#constantine fic

He can’t stop himself from thinking about that night, not so long ago, when the two of you headed off an early Apocalypse by the skin of your teeth. He remembers how in the end, somehow he found the strength to stumble to your side, and how whatever small grain of hope he’d allowed himself vanished at the sight of you, the Spear piercing your heart to the hilt, your body deathly still. He’d collapsed to his knees beside you, clutching your cold little hand in his. The knowledge that your eternal soul was saved was hardly a consolation at the moment–he was the one who was supposed to die, not you. 

He’d tried to budge the spear–but couldn't. 

And so he’d clutched at your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles as silent tears slid down his cheeks. 

“She saved me,” Angela had said, making her way on shaky legs over to press his shoulder. 

You saved him too, he realized. If not with anything but the determination of your love, you’d saved him, and he was finally able to save you in turn. That should count for something, but at the moment it was all so raw that he still wanted to curse God for taking you from him in the mortal realm, if not the next. 

If he ever wanted to see you again, he was really going to have to walk the line. 

He and Angela had both jumped as a bedraggled Gabriel surfaced from the bottom of the pool–their wings naught but bloody stubbs protruding from their shoulders. They had looked upon your lifeless body with zero remorse. They dared to say with their usual blind righteousness, “You should rejoice, John. She’s gone home.”  

John had narrowed his eyes, but his scathing tirade died on his tongue as a hulking figure had emerged from the water behind the ex-angel, his eyes glowing that deadly blue. Constantine had felt nothing but the most un-Christian gratification, as Wick seized Gabriel’s head in his massive hands and twisted.

The angel sank back to the bottom of the pool, and Wick stepped over their body to pull himself out of the water, a horrific wound barely knit together over his abdomen. Paying it no heed, he’d collapsed to his knees beside your body, tearing out the Spear and throwing it to clang against the far wall before sinking down to weep upon your shoulder. It had been unsettling for Constantine, not to see a man cry, but the utter despair with which Wick expressed himself. In a way, he found that he envied him. 

“My little bird,” Wick whispered desperately against your lifeless flesh. “I will find you again. I swear, I will find you again.” 

In a strange twist…Constantine found that he actually felt sorry for the dhampir.

Whatever his sins…his love for you had certainly been real, and true. 

But then…you had that effect on people. 

♰♰♰

Constantine continues to stand vigil on the roof, and there is something about the warm desert breeze that night, like a breath of heaven on his skin, that reminds him of you. 

Then something silken soft brushes against his face–and in his mouth. He spits, making a show of expelling something from between his lips. 

“Really? I gotta use the tattoos on you?” 

Laughing, you assume your most corporeal form, appearing in front of him. Your raven-black wings enclose the two of you like a privacy curtain, a cozy little space just for the two of you. Steadying yourself with hands on his chest, you incline your head for a kiss. 

He grants it, his soft lips lingering on yours, his big hands on your waist pulling you closer. “You’re back early.”

“Hmm.”

“I was afraid he might not let you go.” 

You reach up to brush dark hair out of his eyes; he softens for your touch, a small sigh betraying his enjoyment. “He’s happy with our deal.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” 

He has trouble hiding how relieved he is to hear this. Fighting John Wick wasn’t something high on his list of suicidal things he wanted to try out, but he might have had to, had the vampire hunter not been in such a seemingly generous mood. 

He had to admit, he’d never envisioned himself in a polyamorous relationship with a dhampir and an angel. 

At least, that's what they think you are, or some derivative anyway. The black wings are a little wildcard–but then, you had been carrying around a baggie of blood taken from the other Antichrist, which was pierced perfectly by the Spear. Beeman theorizes that it counteracted the blood of Christ in a way that somehow saved your life. And after Constantine’s little deal with Satan…supposedly, you were home free.

Or at least…no longer damned by default.

You liked being an angel, so far. You still had the immense power to help people, but didn't have to get your hands quite so dirty to do it. 

And, he won't admit it, but you're pretty sure John Constantine has a wing fetish.

You think about the first time you'd appeared to him, about a week after your supposed death. He'd broken into your apartment, and was just sitting amongst your things. You'd been trailing him invisibly, not having quite gotten the hang of your corporeal form yet. You didn't even really know what you were, yet. You kind of fancied yourself a sort of guardian ghost for John, your heart breaking all over again as you watched him mourn you. 

You didn't think that he could sense you–but when you couldn't stop yourself from reaching out to touch his face he’d straightened like you'd slapped him. You'd watched as he’d rolled up his sleeves, admiring those corded forearms even as he chanted the words and joined those archaic tattoos. The magic in them felt like being tugged hard by a rope, and suddenly–he could see you. 

You're not sure who was more shocked: him, or you. 

“Y/n?” 

You swear his hands shook as he reached for you. And then his eyes went wide, as his gaze fixed behind you, on what you would soon find were oil-black wings, your feathers shimmering with green and violet highlights in the low light. 

With no concept yet of what you'd become, you’d flung yourself into his arms, and he'd welcomed you gladly. Finally, when you could come up for air again between heated kisses, he demanded, “Have you been here the whole time?”

You nod. “Mostly.” You'd gone to check on Wick for a little while, trying to comfort him in the manic depths of his grief, but he’d been untouchable. 

Then, he’d disappeared. 

You will admit, that you’d been more worried about Constantine, if for anything because you knew Wick was a survivor to the bone.

