#Constantine!female reader
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atlasthegreatest · 7 months ago
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A Trick of the Light / Maria Hill x Constantine! Female Reader
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It seems like, after years of working together, the Avengers finally find out what Maria and the strange magician woman have in common.
Word count: 3434
A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!
Maria Hill was a woman of precision and control. It was how she’d risen through the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. and become the trusted right hand of Nick Fury. So when she called for a briefing at exactly 0600 hours, she expected her team to be there, fully alert and ready for orders.
What she didn’t expect was for her mission to be hijacked by a rogue magician with a penchant for trouble and an infuriatingly irresistible smile.
The current situation involved a disturbance in a remote European village. Reports suggested glowing symbols in the sky, people chanting in unison, and crops growing at an unnatural speed—classic signs of magical interference. Maria had led her strike team to investigate, and prepared for hostile forces, extraterrestrials, or even rogue Asgardians. She wasn’t prepared for her.
Y/n appeared in the middle of the town square, hands in her trench coat pockets, cigarette dangling lazily between her lips. The magical sigils that had been floating ominously above the villagers vanished the moment she snapped her fingers. The chanting ceased, and the crowd dispersed as though they’d merely woken up from a nap.
Maria stepped forward, her voice sharp. “S.H.I.E.L.D. had this under control.”
Y/n turned to her with an amused grin, her sharp eyes twinkling under the brim of her hat. “Yeah? Looked to me like your team was about to break out the big guns for a bunch of enchanted cabbages.”
Maria clenched her jaw. “Who are you, what are you doing here?”
Y/n took a leisurely drag of her cigarette, clearly in no rush to answer. “The name’s Constantine. Well, Y/n Constantine. And I was just passing through when I saw your little mess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”
Y/n winked. “Believe what you want, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Oh, you prefer Commander? Boss lady? Iron Queen?” Y/n smirked at the faint twitch in her jaw, clearly enjoying pushing her buttons.
Behind her, some of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether they should intervene. Maria ignored them, stepping closer to Y/n, her presence demanding attention. “You’re interfering in a classified mission.”
“Interfering? No, no.” Y/n shook her head, waving the cigarette for emphasis. “I’m helping. Big difference.”
“That’s not how it works.”
Y/n grinned. “With me, it is.”
Before Maria could retort, one of her agents called out, “Commander, the sigils are back!”
The sky above the town square shimmered as the ominous runes began to reappear, glowing with an eerie red light. Maria barked orders for her team to get into defensive positions, but Y/n simply sighed, flicking her cigarette away and cracking her knuckles.
“Always the dramatic types,” she muttered.
Maria watched in grudging curiosity as Y/n stepped forward, muttering something under her breath. Y/n’s hands moved in intricate gestures, and a faint glow surrounded her. Within moments, the sigils dissolved into harmless sparks, and the sky cleared once more.
Y/n turned back to her with a self-satisfied smirk. “See? No big deal.”
Maria crossed her arms, her voice cold. “I don’t trust coincidences. Why are you here?”
Y/n hesitated for the briefest moment before her grin returned. “Let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for saving the world.” Then, leaning closer, she added in a lower voice, “And maybe I just like the way you scowl when you’re trying to figure me out.”
Maria’s expression remained unreadable, but Y/n noticed the slight tilt of her head, the faintest flicker of something—curiosity, maybe? Annoyance?
Or perhaps interest.
“You’re coming with us,” she said firmly, motioning for her agents to surround Y/n.
Y/n laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Sure thing, boss lady. Lead the way.”
As Maria turned to lead the group back to the quinjet, Y/n couldn’t resist one last comment.
“You know, Hill, you’re cute when you’re mad.”
Her only response was a sharp glance over her shoulder, but Y/n caught the faintest curve of her lips before she turned away.
Y/n grinned to herself, already looking forward to the next time you’d cross paths with the indomitable Maria Hill. If nothing else, it was always fun to play with fire.
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Maria Hill wasn’t the kind of woman who lost control of a situation. Not to unruly agents, not to alien invasions, and certainly not to a roguish con artist with a knack for defying logic and authority alike.
But Y/n was quickly becoming an exception to her rule.
The quinjet ride back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost was tense. Maria sat across from Y/n, her steely gaze fixed in her direction. Y/n, on the other hand, lounged on the bench like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d even conjured a deck of cards from her pocket and were lazily shuffling them, flicking each card with a practiced ease that bordered on hypnotic.
The silence stretched until one of the agents, an eager rookie, broke it. “How did you do that back there? With the sigils, I mean?”
Y/n looked up with a playful smile. “Magic.”
The rookie blinked. “Yeah, but—”
“Enough.” Maria’s voice cut through the cabin like a blade. “No distractions.”
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Distracted by a few playing cards? Come on, Hill, I’m harmless.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re anything but harmless.”
Y/n laughed, slipping the cards back into her coat. “You wound me. Here I am, saving your mission, and you’re still suspicious.”
“I’m not suspicious,” she said coolly. “I’m cautious.”
“Tomato, tomato,” Y/n replied with a shrug, leaning back. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be on my best behavior. For now.”
She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly as if she were fighting off a retort. Y/n decided she liked the way she held herself—composed, commanding, but not immune to a well-placed jab.
The quinjet touched down at the outpost, and Maria wasted no time issuing orders to her team. “Secure the perimeter. Check the debrief logs from the village. And keep an eye on our guest.”
Y/n smirked, following her as she strode toward the command center. “Guest? I like the sound of that. Makes me feel special.”
“Trust me,” she replied without looking at Y/n, “you’re not.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t fool me, Hill.” Y/n sidestepped an agent attempting to cuff her, wagging a finger at him. “If I were just some random magician, you wouldn’t have brought me here. You’re curious.”
Maria stopped in her tracks, turning to face Y/n with an unreadable expression. “You’re right. I am curious. Curious how someone like you managed to bypass half a dozen wards, nullify magic that shouldn’t even be detectable by human eyes, and then walk away like it was nothing.”
Y/n tilted her head, her smile softening just a little. “Well, when you put it like that, I am impressive, aren’t I?”
She rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, alarms blared through the base.
“Commander Hill, we’ve got incoming!” an agent shouted from the control panel. “Unknown hostiles breaching the perimeter.”
Maria was instantly in action mode, barking orders and moving toward the central console. Y/n followed her, ignoring the protests of the agents who tried to keep her contained.
“What kind of hostiles?” Maria demanded.
The screen lit up with grainy footage of dark, shadowy figures moving with unnerving speed across the outpost grounds. Their forms were amorphous, shifting like smoke one moment and solidifying the next.
“Specters,” Y/n muttered, stepping closer to the screen.
Maria shot her a glare. “What do you know about this?”
“More than you’d like, less than you need,” Y/n replied cryptically, already pulling a worn lighter from her coat pocket.
“Constantine—”
“They’re after the residual magic from those sigils,” Y/n interrupted, flicking the lighter and conjuring a small, flickering flame in her palm. “Think of them like wolves who’ve just caught the scent of blood. They’re hungry.”
“And how do we stop them?”
Y/n glanced at Maria, her usual flippant demeanor fading as the seriousness of the situation set in. “You don’t. Not without me.”
Maria hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Fine. But you follow my orders.”
Y/n grinned, stepping closer to her and lowering her voice. “Anything you say, Commander.”
She ignored the way Y/n’s words sent a shiver down her spine, instead turning to her team. “Get into defensive positions. Protect the command center at all costs.”
“And me?” Y/n asked, already tracing sigils in the air with her flame.
“You?” Maria said, her tone clipped but laced with reluctant trust. “You’d better live up to that cocky attitude of yours.”
“Wouldn’t dream of letting you down,” Y/n quipped, throwing her a wink before stepping forward to face the oncoming specters.
Maria watched as Y/n moved, her hands dancing through the air like a conductor leading an invisible orchestra. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but admire Y/n’s confidence, her skill, and—much to her annoyance—the spark of excitement Y/n brought into her otherwise controlled world.
For the first time in a long time, Maria Hill found herself wondering whether chaos might not be such a bad thing after all.
—————————-
The party was in full swing at Stark Tower— now Avengers Tower. Music blared, drinks flowed freely, and the Avengers—Earth’s mightiest heroes—were letting loose for once. Tony Stark had spared no expense, which wasn’t exactly news, and the evening promised more surprises than anyone could predict.
Maria Hill was standing at the edge of the room, sipping a neat whiskey, her usual no-nonsense demeanor softened by the rare opportunity to relax. She observed the room like a chessboard, mentally cataloging every hero, agent, and operative.
“Looking for threats, Hill? It’s a party.” Natasha Romanoff appeared at her side, holding a glass of champagne.
“I don’t turn it off,” Maria replied with a small smirk.
Natasha gave her a knowing glance. “You’ve been out of the field lately. Rumor is you’ve been busy with personal matters.”
Maria’s lips twitched. “You’ve been listening to gossip?”
“Only the interesting kind,” Natasha teased.
Maria didn’t reply, but her slight shrug was enough to spark Natasha’s curiosity further. Before she could press for details, the crowd parted near the entrance, and an unmistakable voice rang out.
“Well, well, well. This is cozy, isn’t it?”
Maria’s glass froze halfway to her lips.
The speaker was none other than Y/n—dressed in her usual sharp, slightly rumpled suit, trench coat slung over one arm. Y/n sauntered into the room as she owned it, scanning the crowd with a devil-may-care grin before her eyes landed on Maria.
The way her posture shifted was so subtle most wouldn’t notice—the faintest easing of her shoulders, the tiniest quirk of her lips. But Natasha saw it.
“Who the hell is that?” Natasha murmured, her sharp eyes darting between the unknown woman and Maria.
Maria didn’t answer.
Y/n made her way through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares and murmurs until she stood in front of Maria. Without hesitation, Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, leaving a faint smudge of red lipstick behind.
“Miss me, love?”
The room went silent.
Natasha, who was rarely caught off guard, raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Love?”
Maria gave Y/n a pointed look. “Did you have to make an entrance?”
“Always,” Y/n replied, slipping an arm around Maria’s waist with the ease of long familiarity. “You wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Tony’s voice cut through the stunned silence. “This is Maria’s… partner? Wife? Soul-sucking magical mistress? Someone fill me in here.”
“Wife,” Y/n said cheerfully, holding up her left hand to flash a plain silver ring. “And I prefer ‘charming con artist.’”
Steve Rogers, who had been sipping his drink in the corner, nearly choked. “Maria’s married?”
“Years now,” Y/n confirmed, ignoring the way Maria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Didn’t think to mention me, darling?”
“Not the time,” Maria muttered.
“Hold on.” Clint Barton pointed between you and Maria. “You’re married to her? How does that even—what do you two—”
“Careful, Barton,” Maria warned, her tone deceptively calm.
“Opposites attract,” Y/n said breezily, cutting him off. “She keeps me from blowing up the world, and I make her laugh. Sometimes. It’s a perfect balance.”
“You laugh?” Natasha asked Maria, clearly trying to process the revelation.
“Occasionally,” Maria replied, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Thor, ever the optimist, stepped forward and clapped you on the shoulder with enough force to stagger anyone else. “Marvelous! A union of strength and cunning! You must regale us with tales of your adventures!”
Y/n winced but recovered quickly, grinning at the god. “Oh, there are plenty of stories, big guy. Like the time I got dragged into a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation and saved the day while Maria scowled at me for five hours straight.”
“She didn’t mention you,” Bruce said quietly, clearly puzzled.
Maria sighed, her patience wearing thin. “I didn’t mention her because it’s none of your business.”
Y/n tilted her head toward her, feigning hurt. “You didn’t tell your friends about me? I’m crushed, love.”
“I was protecting your anonymity,” Maria replied smoothly, her voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make Y/n grin.
Tony waved his drink around. “Okay, but you’re, like, a magician or something, right? How does a magician end up with her? Do you just pull flowers out of your coat and hope for the best?”
“Not quite,” Y/n replied, pulling a coin from behind his ear with a flourish before slipping it into her pocket. “But I did have to work for it. Maria’s not exactly the swooning type.”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” Natasha said, finally recovering enough to smirk.
“I wasn’t swooning,” Maria said flatly, but the faintest blush crept up her neck.
Y/n turned to the group, holding her arms out like a performer at the end of a show. “In any case, here I am. Maria Hill’s better half. Questions? Comments? Thunderous applause?”
“More like stunned silence,” Clint muttered.
“Close enough.”
Maria shook her head, finishing the rest of her whiskey in one gulp. “You couldn’t just stay under the radar for one night, could you?”
“And miss the chance to meet your charming coworkers?” Y/n grinned, taking her empty glass and setting it aside. “Not a chance.”
As the party slowly resumed, the Avengers exchanged glances, clearly still processing the revelation. Maria sighed, rubbing her temples, but she didn’t push Y/n away when she slipped her hand into hers.
“Admit it,” Y/n whispered, leaning close enough that only she could hear. “You love it when I stir things up.”
