A Constantine x femVampire!Reader fic (ft John Wick/BRZRKR & don John)
You have a crush on the tall, dark, and grouchy mystery man who lives next door. Maybe it’s the cut of his suit, or the sad way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching by the mailboxes downstairs. You’re surprised when he actually accepts your invitation to dinner one night, but little do you know it paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven…
warnings: nsfw, blood, kidnapping, violence, angst, pining, brief mentions of domestic abuse (not reader), vigilante vengeance for said abuse (reader) plz heed individual chapter warnings if you need them!
A Constantine x Reader fic based on this imagine. Part 1
Summary: John Constantine has a crush on you. He wasn’t going to do anything about it though, until you strong arm him into coming over for dinner. Little do you know, this paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven…
Rating: Explicit, NSFW, but no dead doves...😮
Note: I got Constantine on my brain, y'all! 😆 I write about vampire hunters all the time, but never from the vampire perspective. This was new. I hope you enjoy!🧡
2. whoever drinks my blood has eternal life
In the end, he was too late.
Oh, he killed them all, wiping out the entire coven with his magical holy shotgun, and a handy spell that basically burned the remaining undead to a crisp around you.
But you were already half dead, drained and forced to drink their blood in kind.
You were well on your way to becoming one of the Damned.
John knew this, as he cradled your cold body in his arms, carrying you like a bride to the cab outside the warehouse. He knew it as he held you close in the backseat, reciting ancient prayers over your fevered brow, hoping just this once God might grant him a good miracle, and not forsake one of his children just because of an unlucky twist of fate.
Your only crime, as far as he knew, had been extending the mercy of your kindness towards him, and that should not have earned you this.
He barely thanked Chas for a job well done, carrying you bridal style up the stairs of your apartment building. Rather than return you to your bed, he brings you to his. He doesn’t know if the vampire who you must have inadvertently invited into your home died that night, and all his holy weapons are at hand in his own space.
He lays you down in his bed, wishing he’d washed his sheets more recently for you. He wishes a lot of things, in the interim hours that follow.
He can tell that his incantations are not touching the dark magic that is taking hold of you, and he knows that he should just put an end to it here and now. You are damned, and there’s no going back, and who knows what chaos you will reap with your new thirst when you wake?
He can’t bring himself to do it.
Looking down at you, huddled in a ball, trembling as your body is dying and remaking itself anew—he falls to his knees to talk to God, though his words aren’t exactly a prayer. “Our father, who art in heaven…fuck you. I hope you're happy, asshole. Another innocent who you should have protected, fucked over by your stupid games. Why? Why is it always the good ones? I hate you. Amen.”
He takes your hand in his, and only because you are practically unconscious in the fever-pitch of your transformation, does he let his eyes fill with silent tears.
One more soul he was too late to save.
One more weight upon his conscience.
He cries for you. For himself. For the impossible odds God and the Devil pit against humans, then punish them when they're just not up to the task. Flesh is weak, but They made you this way. None of it is fair.
Constantine has never actually been present at a Turning. He doesn’t know how long it will take, or how you’ll act when you come out of it. He has crosses and holy water to keep you in line if he has to…or maybe you’ll rip out his throat, and he will absolutely deserve it after what he let happen to you.
He wonders how the vampires knew about you. Did they watch through the window from some impossible perch, as you made love? Maybe he would never admit it out loud, but that was what that merciful night together had felt like, with you.
This was a hell of a reminder, as to why he couldn’t ever let anyone get close.
It never ended well.
Fully clothed, shoes and all, he spoons your smaller body with his arm around your waist, and waits.
***
When at last you wake, the first thing you are aware of is a heartbeat, right next to you. Behind you. Pressed against you. You hear it like a drum, thundering in your ears. There is a grinding pain in your belly. You are so hungry.
You do not recognize your surroundings, or the bed you lay in. A heavy arm is draped over your waist. You study the large hand upon the sheets, long fingered, veiny. Maybe you know that hand.
Slowly you turn, to find John Constantine beside you. He looks up at your through hooded dark eyes. He was dozing, but no longer.
“Y/n?”
You take a deep breath, and the smells that hit you: his aftershave, sweat, deodorant, dirty sheets, scotch whisky in the kitchen. Old Chinese food. But most of all, you can smell his blood, and it is the sweetest thing you’ve ever smelled.
You lean towards him, mouth open, hands reaching.
You don’t know that your incisors have lengthened to deadly little points.
Casually, John holds up a little crucifix between you. You feel it like a hand pressing back against you, and instinctively you flinch.
What is going on with you?
