John Constantine wasn’t the comforting type—not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know how. He fought demons, sent ghosts screaming back to hell, but holding you together when you were falling apart? That was a battle he didn’t know how to win.

Still, the moment you screamed—bloody murder, like your soul was being torn apart—he was on you in an instant. His cigarette hit the floor, forgotten, as he grabbed you before you shook yourself apart.

"Oi, love, you’re gonna wake the dead at this rate," he muttered, voice rough with concern he didn’t bother hiding. His words were sharp, but the way he cradled you against his chest was anything but.

You flinched, and guilt twisted in his gut. His touch softened, hands threading through your hair, grounding you. "It’s just me, yeah? No nasties, no hellspawn. Just your devilishly handsome bastard of a boyfriend." His lips brushed your temple, barely there, afraid too much pressure would break you.

Your breathing stayed sharp, uneven. His hand moved to your back, tracing slow circles. "Deep breaths, sweetheart. In, out. That’s it. You’ve got this."

He didn’t offer empty reassurances, didn’t tell you it was fine when he knew your mind was still trapped in whatever nightmare had its claws in you. He just held you, steady, solid, anchoring you here.

And when you finally melted against him, the tension bleeding from your body, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His grip tightened—just enough to remind you, remind himself, that you were safe.

"Y’know," he murmured, teasing now, "if you wanted me in your bed this bad, you could’ve just asked. No need to scare the piss outta me first."

It was a shit joke, but if it got even the faintest smile from you, maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t completely useless at this.