“I thought…I was a ghost,” you'd admitted. 

Constantine actually laughed, a short, disbelieving burst of mirth. “Oh, honey.” He’d cupped your face in his large hands and kissed you deeply, filling your heart with something like sunshine. Then, his attention had turned to your wings again. He ran an experimental hand down your silky flight feathers, and a delicious shudder ripped down your spine. “They’re sensitive,” you admitted, and the look John Constantine paid you could have melted granite, one angular black brow lifted high.

“Are they now?”

Suddenly you could barely speak past your libido lodged in your throat. “Yes,” you whispered, and his fingers found their way into your hair, drawing you to him again. The new addition of the wings made things interesting between you, but somehow you managed to come together with only one casualty of a lamp you never really liked much anyway. 

It reminded you of the first night you made love in this bed, riding his beautiful cock while he teased your needy little clit with his thumb. Desperate for each other, hardly able to believe that this was real, that you were even allowed to have this blessing after everything you went through…you came together as you held on for dear life, your eyes locked with his as you found bliss with his body joined with yours. 

“There's a Touched By An Angel joke here somewhere,” he’d teased in the aftermath, as you curled up in his arms. 

“I always thought that show sounded like something you'd have to report door to door,” you mused, winning the coveted prize of his mirth, and his lips on your forehead. 

Much later, while you were cooking for him [and you, because God you missed solid food] he told you, “I never thought I’d say this…but we better go find Wick. He's gone on a rampage killing vampires, but I don't know what he'll do when he runs out of fangfaces to mangle.”

You looked back over your shoulder from the stove, your eyebrows raised high. “Where?”

“Last I heard, he was tearing Portland apart.”

“Fuck.”

Constantine offered you a commiserating ghost of a smile. 

“The High Table…are not going to be amused by that?”

“Ah…probably not.”

Your heart fell like a stone. “Will they go after him for it?”

“I would feel sorry for anyone they sent his way, but…”

You sigh. “Can we go tomorrow?”

“I suppose.” He looked down at the table. “Well. I had you to myself for all of 24 hours.”

“John…do you want me to yourself?”

He’d looked up at you through his dark hair, those eyes filled with a mix of heart-crushing sorrow and longing, his long fingers clenching then unclenching upon the table. The bond between you was different, after your transformation, but you still could tell in a rare instance this man was nervous. 

“I’m not saying I think I’m…husband material or that I’d even make a good boyfriend, and I know you deserve better…but…I love you, y/n.”

How far you'd come, that he could say that last part aloud. 

All you had to do was die. 

You’d nodded in earnest, your knees weak. “We can work with that.” 

Suddenly he was on his feet, and you gravitated towards him until you were in his arms again. He kissed you like you were the air he needed to breathe, for so long that you almost burned the chicken, and you found out that when you're that happy your wings flutter, the same way your toes curl. 

♰♰♰

In the end you’d convinced Constantine that you should probably go on your own, not knowing Wick’s state of mind, and you caught up with your dhampir at a cabin deep in the Snoqualmie Forest. It seemed he’d retreated there to heal after tearing through the vampire population of Seattle, almost like he was daring the High Table to come after him. 

It was a beautiful setting, the fir trees towering all around. The cabin was small, rustic, and you wondered if Wick did not build it with his bare hands. The air smelled fresh, and clean, and reminded you of a different time, long ago. Something that came to you as fact, in the fever dream of your resurrection, and somehow you were allowed to retain the long buried memory. 

When you were a young woman, in another life, 300 years ago, vampires ravaged your village, killing and pillaging as they pleased, the dead including your own parents and young sister. A dhampir named Jardani Jovanovich came to hunt them. Tall and true, dark as the devil himself, and from the moment you laid eyes on his tall, terrible form, you’d felt as though you had a fever burning inside you. He’d looked your way from astride his beautiful black horse, as though you’d said his name, and when your eyes met you knew he’d stolen your soul. After he delivered the heads of the strigoi to your village starosta he took you as his wife, and the two of you never looked back, and never separated, until the day you died.

Despite the fearsome man he’d been, Jardani Jovanovich had always been good to you. 

Perhaps it was this memory that gave you the courage to let yourself into the cabin, as though you had every right to be there. It was deathly quiet, and an empty bottle of vodka on the table, along with a pile of bloody gauze, perhaps explained why. You found him in the back bedroom, half-clothed, passed out on his side. 

You weren’t sure there was any good way to go about this that wouldn’t startle him, so you shed your shoes and lay down beside him, taking his hand in your smaller one between you on the counterpane. Now that you’d found him, you wanted to sleep. You’d flown (on the wing!) all the way from L.A., after all. Being an angel–or angel-ish–was strange. You got the sense that you didn’t need food, or drink, or sleep–but you liked to have it. The cold damp wouldn’t kill you, but you certainly felt it. Perhaps this is why you snuggled into Wick’s furnace of a body, as you dozed. 

You half-woke to the sound of him mumbling in his sleep–or rather, the vibration of it from within his broad chest. “Yelena Ivanovna, gde ty byl…”

Where have you been?

“I’m here,” you answered softly, not really awake yourself. 

“Hmmff,” he’d answered, holding you closer with a grip that would have crushed a human woman. You managed to worm loose a little, perching on his chest. 