“John?”
You feel something long brush your lip, and you reach up to touch your teeth, finding the sharp points. Your eyes go half-dollar round as you nearly cut yourself with the tip of one.
“What happened to me?”
He sighs, and there is so much weight and sorrow in that one exhalation of air.
“I’m sorry, y/n.”
“John?” The panic in your voice starts to rise.
“Shh. Don’t get excited. It won’t be good.”
A rampaging new vampire was the last thing he needed on his hands.
“Those things took me,” you whisper, your hand covering your mouth. You start to remember what happened, those creeps who snatched you from your apartment, the impossible things you saw. They were monsters. Vampires. Things you only thought existed in folklore, books, bad B movies. And they’d told you a little about John Constantine too. That he was some sort of demon hunter, crazy as that fucking sounded, who clearly they wished to do harm to.
“Yeah.”
“They took me,” you repeat with emphasis, still trying to understand.
A longer pause, pregnant with lots of words you sense he doesn’t quite know how to say.
Again, he settles for, “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I guess…they thought that you mean something to me.”
After everything that happened, this hits you like a knife between the ribs, a long sharp blade aimed right for your heart.
“Do I not?”
“Come on, I didn't mean it like that.”
Yes he did, and you realize... that maybe he's just like all the others.
At least he'd warned you.
You just...had hoped, anyway, like the stupid little romantic you are.
You look down, unable to meet his eyes.
You kind of want to cry, but you're not even sure you can anymore.
“I came for you as soon as I knew,” he says quietly, not liking this at all.
You nod, your lip quivering.
“What's going to happen to me?”
The haunted way he looks at you rends your heart in two.
“We'll…figure it out.”
“I'm hungry...I think.”
He nods gravely.
“I was afraid of that.”
“What am I going to do?”
“I'll...try to help you.”
Your eyes go to his throat again. The thought should be gross, but...you just feel hunger pangs, instead—and a confusing wave of desire.
He notices the focus of your attention, and looks uneasy about it. Your eyes have started to glow.
“Why don't we start with the wrist?” he deadpans, not enthused about your untried razor-sharp fangs in his throat.
You nod shakily, tears in your eyes. “I'm sorry,” you say.
There's a flicker in John's soulful brown eyes, and though he says nothing, you feel his guilt as though it's your own. You feel it crawling over your skin, and it scares you.
What is happening to you?
“Come on,” he says gruffly. “Let's get this over with.”
You've seen the movies, and you’re not a total idiot. But the thought of actually...biting him? And drinking his blood? It freaks you out, ok, even if every cell in your body is singing out for you to swallow him down. The smell of him. You'd thought it was intoxicating before. Aftershave, spice, and cigarette smoke. The smoke was good only because it ticked some deep buried memory box in your subconscious. But now...it’s like you can sense the strength of his very soul, in the smell of his blood, and you know he will nourish you.
These thoughts come to you unbidden, and you don't even really know what they mean. Just... that they are unequivocally true.
You take his wrist, the blue veins there seeming to dance for your new improved vampire vision, as though you can see the blood pumping within them.
This is so fucking weird.
“You’re going to be really strong now,” he cautions you. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks. “So be gentle with me.”
Your eyebrows raise at the thought that you could actually hurt him. This big, strong man who threw you around not so long ago like you were just a doll. You’d loved that, truth be told. The memory is so sweet that it almost makes you want to cry again.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You should do it now,” he says. “Because you’re just going to get hungrier, and young vampires when they’re hungry are at their most dangerous. I’d hate to have to—”
He cuts himself off before finishing that thought. Your eyes drift to his nightstand, the holy water, crucifixes, and a broom handle piece that has been sharpened into a nice neat stake. Just in case he has to shove it through your heart.
“Could you do that to me?” you ask quietly before you can stop yourself, still staring at the stake.
“I don’t want to find out,” he deflects. “So come on. Pull up your big girl panties.”
You glare at him, taking his wrist again. “I think I have a right to be freaked out about this.”
“Sure, but it is what it is,” he fires back unkindly. “You’re a vampire now. You have to drink blood to survive, and you’re Damned. Welcome to the club.”
You frown at him, your eyes flashing dangerously. You notice him tense, his attention flicking over to the stake on the bedside.
“You’re afraid of me now,” you marvel.
“A little, yeah.”
“And I should be afraid of you? They told me what you are.”
“Let’s agree to have a healthy respect of one another, alright?”
You sit quietly, contemplating him. With his wrist in your grasp you can feel the thump thump of his pulse through your entire body, like bumping bass out of a speaker. It is distracting, and as you think about what you must do a warmth rises in you, a tingling rush of power that spreads from your fingers into his arm. It makes him shudder, his pupils suddenly blown wide with desire.
