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John Constantine slept in his luxury London flat, all sprawled limbs and drool on the pillow. Well, it was his flat in that he was currently occupying it, not that he owned it, nor did he bother asking the owners (whoever they might be) before taking up residence. London was full of fashionable high rises lying empty, purchased by far away Russian billionaire businessmen and Middle Eastern royalty. The bed was a hell of a lot better than what he usually slept in. The sheets were probably from cotton watered exclusively with Perrier, or some posh bollocks like that. But what was more valuable than the sheets was that no one would think to look for him here. The value of a good hiding place could not be overestimated and too many people knew his old addresses.
He’d warded the place against supernatural intruders before bedding down for the night. In retrospect, he ought to have checked more thoroughly to make sure he wasn’t the only creature lurking uninvited. Because six minutes after three in the morning, he woke. Not a nice, slow creep from dreams to consciousness, but a quick and panicked flash. He couldn’t move. A heavy weight lay upon him.
“Bloody hell.”
He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a startlingly handsome stranger, olive skinned, curly haired, like some kind of Mediterranean beach god with the sort of face and figure that pervy Renaissance sculptors (and pervy gay porn directors) dreamed very happy dreams about. Under other circumstances, John might have been perfectly happy to wake up to a young Adonis in his bed. There were worse ways to be woken up than being pinned against the sheets by a fetching lad. The problem was he’d gone home alone last night. Plus, deep in the lad’s dark eyes glowed a flickering, twisting light, like hot metal in a forge.
“Sod off,” John said, bucking up in protest against the man to emphasize his point. “Whatever you’re here for, I’m not interested.”
“I should have thought my intentions were obvious,” the man...the demon said, as he ran hot hands over John’s bare chest, traced finger over his ribs. God, it felt good. Fuck him for being easy. But he wasn’t about to let the creature know how much he craved the touch.
John laughed. “I’ve never been accused of being picky, me, but even I draw the line at sleeping with an incubus. Now piss off. You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”
“Perhaps I can change your mind.”
The demon’s form rippled and shifted over him. Olive skin turned pale, a short beard sprouted from his cheeks, brow became more prominent, and his body acquired greater height and bulk, a tall form that John had only ever imagined on him, now and again, but never felt.
“Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare! Leave me mates out of this.” His jaw clenched and his fingers curled into fists. He bucked again, harder. That was probably a mistake.
“Dammit, John, are you going to go out of your way to make yourself miserable? Again? I’m offering to help you, make you feel good, but if want to just piss it all away, fine by me.”
The thing’s voice even sounded like Chas. But it was grasping the wrong end of the stick.
“Chas doesn’t help me that way. And I wouldn’t accept if he offered. I learned a long time ago that sex just obliterates perfectly good friendships.” He turned from serious to mocking. “And honestly, I’m insulted that you think I’d roll over and give in just to get a pity fuck.”
The demon shifted again, hair drawing back into a short brown clipper cut, beard vanishing, face changing to a strong masculine jaw contrasted with large eyes and sensual lips.
“Who said anything about a pity fuck? I’m horny, you’re horny…” he shrugged. “We both get something out of it.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The thing must have started flipping through the mental album titled “John Constantine’s Most Unobtainable Sexual Fantasies.” He no longer fought, but rather went very very still.
“You get out of my head. And you’re not horny.” John drawled, calling him out on the lie. “This thing you’re doing? It has nothing to do with sex. You know it and I know it. It’s not sex you’re interested in, it’s m’ life essence. If I wanted a lay I’d have to pay for, I’d go to Soho.”
But his stupid body was betraying him. The incubus might just be putting on a show in order to suck out his life force, but John’s libido was enjoying the show altogether too much. The incubus smiled a secretive smile full of promises and pleasure, and closed the distance between them and kissed him.
It should have been hot, passionate, wild, but although the demon mimicked all of those things, there was something cold and dead about the kiss. It was hungry, yes, but for all the wrong reasons. The man above him neither wanted John nor cared for him. John was just a human-shaped sippy bottle of vital energy for the demon to consume. If the imposter above him had been able to pretend to truly desire him, or desire to please him, he might have let it happen, even knowing that it was all a lie. It wouldn’t kill him, and he’d been known to do crazier things to get off. But this…
He tore himself away from the kiss and pushed his hand against the creature’s face so that it couldn’t touch its lips to his again. Even that brief contact had left him feeling drained and weak.
“age et ite! procul a domo tuus furor omnis sit, incube.”
A wind swept through the room as the demon was sucked back to whence it came, the weight that had held John pinned was gone leaving only memories and a bloody inconvenient hard on in its wake. The room was chill now; the smooth sheets seemed slick and uncomfortable, the soft mattress smothering. He sat up and snatched his mobile from the nightstand. His finger hovered over the speed dial.
Forget it. What would he say, anyway? “‘ello, mate. Just got attacked by a sex demon wearing your face. What are you up to?” Bugger that.
With a sigh he tossed the phone back on the nightstand and swung his legs out of the bed, reaching for his cigarettes instead. One thing was certain, and that was that he wasn’t staying here any longer. Hell knew where he was now, thanks to that face-thieving bastard. Back to running. He almost wishes he’d taken the demon up on the offer of a shag, just to have got one good thing out of the day. Sure, it would have been soulless fucking, but it wouldn’t have been the first time John had engaged in meaningless sex, nor probably the last.
Fifteen minutes and a cold shower later, John stepped out onto the streets of London, chased by Hell and regrets.