“Jardani,” you’d said softly, brushing back his unkempt dark hair.    

That was when his eyes finally slitted open, slowly focusing on you. Then they drifted up, taking in your wings. Maybe he thought he was dreaming, for he questioned nothing at first, simply taking your face in his hands and kissing you deeply. “Milaya…my pretty little bird, what wings you have grown.”

“You like them?” 

You sit up, straddling his torso, and as his hands gravitate to your jean-clad thighs he seems to begin to realize this is not a dream or a drunken vision–you are here. 

Bolting upright, he seizes you in his arms, holding you hard against him. “Y/N?” His face is buried in the bend of your neck; your name is lost in the distortion of a sob. 

“I’m here,” you told him again, running your fingers through his tangled dark hair. 

“...How?” he asks as he pulls back to look you over again, seemingly in awe of the feathered appendages protruding from your shoulders, but most amazed by the smoothe, unbroken skin over your breastbone. 

You have a scar there, where the Spear pierced your heart. You wondered if you would have managed to heal, had Wick not wrested the blade from your body so quickly. 

You shrugged, because you really didn’t know the answers, and his calloused fingers caressing your chest so gently crossed the wires in your brain. You couldn’t help but lean into him, winning something like a growl from deep in his throat. 

“Do you remember what I told you would happen, when we finally found ourselves a bed?” He'd almost posed it like a threat, his hands ghosting over your breasts, running down the ladder of your ribs. It felt marvelous, and you giggled nervously as you undulated against him. 

“I might recall something of that nature…” 

The sound he made was nothing less than animal, as he fell on your lips and devoured you whole. You let him gladly, giddy with bliss as he seemed bent on tasting every inch of your bare skin with his seeking lips and tongue. “You are so beautiful, my love, my darling little angel, my own heaven on earth.” He whispered this like a prayer upon your skin, consecrated each word with a kiss, and you utterly melted beneath what was nothing less than an onslaught. 

You lost track of how many times you came, in that man’s mouth, on his thick fingers, and with his insatiable cock buried inside you. By the time he was done with you, for the moment, at least, your body was covered in lovebites, full of his cum, and your usually supernaturally sturdy limbs were rendered into utter jelly. You could do nothing but curl up with him under a blanket beside the fire he’d built for you, joyfully stupefied by his relentless affection.  

 Later, you ate soup together made from a freeze-dried packet, and it tasted like a gourmet meal when eaten in the warm glow of his tender gaze upon you, your legs tangled under the table. You talked of what happened after you died, and what you can’t remember but you theorize happened in the interim. You wonder if the High Table witch’s spell was another factor in your taking on a new earthbound form, rather than going on to Heaven like Constantine had bargained for.  Wick found it amusing that you thought you were a ghost. “I felt you,” he tells you regretfully. “But I was mad with grief–I thought I was hallucinating it. I am sorry…I let you down.”

Perhaps he is thinking back on how he wept on your corpse and vowed to find you again–but you were there all along.

However, you shook your head, reaching out for his big hand on the rough-hewn table. “You didn't let me down. We’re both still new to this, aren’t we? And John figured it out.” 

Wick narrowed his eyes a little at the mention of your other beau. It’s funny– you really could not have picked two more opposite sorts of men. “Yes. He is very clever, your John.”

You smiled a little, perhaps masking the bloom of warmth in your heart that flowers any time you are speaking of John Constantine. “He is.”

“He loves you?”

You can't stop your lips from curling a little more. You'd in fact heard it from that stubborn horse’s own mouth.

“Yes.”

“But he was not good to you?”

You sighed. “Things were…complicated.”

“They are not now?”

“Less so, maybe.” Somehow, you thought you were actually telling the truth. Something about the lifted weight of certain damnation brought a lightness to John that was never there before. He is more open, with you, at least. He is, in fact, damn near affectionate, when you're alone together in your own little world. Maybe the truth of this showed on your face; Wick seemed attuned to your every tell. The look he paid you next  was nothing less than wolfish, long in fang and a sharp hunger in his gaze. 

“This does not mean I am letting you out of your promise to me. You will like New York.”

“For a visit,” you answered sweetly, ready to do battle. “But I'm not uprooting from L.A.”

He smirked at this, as though he did not think the matter closed by half. “Hmm. You think I will share you, little bird?” 

“I think…it’s the only way this will work,” you answered him honestly.

“You won't give him up?”

“I can’t,” you admitted. 

“Mmm,” he grumbled, that deep sound from his chest that did not fail to make your pulse quicken. “Stubborn woman. You always were a disobedient wife.” 

There was a sparkle of mirth in his dark eyes that signaled to you that this was an inside joke between you that you just didn’t remember. 

Or so you hoped.

“Honey, we are not married,” you dared to remind him. 

He smirked at you like you said something very funny. “Maybe not yet…but I know how to make you pliant and sweet…” 

The rabbit impulse to run came too late. You barely had time to even squeal before he caught you up in his strong arms and had you on the table, his narrow hips wedged between your thighs, your hands pinned over your head. All you were wearing was your panties and his oversized flannel shirt. You felt utterly vulnerable to him, and it was so terrifyingly wonderful you feared you might burst. “Give me…an hour…between these luscious thighs,” he’d purred, kissing down your neck as you tried to struggle, giggling all the while. “And you'll see things my way.”

He bites off one of the buttons of his own shirt, clearly not caring in the least. 