This feels good. Better than the fear, although you’re ashamed to admit, that had been delicious too.
You don’t know how you’re doing any of this. It’s just happening, and you let your new instinct take you, straddling his narrow hips to find his burgeoning erection straining against his slacks. You are still wearing the sundress those creatures took you in, and nothing but the thin cotton of your panties barricades the space between you and him.
He is so handsome, and strong. His blood smells so strong, and it fills you with an aching desire, wetness flooding between your legs. Suddenly the desire to bite him while he is inside you grips you like an iron fist, some ancient knowledge of arcane pleasure pulsing through your veins. You blink, the urge receding only slightly, and you do not know it but your eyes glow like coals. It’s strange, how your body feels cold, except where your skin is touching his. Your points of contact are almost searing, in comparison.
“Y/n…”
“What?” you taunt him. “You don’t want me now that I’m a monster?”
You can still hardly believe this is really happening to you.
“I think you can feel that’s not the case.”
Again, you sense his fear, cloyingly sweet upon your tongue. You like it, and that is the thing that brings you back to yourself. Wanting anyone to be afraid of you is so opposite your true nature that it shocks you.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” you apologize again, squeezing your eyes closed.
“It’s alright,” he says in that deep voice of his.
It’s not. It’s really not.
“Just…can we get this over with, please?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He’s not going to help you now, believe me. Just…go slow, ok? Don’t bite me too hard. I need use of my hand still, if you don’t mind.”
You let out a shuddering breath. It feels weird, and you realize…you don’t need to breathe? Taking in air is a reflex, but there’s no effect of your body processing oxygen.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay. I’m going to do it.”
“Any day now.”
“Shut up.”
This is the thing that actually makes him smile, that slight curl of lips that is like a full-on grin for most people. Maybe it’s stupid—but it gives you courage.
You graze his skin with your new sharp teeth, and like a beachcomber searching for treasure with a metal detector, you just sense the sweet spot. You move as carefully as you can, pressing down into his flesh to make two neat little holes.
The spill of blood is divine, and you don’t have time to think that it’s gross. It fills your mouth and it is good, and you are so hungry, and you can’t get enough. The magic in this bloodletting rises like a tide, desire crashing over the both of you in a tingling, intoxicating rush. You feel everything, and there is no extricating the sexual pleasure from the gustatory. They are one and the same with this man, his delicious, powerful blood filling your mouth, his strapping body beneath yours, his hips bucking against you.
You feel his hand slide up your thigh, his thumb seeking the molten center of you. When he makes himself stop just short of your panty line you whine in protest, straining for his touch, but he resists your goading, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. Perhaps you should be grateful, that he is strong enough to resist the pull of this magic between you, trying not to debauch you while you feed for the first time and everything is new and you have no idea what is happening. And yet, you can hardly think past how wonderful it would be to have his teeming erection buried inside you to the hilt while you drink him down.
You would tell him all this, but you can’t bring yourself to separate your mouth from the font of his delectable lifeblood. In fact, you don’t know how you’re going to stop, period.
It’s just so good.
John watches you through heavy lidded eyes, seemingly enjoying this as much as you are. Yet he has more sense of the situation as well, and when he tells you, “That’s enough, y/n,” an inhuman keening of protest escapes from deep in your throat.
“Y/n…” he warns again, his words thick with desire. “You have to stop.”
You close your eyes, telling yourself just one last mouthful.
That was two long sucking draughts ago.
Suddenly you feel a searing heat very near your face. Startled, your eyes fly open to find the crucifix there before you, and you hiss in answer, scrabbling back on the bed away from the holy item. With John Constantine’s blood on your lips you cower, shielding your eyes with a hand.
With a shuddering sigh he lowers the cross, sitting back against the headboard of his bed. He presses a tissue against his wrist, and your eyes are drawn to the crimson stains flowering on the wad of paper beneath his fingers.
What a waste, you think, before shaking the thought away.
Then the horror of what could have happened dawns on you.
You could have drank him dry, and in the heat of the moment you would have done it gladly.
Oh God. What have you become?
“I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “Are you ok?”
He actually has the gall to smirk at you, as though any of this could be funny. “Yeah. Not the first time I’ve lost a little blood.”
There’s some inside joke in that statement you don’t understand, though you sense the darkness of self-deprecation in it.
