#Hellblazer fanfic

[renata-has-thoughts]

W/c: ~1.7k Pairing: gn!reader x John Constantine

Includes: NSFW, Top reader, handjobs, masturbation, car sex (sorta…ig…car handjobs?). 18+ per usual.

A/N: I HAVEN’T WRITTEN IN FOREVER. I’ll spare everyone the details, but this was quite possibly the worst period in my life to start a Tumblr blog. Shits been crazy. I’ll try and get more stuff out soon, apologies!!

Your boyfriend’s travels never failed to enthrall you. Without a doubt, they always came with surprises, ill-timed quips, and incredulous feats of the supernatural. You took a liking to being his ‘getaway driver’, or, essentially, just the person who brought the battered, bruised, and exhausted man home back in one piece. Especially considering he never ended up getting his driver’s license. It allowed ample time for John to splay out his daily adventures to you from his indefinitely-claimed shotgun seat.

“-I made it so complicated, forchristsake, in the end it was just about giving the soul back up to him. Easy.” John complained, bringing a lit, half-smoked cigarette back up to his lips as a sort of punctuation.

“Odd,” you smirked, “you have a sort of instinct to give it up easily,”

Your hands were on the wheel, eyes on the road, but you didn’t need to have any resounding focus on John to know he was giving you a stare from hell and back. You were thoroughly amused, and paid no effort in hiding a smile.

“You think you’re funny, dontcha?” He replied breathily, as if he had been punched in the gut by your words.

“Mm, in fact, I think I’m hilarious,”

Defeated, John turned his head back to greet the cigarette he held in his hand, eyes once again taking in the road before you both.

It was late, empty, and one-laned, lined by bowing trees, limbs extended as if praising the sky above. It was quiet.

John’s passenger side window was cracked just enough to create an escape route for the smoke to retreat. You could hear the background chirp of crickets and low tones of faraway owls in the thick summer air of the backroads. The atmosphere was pressingly calm.

John never was too big of a fan of calm.

He reached over to fiddle with the car radio with his free hand, still taking draws from his cigarette with the other.

“I’m not sure we’re going to get many inner-city stations out here, Johnny. I’ve got CDs in-“

“There we go.” John interrupted, settling on a strong connection he found. The music was a soft lilt amongst the rest of the night, a soothing and permeable volume. “Wanna know a secret?” John asked rhetorically, retracting his hand from the radio to rest on his inner thigh.

“I don’t really have an option, do I?”

“When I was younger, Blur was one of my guilty pleasure bands.”

So that’s which band was playing. The melodic undercurrent of your drive.

“John, a boy band fan. I can’t believe it.” You teased, tilting the corner of your mouth up. “And to think you were in the punk scene all whilst getting a rise outta probably some tories kids. What a poser.”

John winced playfully. “I had a crush on…fuck, uh…Damon, right. I had a crush on him throughout my teenage years.”

“I’m exceptionally jealous.” You remarked with sarcasm dwelling beneath your words.

“Mmm, well, I don’t recall him ever giving me a blowjob that resulted in what felt like two orgasms at once…so…I think you’ve no competition.” He grinned with heavy-lidded eyes, likely referencing the last time you two had fucked.

“Thank god. You may be a slut, John, but you’re mine, right?” You concluded, sparing a glance to meet his pretty eyes. His darted away from yours the second you made to latch onto them.

You feigned a pouting expression. “That’s no answer, Johnny.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m a slut, just for you.” He sighed, but not without the hint of humorous understanding.

“Atta boy.”

John made a barely audible strangled sound. So small picking up on it would be more difficult than a city station in the furrows of a forest. But still possible.

“Can you repeat that for me?” You encouraged, suddenly vying to hear his filthy back thoughts.

“I said,” John began, pressing the cigarette between clamped teeth, taking the now independent hand down to grope aimlessly one, two times at his groin. He emitted a staggered whimper in a pleased, desperate reaction.

“That’s what I thought. I expect no less of you.”

