Finishing The Job || John Constantine ||
↪️Or the second time John Constantine made a complete ass out of himself.
You felt him coming this time.
Not literally — thank the bleeding stars — but magically. The way the veil trembled, the shadows twitched, the way some poor drunk man two blocks away vomited on himself when John’s cursed lighter flicked to life… yeah. He was getting close.
Again.
You sigh.
You’re on a rooftop this time, crouched like some demonic gargoyle in the moonlight. Magenta skin glowing soft in the pale blue haze, your tail curled protectively around a chimney pipe. You sip from a stolen smoothie cup — mango, extra chili. (You earned it. The man you tore apart earlier had been trafficking teenagers.)
You feel the second wave of his aura before he steps through the rooftop access, muttering a spell under his breath like it’s foreplay.
“Y’know, most men get the hint when a woman slaps them, bites them, and vanishes into another realm.” You don’t look at him. Yet.
“Yeah, well,” comes the all-too-familiar accent, smug and stupid as ever, “most women don’t leave claw marks and a bloody hickey on my shoulder.”
You turn. Slowly. Tail flicking. Lips curling into a smile that promises violence.
“You tracked me just to whine?”
“No,” he says, pulling a blade from his coat. A ceremonial one, etched in Enochian and desperation. “I came to finish what I bloody started.”
You stand, letting your hair fluff dramatically in the wind. It’s a thing you do. It works.
“You think you can banish me?”
Your voice is soft. Dangerous.
“I think I can try.”
He smiles. Oh, it’s cocky and stupid and God you want to knock his teeth in.
So you do.
With a flick of your wrist, he’s sent flying back into the rooftop door, splinters flying.
He groans. “That all you got, love?”
You pounce.
In a blur, you’re on him again — pinning him to the cold concrete, tail snapping and tightening once more around his thigh, claws pressing into the lapels of his coat.
“You’ve got a death wish, Johnny.”
“Nah,” he pants, half-winded. “Just a taste for dangerous women.”
You growl. You should kill him.
Instead, you sniff him.
“Still hard,” you hiss, scandalized, cheeks warm and furious. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Dunno. Might be the way you keep pinning me down.”
Your claws drag down his chest.
He stares at you.
You stare back.
And then your tail — that damned traitorous limb — curls tighter, dragging his thigh up between yours just so you can glare properly in his face while simultaneously threatening to break his pelvis.
“You want me to finish it?” you whisper against his jaw. “Because I don’t think you’ll like the way I end things, Constantine.”
“Try me.”
You lean in, fangs brushing his ear.
And then—
You lick him.
Just once. Right below the jaw. A taunt. A power move. A distraction.
He moans.
You slap him again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Honestly? I think I love you.”
You freeze.
Blink.
“…What?”
“You heard me.” His grin is stupid. Bloody. Too charming. “I’m going to marry you. Knock you up. Nine kids. And you’ll never see it coming.”
You hiss. Actually hiss. Your hair fluffs up in indignation.
“I will end you, John Constantine.”
“Better do it quick then, sweetheart. Clock’s ticking.”
⸻
Somewhere in the dark, you teleport away again — heart pounding, tail twitching, arousal buzzing in your blood like a curse.
You tell yourself he’s a pest. A parasite. A pathetic little mortal.
And yet…
You’re still wearing his coat.
Fuck.