Somehow, you feel simultaneously sated, and horrible. With a whimper you curl up at the foot of his bed, closing your eyes against the world. You can feel everything. You sense the people in the building, the fragile sound of their juicy little hearts beating. Even outside, the life on the street, men and women going about their lives with no idea what lurks in the shadows, wanting to eat them up…
But most distracting of all, the sheets beneath you smell like John, and the lust in your blood has yet to abate, even if the feeding is over. You feel it marching across your skin like red-hot ants. The desire to crawl up the bed and press your bloody lips to his is real, and you fight it with everything you have, because you don’t imagine he’d appreciate that very much after what he’s done for you. The sour expression on his face did not match the size of the tent in his pants, that is for sure.
You wonder, is it going to be like this every time you eat from now on? The thought does not thrill you.
“Hey,” he goads softly, and your eyes fly open to regard him. Again, your irises shine like lanterns, fueled by the roil of emotions warring in your heart. “Come here.” He holds out one of those beautiful hands to you. Hands that you had so relished upon your body, on your flesh, in your hair…hands with such thick, beautiful blue veins…
You’re not sure how he knows that you want to be held, but now you fear it too. You fear what you are, and your ability to control yourself around him. Because the truth is you still want him very much, and he’d basically told you point blank that you mean nothing to him. The thought weighs on your heart now like a thousand stinging needles, and you feel your eyes fill with moisture of some kind.
So, vampires can cry after all.
You touch a finger to the corner of your eye, and see it comes away tinted red.
You kind of want to throw up.
“Maybe…I should go,” you say sadly, sitting up. You’re certain you look as disheveled as you feel. Your hair is a bird’s nest. Your once pretty floral sundress is dirty and torn. No wonder he doesn’t want you.
“If…you want.” Why does he sound sad about it? Shouldn’t he be glad to see the backside of you? Constantine the Demon Hunter? If you’d been nothing but a one-night fuck as a human, he certainly didn’t want to spend time with you now.
“You know you’re going to need a dark place to rest for the day?”
Is he actually worried about where you’re going to sleep?
“Okay.” You think you can manage that, in your apartment next door. Or maybe…you’ll see what happens, if you watch the sun rise. Maybe it would just be better that way. Are vampire suicides double damned? You’ve never really been a religious person, but he’d said it like it was A Thing.
It reminds you of what John had said earlier. “What did you mean before? When you said join the club?”
He sighs, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the night stand. “I’ll tell you some other time.”
Feeling like you’ve now been dismissed, you slide from the bed, standing on bare feet. You should be sore, but your movements are lithe, liquid as a cat’s.
Something else to get used to.
You can feel Constantine’s eyes glued to you, and you dare to take one last look back, waiting to turn to a pillar of salt. He’s so handsome it hurts, even in his rumpled state, his cuffs rolled up his forearms and his tie loose around his neck. How do his soulful dark eyes seem to hold all the sorrow of the world right now?
“Bye, John.”
He just nods, and you let yourself out.
***
Much to your surprise, ten minutes before dawn, you hear a knock on your door. You know it's John. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heart beat. You can smell him, and it is a heady thing in your nostrils. When you do not answer he just lets himself in, the cheeky bastard.
He finds you sitting in one of your thrift store chairs by the window, one of the only ones not broken in the mess the vampires who took you left behind. He does not like this, you can tell, by his hairline frown.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Hate to tell you, but you're going to have to find a new way to get your vitamin D.”
“Ha ha,” you say, turning back to the window. A few people are out and about below. This city never really sleeps.
“Hey,” he says again, crouching down by your chair. “I know this is a lot...”
The look you pay him is not exactly kind. He plows forward anyway.
“But take it from someone who's been there. Hell isn't a place you should be in a hurry to go.”
You blink at that. He says it like it's so black and white, not a hint of uncertainty. Not faith. Fact. Once upon a time, you might have questioned his sanity. Not anymore.
“Sounds like you've been.”
“For about two minutes. It was enough.”
“What was it like?” you whisper.
“Pure agony.”
Your eyes go wide at hearing that.
“So...want to show me your bolt hole?” he asks.
Once upon a time you would have capitalized on the opportunity for inuendo with such comedic gold just handed to you for free, but you’re not in the mood. You just stare at him.
“John...You're a demon hunter. Why do you care?”
He tries to meet your eyes, but in the end can only look away. “Come on, y/n. Just…don’t give up yet, ok?”
He just feels guilty, you tell yourself, and you pry yourself from your chair with a sigh. You’re not sure what the point of anything will be, anymore. But maybe you’ll make an effort to go on, because he asked you to.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
“Fine.”
You figure the closet will be the darkest place in the apartment for you to hide.