“That is so not fair!”

“I am not interested in fair,” he chuckled against your skin. “Only in making you mine.”

It occurred to you that not once had that intoxicating power of his surfaced between you. Were you immune, now that you're no longer a vampire? No bewitching scents, no tantalizing magic–the desire between you is fire, but it’s just pure, good ol’ fashioned, human lust, woven through with love, and it was its own potent magic indeed. 

“Jardani…”

He sat up on elbows above you, looking down at you with a warmth that rivaled the red hot coals in the stove as you stroked the hair out of his face, tracing the ridge of his brow. His eyes closed under the lull of your touch, leaning into your hand. 

“You need him, little bird? To be happy?”

“Yes,” you'd answered in a whisper, aware that something binding was happening between you. 

“Do you need me too?” There was a vulnerability in this simple question from this fearsome man that melted you to your toes. 

“Yes,” you confirmed, going for broke. 

His answering smile was like a baring of teeth. “My little angel is greedy.” He kissed you hard, your head pressing down into the table. “Fine,” he grumbled as you gasped for air, and maybe your sanity too. “I will grant you this. I am a generous man, ptichka. You will see.”

You were so delighted that you pulled him down into another tonsil-teasing kiss, holding him closer with your bare legs around his waist. “Thank you.”

He sat up to sweep you with a considering look, your body laid out like a feast for him on the table, and he made a sound that reminded you more of a bear, than a man. “But when you’re with me, malyshka,” he warned you darkly, “you are all mine.” Suddenly too impatient to even bother with removing your panties again, he moved them to the side so that he could sink into the wet heat of your needy cunt, stretching you deliciously while he played with your clit, his voracious tongue mercilessly toying with your peaked nipples. You came on his cock with a ragged scream, the searing pleasure of another release tearing through you like a punishment as much as a blessing. You were impressed that the table held, after the way he pounded into you, finishing with a roar like a battle cry as he filled you again with his seed. 

You held him, as he collapsed on you, and you knew you were going to have your hands full.  

Deep down, a part of you knew that he only agreed to this arrangement out of pure practicality. 

You don't know if he's immortal, per se, but he certainly isn't aging fast. You suspect your own situation might be the same. But John…is mortal, and even if you hate the thought, the fact is that you and Wick have time that Constantine doesn't. 

All the dhampir has to do is be patient. 

And, not piss you off, of course.

You keep telling yourself that just because you were his wife in a past life doesn't mean things are a done deal between you. You have to keep reminding yourself that you barely know him, because when you're together? 

Everything else melts away. 

♰♰♰

Perhaps Wick is patient, but he does not waste time. A month after Snoqualmie he’s already bought a house in Los Angeles, and a cabin in Big Sur. 

Oddly enough, the arrangement suits Constantine just as well. He’d meant what he said, that he wasn't relationship oriented, and you knew it. You had zero interest in molding him into something he didn't want to be. 

Besides.

You have your own thing going. 

You don't move into Wick’s posh manse in the Hills, despite his invitation.

You keep your humble apartment next to Constantine’s. You like your little space, and frankly…you need something of your own. Splitting your time between the two of them…can be intense, truth be told. Blissfully, maddeningly so, but sometimes, you need a break. 

You are having one of those, when you hear a knock on your door. John had been away on an exorcism, clearing out an infestation of aswangs in the Bay Area, and you were afraid you might not get to see him before your upcoming trip to Paris with Wick, to officially receive his release from Service to the High Table.

You missed him.

Eagerly you open the door.

“Hello, handsome.”

John Constantine looks down at you with that half smile that still quickens your heart, leaning on the door jamb. He could push you over with a feather when you see he is not only holding a bottle of delicious red wine, but a bouquet of flowers. 

Who is this man, and where is your surly demon hunter?

You can tell that they came from the gas station around the corner, but they are pretty, and that he even thought to bring them to you fills you with a fluttery glee. 

Amused by your stupefied expression, he lifts one angular eyebrow at you. “Hello, angel.”

You feel the warmth in his eyes to the marrow of your bones–and if you’re being honest, right between your thighs. 

You've really missed him. 

You express your enthusiasm by tugging him inside by his tie, pressing your lips to his. John puts down the wine and the flowers as you breeze by the table–en route to the couch, where you direct him to sit in no uncertain terms. 

The wings complicate things–you've discovered you can glamor them away to mingle with the public at large, but it doesn't actually make their volume disappear. It’s just easier to be on top–good thing you both like it. 

But you notice he flinches a little, and immediately you hold your weight off of him. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch.”

“Let me see.” Frowning, you undo his tie and unbutton his shirt. He lets you do what you want, having long learned it's no good to fight you. 

And, you suspect, he secretly likes being coddled a little. 

What he calls just a scratch is in fact angry claw marks that rake across his entire abdomen. “Oh, John. Why didn't you call me?”

“I just…wanted to come home to you,” he admits, looking up at you with those soulful dark eyes in a way that makes your wings quiver, your most visible of tells these days. 

“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hold up your hands, and they begin to glow. 

Something else you've discovered? 

You can heal with your touch. 

You found this out when visiting Chas in the hospital, when he was trussed in traction, and the doctors weren't sure he'd ever walk again. Heartbroken, filled with guilt and the wish that it could have been different for him, you'd taken his hand and something poured out of you. 

