One-Shot Collection - Keanu Reeves.

Work With Me - John Constantine.

Smut warning.

    "Please, John! Wait!" You call out after him.

     You watch him walk away from you, down the empty street, his suit clad figure growing smaller and smaller. You run after him, shoes pattering against the wet roads.

You finally catch up to him, his cigarette smoke blowing behind him and towards your face in a fury of white fog. You let out a huff, growing frustrated.

He throws the burnt out cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with the crunch of his leather shoes. His stood still as you catch up to him.

"John, you know how bad I want to work with you, I know I got what it takes and I don't even car-" you begin, cut off mid-sentence when he spins on his heel, his hands grabbing both sides of your face.

Your gaze met his, his dark onyx eyes burning into you. His face was only inches away from yours, the scent of cigarette and whiskey on his breath.

You didn't even remember how the argument started. You had been begging him for the longest time to give you a chance, to let you work with him. You couldn't understand why the stubborn man wouldn't trust you.

    "Do you realize what you're asking me to do? Why can't you understand that I just don't work with people." He hisses, shaking your head slightly with his grip tight on your face.

You can feel your heart hammering against your rib cage at the pure anger and frustration pouring off of him. The space between the two of you was sending you into a frenzy of frantic thoughts.

His voice was stern and husky, and the smell of cigarette lingers on his breath. You struggle to find a way to protest as you realize the inches of space between you two.

His eyes were a deep brown-black, copying the color of coffee. His gaze always felt like it was burning into your soul. You knew behind his emotionless pits of eyes, he was afraid.

It would be the only reason why he wouldn't work with you. He was afraid of you, or maybe hurting you. You knew what his relationship with you meant to him. He didn't want to involve you in his type of danger.

"You're scared, John. You're scared I'm going to get hurt, but you need to trust me." You protest, begging him at this point.

   His lips part the slightest at the thought, knowing that you were right. You reach your hands up, wrapping them around his wrists that still grip into your face.

He lets out a huff of frustration, chest rising and falling quickly. He stammered for a moment.

"I can't be responsible for another death." He finally manages out, releasing the grip on your face.

You want him aggressively take a box of cigarettes out of his suit jacket, lighting another one. A chain smoker. Always has been, always will be.

His gaze stares at you for a moment, face pinched in thought as he took drags of his cigarette. You could tell he was battling himself mentally, trying to convince himself.

His stare was almost uncomfortable. Overall, it made you self-conscious in a way. It always felt so wrong for a man who looks like him to being staring at someone like you. You felt like you weren't worthy of the attention of someone so attractive.

He looks off, scoffing and shaking his head. You knew he had made up his mind, and he knew it too. It was only a matter of admitting his decision.