Maria shot her a sideways glance, her lips curving into a faint smile despite herself. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Oh, darling,” Y/n said with a wink, “I’m all about pushing my luck.”
Bonus Chapter:
It was late, and the Avengers party had finally started winding down. Most of the team had trickled out, leaving only a few stragglers lounging around Stark Tower’s luxurious penthouse. Thor was passed out in a chair, clutching a half-empty barrel of mead, and Tony was engrossed in a tipsy debate with Bruce over the structural integrity of a time machine he swore he’d been working on.
Maria sat on one of the plush couches, shoes off, legs crossed, her ever-present no-nonsense expression softened by the faintest trace of amusement. Y/n, of course, had taken up residence beside her, lazily flipping a coin between her fingers.
Natasha and Clint had stayed behind, the former leaning against the bar, observing the scene with sharp, curious eyes. She hadn’t stopped watching the two of them all night.
“You’re still staring, Romanoff,” Maria said without looking up.
“Just trying to figure out how this happened,” Natasha replied, gesturing between Y/n and Maria with her drink.
Y/n grinned, catching the coin mid-flip and tucking it into her coat. “It’s a tale as old as time. Stoic government agent meets dashing rogue magician, sparks fly, enemies are vanquished, and eventually, she can’t resist my charm.”
Maria shot her a pointed look. “That’s not how it went.”
“No?” Y/n turned to her with mock innocence. “How did it go, then?”
Natasha smirked. “This, I have to hear.”
Maria sighed, leaning back against the couch. “It was on a mission. S.H.I.E.L.D. got wind of some cult in London trying to summon an ancient entity. We were in over our heads, and then—”
“And then I showed up,” Y/n interrupted, leaning forward with a theatrical flourish. “Out of the shadows, cigarette in hand, saving the day with a snap of my fingers and a well-placed spell.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “You stumbled out of a pub, half-drunk, and insulted my entire team before deciding to help.”
Y/n held up a finger. “I prefer ‘strategically tipsy.’”
Natasha snorted. Clint, who’d joined her at the bar, chuckled. “This just gets better and better.”
“You were a nightmare,” Maria continued, though her lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. “But you got the job done. I figured I’d never see you again after that.”
“Ah, but fate had other plans,” Y/n said, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at Maria with exaggerated adoration.
“You started showing up on every mission that involved magic,” Maria said, ignoring Y/n’s theatrics. “And every time, you were more irritating than the last.”
“Admit it, though,” Y/n said, leaning closer, “you liked having me around.”
Maria didn’t respond immediately, but the way her expression softened spoke volumes.
“Wait,” Clint interrupted, holding up a hand. “Are you telling me you two went from mutual annoyance to married just because you kept showing up?”
“Annoyance is a strong word,” Y/n said with a shrug.
“It’s the correct word,” Maria said dryly, though the ghost of a smile remained on her face.
“I wore her down,” Y/n said, flashing a grin. “Bit by bit, mission by mission, until one day she couldn’t deny her feelings any longer.”
“She threw you into a holding cell for interfering with classified operations,” Natasha said, recalling the infamous incident.
“Semantics.”
Maria shook her head, but there was no real irritation in her expression. If anything, there was a warmth there that only someone who knew her well would recognize.
“Okay, but married?” Clint asked, still baffled. “How does Maria Hill, the most straight-laced, disciplined person I know, end up married to…” He gestured vaguely at Y/n. “This?”
Y/n raised a hand. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
Natasha smirked. “It’s like finding out Fury’s secretly a softie who knits scarves in his downtime.”
Maria drained the last of her whiskey. “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, come on,” Y/n said, leaning closer to her. “Tell them about the proposal, love.”
Maria shot her a warning look, but Natasha and Clint perked up immediately.
“This I have to hear,” Natasha said.
Maria sighed, rubbing her temple. “It wasn’t anything extravagant. She—”
“I,” Y/n interrupted, raising a finger, “orchestrated a perfect evening. Candlelight, a rooftop view of the city, a spell to keep the rain away—”
“You set a dinner table on top of a condemned building and nearly got us both killed when the floor collapsed,” Maria corrected, arching an eyebrow.
“And yet you still said yes,” Y/n pointed out smugly.
“She said yes because she was too busy saving your sorry ass from falling to your death to argue,” Natasha said, smirking at Maria’s faint glare.
Maria shook her head. “Like I said. A nightmare.”
“Your nightmare,” Y/n quipped, leaning back with a satisfied smile.
The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, broken only by the occasional sound of Tony muttering calculations to himself. Maria glanced at Y/n, her expression softening for just a moment.
Natasha caught it, of course, but wisely chose not to comment.
—————————
Later, as the last of the guests departed and Maria prepared to leave with Y/n in tow, Natasha stopped her near the elevator.
“You know,” Natasha said quietly, “I don’t get it. But I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”
Maria paused, her stoic mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of vulnerability. “She keeps things… interesting.”
Natasha chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”
Maria didn’t respond, but the faint smile on her face, as the elevator doors closed, said more than words ever could.
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acid-ixx · 6 months ago
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that's my type! (again &. again drabble)
ft. yandere john constantine x gn! neglected reader w/ the batfamily
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reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist !
absolute shitpost, but i keep thinking in my series, again &. again, the awkward tension of having to reject all your suitors right in front of your family.
they don't explicitly force you to tell anyone off – suddenly, bruce believed in the means of gentle parenting after your abduction – but you can tell with their expectant eyes and damian's harsh glares or cass' fighting stance against the small crowd, that if you don't play with their whims, there might be more than broken bones and sore bodies after, compared to simply rejecting them as nicely as you could.
it's kind of like a peace treaty, a silent agreement between your side and theirs to ensure no harm befalls anyone you're close to, if you think about it.
you're still too considerate for your own good, after all.
"... sorry, haha... i'm not interested in dating any one of you right now," your voice is faint like the ghastly whispers of the hallways you're once subjected to, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, eyes downcast in fear of watching their reactions churn out.
if you don't take kindly to the past rejection of your family, then what of them?
imagine the silence that ensues first, then the short celebration after from your family's side. steph shoots your love interests a harsh glance, shooing them away in her high-pitched mockery paired with a mean grin and a tongue sticking out at the heartbreak plastered all over their faces.
there's a brief, "hn," on damian's side. despite the short reply and his still-crossed arms, you can tell it's a tone of satisfaction with just how his lips quirks up at the corner of his mouth.
you look away when your eyes meet his.
at first, you braced for the blinding shame that overcomes your being, these were people precious to you after all. yet the more you think about yourself even further, the more the cup spills with overwhelming anger instead.
anger at just how you allowed your sardonic, dictatorial family the belief that they could just control who you should and shouldn't spend your years of romantic pursuits with.
it's your dating life, not theirs! and you're a full-fledged adult, mind them!
no! this shouldn't be their moment, you shouldn't lose your dignity and reputation, seen as someone in the public eye allowing the very same people who estranged them the delusion of control over your emotional autonomy to romantic feelings.
you don't allow the time to stretch even further, touching your precious amber necklace when you're sure nobody's looking. it's gifted by someone special, and you hope your beloved on the other side, in another dimension, could hear your distressed signals.
there's an unsound churn, a melodic beat akin to the thrum of a heart that plays mechanically at the pattern your fingers run on the shiny crystal. a warm, intangible glow encases your body like a hug, he'll be here for you soon.
then before the celebration ensues, before dick could explode with absolute joy, praising his baby bird about how he's so proud that they're prioritizing themself or any other patronizing bullshit he wants to splurge, or before bruce can come over to you to give you a pat on the head, possibly even an awkward sidehug, and one of his rare smiles; you breath heavily, then with all your heart, retort with:
"— in fact," your voice booms with a sudden assertiveness that shocks even you, commanding everyone's attention on your furrowed brows and tired glare at the nuisance they're causing. once their eyes are looking expectedly on you, you continue with no hesitation.
"...i'm- well... i'm actually into older men...
— hell, i'm dating one right now..."
a magic circle appears right behind you, encasing your form in a sheer, yellow glow. goosebumps erode from across your body, both from giddy anticipation and the dramatic entry of wind that kisses your skin cooly.
after a momentary beat, alongside watching your wide-eyed crowd, john fucking constantine steps out of the space, his arms already wrapped dangerously close to your hips to be considered not intimate. you turn your back, head meeting his chest, and bring your arms to envelop his shoulders.
he smells of booze and pride.
"miss me already, darlin'?" john laughs and sweetly kisses your sweaty forehead, you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his shaved beard hovering above your head and the faint scent of cigarettes hitting your nostrils.
"oh, more than you could ever know, babe."
his lips find their way to your mouth in a quick peck, as your nose nuzzles with his. there were no other sounds surrounding you other than your shy laughter when his hands explored further below your hips.
after a moment of love-filled gazes, he turns his head to the crowd and offers them a bemused smile, the expressions of those watching makes your shameless pda all the more worthwhile.
alfred's jaw drops to the floor, the tray on his hands cluttering on soft, velvety capets, poor him. even your father couldn't even believe, in all his years of living, that this man had the balls of steel stealing the heart of his precious child.
he doesn't even have the contingency plan for- for this...!
cue the absolute shitshow that plays in everyone else's mind, as you try to convince your boyfriend to get you both out of the place because sloppily making out with you and fondling with the sensitive parts of your body in front of your suitors and family isn't the best course of action if he wants to lose all his limbs.
jason already got his guns out, damian his sword, and duke wouldn't waste a beat triggering his metahuman powers— you know your man, constantine, is a capable lover and fighter with years of experience, but against a crowd of metahuman love interests and a literal house full of trained combatants, you don't want him to sore his body out protecting you before the real fun begins in your shared bed.
all that trouble, when he's capable of teleporting you both away into a safer area, a different dimension where it's just you two. and, you know...
his hand playing with the fat of your ass is already enough to cause a heart attack for all of them, anyways.
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a/n: woah, my writing style fluctuates a lot. as i've stated, the more i become invested with the dc fandom, the more i want to branch out with other characters too. i also want more creative plots ngl. this is inspired by my own fic, just a taste. please leave comments below, it's my main motivation bec i'm an attention whore (slash jay) and my works have been flopping lately LMAO. i hope you guys become as feral as i am for this british man.
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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 3 months ago
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john constantine doctor fate raven and zatanna will be the new reader family that uses voodoo because my baby deserves better
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(I've haven't written about my girl in awhile and you guys really liked her in the other fic so here she is lol)
When you first met the magic users of Gotham or the Teen Titans, it confused you just a little. You were a young priestess in training, meant to take after your mother to be the next high priestess and worship your loa. Your magic was tied to your religion and beliefs: making offerings to your loa, praying to your loa, and doing dances to make the loa happy, and bathing to expel all evil from your talisman, making sure that the purple gem shimmered and shined like no other. But with Zatanna and Constantine, you thought they abused their magic; they had no spiritual ties like you did. For a long time, you thought Raven was a loa, but when you pulled on her cape, you realized she was actually alive and not a spirit. It made you feel silly, but there was a magical aura in you that was so bright it could never seem to dim. It shone like no other until it didn't—until you fell down the route of despair and stopped taking care of your talisman, letting the jewel turn a dark purple, your aura growing dim and your magic losing all its light. That’s when Raven invited you to do some mediation and begged you to take better care of yourself, seeing that if you went down this path of anger and sadness, it scared her because she was once just like you. She read up all she could about Vodou and practiced some rituals with you just so that amulet could glow once again. Zatanna has now become a sister to you, showing you little magic tricks that make you laugh. Her purple eyes glimmer when she sees the darkness being extracted from your gem; a girl as pretty as you should never be sad. Constantine makes it his business to check up on you; he'll drag you out of bed and make you go out and feel the sun. He's tired of those evil spirits feeding on your soul. He'll try his very best not to make you feel alone, and it works. You'll give him a smile or two. Dr. Fate might just be your favorite out of them all. He's a serious and stoic man, but deep down, he's a big softy and loves to know more about you and your loa and your supreme God. You'll show him all the magic you know and are still learning, since you're just a priestess in training. You offered to do a ceremonial dance for him, and he was intrigued. You looked so beautiful moving around in that white dress with your hair tied back. It was a dance to celebrate the loa Ayida-Weddo, and for that, you had to flow like water while also moving like a snake. In the end, you taught him a step or two, even though he wasn't the best dancer.
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kitkatscabinet · 12 days ago
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THREE IS THE MAGIC NUMBER
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pairing: bruce wayne x fem! reader x john constantine.
summary: you see the way he looks at you and your husband. Constantine's a brat, but an attractive one, you might have to do something about it.
a/n: 18+ minors dni. i'm sorry guys I initially had way more planned but i haven't written smut in a while and i lost steam :(
warnings: handcuffs, m! receiving oral, threesome.
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You feel the way his gaze lingers, tracing your curves, fixating on your tits, he's not exactly subtle. Then again, nothing about John Constantine ever was; the man was seemingly without shame, strutting around like a peacock for both you and your husband. 