His recovery within weeks was considered nothing less than a miracle, utterly boggling the medical community. Bless his heart, but Chas kept your secret. It was an ability certain clandestine government agencies, not to mention unscrupulous billionaires, would certainly have snatched you for. 

It also comes in pretty handy with a boyfriend like John Constantine. And others, too. You spend a lot of time in the children’s wards of various hospitals (in invisible form). You've discovered the ability is not infinite, nor without its price. You can run out of juice, and you have to take time to recharge. You will feel like shit tomorrow, but it's a price you'll gladly pay. You've downplayed that particular effect–John doesn't quite know the toll it takes on you, but you prefer to keep it that way. 

It still does not cease to impress you, watching John's skin knit back to its previous milky pale perfection, only the faintest hint of pink scars left behind in your wake. He sighs, his eyes closed, head tilted back in bliss.

“I warned it that my liver wasn’t exactly grade A, but it was determined.”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. You know he drinks a lot less now, but the bottles still appear with regularity. You lean down, catching his lips with yours. “You taste pretty good to me.”

He chuckles, holding your face in his hands. “Mmm, so do you, Girl Next Door. My favorite vintage.”

“Am I?”

You can't hide your surprise. You'd kind of assumed that he might start seeing Angela on the side eventually. They liked each other, and you weren't exactly in an exclusive arrangement, considering. But he looks at you the way he does when he's afraid he's said something that only belatedly he realizes is hurtful. 

“Yeah.” He cups your face in his big hands, and you feel your wings quivering again. “I know I don't tell you enough, y/n, but I love you. So much.”

You know you were always ridiculous, and becoming an angelic being of some sort has not changed that. Your eyes brim with tears, and your lip quivers. “Oh John. I love you too.”

He sits up to pull you into an embrace, holding you close against his heart. “Jesus Christ. I still don't know what I did to deserve you.”

You think about the journey that brought the two of you to this moment, and the transformations you’ve both undergone. It’s nothing less than incredible, really, and yet that is the miracle of the human spirit. The ability to endure, and to change. The power of love truly is an awesome thing. 

“Hmm. I think…you were just yourself.” He huffs at that, holding you harder. He’s getting better, at not hating himself all the time, but for a man like him it’s still a daily battle. So you tell him, and you will keep telling him, until someday maybe he sees the light that you saw in him all along. 

You stay like that for a long time, just holding each other. 

It's moments like these that you savor to the last second, knowing how very precious they are. Maybe you've never exactly received any direct marching orders from the Big Guy Above, but you can't really refute the existence of some sort of Divine entity after what you’ve been through, and you can’t help but feel like your time with either of your Johns is something sacred. You've learned, if anything, that He or She or The Universe, whatever you choose, works in mysterious ways, and maybe, just maybe, things have worked out exactly the way they should. 

the end.  for now.  until, it all begins again. but that’s another story…

__________________

*starosta - the village elder/mayor figure *strigoi - evil spirits risen from the dead, vampires *aswang - evil, bloodthirsty, sometimes organ-eating spirit from Filipino folklore

__________________

Constantine would find himself walking closer alongside you whenever he called you out to meet at a diner either early mornings or late nights. He had your order memorized before long, and it would be ready by the time you showed up. The small smile that would creep up on your face as you walked closer to the booth made something stir in him. He didn’t know what it was then. Only that it satisfied him more than any drag from a cigarette ever did. It started as a low thrumming in the pit of his stomach that slowly wound its way to the center of his chest. Every order pushed him closer to the edge.

“You okay?” The softness of your voice brings him back into himself. He makes a low grunt, taking your hand in his, absentmindedly following the lines of your palm as he moves closer to you. Constantine doesn’t answer right away, just sighs and stretches before turning to face you. His silence doesn’t bother you. It never did, really. This is where you both stood on the same ground. Sitting in peaceful bliss, tuning into the sounds around you harmonizing; making music just for the two of you to make sense of.

Your body is half in and out of the blankets. An old trusty fan whirring in the corner of the room makes the window curtain sway in rhythm. It’s already nighttime, and with every sway of the curtain, the full moon casts a shadow onto his face.

“Are you okay?” You ask again, insistent. He rolls his eyes playfully and nods, “Yeah.” You laugh a little, and he smiles at the sight of it. He can remember the first time you laughed at something he said. It was loud and obnoxious, and it seemed to have bounced off the tiles in his kitchen in a way that scratched the part of his brain where every cell of satisfaction was housed. It pulled and twisted at him with fiery bursts of warmth that scared the absolute shit out of him. Before he knew it, there was another sound accompanying yours, and it took him much too long to figure out it was his own laugh escaping him; rough and deep pouring out of his throat.

“If you really want, I’ll stay behind this time.” You get to the point, much too tired to pretend not to know what’s wrong with him. You can feel his body suddenly tense as he squeezes your hand in his.

“It’s not that I don’t want you with me. I do. I always want you with me.” You hold your breath, afraid any sudden movement might make him clam up and retreat back into his shell. Constantine doesn’t look at you. He continues to follow the lines of your palm, eyebrows furrowed, frowning. To anyone else, he would seem to be utterly frustrated and angry, but you know what this is. You know there is something sharp trying to claw its way out of his mouth, and he’s fighting to swallow it back down out of habit.