“Fuckin’ hell…” John grumbled, muffled by his smoking as he continued his habits, fingers extending and contracting around the swell in his pants.

“What a predicament. Constantine is so needy he’s taken to near-jacking off in my car.” You mocked, “Albeit I’m not all that surprised, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ve been away from you for a week now…cut me some fuckin’ slack.” He sighed, returning his hand to his cigarette, his other free hand swapping to pick up the responsibilities.

“I get that, but all I said was that you’re a slut. Now you’re getting off-“ -John impeded your words with a garbled moan- “just to my insults alone. Which…yeah, makes sense.”

“Shut up, I know, I know…” John muttered hazily, now unzipping his pants.

“Shut up? I thought you were enjoying me rambling dirty things to you.”

“T-Turn of phrase, you bastard,” John huffed, palming at the waistband of his now-exposed boxers, toying with the mere concept of touching himself.

“So is that a ‘keep going’ or-?”

“Yes, for fucks sake, that’s a keep going,” John complained, taking a quick drag from his cigarette before thrusting a hand down his pants to aimlessly grope at himself. He added a small, “please” eventually.

“Christ, John,” you chuckled, driving with one hand, the other kneading at your forehead as you shook it in disbelief. “You kill me sometimes. I mean,” you began, resting your elbow on the console between you two, offhandedly gesturing towards him as you spoke, “…I mean, you can’t even wait until we get home?”

“Not when you’re calling me your slut and bullshit like that, n-no,” John moaned, his cock now out and clasped in one hand, cigarette to mouth in the other, with his head thrown back.

“Damn you, pretty boy. Damn you.” You muttered as you felt your body stir amidst his moans. You had another twenty or so minutes to go until you got home. No way you could hold out.

“Pretty boy…hmhnnm…I like that a lot,” his hand was moving lazily now, thrusting from head to base in a tired grip.

“I’ve gotta admit, John, you had me pretty fucked over when you were gone all this week. I swear my moans would’ve turned a deaf man to a hearing one. All ‘cause of you, of course.”

“Tell me how you’d touch yourself.”

“Fast.” You said with finality, reveling in the cacophony of curses that melted from John when you said that. “...and rough. Just like how we fuck, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah, just-just like how we fuck.” John gasped, breath only coming in sporadic, far between bursts, separated by an asphyxiated period of whines. One of which was a jumbled mess of your name. Soft and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

You’ve never parked a car on the side of the road faster.

“Fuck you, pretty boy. Fuck you and your stupid fucking pretty moans-” You grumbled, unlatching your seat belt and then leaning over the console, finding a position with your knees facing him, hand swatting his away so you could take over jerking him off.

“I love it when you steal control of the situation from me,” John moaned, leaning back into the chair, eyes fluttering closed as you took the reins for him.

“I know you do, Johnny, that's why I’m doing this. I’d go as far to say I know you to a fault, right? Knowing all your…” you flicked several fingers over the head of his cock while thrusting your hand, much to his audible pleasure, “...weaknesses.”

“Know me too well, know me too bloody well, fuck!” He rambled, absently bucking his hips into your grip several times with less than poor composure.

Taking note of his unbridled desperation, you picked up your pace to something nearing brutal. His breath picked up as a consequence you easily reveled in. You didn’t stop exploiting his sensitive spot around the head of his cock, and ended up with a grin every time he whimpered. Thank fuck this backroad was empty.

A low rumble grew in Constantine’s throat as he bit his lip, trying to gather himself under your influence.

“Don’t bother with that dignity bullshit, love. You know I love hearing you.” You reminded, careening over to kiss his exposed neck, with his head thrown back, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Okay, yeah, yeah…please-please keep going.” John sighed, his moans making him tremble at this point. “I think ‘m gonna cum.”

“Then cum for me, make a mess outta my hand.”