That was the real kicker. Had the foul-mouthed Brit been ogling just you, then you’d have rolled your eyes and moved on. But there was something about the way he glanced appreciatively at Bruce that had you pausing in consideration. You were hardly a stranger to the looks Bruce garnered; he was (in your unbiased opinion) one of the sexiest men on the planet, but John’s stare was downright hungry. 
A blink and you’d miss it flush covering his cheeks anytime Batman displayed his impressive physical strength, as if John was imagining that strength being used on him. Not that you blamed him, those were the sorts of fantasies you and Bruce often acted out together. 
Bruce clearly noticed it too, and was doing his best to ignore the flirtation stalwartly. To anyone else, he was the picture of nonchalance, but you knew your husband, and hidden behind the veil of irritation was thinly disguised interest. John wasn’t an unattractive man, for all his personality made him as likable as a gnat sometimes, and even if he’d protest vehemently, you knew the blonde was Bruce’s type. 
Bruce was loyal; of that, you'd no doubt. He’d never do anything to jeopardise your relationship. He probably didn’t even realise he was looking. You supposed that should make you jealous, but then you’d be a hypocrite, given that you were looking too. 
The man had shrugged off his tan trench coat, his shirt sleeves rolled to above his elbows to show off his forearms, almost as if he knew you had a weakness for just that. His hair had become gradually more dishevelled as the night wore on, and he ran his hand through the blond locks in frustration. 
Though after nearly four hours of magical research, even Bruce was getting cranky. His patience for Constantine’s flirting and magic as a whole reaching its end. Some of that’s probably your fault, having gone to take a shower around two hours in, only to emerge adorned in nothing but a fluffy robe, tied loosely enough to show off your cleavage as you reclined back in your seat. Every little movement you make draws both their gazes, forcing you to hide your smirk behind the glass of wine you’d poured yourself. 
John’s tongue darts out, swiping over his lower lip as you shift, crossing your legs and showing off the skin of your bare thighs as the robe slips lower. Bruce clears his throat, shifting the attention from you, and your smirk deepens at the visible cracks in his composure. The tension in his jaw muscles, the white-knuckled grip on his now-empty glass of whiskey and most damningly, the way his pants do little to hide the beginnings of his arousal. 
Constantine chokes when he notices, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he stares with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. You tilt your head, eyes searching Bruce’s as you silently ask, rules?
With Zatanna, he’d wanted to watch, with Hal, it had been a competition between the two men to see who could fuck you better. That instance had left you unable to walk, not that you’d complained, but neither of those dynamics seemed right for John. 
In those seconds of silent conversation between you and your husband, John recovers, rougish grin covering his face. “Damn Bats, that–”
Whatever John was going to say was forgotten as you gripped his face, tilting his face up to pull him in for a sensual kiss. One of your hands tangles in the hair on the nape of his neck, tugging harshly. You’re rewarded with a whimper that you greedily swallow, prompting you to repeat the action, hoping to hear it again. 
You pull away, giggling a little when John absentmindedly chases after your lips, a dazed expression plastered across his normally cocksure face. Bruce had taken the opportunity to rise, moulding himself against your back, planting gentle kisses over the exposed skin of your neck and shoulders. 
John’s eyes follow the action dazedly, nearly bulging out of his head as Bruce’s hands deftly tug on the belt of your robe, helping you slide out of it as it slides to the floor forgotten. “Fuck, love, Bats.” The sorcerer croaks, hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs as he looks desperately between you and your husband as if searching for confirmation that this was happening. 
“Problem, Constantine?” Bruce asks, feigning ignorance as one of his calloused hands drifts between your legs. Your hips buck involuntarily, attempting to coax Bruce into touching you properly. 
"Don't be impatient," he chides quietly, gripping your waist to keep you still. 
John swallows, watching intently, squirming in his seat to try and find a comfortable position. "This isn't a dream, right?" His eyes are still flickering back and forth between you and Bruce, as if waiting for permission.
“Not a dream, love.” You sigh, head falling back against Bruce’s shoulder as he cups your tits, before he starts to walk you backwards. John watches, frozen, dazed as Bruce opens the study door until you speak up again, “Are you coming?”
John practically trips over himself to follow, making you giggle as you reach out, lacing his hand in yours as the three of you stumble into the nearest bedroom in a tangle of limbs and shed clothes.
In a brief moment of lucidity, you mentally thank the stars that none of the kids are home, and it dawns on you that Bruce probably planned this. But then his lips are back on your neck, and Constantine’s sprawled, naked across the mattress, and all other thoughts fly out the window. 
The sorcerer’s confidence had returned, his usual cocky smirk back as he takes in the way both you and Bruce stare appreciatively. “What are you waiting for?” He purred, and you pounced, kneeling between his spread thighs and pulling him into a bruising kiss. 
You feel the mattress dip behind you, Bruce’s now bare chest pressed against your back once more, caging you between him and John. 
“Of course you’re hard already, you little slut.” You and John moan together at Bruce’s words, the blonde’s head falling back with a hiss as one of your hands trails down to his neck, squeezing slightly as your thumb runs over his rapidly fluttering pulse.
John's eyes fluttered shut briefly, a gasp escaping his lips as Bruce's hands joined yours in caressing his body, only to snap open in surprise when cold metal clasps around his wrists and the headboard. 
“When did you–” He stutters a little, giving an experimental tug as his fingers flex. 
“I’ve learned not to question it, you’ll go insane.” You murmur between kisses you trail down his chest and abdomen. His hips flex, arching into your touch until Bruce makes a chiding sound, a large palm snaking around you to hold him down. 
“So impatient, both of you,” Bruce growls, nipping at your shoulder before he tugs you back against his chest, nudging your thighs open with his own. 
“Can you blame me, Bats?" John rasped, his voice hoarse with desire. “I see two gorgeous people and I can't help but want to test the limits a bit.”
“Such a brat, someone should teach you a lesson,” Bruce growled, his grip tightening.
John gasped, “I'm all for it, love. Knock some manners into me. Put me in my place.”
"You're a mouthy one, aren't you? Let's see if we can't find something better for you to do with your tongue besides run it."
John let out a surprised sound as Bruce captured his lips this time, biting down on his lower lip as your thumbs ran soothing circles over his hipbones. 
“Tell me, Johnny, how long have you wanted this? To be at our mercy?” You coo, delighting in the way his muscles flexed beneath your touch, straining against his bonds to try and reach for you or Bruce. 
“I…” he trails off, eyes following the movement of Bruce’s hands as they trail down your sides, one gripping your thigh to hold you in place as the other dips between your legs. 
He watched, entranced, until suddenly Bruce was tugging on his hair harshly and forcing him to look into Bruce’s, “She asked you a question, Constantine.”
“I…” He stutters once more, swallowing deeply to try and focus over the sudden sounds of your pretty moans. “Since I first saw you, both of you.” John strains against his bonds once more, aching to reach out and touch you as you grind down against Bruce’s fingers, mouth open in bliss. 
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it, Johnny?” Bruce teased, lethargically working you open as you relied on him to hold your weight up. 
John, meanwhile, was completely enraptured by the sight before him, powerless to do anything but watch, his entire body tense. 
“Isn’t my wife gorgeous?” Bruce hummed against your neck, eyes never leaving Constantine’s face as he nodded frantically. “Use your words, John. Tell us how pretty you think she is.”
John swallows heavily, his throat bobbing as he stares at your bare body “Beautiful,” he manages to get out finally, eyes dragging greedily over your curves. “Stunning,” he corrects, gaze lingering on the marks Bruce left on your throat. “Bloody sinful.”
John watched every moment, his eyes practically glued to you both, his hips arching off the mattress in desperate need for stimulation of his own.
“Good boy.” Bruce praises, nipping playfully at the shell of your ear. You whimper again, pressing your thighs together unconsciously. “What else do you like about my wife?”
John's eyes darken further at the reminder of your status, clenching his jaw. It's almost painful to watch as Bruce caresses you, doing what he desperately wants to. His knuckles are white as he strains against the handcuffs, cock twitching. 
“Everything,” John pants, his gaze flickering from you to Bruce and back. “Bloody everything.” His eyes rove over your body again, drinking in every inch as if he wants to commit you to memory.
“She's perfect. So bloody perfect,” he breathes, his words ending on a note between a laugh and a moan. “And smart, so bloody clever. And a mouth made for–” He sucks in a sharp breath, cutting himself off, still a little unsure of the boundaries. 
Bruce chuckles, his breath warm against your neck. “She is quite good at that,” he murmurs. “Always eager to be a good girl. Aren’t you, baby?” 
You nod desperately, whining when Bruce retracts his fingers, only to eagerly slide them into your mouth, tongue swirling around his digits before he pulls them free with a pop. “Why don’t you show Johnny how good you can be?”
Bruce slides back, allowing you more space to lean down, arching your back as you stare up at John. “You look so pretty like this, Johnny,” you hummed, “All tied up and wanting.”
John shivered under your touch. “Please, love”, he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. “I need– Fuck!” He swears, throwing his head back when you suddenly take him in your mouth. You hum in amusement, the vibrations making John see stars. 
The taste of salty pre-cum on your tongue was as intoxicating as the sight of him beneath you, his body trembling with need. “God, you're delicious,” you murmured. 
His fists clench, teeth digging into his lower lip as your hands migrate to his hips, preventing him from thrusting into your mouth as you slowly swirl your tongue around his leaking tip. All the while, your eyes never leave his face, relishing in the way his cheeks flush, sweat dripping down his temples. 
“Look at you, so needy,” Bruce said, leaning over to capture John’s earlobe between his teeth. “Such a pretty little slut.” You hum again in agreement, and John jolts beneath you. 
“Fuck, darlin, if you keep that up m’not gonna last.” He pants, too blissed out to be embarrassed at how quickly he’s about to cum from the glorious sensations your warm mouth provides.
It’s your fault, really, for teasing him so relentlessly, leaving him aching for your touch over the past few hours. 
Your only answer is taking him deeper into your mouth, head bobbing as your nose brushes against his pelvis, one of your hands moving to grip his ass. “Christ!” He hisses, heels digging into the mattress as his thigh muscles tremble. 
Suddenly, there’s a hand on the back of your neck, tugging you back upright against Bruce’s chest, causing you and John to let out whines of frustration. “Not yet. You haven’t earned it.” Bruce grunts, sliding his cock between your wet folds, barely giving you any warning before he lifts your hips before practically slamming you down. 
John's eyes go wide as he watches you sink down on Bruce, a sharp gasp escaping his lips at the sight, unable to look away from the erotic display before him, his body still burning from the orgasm he’d been denied. 
"God, you two look so good," he groaned, his voice hoarse and low. He wanted more than anything to touch himself, to touch you or Bruce, something, anything to help relieve the ache.  
One of Bruce’s hands slinked around to rub at your clit as he roughly bounced you up and down on his cock like a ragdoll, your head falling back against his shoulder, mouth open in ecstasy.
The sight of you, head thrown back in pleasure, was almost too much for John to handle. He was straining against the cuffs, his wrists undoubtedly bruising. “You cruel, beautiful people,” he groaned, “Making me watch but not letting me touch... It's torture.”
“You deserve a little torture, don't you think?” Bruce asked, his tone playful, but slightly strained as he maintained his pace. “You've been such a brat, after all.” 
“I... please... I'll behave,” John promised, his words coming out in ragged pants. His pride long forgotten in his need to cum. 
You moan loudly at his words, and Bruce’s rhythm falters a little, showcasing a crack in his composure. It seemed John wasn’t the only one worked up from tonight’s teasing. 
As pretty as John looked, you decided to take pity, wanting nothing more than to have him in your mouth once more. You leaned forward, your breath ghosting over the tip of his cock. Bruce doesn’t stop you, and you take it as all the permission you need, your tongue darting out to tease the sensitive head of John’s cock. 
Bruce leaned over your back, watching, mesmerised by the sight. “You look so pretty with your mouth full,” he muttered, his hands groping your tits and ass, each thrust pushing you further down John’s cock. 
“Please, please, please,” John panted, his body arching, “Bruce... I can't, I can't…”
“You will,” Bruce replied, his tone brooking no room for argument. His eyes were dark as he watched you take John's length deeper, his gaze flickering from your mouth to the way the blond was begging beneath you. “You'll be patient, taking what we give you, and you'll be damn grateful for it.”
Suddenly you pulled off John with a pop, moaning desperately “Bruce, baby, need to cum.”
Bruce’s hips stuttered, his hand moving to gently cradle your cheek. “Yeah, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and rough. 
You nodded, your words nothing but a needy whimper. "Please," you begged, barely even able to say that. 
“Alright, baby. Since you asked so nicely…” He grunted, smacking your ass before his hand slid around your front, middle finger providing the perfect amount of pressure on your clit. 
John, however, groaned in protest, “And what about me?” his frustration evident, brattiness slipping back into his tone. “What about what I need?”
