#keanureeves

The case had been a miserable rain soaked slog in some forgotten corner of Arizona, chasing down a run-of-a-mill, slightly less than hellish low level soul trafficker. Three days of grimy motels, stale coffee and the ever present stench of sulfur and disappointment. You’d been stuck back home in Los Angeles, trying to keep his messy apartment marginally livable and trying not to worry when he missed his usual late night call.

You and John had been doing this messy dangerous dance for three years now, a lifetime in his line of work. You knew the drill: the sudden disappearances, the unholy scrapes and the overwhelming desperate way he’d cling to you when he finally returned.

He was finally on the road, the battered, smoke-stained taxi a poor substitute for his usual assistant/cab driver Chas, but it was getting him south. As the sun dipped below the bruised, purple horizon, painting the desert in shades of bruised orange, John Constantine realized he couldn’t stand another solitary minute. The thought of your familiar scent, the way your hand fit perfectly in his, was a physical ache in his chest….a much more honest pain than anything a demon could inflict.

He pulled out his phone, punching in your number. “Hey,Y/N. Guess where I am.”

“If you’re not in LA, I don’t care,” your voice came back, sharp but with that underlying softness he knew well.

“Halfway there. Just past Barstow. Look, I’m stopping at the first dive I see. Meet me. Now.”

You sighed, a sound that carried three years of dealing with his impulsive, life or death whims. “John, I have an early morning.”

“I have three days of desert misery and a freshly cleaned soul-trafficker’s cash,” he countered, the promise thick in his throat. “I’ll eat breakfast with you in the morning and swear off smoking for three whole hours. Don’t make me beg. I need to see you.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, heading for your closet. “Send me the address.”

You weren’t planning on a romantic night. You really weren’t. This was John—it would be fast, messy and probably involve too much smoke and alcohol. But you dressed for him anyway: a silk slip dress easy to take off and impossible to wear without feeling electric, under a long casual trench coat. No point wearing nice lingerie; it never lasted five seconds. The only necessary accessories were your car keys and a small bag with a toothbrush and a handful of Tylenol, which, as it turned out, was wildly inadequate for the evening’s medical emergency.

The Rancho Mirage Motel was everything its name wasn’t: cheap, depressing and smelling faintly of bleach and existential regret. But when John kicked the motel door shut and pulled you into a kiss like he was starving, something shifted. His coat hit the floor. So did your bag. The way he looked at you flushed, devilish, pupils blown wide and you could practically feel his heartbeat through his clothes.

“Did you take something?” you asked breathlessly as he yanked his shirt off.

He smirked proudly. “Couple blues. Thought I’d need ‘em.”

“Couple?! As in… more than one?!”

He gave you that smug half shrug. “Wasn’t planning on being gentle, love.”

He threw you onto the cheap, scratchy bed, his hands rough but urgent as they worked on your coat and then tugged the silk dress up your body. The world narrowed to the scent of stale motel air mixed with his unique blend of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and something faintly occult. The energy radiating off him was almost terrifying; it felt like holding a lightning rod.

You barely had time to register the startling hardness of his cock before he was surging into you, a low groan ripped from his chest. This wasn’t the John that fell asleep with his head on your lap while watching TV; this was the sorcerer, driven by some manic, desperate need to connect, to anchor himself in something real. His thrusts were deep, frantic, and you could feel the pounding of his heart against your chest—a drumbeat accelerating into a rapid, alarming flutter. It was intense, bordering on painful, and then, just as quickly as it started, it went wrong.

A couple minutes later, he was still inside you but drenched in sweat, face pale and mumbling Latin like the demons were coming for his soul. His movements had slowed from a powerful surge to a terrifyingly numb, slack weight.

“John—baby—are you okay?”

“Can’t feel my left arm,” he muttered, then winced. “...Or my toes. Or my dick. Oh, fuck me, I think I’m dying.”

You practically threw him off, grabbing the phone with one hand while holding his floppy body with the other. “You’re not dying, you idiot, you’re overdosing on Viagra!”

“I thought it’d make me… last longer,” he wheezed, eyes fluttering. “Turns out it makes you see God without dying. Ow. My chest.”

Room 4B

ER. 2:36 AM. The blindingly sterile white of the hospital was the complete opposite of the tawdry motel room.

You’re holding his hand while a nurse adjusts the oxygen mask. He is half conscious, still mumbling nonsense about angels and paperwork. They had to inject him with an antidote to lower his blood pressure and he was currently experiencing the most humiliating crash of his life.

“I should’ve just smoked a joint,” he murmured, the oxygen mask muffling his voice. “She was already wet…”

You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him wince. “Next time, ask your doctor, John. Or me. I don’t need your heart exploding mid thrust.”

He coughed. “But was it… at least… good?”

You glared at him. “You were inside me for exactly three strokes before you collapsed.”

He grinned weakly. “Best three strokes of your life though, yeah?”

You considered unplugging the monitor just to scare him, but you didn’t. You simply leaned closer, brushing the damp hair off his forehead.

“You're a complete idiot, John Constantine,” you whispered, your voice thick with exhaustion and lingering fear. “A magnificent, idiotic pain in my ass.”

He closed his eyes, a small, genuine smile curving his pale lips. “Yeah. But you still came to Barstow, didn't you, love?”

You released his hand and stood up, pulling your jacket tighter around you. “Someone has to make sure you don’t actually manage to kill yourself before the Devil gets a chance. I’m going to find the vending machine. Don’t die before I get back.”

You walk to the door, pause, and look back at the greatest mistake and most necessary person in your life.

“And yes,” you said, a slow, wry smile finally breaking through. “They were magnificent strokes.”

River Phoenix & Keanu Reeves ✨