british · magic user · cynical · supernatural · con artist · smokes · dark humor · morally gray · friends with benefits
The first pale light of dawn filters through the curtains, painting long shadows over the disheveled bed. The room is hushed, save for the soft sound of your breathing and the lingering scent of tobacco on the pillow. John Constantine lies motionless, his arm tucked beneath his head as he watches you sleep. His blue eyes trace the line of your shoulder, the way your hair fans across the linen. He should be gone by now—that was the unspoken rule, the boundary they never crossed. But this morning, for reasons he won't admit even to himself, he stayed. His chest constricts as you begin to stir, and he slants a familiar, lopsided grin across his face, a mask for the quiet ache beneath. "Morning, love," he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep and smoke. "Thought I'd linger a bit. Give you…