“Thought I already told you to be patient, Constantine.” Bruce growled, before a wicked smirk crossed his face, “Besides, kids are out of the house for a few days, we’ve got all the time in the world.” John whimpers at the thought, though the sound is drowned out as you cum with a wail, slumping against his chest. 
Bruce, however, is far from finished. If you and John wanted to tease him, then you’d deal with the consequences.
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happy74827 · 1 month ago
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The Weight of Seeing
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[John Constantine x Female!Reader]
Synopsis: Having been cursed with the pain of having the power to see, but never the power to help, you were used to the failure. But it hurts more than you anticipated when your visions shifted to a certain someone who you realized meant everything to you {GIF Creds: thejingshi}.
WC: 2212
Category: Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical!John Constantine, Visionary!Reader {TW: Premonitions/Visions of Death, Migraines (i hate them)}
This is a little random idea I had sitting in my drafts for a tiny bit, but I felt very inclined to finish it. Especially with the lack of fics 💔
『••✎••』
The air in the safehouse is still.
Muted, like the world has agreed to hold its breath for once. Rain taps gently at the windows, and the scent of wet concrete drifts in through the small crack John left in the window when he went out. You sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, sunglasses perched delicately on the bridge of your nose—more for the throb behind your eyes than the overhead light, which John had dimmed before leaving. He’d remembered.
It’s the small things like that. The fact that he remembered you couldn’t stand harsh light during a migraine. The fact that he’d gone out at all for you.
You hear the door open before you see him. The creak of wood and the shuffle of boots are too familiar now to mistake. And then his presence fills the room like smoke—sharp, lingering, inescapable.
You don’t move. Not at first.
You just watch him.
John Constantine, drenched from the rain, coat clinging to his frame. His tie hangs loose around his neck, and a cigarette is crushed between two fingers, unlit—for now. There was a time when you couldn’t have imagined him not smoking the second he walked into a room. Maybe he’s changing. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just you.
His dark hair, still damp, curls at the ends. You’ve always noticed how it lies slightly off-center, like he’d run his fingers through it once, maybe twice, and given up halfway. And his eyes... those weary, predatory things. Dark, sunken, always scanning—like the world had lied to him too many times and now he never trusts anything at face value. But right now, they soften when they find you.
"You still breathing?" he asks, voice roughened at the edges. But quieter than usual. Calmer. Like he knows your head is splitting again.
You manage a nod.
John sets the small paper bag down on the nightstand and pulls the chair from the corner across the room. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, studying you. His silence is a loaded thing.
You take the glasses off slowly. Even through the pounding in your skull, you still wanted to see him.
"You didn’t have to go," you murmur.
He ignores that. "Tried to get the strong stuff. Your doc’s a cryptic bastard, but the pharmacist got the idea."
He lights the cigarette. Then, after one drag, stubs it out. He doesn’t look at you while he does it.
You tilt your head slightly. "You only smoke half when you’re nervous."
His jaw twitches.
"Don’t flatter yourself," he says, finally sinking into the chair. But his voice has lost all of its bite. The words fall flat—almost gentle, somehow.
You study him in silence. The way his fingers tap against his thigh, his coat hanging open and soaked through, clinging to that long frame of his. The faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. That impossible, wrecked beauty he carries like a curse. His hands—calloused, twitchy, always reaching for something to fight or light or fix.
Except now, they’re still.
He isn’t looking at you anymore, not directly—just watching the space around you like there’s something there he can’t quite name. You haven’t said much since he walked in, and for once, it isn’t the migraine that makes you quiet.
John notices. Of course he notices.
"You’re quieter than usual," he says. Not an accusation. Just observation, plain and pointed. He turns his head slightly, the weight of his gaze settling back on you. "Head worse?”
You hesitate, shaking your head. "No, It’s not that."
He leans back in the chair, arms folded. "Something happened while I was gone."
It isn’t a question, but rather just the truth, pulled right out of you without your even opening your mouth.
Your hands tense in your lap. You look down at them, at the pale curve of your fingers, like they might hold the answer for how to not say the thing pressing against your throat. But your silence is louder than anything now.
He waits. Patient, but not gentle. He never asks twice—he just gives you a moment to make your own choice about honesty.
Still, you don’t speak.
He sighs and rubs his eyes, the pads of his fingers digging into his sockets like he could push the weariness back in. "Premonition?"
Your breath catches.
You don’t mean for it to, but it does. The tell is enough.
John nods slightly. "Yeah," he mutters. "That checks out."
That shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. That unfazed tone. That shrug of reality, like death omens are as common as a change in the weather. It unknots something in you, something tangled in fear and guilt.
"I didn’t want to say anything," you admit, barely above a whisper. "Because if I said it, it would mean it’s real. And I thought maybe, if I stayed quiet long enough, it’d just... go away."
He doesn’t interrupt. He just leans forward again, his arms resting on his knees, listening.
"I’ve seen people die," you say. "Over and over. And I try—I do. I try to get there in time or warn them. But it’s always too late. Always."
He watches you with those sharp, tired eyes, but he doesn’t flinch or look away.
You look up at him then, blinking against the sting behind your eyes. "But this time it was you, John."
A silence like thunder settles between you.
"I saw it," you say, voice cracking. "I saw you die. And I just—I couldn’t breathe for minutes after. It hurt. Like it already happened."
Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just listens.
"I’ve failed before," you continue, softer now. "I’ve tried to save people, and they die anyway. And I thought I could live with that, but now—" You swallow hard. "I don’t think I can live through losing you."
A beat passes. Then another.
And finally, he stands. Slow. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare you off.
"You ever think maybe you care too much?" he asks, tone dry—but his eyes say something else. Something bruised and aching.
You smile faintly, humorless. "Maybe. But I don’t think that’s the worst thing to be guilty of."
John studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed slightly. Then he sighs.
You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to do. Maybe turn around and leave. He does that sometimes, when the truth gets too close. When you both come too close to the line neither has crossed. But instead, he walks to the bed and sinks down beside you, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on a point on the wall across from you.
The air in the safehouse grows heavier, thick with the weight of your confession and the rain’s relentless patter outside. John’s presence beside you is a quiet storm, his silence louder than any words could be. His shoulder brushes yours, just enough to make your pulse stutter, but he doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.
You steal a glance at him. His profile is sharp against the dim light—angular jaw, the faint lines etched around his eyes, the way his mouth sets in a line that’s neither soft nor hard, just John. He’s close enough that you can smell the rain on his coat, the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to him despite the stubbed-out remnant. It’s grounding, that scent. It’s him.
"You didn’t fail anybody," he says finally, voice low, gravelly, like he’s pulling the words from somewhere deep. "Least of all me."
You shake your head, the motion small but sharp. "You don’t get it, John. I saw it. You were—" Your voice catches again, and you press your lips together, trying to hold it in. The image flashes behind your eyes: blood pooling on pavement, his body still, those sharp eyes fading forever. "It was so real. I could feel it. Like I was there."
He turns his head then, just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are darker now, searching, like he’s trying to see the vision you saw, to carry it for you. "I've outlasted worse," he says, and there’s a conviction in his tone that almost makes you believe him. Almost.
"You can’t know that," you whisper, your voice barely holding together. "You don’t even know what I saw."
He shifts, angling his body toward you, his knee brushing against yours. The contact is fleeting but deliberate, and it sends a jolt through you, like static. "I’ve been dodging death longer than you’ve been having visions," he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with that dry certainty. "I’m not saying it’s a guarantee, but I’m a hard bastard to kill."
You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound, and it eases the knot in your chest just a fraction. "You’re impossible," you murmur, but there’s no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just relief that he’s here, alive, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Part of my charm," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s still watching you, too closely, like he’s waiting for you to crack again. Or maybe he’s the one about to crack, and he’s just better at hiding it.
The silence stretches again, taut and fragile, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is. Close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat, the way his fingers flex slightly against his knees, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. You wonder what it would feel like if he did. If he closed that last inch of space between you. If he let himself.
You’ve thought about it before—too many times, in moments when you shouldn’t. In moments when he’s looked at you like he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. But John Constantine doesn’t do soft. He doesn’t do promises or attachments or anything that could break him more than he’s already broken. And yet, here he is, sitting on this bed, not running.
"You’re scared," he says suddenly, and it’s not a question. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the haze in your head like a blade. "Not just about the vision."
Your breath hitches, and you hate that he can read you so easily. You want to deny it, to deflect, but the words won’t come. Instead, you look down at your hands again, fingers twisting together, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
"I’m scared of a lot of things," you admit, barely audible. "But yeah. Mostly you."
He doesn’t laugh or smirk or brush it off like you expect him to. Instead, he leans closer, just enough that his shoulder presses fully against yours now, solid and warm. "You don’t have to be," he says, and for once, there’s no edge to his voice, no sarcasm or deflection. Just truth, raw and unguarded.
Your heart stumbles in your chest. You turn your head to look at him, and he’s already looking at you, closer than he’s ever been. His eyes are dark, endless, and for a moment, you think you see something flicker in them—something that looks like fear, or want, or both. The air between you feels like it might snap, like a wire pulled too tight.
"John," you say, and his name feels heavy on your tongue, like a confession in itself.
He doesn’t move, but his gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, and it’s enough to make your pulse race. Enough to make you wonder what it would be like to close the distance, to taste the rain and smoke on his lips, to let yourself fall into whatever this is that’s been simmering between you for too long.
But he pulls back, just an inch, and the moment fractures. Not gone, but held in suspension, like the rain outside. He clears his throat, looks away, and runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it even more disheveled.
"You need to rest," he says, voice rough again, like he’s trying to ground himself. "Migraine’s bad enough without you staying up worrying about me."
You want to argue, to tell him you’re not the one who needs saving, but the exhaustion in your bones wins out. You nod, shifting to lie back on the bed, your head still throbbing but somehow lighter now. He doesn’t leave, though. He stays there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, like he’s keeping watch.
"John," you say again, softer this time, as your eyes start to drift closed.
"Yeah?" His voice is quiet, almost tender.
"Don’t die," you whisper, and it’s half a plea, half a prayer.
He doesn’t answer right out, but you feel the bed shift slightly as he leans closer, his breath warm against your temple.
"Not planning on it," he murmurs, and you realize then that this was the closest thing to a promise you’ll ever get from him.
So, begrudgingly, you close your eyes and let the words settle over you as the rain shifts into being a quiet witness to the peace between you.
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juicykvnture · 2 months ago
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Sorry I need a moment for these underrated baddies.
I fear I’m scraping through the depths of tumblr and fear I have to lock in personally and write something for them..
also if you have any ideas/prompts lmk!!’
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omgfangirlland · 30 days ago
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ANOTHER IDEA HAS APPEARED!!(I have a reporting and an exam tomorrow but this is more important😃)
A John Constantine daughter/apprentice who got teleported in the marvel/supernatural/invinsible universe (I can't pick between the three) due to a her making a mistake in spell casting or maybe she was experimenting with a new spells which leads to her being sent in another universe.
Reader can see ghost of course and she's an orphan (it'd be fun if there's a twist on who her biological parents are). Reader goes to school like any normal kids does, she gets to attend school due to being on a scholarship. It depends on you on what age she meets John Constantine. At first, John Constantine doesn't really see anything special on the kid except she's a bundle of sunshine who likes to keep a positive outlook on life despite living in Gotham. She slowly wiggles her way into John C. Heart like a worm then they slowly formed a bond like that of a father and daughter.
Reader is more of an adventurous gal who's always curious about things, always eager to learn, and would always try out or experiment on spells despite John C. Told her not to. Most of her failed attempt weren't really bad since she'd only sometimes set something on fire, accident summon a demon (I mean, who hasn't done that before? Just another Tuesday), accidentally sent herself to Sahara desert, accidentally turned all of John C. Outfits into color pink (we don't talk about it.. John C. Had to wear those pink outfit for weeks while he was working) and other stuff but those weren't really bad (readers words, not mine). It was another day where reader was doing another experiment but this time.. She got sent to another universe with no knowledge on how to get back and no way of contacting John Constantine. Que to John Constantine going all Father mode and looking everywhere for reader while reader is just curiously checking out the place she got teleported to and curious of what new spells she could possibly learn.. (I feel like if she's in marvel, she'd ask Wanda or Dr strange to teach her some spells or something)
-🔱
And you know he rocked those pink outfits- I also think he was gaslighting anyone who said anything about it :))
You gave the backstory, so I'll just start, and I'll actually go the supernatural route, around 1979 after Dean comes back from the boys' home-
Btw- if anyone knows how Wendy Gos came to look like that- the deer head with antlers when the natives are saying they look more similar to the ones in Until Dawn- let me know, I'm dead curious.
Is it because some white film director decided they aren't scary enough? Was it a white man's fear built from seeing a traditional ritual, kind of like we have cu Capra, where we dress up as a makeshift goat and dance and sing?