“Fuck-yeah, I w-will,” he groaned. Soon after his back arched and his eyes snapped tightly shut, shaking as he did as he promised, spilling over your still moving hand. You kept going throughout his orgasm, using his cum as a lubricant. Slowly but surely, you winded down as did he. His back straightened out, and his eyes fluttered back open to meet yours.

“Well, thanks.” He mumbled, smiling broadly, with the hint of weariness in his voice as he calmed down.

“Anytime, Constantine.” You replied, returning his pleased expression. Before he could stop you, you wiped your cum-ladened hand over his trenchcoat, drying it. He opened his mouth to tell you off, but you silenced him with a passionate kiss. He gave up the fight and melted into it, but when you pulled away, he muttered something along the lines of, “this is my nice coat.”

“Alright. Let's get ourselves back home, shall we?” You said, resuming your position in the driver’s seat, buckling yourself in. John, too, righted himself, slipping his boxers and pants back on with a small, shaky exhale of contentment. You added, as you shifted back into gear and got on the road, “We can finish what we started when we get back.”

“...finish?”

“Yeah, gps says we’ve got 15 minutes to go. Think you can recover in that time frame?”

“Do I think I can recover? One look at you and I’m painfully hard, love.”

“You’re such a charmer, Johnny.”

“I try.”

[hbosscreations]

Two Sentence Tuesday

Guess who's picking two random sentences from their WIP and posting them? This is all first draft, but I thought it might be fun to share some snippets and also possibly motivate actual progress.

"What about your Gran? She’s okay now, but she BEAT THE TEETH OUT OF YOU long before your mum had her coma!

[naoa-ao3]

A Copper to Chop off Your Head

Sometimes unsolved crimes have ghosts all their own and on this night, John is dragged into a forgotten world of dead coppers and their unanswered questions.

John stumbles out of a dim pub and onto a dark street, last call served and head pleasantly floating as he pats himself down for a cigarette.

He's just got it lit and a few steps down the street when the light overhead goes out.

He stops for a moment.

It could have been normal.

Should have been normal.

A little pop and the dark came down and for anyone else it would have been normal but it wasn't normal for him and he knows that he can't stay but every step he takes will pull him further into whatever is going to happen.

He takes the step and the next light shines over head.

It's just the one out by the pub, hanging like a dark ghost.

He keeps walking, keeps smoking, keeps seeing lights. Nothing happens and he thinks for an instant that that's all it was, a light going out and even if he is John Constantine, these things do happen.

He almost laughs and then he hears the sound of wheels stopping.

He couldn't remember a car behind him a moment ago but there it was and worse it was police, a whole band of them.

Fiver coppers for one man.

He groans, forgetting the light.

"Evening!" One of them calls as the group descends on him.

He stops walking. "Evening." He says, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "Anything I can help you boys with?"

They grin at him and in the orange street light they look like a pack of hyenas, all indistinguishable from each other. He tries to meet all of their eyes. He hasn't done anything.

"You know, we could have you arrested for that?" The first copper say's, eyes bright and face dull.

He hesitates, not liking this. "Might have to fill me in on what 'that' is." He say's. "Just on my way home."

"Home?" One of the others laughed. "You don't sound like you're from around here, mate. Vagrancy?"

John frowns. "Got a room."

"Transients always are up to loads of stuff." Someone else says, leaning against the wall next to him and making the others laugh.

He steps away, they've circled him. "Here to visit a friend." He lies.

"Anyone able to prove that?" Someone else asks and he feels them close in on him.

"I don't know, think we should probably take him in then. He might be dangerous." the second man say.

John weighs his options but there's five of them and they've got him surrounded and one of them's got a club out, looking for all the world like every punk's depiction of a cop he's ever seen. He's not going to be able to fight it out but he doesn't have a friend to call either. Something bad is happening.

He thinks too long and someone grabs him, hauling him against the wall, shoving hard.

He can feel his arms being twisted behind his back. "Easy mate." He say's, trying to stay cocky. "Not putting up a fight, am I?"