“I can’t lose you.” He whispers, and there it is. His chest is rising and falling semi rapidly. The air is thick and heavy with his fear and love and cynicism all rolled into a cloud swirling above him, reaching out to choke him.

“You won’t lose me, Constantine.”

“You don't know that. You don't.” He suddenly shifts onto his back, the moon now highlighting the tufts of hair near his belly button. There are scars riddling his body, many across his stomach and sides. Deep gashes that healed crudely over time. A few are raised when you pass over them, and every time you see them, you wonder how he has managed to survive for this long.

“No. I don’t, but I want to be your backup. I can help you. I love to be able to help you.” The cadence of your voice centers him. That swirling cloud of fear follows the current of air being pushed around the room by the fan in the corner and dissipates. He sighs out loud.

“You keep saying that as if you’re not helpful when you’re in the library.”

“Constantine-”

“I refuse to lose you. Don’t you understand? You are m-my life.” He sits up, losing his balance slightly; his back colliding with the headboard harder than he probably meant to. He runs one hand in his hair, roughly, and you sit up with him. You feel the panicked vibration through the skin of his thigh when your hand lands there.

“I am?” Constantine looks pained when you ask him that question. He starts to go through every touch of your hand on his body, the soft whispery kisses you have given him on the top of his eyelids while he was deep inside of you. How could you not know? Did he not show you enough?

“Of course you are.” He takes your hand and puts it to his lips, kissing you softly right in the center and then places it on his chest. The way he looks at you, then, with hooded eyes, lips parted and pink, your heart lurches out toward him. “I’m sorry you have to even question that.” He brings your hand to his lips again for a quick kiss and motions you to come closer and lay your legs over his. You do, without hesitation, you do.

“I don’t want to lose you either. I know you can handle yourself, you’ve been doing it for years without me but,” you sigh and look in his eyes, “I want to know I’ve done everything in my power to make sure you come back home to me. That we come back home with each other.” Constantine feels his heart skip a beat, the next big thumping pound in his chest jolting. Your eyes are glistening with unshed tears, and he can say for certain, without a shadow of a doubt that-

“I am in love with you.” He says, the words shooting out of his mouth hurriedly, impatient, and bent at the corners. Your intake of breath worries him for a second, but he doesn’t have time to think about it more because your lips are on his. They’re familiar and soft and warm against his. Your mind is whirling with what this really means. How it means that even though you have parts of yourself you wish you could change or how you’ve worried that you weren’t a pretty little thing made of porcelain, he’s in love with you all the same. When you part, all there is is quiet breathing back and forth between you both.

“Do you remember the first time you called me for a job?” Constantine laughs, head tipped back, and you watch the movement in his throat, committing the sound to memory.

“How could I forget? To this day, I don’t know how we ended up in that abandoned cabin.”

“Me either, but we were hiding out for a while, and it started to rain.” He sucks his teeth when you mention it, remembering that it took forever to get that smell of rain mixed in with musty cabin out from his coat.

“There were so many holes in the roof, I’m surprised we could find a decent spot in there.” You laugh, nodding along.

“But we did,” he grunts in response, “and I recall at some point in the night I was getting tired and you seemed to have noticed because the next thing I know, you took off your coat and folded it up as best as you could and placed it on your lap,” you shake your head thinking of it, “and I was confused by that. So confused.”

Constantine watches you pause mid telling. He notices this shine in your eyes, and when your eyelashes flutter as you look up at him, he thinks - no, he knows his heart stops right then.

“Without saying a word, you nudged me to come closer to you, almost like how we are now, and motioned me to lay my head on your lap and I did-” You whisper the next part, realizing, “I hadn’t been able to get a proper night’s rest until that night. And I knew then that I would always love you, Constantine.”

He could never possibly define the emotion that swells within him. It’s akin to looking up at the sky and feeling the spotlight of warmth from the sun setting just on you and no one else. How the light streams through the trees and catches only you and no one else. There’s always that sharp bite gnawing at him, wanting to keep that feeling from getting close, but all he needs to do is bring your name to his lips and it falls away; the points of the teeth dulling and retreating.

“Come with me.” You look at him confused as he moves your legs gently and gets out of bed. The way the blanket falls away from his body is sultry and distracting, but the sound of his feet as he walks over to you brings you back to focus.

“Where to?” You sit up straighter, moving closer to the edge of the bed. He goes into your shared closet and begins to rummage through things. You’re curiously watching him, but get out of bed and grab your nearest flannel. There’s a comfortable chill in the air as you reach over to your bedside table and turn the lamp on.

You watch him turn around with a couple of towels and a few other things stacked on top of them. You turn your head to the side, and he wonders if you could be any more beautiful.

“A warm bath should help your injury some more.” You don’t have time to say anything else as he walks out of the room. You look over at the clock and see it’s 2:35 a.m. You shrug and follow him, as you always do.

—

The bath is already running when you walk in. He’s brought a chair over from the kitchen to sit while he runs his fingers to make sure the water isn’t scalding. He knows it’s late. He knows that he wants to get back in bed with you as soon as possible so your warmth is marred into his side, but after hearing that you love him back, he wants nothing more than to take care of you like this.

“A bath?”

“Yes, a bath.”

“Hm, okay.” You go to take your flannel off, but Constantine moves behind you and takes over. His breath is at the nape of your neck, and you’re almost embarrassed that he has most certainly noticed the goosebumps that have risen over your skin.