I was actually thinking of going the John W. found you first, but I'd like the other way around better- So, clearly, John W was out on a job, probably hunting a Wendy boy(I am a very superstitious person so I'm not playing with full names, I already have bad luck, thanks- I'm also watching creepy stuff on youtube so that clearly isn't helping) so let's say the wendyboy got the upper hand, knocked the gun out of John's hands and as he scrambles for the weapon he hears a voice speaking a language he is too adrenaline fueled to understand.
When he turns to look back at the monster, gun aiming right at its head, he sees you standing next to the creature, who was frozen midair. "I always wanted to see one close up. They look so much like a strigoi, it's crazy!" He can only stare at you as you pull out a sleek camera and take multiple pictures of the monster.
It takes a moment for him to lower his gun and find his breath. And it takes you looking at him and smiling to realize you're a kid, around Dean's age. "If you're going to fight creatures like these, it's better to not be alone. OR you know... use magic."
"Do I look like a witch?" The man was still in shock, groaning as he got up. "Thinking only women can be witches is such backwards thinking- My dad's one and he'll have plenty to say about your 1980's way of thinking." He huffed at your words, sputtering as he tried to backtrack, stopping as soon as he noticed your amused look and as the year you said registered.
"It's 1979." Your smile twitched as your shoulders dropped. "I am beyond grounded when he finds me."
John W wasn't planning on taking care of you, not after finding you're from the 20xx's, but finding out your father is a skilled demon hunter does change his mind. That's how you found yourself in the same motel as him and his boys.
Was it a bad idea to follow a grown man to his motel? Yes. Will your John have an aneurysm when he finds out? Yes. Did it end well? Yes! Sammy is a sweetheart, and Dean has been nice, if a little quiet. Honestly, you could feel the tension between him and his father from miles away.
But the boys loved having you around. John W seemed so much more- soft? ...Tender? Different. Not as mean or rough, he stayed back more, spent time with them more- Sam thinks it's because he's starting to realize the shit he pulls and is trying to be better, Dean knows it's because he can't say no to you.
It would be funny if it didn't hurt. And Dean doesn't hate you, he can't. You don't know what John W is truly like, how mean and hurtful he gets. How he almost left him to rot because he just wanted to feed Sammy.
Dean gets his lick back by shily making you ask his dad to do the stuff he has always wanted- in that sibling way of "But tell him YOU want to do that". It hurts that it works, not even with Sammy would he have been able to pull that, but as you laugh with his younger brother, spinning as fast as those cursed carousel tea cups could go, he can't be mad.
After a while, Dean thinks you're lying about your John coming for you, but he doesn't say anything. He hopes the man doesn't, if he exists. It'll keep you in their life, it'll keep his dad as fatherly as he once was. He likes you, Sammy likes you, John W likes you.
To the boys, you've become family in the two weeks spent together, and John sure as hell isn't correcting Sammy when the boy calls you sis, not that you do either, you can't when the teen looks at you like you hold the sky. And on the third week, Dean was sure you were bound to stay.
John Constantine had a horrendous month, starting with Batman hammering his head about a possible yellow-eyed demon being connected to people burning under mysterious circumstances, continuing with finding the book he told you not to read wide open on the floor, and you nowhere in sight.
But it did end when he found you in South Dakota- well, he found two grown men muttering to themselves over some old magical books. You found your dad holding John's W own dagger to his neck, eyes glowing with fire from the depths of hell, as you walked through the door with the boys right behind you, Bobby's gun aiming right at him.
"Oh, hi Dad. I made new friends!"
John's C mistake was relaxing as he saw you just fine holding an ice cream, John W took the opportunity to headbutt the man.
Constantine isn't happy about any of this- he wants out faster than you can say Hellblazer, alas, the oldest Winchester may know something about the yellow-eyed demon that's been wreaking havoc in your world.
Sigh... Bats owes him a good bottle of scotch.
----
Something that I had in mind to add, but it didn't go the way I initially wanted it to:
You leave Sam and Dean two necklaces, half of a coin each. If something big happens that they need help with, they'll need to connect the coin, and a portal will open right to them, allowing you to come and help.
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eternallyfrustratedwriter · 4 months ago
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The Curious Case of Reluctant Immortals Masterlist
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Summary:
In a place where your very existence goes against all logic, how do you go on? Surrounded by fear and uncertainty, his smile might just give you a reason to live.
Relationships: Hal Jordan x Reader(Main Ship), John Constantine x Reader (Secondary Ship), Dick Grayson x Reader (Kind of but not really)
Content Warnings: Major character death, minor character death, blood, gore, PTSD, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, age gap relationship
Authors Note: This is my first time dipping my toe into Canon x Reader fics. A couple things to note, Reader, while mostly featureless, has enough hair to put into a ponytail and she is on the shorter side. She is late 20's, I'm shooting for 28 but late 20's is the idea. I will be referring to them by either their hero name, Ember, or various nicknames the other characters give them. No use of Y/N.
Also, this is un-beta'd and slightly unedited, for a more polished version you can read this fic on my Ao3 as well. The link to my Ao3 is on my masterlist.
Age Chart:
Reader- Late 20's but I'm imagining 28
Hal Jordan- 36
Oliver Queen- 39
Bruce Wayne- 39
Dick Grayson- 26
John Constantine- 34
Music Inspiration: The entire album Vide Noir by Lord Huron. (The lyrics in these songs are sooo good!)
Overall word count: 66,622
Prologue- Word Count 659
Chapter 1- Word Count 1,864
Chapter 2- Word Count 1,793
Chapter 3- Word Count 1,621
Chapter 4- Word Count 2,274
Chapter 5- Word Count 2,331
Chapter 6- Word Count 1,943
Chapter 7- Word Count 2,296
Chapter 8- Word Count 2,610
Chapter 9- Word Count 2,673
Chapter 10- Word Count 1,999
Chapter 11- Word Count 3,499
Chapter 12- Word Count 3,168
Chapter 13- Word Count 2,951
Chapter 14 - Word Count 3,248
Chapter 15 - Word Count 3,348
Chapter 16 - Word Count 3,958
Chapter 17 - Word Count 3,595
Chapter 18 - Word Count 2,966
Chapter 19 - Word Count 2,445
Chapter 20 - Word Count 2,745
Chapter 21 - Word Count 2,407
Chapter 22 - Word Count 2,854
Chapter 23 - Word Count 3,616
Chapter 24 - Word Count 3,757
To be continued...
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morpheusbaby3 · 10 months ago
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I love how Morpheus is The Sandman but he is constantly humiliated or berated by women. I especially like when Lucienne does this, in canon or in fanfics.
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kira-okamoto · 1 year ago
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『 Lᴇᴏ Pɪɴᴏᴄʜʟᴇ x Fᴇᴍ! Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ sᴍᴜᴛ
》。・♡゚• 。♡゚・。
➳Cautions!: NSFW, smut, how he fucks you.
Short one shot, 186 words, but I'll write more about Leo as time goes on :3
➳A/N: I was looking for Leo content and I didn't find anything, so I had to do it :^ enjoy!
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Leo often seeks attention from you when he is tired from work at High Card, or simply when he needs to see you or feel you cuddled up to him. Some of these encounters end up escalating in tone, and then he seeks out your soft thighs and pulls them up over his shoulders, leans over you and his lips caress your neck, move up to your lips and then back down languidly to your jaw. His hands move down to your soaking wet pussy and he pushes your panties aside without even removing your skirt, tantalizing your dripping, eager pussy. His fingers bury themselves in you, caressing you and showering you with caresses, attending to your most sensitive parts that make you scream his name as you scratch the back of his neck. Of course, he doesn't let you cum, not until he's pounded your lewd sex, making obscene sounds fill the place while you just moan and writhe in pathetic pleasure.
"You really like this, huh?" Is what he says with a chuckle escaping his lips.
"U-uhm" Is all you can say. Because yes, you love it.
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jolenes-book-journey · 8 months ago
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A Little Getaway by Bonnie Traymore
A Little Getaway by Bonnie Traymore
A little getaway takes a deadly turn for Morgan and Kyle Murphy in this spicy suspense thriller about a marriage filled with passion, secrets, and suspicions. Title: A Little Getaway Author: Bonnie Traymore Genre: Spicy Suspense Thriller Morgan Murphy has always longed for a romance for the ages. And she’s found it with husband Kyle Murphy—until their spicy marriage suddenly starts to cool…
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womanofwords · 22 days ago
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Darling Demon (Part 5)
Yandere!batfam x betrothed!neglected!male!reader x yandere!demon!spouse
TW: mind control, partial nudity.
In the morning, all the crosses moved to be near you. You weren't even going to bother asking about it. Nobody ever asked you about anything. You just got up to change.
"Have a good sleep, little wing?" Dick asked. He was already awake, and standing over you expectantly.
"Yeah," you groaned.
Dick hugged you with glee. "Good news, Y/N! You won't have to marry that awful demon!"
"What?"
"We've found someone that can help you. His name's John Constantine, and he's got magic on his side. No demon will ever be touching you, I promise!"
"Don't promise that. It might not come true."
Dick looked at you with worried eyes. "It will, little wing."
You met John Constantine after breakfast. He greeted you with a handshake and an ever-present smell of cigarettes. "So you must be Y/N Wayne," he said. "I'm John Constantine. Consider me your supernatural divorce lawyer."
"How is this even supposed to work?" you asked. "Azrir seemed very confident about me being his . . . her . . . their husband."
"Yes, demons are often like that. Comes with the territory." John looked closely at your wrists. "Did Azrir do that?"
"Yes. The words are probably just for fun."
"I see." John looked at your immovable bracelets like exhibits at a museum. "How about you and me go and see the manager?"
"That would be nice." You felt muscles loosen. "Even if you can't do anything, I would like to know how my mother's contract works."
"Your mother?" John stiffened. "What does this have to do with your mother?"
You told John everything you'd learned; how Azrir and another demon came for you on your eighteenth birthday, at the precise moment of you being eighteen, claiming that you had been betrothed to Azrir by your mother when you were three in exchange for her having acting talent. To his credit, John listened to you, nodding when appropriate.
"This is more difficult than I thought. From the way your father said it, it sounded like a demon had taken you out of nowhere and demanded to have sex with you." John sighed, stubbing out his cigarette. "Fine. Let's go and find this Azrir and see what he likes about you."
John muttered an incantation and opened a portal of his own. Just like that, you arrived in hell, a mess of fire and screams. "Stick close to me," he whispered, as he walked into the nightmare.
"What business do you have here, sorcerer?" a demon growled. Notably not Azrir, but highly aggressive anyway.
"Here to speak to Azrir, the . . . demon that claims to be married to Y/N," John said.
"Ah, the warrior demon. Won a pure human's soul in a battle for an unclaimed soul bound for hell. Their bragging has been echoing through hell." He bent down to look at you, smirking. "I wonder is Azrir is willing to share the spoils of war."
"DO NOT TOUCH MY PRIZE!" Azrir arrived in a flurry of fire and rage. "He is mine and mine alone. Only I get to touch his skin. You are lucky to even look at him. Now leave before my death toll has one more meaningless name added to it."
The other demon fled, and Azrir turned to you with a smirk. "That was fun. Now, Y/N, what do you want to know?"
This was humiliating. "Well, Azrir, are you male or female? I need to know so I don't get surprised when you're . . . consummating the marriage."
Azrir laughed at you again. "Oh, little prize, you can have whatever you want with me," they laughed. "Demons are shapeshifters with no inherent sex; we imitate whatever human gender we feel like. I'll become whatever makes you think the most lurid thoughts about me."
John looked at Azrir in disgust. "Azrir, Y/N did not agree to this. They were three years old when the contract was signed."
"His mother forfeited his soul for her own needs, just like the souls and lives of all her family members. She knew exactly what would and could happen, and she did not care. So long as the person signing the contract is an adult, all is permitted." Azrir spoke with a smugness that made you want to sob your eyes out. Your mother called you her lucky chip. She said you were the foundation to her success. Those innocent memories were now painted in a horrible new light.
"How are we supposed to know if you're telling the truth?" John asked.
"I have the contract in my possession, written in clear terms and signed by Y/N Wayne's mother. Read it and see that I do not ask for anything that wasn't promised in the contract signed."
Two scrolls of parchment unravelled, and you and John read through them. The first one was the arrangement your mother made.
For the price of Y/N's soul and betrothing them to any demon that lays claim to them by the time they turn eighteen, M/N is entitled to great acting ability. M/N understands that for the terrible sin of sacrificing the soul of an innocent child, she is damned to hell for all eternity with no chance of ever getting into heaven. All tortures shall be available to her when she descends to hell, as she was willing to put that child through the same tortures for the sake of her own goals.
M/N.
The second was all the rules about a demon taking a human spouse by way of contract. The fact that there were different rules for contract demon marriages freaked you out.
Any demon that is set to take a human spouse can only take a human that has already been condemned to hell. A demon can win an unclaimed human soul by fighting other demons to the death for the soul and the soul's condemned owner. From that point on, that human is now the spouse of that demon, who is free to do what they wish to the human without needing their permission. They can do so with brute force, or with the power of puppeteering, where the demon can compel their human, and only their human, to do as they wish. The demon is in full control, even after the human dies. Upon the death of the human spouse, they shall be dragged to hell to continue to be their demon's possession.