"Not what it looked like to me." The copper breathes in his ear.

He feels it cold and ticking and then it's off the wall and across the sidewalk and into the back of the van where he's sitting with three of the five and not a single one of them is looking at him. They're all just talking to themselves, arguing about some long played out match and Manchester United.

It makes him angry. "You haven't charged me with anything." He say's.

One of them looks at him and for the life of him he can't remember if this is two or three. "We'll think of something." He say's, face impassive, creepy compared with earlier. "But until then, shut the fuck up." He hits him and John's thrown for a loop.

It's like something out of a movie and he wonders how far they are form the police station.

They bring him in through the back and he can't get a good look at where he is.

The station is dark and dreary, dry white walls and muddy floors, everything yellow in the dull light.

He's hauled into a cell and the coppers get in a few last jeers before he's left alone and once he is he realizes that he might be in a little bit more trouble than he had first thought.

This hasn't gone at all how he had expected and he wonders who he's pissed off this time.

He sits and waits.

There's no one else in the white little room.

No one in the other cells either.

A clock is on the wall, ticking silently and he strains his ears for it's sweep but can't catch it.

He didn't think it was right either.

He moves to a different bench, trying to get comfortable. Failing.

He get's tried and wonders what's taking so long. He hasn't done anything and he didn't see anyone upstairs.

Something isn't right but he can't put his finger on it yet.

He feels claustrophobic in the cell, white walls flaking and old. . . cracked and yellow in the failing light.

He lay's back, arms behind his head and waits.

The clock is wrong. It's not keeping time and he's sure of it now.

He waits some more.

He looks at the ceiling and wonders where he is.

He wonders why he can't hear a single thing other than his own heart and breathing.

He wonders why he's the only one there.

He nods off after a while and wakes up to yellowing walls and cracks in the ceiling.

No ticking from the clock.

Time wrong.

He looks around.

No one else in the cell.

Strange.

He waits some more, sitting up this time.

After a while he paces and it doesn't relieve the cramped, trapped feeling he's got in his chest.

He doesn't like it here. He doesn't like the silence and the whites or the yellows.

He sits with his head in his hands for a while, trying to dull the mind numbingness of it all. There's nothing and he's grown past frustrated.

"Hello?" He tries calling.

No one and nothing.

He sits back like an angry school boy, kicking the floor. It's cracked too.

He wonders what their budget is. Doesn't care.

He wants out.

He wants to be charged or let go.

He walks to the bars and then back to his seat, ass hurting from the bench and legs cramped.

Nothing and nothing and nothing and he's sweating in the little cell, exhausted and sober as a judge, reeking like drink and head hurting from it.

He hates this and he wants a smoke but he doesn't have his cigarettes. They took them and his coat.

He feels his hands almost shake from it all and sits back down, desperate for anything now and then finally, when he doesn't know how long it's been, doesn't care, two of the coppers who'd arrested him are back and they're hiding barely concealed grins and he hates them instantly, standing up.

"We got a few questions for you." One of them says, flipping open a note book. "Name?"

"John Constantine." He says immediately. "Look, I haven't done anything!"

The man just looks at him and his partner snorts.

"How long have I been in here?" He asks, aware that when he swipes his hair back it sticks back with sweat.

"Where were you earlier this evening?" The one with the notebook asks, ignoring him.

He's growing frustrated again. "How early?" He asks, not keeping the snide from his voice. "I was in the pub most of the night. You can ask the barman."

The eyes glance up at him again. "We will."

He want's to scream.

"Alright Mr. Constantine, you're going to come with us. We've got a few more questions to ask and then we'll be done."

He's taken out of the cell in cuffs again, lead up to a desk. It must not have been as long as he'd thought, it was still night out and there weren't many coppers around.

He's processed numbly, no real effort put into it and he still doesn't have a charge.

He doesn't know why he's being done over or what happened earlier that night that he's supposed to know about.

He tries asking a few more times but the two don't answer and he starts feeling pitiful when he tries. He knows they're not going to answer.