“Let me.” You feel yourself begin to unpack, unfold in front him with every article of clothing he strips you of softly and slowly, delicately. You’re not usually seen as delicate, but with the ways Constantine regards you in touch and in words, you are to him, and that’s all that matters.

When you step in the tub and lay down, he sifts through the water with his hands. It’s quiet apart from that and the sounds of the chair as he moves.

“How is it?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Of course.” He watches you sink yourself completely and come up, hands wiping at your face to get the water away from your eyes. A part of him wants to slide in with you, but for tonight all he craves is to make sure you never question how he feels about you. Craves? It’s so strange to him still, this kind of need that makes his fingers itch to touch you all the time. If he were to be blindfolded and made to find you in a sea of people, he would know the feel and scent of your skin apart from everyone else, every time.

“So,” You begin, “may I?” He rings the water out of a cloth and begins to soap it up.

“May you what?”

“May I come with you next time?” The question makes a chuckle come out of him and he shakes his head as he starts to run the cloth over your arm, the suds making that foamy popping sound you’ve always loved.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“But you love me still, so.” You shrug and he can’t argue with that at all. It’s why he loves you, actually.

“The client wants me- us to meet him at the Vatican in a couple of days. Flights are booked.” You look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Like, the Vatican?”

“Funny, that’s exactly what I asked, but yeah.”

“And you were thinking of going without me?” He doesn’t have time to block the puff of soapy suds that land on his face. Your laugh gets louder when he sputters and wipes at his mouth.

“Play nice!” Your laugh turns to giggles. He continues to bathe you, scrubbing away at your arms, neck, and chest. When he gets to your breasts and a soft sigh escapes from your lips, he knows that the need to have you back in bed increases exponentially.

After a while, the silence hovers over the both of you comfortably. You feel your eyelids growing heavier with every passing minute.

“Ready?” Constantine’s voice feels far away, softly making its way to you like it's a secret you both share. You turn over and look up at him, wanting to sit in this moment for a bit longer. He’s leaned down toward you, hair disheveled, voice full of sleep.

“I love you,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m ready, Constantine.” He feels his heart come up his throat, trying to bound its way out of his mouth to present to you as a gift. His life at your hands, beating and pumping only for you. How can this happen to someone like him? How? But he remembers that angels exist, demons too, but here you were given to him, a light swallowing him whole, and he’s letting you.

“And I love you.” Your hands are wet as they trace the lines of his lips. He doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, just smiles and helps you out of the tub.

Before long you’re both back in bed. Back in each others warmth, limbs tangled underneath the blankets you share. The old trusty fan is still whirring in the corner of the room, making the curtain sway in rhythm. You’re lying on his chest, his heartbeat syncing up with yours. You feel his hand on your head, fingers lightly scratching at your scalp. You’re asleep before him, almost always are. He knows this by your breathing pattern, and it calms him to know you’re safe tucked away in this apartment with him.

Constantine doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know how you get the information you’re able to get so fast when he needs it. He doesn’t know why he was born into a life like this and why he accepted it without question, but he knows one thing, though.

If ever he were posed the question, “Do you want to try again?” at any point in his life, he would say,"No." He doesn’t need to. Every time you look up at him with those eyes, he knows this is what it will forever be.

Amidst the chaos, Constantine discovered an ancient altar, its malevolence penetrating the very foundations of the city. The air crackled with malevolent energy as he confronted the demonic force that sought to devour the soul of the metropolis.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…" Constantine murmured, a defiant challenge to the malevolent entity that lurked in the supernatural realms.

As he recited ancient incantations and wielded a weapon forged from celestial steel, Constantine sensed a mysterious presence — an ethereal force drawn to the fervour of his quest. Unseen eyes watched him from the shadows, mesmerised by the determination and courage emanating from the demon hunter.

With each incantation, Constantine's surroundings seemed to quake with an otherworldly energy. The demonic laughter died away and was replaced by an eerie silence, as if the air held its breath in anticipation of the impending clash between light and shadow.

At the heart of the spiritual battlefield, Constantine's gaze caught sight of a figure cloaked in shadow — a ghostly presence lingering at the edge of the supernatural fray. The being, drawn by the resonance of the demon hunter's fervent prayers, watched him with an intensity that reflected a strange fascination.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…" Constantine repeated, the words a rhythmic chant that reverberated through the metaphysical realms.

As the incantations intensified, the shadows parted, revealing the ghostly entity that had been drawn to Constantine's request. A subtle change occurred — a dance of cosmic energies that blurred the line between hunter and hunted.

Constantine, his senses attuned to the supernatural currents, met the enigmatic gaze of the spectral being. The air quivered with unspoken understanding — a connection that transcended the dichotomy of good and evil. In that suspended moment, the demon hunter and the spectral being found themselves connected by a cosmic thread woven from the essence of the mystical battlefield.

The demon, sensing the shift in the balance of power, backed away from the combined force opposing it. The city, once caught in the clutches of evil, heaved a sigh of relief as the supernatural storm subsided. Constantine took one last look at the ghostly creature with a weary but victorious expression on his face.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…" he uttered once more, this time directed at the enigmatic presence that hovered in the aftermath of the battle. “And tell boss Constantine said ‘hi’, you fuck” Constantine added, showing a middle finger to the dark forces who lurked around him.