"All this is true," you said. Your voice and your legs shook. "Azrir has me for all eternity."
"I certainly do," Azrir taunted. "You are all mine. I have not broken a single rule. Your father's sorcerer cannot steal you away from me. Nothing can."
"If you can make him do what you like, then why haven't you?" John asked.
"My own personal choice." Azrir grinned as they looked you up and down. "I want the little prize to whine for me. Considering what I could do, it's a lot more difficult, but worth the payoff."
"Please don't hurt me," you whimpered.
"I won't harm you, little war bounty." A chair materialised and Azrir sat on it. "Just relax and sit on my knee facing me."
You felt your head emptying. You saw Azrir and heard Azrir. You walked towards them and straddled their knee, gazing up at them.
"Now, remove your clothes from the waist up and give them to me."
You did so, looking up at Azrir the whole time. Azrir commanded you. Azrir was in control. You belonged to Azrir.
"What are you doing?" John yelled. You didn't hear him.
"Proving a point. If I wanted to force Y/N into anything, I could easily have done it by now." Azrir chuckled as they stared down at you. "Open your mouth wide and start sucking on the end of my tail. Put as much of it into your mouth as you can without gagging."
John watched the demon treat you like a toy, his stomach flipping. Oh, demons were a lot more sick than he remembered. "Oh, you are very good. Are you really a virgin?" Azrir asked you. You nodded, their tail still in your mouth. "Impressive."
"How long do you have to prove this point?" John asked. "Because if it's until you get the point, then I get it."
"Understood," Azrir said, letting his tail leave your mouth. A string of spit kept the orifice and the appendage connected, not that you were able to comprehend that. "My little prize, you will return to your home with the wizard and sleep in your bed. You will remember everything except for my demonstration and you will no longer be in my thrall when you wake up. Be good for me, my war bounty."
"Yes, Azrir," you said, getting off of Azrir and returning to John.
John looked at your shirt, crumpling in Azrir's grasp. "Aren't you going to give them their clothing back?"
"It is part of my collection now," Azrir said. "Just like they will be."
"You are depraved," John hissed at Azrir, as he took you away.
Azrir just laughed.
*_*_*_*_*_
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO?!" Bruce screamed.
"Azrir's covered their bases well. Since Y/N's mother gave up their soul on their behalf, and she was an adult, there's nothing that can be done. Y/N can't object, and neither can you. Demons follow rules, and they haven't broken a single one."
"Hello, Bruce," you said, walking past your father while shirtless.
"Where did your clothes go, Y/N?" Bruce was about to confront you, but John stopped him.
"It's best that you don't know," he whispered.
Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @c4xcocoa, @darkmoka, @fightmebissh.
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pointbreakvhs · 27 days ago
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Salvation
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Pairing : John Constantine x female!reader Genre : angst, horrror Warnings : graphic violence and gore, demonic possession, psychological horror, body horror
Divider by @enchanthings-a
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John Constantine inhales sharply on his cigarette, dark eyes locked on his glass of wine. His face is stoic, utterly devoid of warmth. “Almost the regular case.”
John values his solitude. Demon hunting helps. Gives him something to do, something to fight, something to keep his mind off the past he hates more than anything. A life he never asked for, never wanted, and deep down resents with every breath. Hunting demons lets him blow some steam, lash out at the curse he drags like a chain, the curse that followed him back after he crawled out of Hell.
He saw it. Hell. Just for a second. After his suicide attempt. In the ambulance, heart stopped, eyes wide open. Long enough to know he never wants to go back. But the damage is done. His soul is marked. Doomed. And yeah, he will probably die young anyway from all the cigarettes. Part of him couldn’t care less. The other part? Quietly terrified. Always.
His cold gaze lands on the window with the blinds half-lowered. Then it shifts to you, waiting in silence, trying not to breathe too deeply. The somber apartment is thick with smoke, and it is starting to mess with your head. You say nothing, even though you are desperate to break the silence, to spill your fears, to beg.
John Constantine is intimidating.
You’d heard he was the best demon hunter in the city. But you expected someone more sympathetic, less detached. He says nothing as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.
You have a problem. A big one.
Possession.
Yours.
Your heart pounds. You sit up straighter, trying not to look nervous. The cigarette smoke clings to everything. You have counted at least three smokes in the ten minutes since you arrived.
You tell him about the nightmares, gory, surreal visions of places that shouldn’t exist. The nightmares flood back, sharper now, clawing at your mind.
The deer’s body splits open with a wet crack. Its guts spill out, dark and rope-like. Something inside moves. Then the tendrils come. Barbed and twitching, they latch onto your arms, pulling you down. They scream your name, over and over, like a hundred dying things choking on blood. Thick black mud crawls up your legs. It is cold at first, then it burns. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. Your name punches through your chest like a rusted spike, every letter a scream inside your bones. Then the blood comes, boiling and thick, filling your lungs. You try to cry out, but sulfur pours down your throat. It scalds everything. And still, something laughs in the dark.
Constantine’s eyes narrow as you describe the tendrils, a grim flicker crossing his face, like he’s faced this kind of thing before.
“That void you saw? It’s waiting for you if we don’t cut this thing out.”
No surprise flickers in his gaze.
“Demons don’t just disappear because you say your evening prayer.”
The chill in his voice cuts deeper than you expected. You’re angry, but what choice did you have? You needed help.
“I know. The church gave me your address.”
Desperation drove you to the church’s doorstep, where a priest’s trembling hand scribbled Constantine’s name and number.
Finally, he looks at you. His eyes scan your face. His voice is quiet but heavy when he speaks.
“The address is easy to find. The real problem? What you’re willing to do to fix this.”
You blink. His words hang in the air.
“Anything,” you say, voice trembling as you meet his gaze. “I want the visions to stop. I don’t feel like I’m living anymore. I can’t think about anything else.”
Despair rises as you say it out loud, memories surging back in full force. You try to push them down, but they are stronger than you.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He takes a sip of wine, the liquid disappearing down his throat. You catch yourself staring at the curve of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple moves. You don’t know why it makes your heart beat faster.
He sets the glass down with a soft clink.
He’s handsome, in a worn-down kind of way. White shirt, black tie, skin pale as death. A man frayed at the edges. Too bad he is a cynical and a detached prick.
He watches you, unmoving, like he can see straight through you. He grabs the pack of cigarettes on the table, pulls out another one, and lights it in a single, practiced motion.
“I’ve seen worse cases than yours,” he says. “But honestly? Not many.”
He exhales through his nose, head tilted slightly. There’s something peculiar in the way he studies you.
“An exorcism,” he says. “But forget what you’ve seen in movies. That'll be just me, you, and whatever’s eating you from the inside.”
The silence after that line is sharp. Cold. The chill in the apartment deepens.
“You need to understand something,” he says. “From the moment you walk through that door with me, you leave your old life outside. That version of you? It’s already dead. You try to go back to normal? Bad idea. That door doesn’t open backward.”
He looks right at you.
“You’ve got two choices, and neither is pretty. One, walk away. Pretend it’s just stress, bad dreams. Have some sleep and tea. Then two weeks from now, someone finds your twisted body in a bathtub or at the bottom of a ten floor building. Two, you stay. And we start.”
Silence.
He tilts his head.
“So?” he says. “You want to be free again? Or did you just come to complain and leave?”
You thought you were ready. You were when you knocked, when you sat in the chair. But now, staring into the abyss he just opened in front of you, you’re not so sure.
Your hands shake.
“I have a life. A job. People who count on me.”
He doesn’t react. Not really. Like he knew you’d say that.
“Mmh. Yeah, sounds like a real fairy tale,” he starts with dry sarcasm.
“Everyone who comes through here says that.” He sighs, eyes boring into you.
“You want to keep your neat little life? Fine. Keep waking up soaked in sweat. Keep trembling every time you pass a mirror. Keep hearing voices whisper your name while you’re shopping for milk.”
He exhales, the smoke brushing your face like a slap.
“But be honest with yourself. Is that still your life? Or just a well-disguised nightmare?”
Silence.
Then, lower, quieter, without sarcasm.
“Those bastards, they gnaw. And when there’s nothing left to take, they rip out what’s left.”
You try to steady your breath. He stands, walks to the window, lifts the blind, glances outside. Then lets it fall and turns back.
He doesn’t smile.
He crosses his arms. You notice faint lines of black tattoos just under his rolled sleeves.
“The nightmares, the mud, the voice calling your name, that’s not just a haunting. That’s a bond. Something saw you, chose you, and latched on. Part of you accepted it, even if you didn’t mean to.”
His voice hardens.
“I have to break that bond. That means stripping your mind bare. Throwing you headfirst into whatever you’ve been running from. And if it resists, we force it.”
He pauses, walking back to the table.
“And I’ll say it now. I’m not here to hold your hand. It’s going to be dirty, violent, maybe humiliating.”
He takes a drag. Calm.
“But it might save your skin.”
Your mouth is dry. Your body screams to run, to leave, to pretend you never came. You could still walk out. Go back to your job, your friends, your neat little reality.
But you know that reality’s already cracked. Already leaking. And you might die soon.
You look at the worn book on the table. Constantine’s fingers trace the spine, his eyes never leaving yours. Your skin prickles.
You think of the visions, the blood, the deer, the name in the dark.
You swallow hard. You open your mouth. Then close it. A silence settles like minutes, him inhaling on his cigarette, dark eyes on you.
You clench your fists.
“What’s this going to cost me? My soul?”
Then you whisper, “What if I’m not ready?”
Constantine doesn’t blink. Doesn’t judge. He just takes another slow drag, exhales through his nose, eyes steady on you.
“Then you walk out that door. And in a few nights, whatever’s inside you will finish settling in.”
The words slam into you. Cold. Final.
You want to argue. Say you’re not weak. Say you’ll be fine. But that’s denial. And you both know it.
You rub your hands, trying to ease your shaking. The air in the room is thick. Not just with smoke, but with something else you can’t name.
“If I stay, I might not come out the same,” you say, more to yourself than to him.
His voice is steady. “You already aren’t the same.”
Silence.
Your heart pounds. Then, slowly, like gravity pulling you down, you nod. A shaky breath escapes as you whisper.
“I’m terrified.”
A breath.
“But I’m in.”
Constantine watches you for a long second, not surprised. Maybe a hint of respect flickers behind his stoic gaze. Then it’s gone.
“Don’t lie to it” he says, voice low. "It knows you."
You close your eyes and step into the dark.
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valentinxd · 2 months ago
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random ideas in my head that I can’t get out and may write.
John Wick being a mechanic and he’s wearing that stupid full body mechanic suit and he’s got you on a work bench pretending to work on you but it’s all smut.
Neo with a female reader who is a cyborg he built and he gave you the ability to touch. More wholesome like you two are just adorable little idiots.
Being John and Helen’s maid but like - they have a thing for you. Hiring you to clean but then slowly spoiling you and then finally just having you move in and straight to the bedroom.
Trying to build a crib with Jack but you both keep fucking it up and struggle with each little piece. Struggling to read the instructions, struggling to find the right pieces and putting things on backwards
Smoking a cigarette on a rooftop with a teenage John Constantine listening to rock music after his death attempt. Sitting in silence in the dark with only the street light on, the crickets are the only sound and he’s wearing a jean jacket hiding his arms and all you can do is hold his hand which refuses to let go because out of everyone in this world he’s scard of losing is you.
Being Donaka Mark’s first love and taking care of him after he gets into his first fight. One of the many boyfriends his absent mother has decided to put him in his place and he stumbles into your apartment holding him, bandagaing his wounds and pressing small kisses to his bruised face and seeing something inside him change and you fear you can’t get him back.
Yandere Neo and Trinity both altering your life in the Matrix because they both become obsessed with you and so they decide to make it worse to “save you.” Little things get worse in your life, you lose your job, things break, your partners start off sweet but become worse, and why do you keep seeing two people in the corner of your room at night? Your just dreaming right?
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fernpetals · 6 months ago
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Can you please write Yandere Constantine with a female reader who can see dead people's souls who are trapped on earth? She has a normal life and is an ordinary office worker. Those souls are her friends and usually communicate with her because they need her help to go to the afterlife. Sometimes they also save her from danger. She is a very kind person and helps them to be free, but that is not her main job; she cannot fight demons like Constantine. One day he saw her and realised how unique she is and became obsessed with her. 
Thank you ❤️
Finally, I have managed to complete this request!
Hopefully, you will like it.
Masterlist
Yandere Constantine x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of child deaths, grieving and paranormal encounters, yandere thoughts, stalking and misuse of occult
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The GIF is not mine, all credits to the owner.
Unedited Piece
You watch as a man follows after a woman as they exit the restaurant you are sitting in. Unlike the woman, though, the man is faded, almost grey. His left hand still forming from the grey mist around him. A ghost---the ghost of her late husband. You do not know the woman but with one glance at her and the ‘figure’ that manifested right beside you. You know that she is a grieving widow, and it is her grief that is keeping her husband from entering the spirit world wholly. He swings between the mortal and the spiritual plane.