Then they're getting him up and taking him down a different flight of stairs and he's worried now because it's dark and cold down here and he's thrown into a dimly light room with a desk in it.

"Take a seat, Mr. Constantine." The note pad say's.

He does as he's told, heart thudding in his chest, palms sticky. He wants a smoke so bad and these aren't demons. He can't poof them away with spells and tricky words.

He doesn't have the power here and then the three other coppers are joining them and his skin crawls when the first sits down.

He's loosing track of which is which, they all look the same.

"Do you smoke, Mr. Constantine?" The cop asks, tossing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter towards him.

He takes one greedily and then looks up, knowing this is a tactic, still taking it.

It's stale.

He doesn't care.

"John is it?" The man asks, letting him puff for a second.

"Is." He mutters.

"Well John, we're looking for a man fitting your description for a murder up in Rochdale, you wouldn't have happened to have been up that way would you?"

"Gonna have to be more specific." He found himself saying, sounding more together than he was. "When?"

They teetered. "The man left on foot, neighbors said he had a Liverpool accent and blond hair."

He was getting braver. "Then maybe I know him." He said.

They seemed to close in again, five of them, all looking alike.

He was being stupid.

There was something not right about this.

There was something wrong.

"We think you might, the man was seen wearing blue trousers and a white shirt."

"Trousers are black, mate. Sorry. What to tell me when I'm supposed to have been in Rochdale?"

"April 20th."

"I was in London."

"Anyone who can vouch for you there?"

There was this time and he nods but they don't ask for addresses or names. Don't seem to care.

"There was a Seven Eleven robbed a few nights ago in the area we picked you up in, hang around there often?" The cop asked, like he hadn't just struck out on his first line of inquiry.

John is frustrated. "I didn't rob a bloody Seven Eleven!" He shouts.

The cop sits back, looking unimpressed. "No need to raise your voice Johnny, we all want to go home here. Why don't you tell us where you were the night of June 15th?"

How the hell was he supposed to know? It was September! "No idea." He say's, cigarette burned out.

He's prompted to light another and the cop across from him takes one as well.

"Well that doesn't look good, maybe you robbed it and forgot. You drink a lot, Johnny?"

He glowered at him. They'd picked him up outside of a pub and he twitches as one comes near, invading his personal space to take a cigarette.

He doesn't like the way the man is getting so close, making him move out of the way.

"Easy, Johnny here's gonna talk. He's going to remember." The man across from him say's, pleasant as ever.

And John know's it doesn't matter because he hasn't killed anyone in Rochdale and he hasn't robbed a Seven Eleven. "I know I didn't rob a shop." He say's. "I wasn't even in Manchester when that happened."

"But we've got you on CCTV." The man say's, mouth twitching. "Blond hair and everything, looking like a right little movie star."

They all laugh and he twists in his seat a little, looking around at them.

"Hey, eyes front!" Someone shouts suddenly and the force of it makes his eyes snap back to the man in front of him.

The man just looks calm. "So you've been drifting around the country and came up here, robbed a convenience store and. . . what have you been doing since?" The man asked. "We haven't ruled you out for the murder yet either so be honest."

John couldn't believe this. It was ridiculous. "I didn't do anything!" He says. "Listen mate, I think I get a lawyer in these kinds of situations."

"You'll get your lawyer." The man says. "But we need to know where you've been first, a girl is dead."

He wants to shout but he's still handcuffed and out numbered. He doesn't like the odds. He sits back. "Check your bloody tapes again, I haven't robbed a store."

"We'll do that." The man says calmly. "Now, what about the murder?"

He looks back up, feeling a little strained. How many times did he have to say he hand't done it? "I don't know." He say's. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Maybe she was a girlfriend?" The copper behind him, the one who keeps getting too close say's voice low, he's getting close again.

He glances back at him and get's a smack over the head.

"Eyes front." Someone shouts.

