.
John kept looking at him.
Some instinct made Sebastian lean over, feel in between the upper and lower mattress, find the small bottle that had been tucked away there.
When he saw the bottle, John’s face looked scared and aroused and angry all at once, and much younger than his thirty-something years. In silent protest he pulled away to the far side of the bed, seemed as if he might get up.
Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh. He tossed the bottle at Constantine. “Fine, then. I’ll go first.”
Sebastian climbed into bed and lay face down, head turned towards the wall, and waited.
Nothing happened.
Sebastian said to the wall, “Come on, get over yourself. We both know what we want. You aren’t getting chickenshit in your old age, are you?”
There was no reply - but suddenly there were hands on him, and that was better than words.
It was awkward, and painful at moments, and incredibly, mindblowingly hot. He said John’s name once unintentionally -- got such an energetic reaction that he kept doing it on purpose. Constantine muttered obscenities that were actually appropriate to the circumstances, rather than just his usual bad temper.
The exorcist was rough, but Sebastian got the impression that was less from intent and more from desperation and lack of practice. He doubted that the man got laid on a regular basis. Constantine was too hostile and too strange for most humans; too wary and suspicious of most demons and rightly so; and most angels lacked the capacity, even if the exorcist had been attracted and a winged one had been willing to condescend.
Later, Sebastian got to touch and look as he had earlier, except this time John was awake. Sebastian discovered that although he didn’t consciously remember certain things, he seemed to remember what to do when he had the opportunity to do it. Sebastian finally got to use his mouth as he’d wanted to, and Constantine tasted of sweat and lust. When John rolled on his side, giving silent permission, Sebastian was very careful and very slow and very thorough, and it was worth the sacrifice of a potential fast hard ride to have Constantine moaning and shuddering in his arms.
Sometime even later in the night, John returned the favor, and although Sebastian was sore from their first time, he didn’t tell the man no. With the fear and anger seemingly purged out of him, the occultist was more deliberate, more aware of his partner’s reactions. Constantine was both creative and willing to take direction -- except when he wasn’t, and that was good too.
When it was finally was over, in the remote hours of the early morning, Sebastian thought they had both enjoyed themselves well enough.
With that, he fell asleep.