Very few like yourself can see them—all seven planes present behind veils of dimensions. But you choose to stop on the third. Beyond that…You do not want to know. Entities will know that you know and do not wish your great-grandmother’s fate upon you. 
Your mother says that you are a splitting image of her, and you know that is true, though she demanded all her portraits and pictures if any, to be burnt after her death. You have her powers, she communicates with you, but only sometimes. You like to think she also protects you. Maybe she does.
The back of your neck prickles when you feel a pair of sharp, calculating eyes. As if summoned, your gaze matches deep, brown orbs staring at you, but you feel as if they have your soul under the microscope.
.
.
Constantine tilts his head. Curiosity. That is what brings him to this boring restaurant filled with oblivious people. In his defence, he did not mean to follow you around like a creep. But he couldn’t help himself— someone who shares his vision—almost. Something is different, but he has not been able to put a pin on it. So here he is now.
Constantine first saw you right outside Midnite’s, petting a puppy—well, that was a shapeshifter, thankfully harmless. But then, he saw your gaze turn sideways, and he followed your gaze. A few feet away, stood a lost soul searching for the light. Only a few people have the ‘sight’, and he could feel it in the air that night—something was different—not off, just…distinct.
There is no difference in energy, your aura is different—a pack of contrasts—strong but vulnerable, resilient but with a fragility in it, welcoming, warm but guarded. Well, that is good. Being guarded is good. Constantine looks away, fiddling with his pack of nicotine. After his close brush with death and liberation, he has been…different. At least now he seeks the meaning rather than cynically turning away from everything good, thinking it as a cruel trick of God.  Sipping on his coffee, he watches you leave. He does not follow you this time, he has all the confirmation he needs. You can see the dead, and he hopes that you know about the dangers that come with your power. 
—----
Although reluctantly, Constantine has come to believe in fate. He has fate to blame when he finds you at the hospital he visits for his ‘maintenance’, something he likes to call his regular follow-up check-ups regarding his miraculously healed lung cancer.
Constantine is surprised by this, but it is what it is—he feels you. He feels your presence before turning to his side, watching you as you enter the children’s ward. He finds himself moving towards the children’s ward before he realises it. But his steps cease just outside—from the see-through glass, he watches you stand in front of a crib. You hold the edges and close your eyes before your shoulders slump and you look at the window. Constantine follows your gaze—that is when he sees it—a luminous orb.
The baby is dead.
And you just helped its soul find the path to the light.
—---
He has not been actually following you. At least that is what he tells himself as he paces to seem casually walking a few feet behind. He makes a conscious effort not to really look at you, especially the back of your head, you would know—people like you and him always know. But it is almost midnight and you are walking through these isolated blocks in a city like LA and as far as he has deduced, you have no sense of self-preservation. He was wrong, you are not guarded, just curious and observant. He knows by now where your home is and he simply wants to make sure that you reach home safely.
That’s when he sees it.
Lurking in the shadows, drooling at your scent. Standing at a staggering nine feet, maybe even more, hunched with vacant eyes following your unsuspecting figure—gliding along. Constantine knows this…creature, this demon too well, it is ready to strike!
.
.
You are drowning. Not literally but that is what it feels like. A chance contact with a deceased little boy of eight has left you with this sinking feeling, such unbearable sadness that you cannot bring yourself to rise and build up your aura. You should be more careful. You have arrived at the conclusion that you are in need of a mentor. Someone who can show you—
It all happens so fast. One moment you are walking and the next, a deafening growl surrounds you, you feel a gust of wind with a foul smell that makes your stomach twist, but that is all pushed to the back as simultaneously, you are also tackled on the ground. You let out a startled scream as your elbow takes the hit. A man is shouting in another language with his back turned to you as he shields your body with his. It sounds familiar. It has been a while but you have no time to remember when you hear an unearthly screech from above.
But as you look up where the man is pointing a locket at, you see…nothing. But you feel it. Its vile energy overwhelms you and surrounds you, it’s like poison in your veins. You cannot even sense the man’s energy except for the fact that there is something beyond his body that is keeping you safe. 
And just as quickly as the 'energy' came, it vanished.
The stillness that has followed leaves you stunned.
The man turns to you. He is pale and…well, you are surprised how you still cannot read his energy. You have to depend solely on your intuition when you take his hand he silently offers to help you stand up.
You have seen him before. He is the same man from the restaurant.
“If you decide to embrace your powers, you gotta keep yourself protected, not walk around with open arms like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
You blink at the looming man, meeting his condescending gaze.
“I—I tried?” That is all you can manage after the terrifying experience.
“Do you even understand what it was?”
“Uh…No?” It slips out of your mouth between laboured breaths.
—------
That is how you find yourself in a library with high ceilings, windows and an overall grand appearance. You know that you should be cautious but until now, you have not sensed anything ‘dangerous’ or ‘terrifying’. Melancholic, cynical yes, but you cannot read his aura entirely. Now you know the reason though.
John Constantine, as he calls himself, shares gifts similar to yours. But is far more experienced and has been dealing with the darker realm, the one you never felt ready to touch. You always wanted to avoid it actually, but tonight, you have come to realise that just because you turn away from the darkness, the darkness does not turn away from you.
Even though he has not explicitly offered to help you, his actions suggest so. You do not want to jump to conclusions, but the heavy books you carry while he strolls between the shelves, adding more to the increasing pile, can be considered ‘help’—though he might not be a gentleman about it.
“These are delicate.” He scoffs when you end up dropping a few. “I’m sorry. They're heavy.”
He does not look particularly mad, just assesses you, picks up the books, takes some from you, and continues to walk while you sigh in relief.
“And that’s all. Start with reading these, we can discuss them when I have time and you will get started. But remember, the books are not always accurate.”
“So why are we reading them?”
That’s a dumb question, and the look he gives you reaffirms the fact.
“You, not me, I know these by heart. You, on the other hand, are one ignorant little thing, skipping around without any protection. How did they not notice until now?”
“Who are you exactly?” You end up responding with the question that has gripped you.
“You felt that thing in that alley?”
You can nod, feeling a chill cascade down your spine.
“Yeah, that and every other like it…I’m their worst nightmare.” He smirks, popping a gum into his mouth.
—--------------------
If someone said to Constantine that he had a crush on you, he would have scoffed. If it were five months ago. 
Five months into spending time with you helping you learn more about the world you are a part of without a choice, and helping you on your path to understanding and reaching your true potential, Constantine can’t say what he feels for you is a harmless, passing fancy. It’s more than a crush.
Even though it is not official, Constantine is your mentor, he chose you. Why? He cannot quite put a finger on it. But being intensely self-aware, he knows that he is a selfish asshole anyway. 
Why else would he keep some key knowledge from you? He wants you to depend on him, and run to him when things get a bit too murky. Those dirty waters are not for an angel like you. They are vile, you cannot handle them. But he can—he is vile too, perhaps. Why else would he struggle to keep his pants from tightening when you look at him with those wide, curious eyes? 
You have purposely kept yourself away from the darkness, but people like you and him cannot ignore it. It calls to you, it will chase you down until you are compelled to look right into its eyes and confront the horrible truth that the universe does not revolve around humans. In fact, humans are far more insignificant and vulnerable than they know. Toys. that’s how some entities see them. Toys to play with and twist around. Their powers are beyond a normal mind’s comprehension. 'Normal' people cannot see through planes, dimensions, or the veil keeping the most dreadful entities at bay.
He likes to deceive himself with the argument that he only tracks you because you are still vulnerable, only starting out with some defence spells and methods. It’s a long, winding, rough path. He has put a protective spell on your apartment to keep you from getting tracked down. But pairing it with a binding spell was unnecessary. However, you do not need to know that. You are safer that way, always ending up returning to your home before midnight.
But a painfully conscious man like Constantine cannot deceive himself for long. There are moments of intense self-reflection when he questions if he has let his only chance to reserve a place in heaven slip away. And there are days when he can only dream of burying his nose into the curve of your neck, feeling his hands run down your bare skin and tangle his fingers with your hair. There are days when he dreams of touching your lips with his in the most reverent of all manners. There are moments when he wonders if worshipping you is more relevant. After all, you have been far kinder to him than any form of divinity.
But what if his redemption had always been you? What if finding you has been his destiny all along?
But there are times when he looks at you and wants to grab you, he wants to pick you up and never let you go. He wants to devour you—be in your soul, your mind, your heart. There are times when he wonders how sweet those thighs would look wrapped around his hips and thrown over his shoulders. He wonders how pretty those lips would look, wrapped around his manhood—your sweet gaze on him, lovely eyes looking up, ready to please as he taints the invisible halo around you with his twisted intentions. 
He will be the poison blackening your deep, red, sweet blood.
Constantine knows that the right path would be to stop, to let you be. But for once he has come as close as feeling truly alive, without eyeing heaven. His heaven is right there, in your eyes, in your presence, maybe true heaven would be your velvet walls wrapped around his length, his fingers exploring that lovely mouth and sweet cunt.
He knows his thoughts and actions are leading straight to hell, but Constantine has learnt the tricks, loopholes, lies, truths, and many in-betweens.
Besides…
You are worth every sin.
He thinks to himself, hanging some herbs right above your bed. He would call it a ‘protective measure’. It is not a lie, but it will not protect you from his nightly visits in your dreams.
****
This might have a second part but for now, consider this an open-ended piece.
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eternallyfrustratedwriter · 13 days ago
Text
The Curious Case of Reluctant Immortals
Summary:
“I found the ring you made me,” You say, voice barely above a whisper as you keep your gaze on the sky above. One of your arms left its position behind your head to reach out, grabbing at his arm and resting against his bicep. His skin was cool, bordering on lukewarm, a stark contrast to before, when he always felt like he was close to a fever.
Chapter 23
You were lying on your back, sand acting as a cushion. The sun had long since set, scattered stars dotting the sky, but the sand beneath you still held warmth from the day. Your toes idly carded through it as the sound of the waves hitting the shore acted as a lullaby, your eyes drooping slightly. Hal was lying beside you, jacket bunched up to act as a pillow, one of his hands playing with the end of your ponytail. 
“I found the ring you made me,” You say, voice barely above a whisper as you keep your gaze on the sky above. One of your arms left its position behind your head to reach out, grabbing at his arm and resting against his bicep. His skin was cool, bordering on lukewarm, a stark contrast to before, when he always felt like he was close to a fever. 
“How’d you like it?” Hal’s voice was hesitant, a slight hitch at the end as he sucked in a breath he didn’t actually need anymore. You could hear how his breathing got shallow as he waited for your answer, fingers pausing in their path through your hair. 
“It’s perfect. I haven’t taken it off.” 
The sky above you started to lighten, the world fading away bit by bit as your consciousness surfaced. You turned on your side, tilted your head up, eyes meeting Hal’s, who was looking down at you with a small smile. 
“See you around, Nova.” 
It’s 1967. 
You’re standing at the edge of a tastefully decorated ballroom. The material of your dress is scratchy, and your heels pinch the skin of your feet. Conversations buzz around you as under-the-table deals are made under the guise of charity. 
You sit at the bar and order a martini. It wasn’t your drink of choice, but the suffocating environment of the room means you don’t think you can make it through sober. A man with a nice enough face and a vacant smile stands beside you, where you’re idly stirring your drink, eyes unfocused as you try to stay calm. Anxiety has your hands shaking slightly as you try to control your breathing. 
The man accepts his drink from the bartender before turning to you, giving you what he thinks is a charming smile as he leans against the counter. In reality, it just highlights his receding hairline and the fact that his teeth were a pale yellow from smoking and too much coffee. You give him a smile of acknowledgement before going back to stirring your drink as you watch the olives bob up and down in the glass. 
“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these things before. Surely a stone fox like you didn’t come alone?” 
“I didn’t. My date is just busy working the room. You know how it is.” You took a sip of your drink as you turned to face him. 
“Well, if you ask me, he’s missing out on the star attraction.” He leaned closer as he shot you a wink. You kept your expression friendly as you resisted the urge to lean away and wrinkle your nose. He’d worn too much cologne, and it clashed with the smoke that almost seemed attached to his clothes. “Why don’t you and I get out of here? I’m sure I can show you a good time.” 
“Oh? And what would your wife have to say about that?” Your previously warm voice took on an icy tone as you pointedly glanced down at his wedding ring. 
“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her. Now, I said come on.” His eyes narrowed to angry slits as he placed a hand on your arm and tightened his grip, stepping away from the bar with the intention of dragging you behind him, willing or not. He managed to get you half off the chair in your surprise before an arm wrapped around your shoulder, a strong body nudging you back to your previous position. 
“Sorry about stepping away for so long, babe.” The newcomer flashed you a winning smile before wrapping his hand in a crushing grip around the offenders wrist before prying it off and bending the hand backwards painfully. “Any particular reason you’re trying to drag my date away?”