Reluctantly his eyes go forward and he's looking at the man sitting opposite again, hating him, feeling the other man hovering next to his shoulder.

"Or just a fuck." The man across from him say's.

He grits his teeth. "I don't have a girlfriend, mate." He say's. "Sorry."

"Well no, she's dead."

He should have seen that coming. "I don't even know her name." He say's. "I can't help you."

"I know, I know but there must be something you know." The man say's, urging him to take another cigarette. They're really bad but he does so anyway.

Seven Elevens and dead girlfriends. . . he couldn't string them together and something was off here. There was no way these crimes were connected. It didn't make sense.

He tries to catch a name or a badge number on the uniforms but can't, the words are jumbled and the numbers don't make sense.

Something is off here and they're not demons but he hasn't figured out what they are yet either and his skin is crawling.

He looks back at the man opposite him and waits. "I don't know anything." He says.

The man nods and lights on of his own cigarettes, smoke smelling better than his. "Everybody know's something." He say's. "What do you know?"

He shakes his head. "Not what you're asking about."

"She was in a bad state." The man say's, shaking his head. "She must have made you really angry."

He's exhausted and there's a humming starting in his ears. "I haven't killed anyone!" He shouts, rising out of his seat slightly.

The cops don't seem fazed but one of the punches him in the back of the head, forcing him back into his seat.

"Keep it together John, we're almost done." The one opposite him say's, sounding almost board. "So you came up here from London to see your girlfriend, got into a fight, maybe had a few drinks and then what. . . held up in a motel for a while? Got low on funds I'd imagine and went and robbed the Seven Eleven down the street. It happens John only you've killed two people now. That isn't very good."

John puts his head in his hands, growing defeated. Now it's two people? "No." He say's. "That wasn't me."

"What did you and the miss fight about?"

His head is throbbing and the ringing in his ears is growing worse. "We didn't. . . I don't have a girlfriend. . . "

"No, no, of course not. She's dead. Is that what you wanted John? Was she starting to make you feel too cramped up? Starting to make you feel pinned down? Telling you what to do? Saying you couldn't go with other girls?"

He know's there's no way to answer this that won't get twisted around.

"So you killed her, problem solved only you knew we'd come looking for you. She was a nice girl. People liked her."

He shook his head. "I didn't do this."

"But you did rob the Seven Eleven and you killed the clerk, you didn't have to do that, Johnny. Why'd you do that?"

The ringing is worse and he's imagining holes in the coppers's heads. Black, gaping holes that ooze black blood, pulsing down their foreheads and into their eyes. . . their plane faces all alike and their numbers all wrong.

His head is spinning and everything he's saying is being turned back on him but he really hasn't done it. Hasn't killed anyone, hasn't robbed a store. . .

It's not a crime to be passing through but he's beginning to think it might be tonight and the bulb on the ceiling flickers from behind it's cage.

He looks at the man across from him and can feel the other hovering over his shoulder, too close.

"I was just in the pub." He say's softly, seeing the holes in their heads and the blood down their fronts.

They're dead and he's trapped in their world.

They all teeter, the pack closing in in some kind of frenzy and he doesn't know how long it's all been going on.

"Just in the pub, that's what they all say." Someone jeers.

"Fucking give it to her before you did her?" Someone else asks.

It feels like there more than six of them in the room and he's freezing and sweating and his ears are ringing and their heads are bleeding.

The man across from him raises a hand then, silencing them and they all hover like rabid dogs. "We'll give John a moment to think about what he wants to say when we come back. I know that if he's a smart lad he'll want to cooperate. Think about it Johnny, we can help you."

John just looks at them and his mind is racing, he has to get out of here but he barely knows what's going on.

They file out and he's left alone, cuffs still on and head aching.

This isn't normal and he's getting afraid. He can almost admit that to himself and he takes another stale cigarette and put's it to his lips.

The room is filthy, caked in years of dust and grime. He hadn't noticed that before and he takes it in now, wondering again where he is.