The city, freed from the clutches of demonic influence, attained a new serenity. Constantine, the demon hunter, and the spectral being, an enigma woven into the fabric of the supernatural, shared a moment of unity — a testament to the complexity of the spiritual battlefield and the unspoken connections that transcend the realms of light and shadow.

After the supernatural storm, as the city heaved a sigh of relief, Constantine and the spectral being stood face to face. The air crackled with lingering energy and their eyes met in a silent exchange of gratitude and appreciation. Without words, a magnetic pull drew them closer together until their lips met in a passionate kiss.

“You saved the altar” the being murmured against his lips, placing her hands on his chest.

“It was bombed once… and I don’t have any heavy arms on me.”

“That’s good, Constantine” she touched his lips gently, tracing them with her fingers before kissing him again.

“I’m prayin’ at your altar…” he breathed, moving his lips to the being’s neck, gently squeezing her hips and pushing her closer to the altar, “if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I sure know what you mean, John Constantine.”

In any other circumstance, he would have enjoyed what you were trying to do but he knew that this was only the effect of the demon sludge and he needed to rid you of it as soon as possible. He had originally considered letting you work off the high naturally but if you kept this up...

“John?” You called out, hands now in his hair - almost driving him mad. You swayed a little, eyes in a daze and lustful, Constantine brought your fingers away and helped keep you steady with two hands firmly at your arms.

“Alright, love. This is going to be unpleasant but we need to get that demon glitter out of your system.”

You gasped and grabbed his shirt, tugging the man over by an inch, “Are you going to kiss me?” You wondered through a half-lidded stare. Constantine released his hold, eyes briefly flickering to your lips before he cleared his throat and restrained himself.

“Believe me, nobody wants that more than I but first,” he plucked your hands off his now-crinkled shirt and retrieved an item from his pocket. It was a jar and inside of it sat a fragment of tree bark. Constantine opened the lid and pulled it out. “One bite from this and then I’ll do what ever you want.”

Even dosed on demon unicorn goop you considered against eating something strange but eventually you lost the battle with common-sense and nibbled at the end of the wood chip that was presented.

Constantine watched you scrunch your face, the bitter taste barrelling through your mouth almost making it impossible to swallow. He left your side for a quick second to retrieve a pail and placed it just by your feet before resuming his position.

“Easy, love.” He said softly. “It might taste like a right piece of work but that’s what comes with the Eden’s Bark.”

Coughing as you ingested the last of the earthy matter and recognised part of its name, “Wait... ‘Eden’ as in-?”

“Straight from Heaven’s Garden - not meant for humans except in small doses. Quite an effective cure-all ... right before the side effects.”

You felt your stomach drop as your mind fumbled together potential effects a human would have after consuming part of a celestial tree. Despite a heavy head, you raised it to look at the demon expert, a stern glare asking the question.

Constantine shot a flirty smile back and shrugged, “Nothing you need to worry about, love.” He reassured.

Suddenly, the strange feeling that you had felt in your stomach returned, prompting you to drop and lurch over the bucket.

“Except maybe the nausea.” Constantine added unhelpfully.

Coughing, you managed a weak, “I hate you.” which made the demonologist chuckle.

Constantine bent down to rub your back before he pressed a light kiss to the side of your forehead.

“No you don’t.”

It definitely helped that Luca was there. Living together was She felt like there was something more going on with them. That they were on their way to the next step. They had been going out for awhile now and given all their time together, it felt right. Her heart was ready for it. She wondered if the Light had helped in that sense.

The porch creeped behind her, her body turning fast to see Nik, looking as impeccable as ever. Kate smiled, “What are you doing here?”

“Katherine,” he greeted as he came to her side. “You’re looking lovely.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I think you know why,” he softened.

She did now. Kate knew how she felt about him. It was a love that was different than it was with Luca. A part of her wanted to hear him out. Yet...

“I can’t. Luca and I... we’re building a life here. I love him, Nik.”

Nik nodded, looking off into the distance. “Well, I’m just glad it’s not Constantine. That man is a trainwreck.” Kate let out a laugh as she playfully gave him a push. He smiled at her. “You love him and nephilim live a long time, Katherine. I can wait.”

He took her hand up to his lips, a light kiss to the back of it. “Another lifetime then?”

“You better not wait that long. I made Christmas presents for you and Hisa.”

“I’m guessing you’re going to invite us over for a party?”

“Of course,” she held up a finger before he could interrupt her. “Yes, John will be invited.”

Nik smiled as he pulled her in. He placed a kiss to her temple, “I have to go.”

“Already? You just came for that?”

“We are busy,” he replied. “Besides, I can hear Luca pulling into the driveway. Goodbye, Katherine.”

“Goodbye, Nik.” she said.

He disappeared as quickly as he came. A heavier set of footsteps annouced Luca’s arrival. There was a huge smile on his face as he carried a few bags of groceries. “Hey, babe.”

Her smile widened. “Hi,” she went to grab a bag from him as well as a kiss. “How was the store?”

“Fine. What was Nik doing here?”

“Just checking in.”

“The man’s in love with you and he’s just checking in?” he joked. “Kate, I would even go off into the sunset with him.”

She shook her head, laughing. “Guess I should’ve told him you were avaliable.”

“Nah, I have a pretty amazing girlfriend.”

She gave him another kiss. “Good answer.”