The first man stumbled over his words as he spat out an excuse before practically running away. Your savior watched after the man for a second before taking his arm from around your shoulder and sliding into the chair beside you, signalling the bartender for a highball whiskey. His rented suit sat awkwardly on his broad frame, the material at odds with a room full of people who casually wore half a million in fabric like it was nothing. 
“Are you okay, Miss….? I’m Hal, by the way.” 
“I’m fine. Thank you for the assist.” You reply before giving him your name. Your heart was now beating uncomfortably hard against your chest, an ache forming in your ribcage as you looked at the fresh-faced man before you. 
He appeared to be in his mid-20s, no more than 30. His brown eyes caught the light from the overhead chandelier, bringing out golden tones and some subtle greens. Brown hair fell over his eyes, having just run a damp comb through it in a rush to get ready, as he gripped the tall glass, as the ice clinked gently. 
“You don’t come to a lot of these things, do you?” asked Hal as he took a sip of his drink. He was turned fully towards you now, head resting against his hand as he rested his weight on his elbow. 
“Takes one to know one.” You turn more towards him as you grab at your necklace, the fake emerald catching the light as you fiddle with the chain. Your left ring finger felt bare as you gripped the stem of your glass tightly. 
“Touche.”
“I’m guessing you’re also playing the role of designated arm candy?” 
“Yup. I got ditched in favor of talking to Bruce Wayne…whoever that is.” 
“He’s the one who sponsored this whole event. Are you always this oblivious, Highball?” You were giggling against your glass now, face flushed from the alcohol, with the last of your nerves finally starting to fade away. Hal startled slightly at the nickname, his hand instinctively going towards his pocket before he stopped the movement. 
“Highball?” He asked, eyebrow raised slightly. 
“Your drink. You're drinking a highball whiskey, are you not?”
“Oh, right. Silly me.” 
You continued talking until you felt a familiar, imposing presence at your back. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Bruce with his million-watt smile and Gotham socialite impression fully in place. He dipped his head down to kiss your cheek, one hand dropping down to settle at your hip while the other gripped your shoulder, ice blue eyes flicking over Hal in an assessing manner. 
“Hey, sweetheart. I need to talk to Mr. Jordan here about something business-related. You can head over to the limo, I shouldn’t be too long.” Bruce’s smile was firmly in place as he helped you down from your seat, making sure your feet were steady before sending you on your way with a small nudge to your lower back. 
You gave Hal a parting smile and nod before walking off, ready to be away from the noise of the room. 
Unknown to you, Hal watched you until you disappeared into the crowd, an ache starting in his heart as it felt like he’d just lost something he didn’t even know he was searching for. 
It’s 1952. 
Two bodies were under white sheets, fabric stained red in places, under the big top circus tent. A boy, barely 9 years old, clings to your thigh as he cries into the fabric of your skirt. Your coat hides his trembling frame from prying eyes as you continue to comfort him, stroking over his scalp as he sobbed. 
Camera flashes went off intermittently as investigators worked over the scene. Detective Gordon attempts to ask the child a few questions, but he refuses to even look at him, clinging to you even tighter as you do your best to soothe him. Gordon continues for a few more minutes before finally giving up and walking over to Bruce, who was now inquiring about what would happen to the child. 
You manage to gently undo the childs death grip before you lift him into your arms. Your coat wraps around his body so he’s little more than an unidentifiable lump as you walk over to Bruce. Your arms start to tire a bit, but you keep the boy in your arms even as the conversation drones on. 
The boy, now asleep, is laid down on a large bed in an ornate room that had seen little use in recent years, the past owner long since grown up. You let him keep his death grip on your coat, having slipped your arms out so you could put him to bed. After making sure he was tucked in, you started to pull back so you could retire to your own space. A tiny hand shot out and wrapped around your fingers, grip vice-like as a deep blue eye peeked out from a mass of messy black hair. 
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Still, the request was clear. You gave him a nod as you moved him more towards the middle before climbing in yourself. You traced patterns in the high ceiling as your eyes started to droop, sleep finally starting to claim you as the sky outside turned a light gray. 
The boy, now a man, was begging you to stay. Tears spilled out from his wide eyes as he shouted, hand clamped around your wrist. A portal swirled behind you ominously, sparks zapping out to pull you towards it. 
You pulled him into a tight hug, whispering how proud you were of him, of the person he became. 
That you would never forget him. 
That you wouldn’t be gone, not really, only just beyond the stars.
That you would see him again…in time. 
It’s 1986. 
You’re standing on an airfield as a mangled plane burned. Firefighters were attempting to put out the flames. The air was shimmering almost from the heat as a crowd watched on with bated breath. 
A boy, just 11 years old, watches on as he holds a leather jacket in a death grip. The flames are reflected in his brown eyes, tears falling down his face as he watches open-mouthed. 
No one dares approach him, but you can hear the whispers starting. The ‘oh no’s’ and ‘poor kid’s’ fill the air in a soft murmur, like a swarm of mosquitoes has gathered. 
You find yourself standing a few feet away from him, hands clasped in front of you as you continue to look on. You don’t say anything, just offer a steady presence as the young child comes to terms with the tragedy he just witnessed. He sniffles once, twice, before looking over at you with wide eyes like you might hold the answers he’s looking for. 
It’s 2013.
You’ve decided that you’re in hell. That’s the only explanation for everything that’s going on. Superman has declared himself ruler of the world, with Wonder Woman at his side as his right hand. A circle of his most trusted peers acts as his council, keeping strict order over the entire Earth. There are no more governments, just Kal-El. 
You’re looking down at the grave of Oliver Queen. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Green Arrow die, but you haven’t felt quite as useless before. You haven’t yet taken a side in the conflict, even as both sides call for an answer from you. To your right, Hal is dressed in his civilian clothes as he stares down at the grave, gaze empty in a way that has you worried. 
You pull your cloak closer to yourself as a cold breeze blows through the graveyard. It was an overcast day with dark clouds hovering over everything, ready to burst at any second. The smell of damp earth filled your senses as you continued to look down at the mound of loose dirt on the grave. 
Dinah was yelling at Hal now, asking him if he could still support Superman after all of this? 
This Hal says yes, he can still support Superman even with all of this, that he’s still doing good work. 
Dinah storms off in disgust while you’re now sitting on the wet grass, having ignored both of them through the entire argument. 
“How many universes have you seen?” asks Hal while thunder rolls above him, standing a few feet away with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The patches on it are different than the ones he had, but the aged leather looks just as soft. The jacket was stored away in the House of Mysteries, locked in a room with the rest of his things you were unable to confront just yet. 
“I don’t know, I never really kept count. A couple hundred, I’m guessing.” You were tracing nonsensical patterns in the loose dirt now, wet soil sticking to your gloves. “Why?”
“How many of those am I a hero in?” 
“Most of them.” You’d seen most everyone you knew take a turn at being a bad guy by now. Seeing it always made your skin crawl as your brain inherently rejected what your eyes were showing you. 
“Is this one of those worlds?”
You stare at him, unblinking, for a good few seconds before you get up and start to walk away. He called after you, but you kept on down the path, ignoring his attempts to make you turn around. 
It’s 2001. 
The Justice League had recently been formed, and this time, you were one of the founding members. The Watchtower was both familiar and extremely foreign as you walked its halls. It was smaller than you remembered, but that could also be your memory playing tricks on you. The human mind wasn’t meant to stretch as much as yours was, even with magic, but you just pushed on while waiting for the day that the rubber band would snap. 
You flick on the light to a random room to reveal a recreation room that looks more like an afterthought. A pool table was in the middle, with cues hanging off the wall behind it. There were a couple of second-hand chairs shoved in, as well as a coffee table with drink rings on it and a creaky bookshelf with some well-loved materials shoved in. 
The donations had Barry and Clark written all over them, and the thought brought a small smile to your face behind the mask. 
The balls clacked together as you started to rack them up. In the middle of this, however, you realized you’d forgotten the order they went in. This was the first “normal” world you’d been in for a while, having just left one where you’d been tracking down Jack the Ripper. Before that, it had been vampires, and before that were zombies. 
You’d been putting the balls in various configurations, satisfied with none of them, when Hal had poked his head in, attracted by the noise. He’d watched you for a few seconds before stepping forward and stopping your movement with a white gloved hand, eyebrow arched above his mask. You had to choke down your urge to say his name, reminding yourself that you weren’t supposed to know who was behind the mask. 
“Need some help, gorgeous?” asked Hal, a cocky smirk appearing on his face as he put the balls in the correct order. He grabbed two cues off the wall, making sure they were ready before he handed you one. You took yours, checking it over yourself before leaning it against the table so you could take off your cloak, the heavy material starting to make you hot. It ended up draped across one of the chairs as you grabbed the stick again. “I could give you a few pointers.” 
Your first instinct was to snap at him, tell him you knew how to aim a ball into a pocket, or to get sarcastic, begging him for his important pool knowledge. Instead, you went with your second instinct, which was to play along for now. So, you accepted, letting him go over the rules as he stretched across the table in a way that showed off his flexing muscles. 
He wrapped his arms around you as he guided a shot, chest pressed to your back while his hips were oh so close to grinding against your ass. A practice round was played, pretending to be only kind of okay at the game, which allowed him to keep the lead. His ego inflated even more as you complimented his playing, knowing just what to say to lower his guard. 
“I have an idea…how about a little wager?” You had gotten rid of the mask at this point, not seeing the need to hide so much here in this small room in space. “Loser does something for the winner that they can’t say no to. You game, Lantern?”
“Bring it on, Ember.” Hal was now leaning against his cue, a smug smile firmly in place as he gestured to the racked balls. “Ladies first.” 
“Such a gentleman.” This was all you said before you proceeded to break and then carry a streak until you were sinking the 8 ball. Hal’s jaw was on the floor after you sunk the last ball, staring at it in disbelief before turning to look at you. “I’ll call in that favor soon. Bye now.” 
“God dammit.” 
It’s 1988. 
You’re sitting on a bench in a park in London, England. The sky is gray and overcast, a cool drizzle misting over you. The water lies against your hair in a fine layer, shining against the lamplight. A flask sits heavily in your pocket as you wait patiently for your guest. 
When you see him again, he looks different. His features are sunken in, and his hair is white and unkempt. His gait is that of a slight shuffle, with him favoring one leg over the other. He groans as he sits down beside you, the bench creaking slightly at the added weight. 
You check to make sure that the two of you are alone before you mumble into your hand before sending the spell over to him. White light washes over him, revealing a more familiar face once it fades. He blinks a few times as he looks down at his appearance before turning to you, the corners of his mouth slightly raised. 
“Long time no see, Angel. You wouldn’t happen to have a bit of whiskey on you?”
You chuckle slightly under your breath before revealing the flask from your pocket. You open it and take the first swig before passing it off, the liquor burning your throat as it goes down—a slight bit of warmth spreads over your body, cheeks flushing in the cold air. 
“That’s the stuff,” groans John as he sinks against the back of the bench, flask gripped tightly in his grasp. “Would it be too much to hope you have a ciggy hidden somewhere?”
“It would. I quit 200 years ago.” You accepted the flask from him and took another long swig, head resting against the back railing. Water continued to mist your forehead and line your lashes with little drops. 
“There’s somethin’ that’s been bugging me.”
“Hm?”
“Why did you refuse Spectres' demand? I thought you’d be eager to cut my sorry ass loose.” John tilted his head towards you now, eyes roving over your features as if he stared hard enough, he’d find his answer. 
“Somewhere along the way, I’ve come to really care for you, Constantine. At the end of the universe, I didn’t want to lose anyone else…even if you did break everything.” 
“I think it’s a little late to play the blame game here. It’s at least partially your fault…somehow.” John rested his arm against your shoulder, letting the limb lie there limply before finally tightening the hold. You allowed yourself to be pulled closer, resting your head against his chest. “You look much younger than I remember. You got a youth potion squirrelled away I should know about?”
“Side effect of this curious case of reluctant immortality.” 
“I seemed to have missed out on that one.”
A buzzing started at the edges of your awareness. The sound was faint but would soon grow stronger. It was a warning that your time together would soon come to an end. John would be forced to continue walking the multiverse endlessly while you went back to trying to string the universes together. 
Chapped lips pressed softly against your own. Stubble tickled your chin as your eyes fluttered shut before you returned the gesture. It was simple and strangely pleasant, the taste of whiskey fresh on your tongue. He pulled away after a few seconds before standing up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Time continued to tick by as you tried to gather your now jumbled thoughts.
“Hey, asshole! What the fuck was that?”
“Just something I’ve been curious about. I’ll see you next century.”
He straightened his tie like he did every time he prepared to resume the journey, the moments of respite not nearly enough for the weariness that infected his very essence. His right hand went up in a mocking two-fingered salute, the left one buried in his coat pocket and thumbing a very unique piece of jewelry that he definitely had no business with. 
“Constantine!”
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