He's left alone for a good twenty minutes, maybe just ten. . . he can't tell and they took his watch a while ago.

They come back, filing in, faces white and healed.

The light isn't flickering.

"Look's like there's been a misunderstanding, Mr. Constantine." One of them say's and for the life of him he can't remember which one was the one who'd been sitting opposite him.

He looks up and he can see the holes in their heads again, ancient and black. Deep and rotten.

Someone is uncuffing him and he's being lead back up stairs, feet tripping on the stone steps.

"You're free to go." The man leading him say's leaving the others in the dark and flickering light.

He blinks. "After all that?" He asks.

The man laughs. "Routine, sir."

He doesn't believe that for a God damn minute but his coat and belongings are being pressed back into his hands and he's taking them and they're walking towards the front door.

There's a WPC sitting at a desk by it, she's the first new person he's seen but she doesn't look up as he passes and he think's she's got oddly old fashioned hair. Reminds him of some of the women he'd see when he was a kid.

The copper behind him is whistling now. Oranges and Lemons and they stop by the door and the man gives him a nod and then he's all by himself and he opens the door and there's morning light on his face.

He stops and stares. There's a whole street outside the belly of the beast, cars and people, purposes and the living.

He steps out and looks up at the police station but it's boarded up and the windows smashed.

He stares at it and then looks back in the door he's just exited and he feels himself twitch a little as he reaches for another cigarette, throat raw and mouth dry.

There's sweat sticking to his pits and in his hair and he knows that something not quite right just took place.

There's a demolition notice on the door too, scheduled for next week.

Too bad about the Seven Eleven and the girl in Rochdale. He doubts they'll solve them before the place is torn down and maybe that's for the best. The coppers need a rest and really, the world's already moved on.

He think's with some humor that he might just have been the last person processed in there, down in the yellow pit.

He draws his coat up around him and set's off down the street, eager to catch a ride south and out of Manchester, eager to forget the holes in their heads and the ones in his heart. The Last Rites of dead coppers, their little songs and unsolved crimes, singing away for at least another week in the belly of the yellow beast.

[sunnysam-my]

If you're one of those people who are upset about John carrying about others, especially feeling somewhat responsible for kids, do me a favour and don't talk to me. (/hj) If you think that he would never act in a parental way because he "hates children" and doesn't care about anyone than you fundamentally misunderstand his character.

His origins story is that he accidentally doomed a young girl, Astra, to hell and wants to save her because he feels responsible, for crying out loud.

Do you all just think of us, adults and older teenagers who say they 'hate kids', as some sort of monsters who will kick a child out of our way? It literally just mean we don't like dealing with the annoying nuances of brats, and all kids are bratty sometimes.

[graveyardgremlins]

Dead on main, but Constantine is the cupid and it has the same pacing and format as an issue from hellblazer

[ao3sbatfamily]

Hello hello do you have anything with Constantine & Jason, very fun duo imo

'A Cup Running Over' by sajastar

Author: @nowtherearetwoofthem

John waved away some lingering wisps of demon smoke and raised an eyebrow at the shining Allblade in Jason's hand. Its light blended with the kid's aura, and John briefly considered whether Jason had absorbed its power somehow before dismissing the idea. That would be a hell of a trick. "Who's dead body did you pick that off, then?"

Jason twirled the blade between his fingers. "I'm offended," he said, not looking at it at all. "I mean I'm not above a little graverobbing, but why is that your first assumption?"

"Come on, now. If you want me to tell you what it is you're holding, you’re going to have to tell me where you found it," John said, cocky. The All-Caste didn’t go handing out blades to everyone, and glowy aura notwithstanding, Jason smelled like a supernatural novice.

"I know what this is," Jason said with a smirk.

[leona-florianova]

Illustration for Hellblazer fanfic Another Tricky Day (by NAOA on ao3)

[bluelotuswrites]

Oh my god i didn't realize u wrote Hellblazer's Apprentice AND Red is the Color of Sinners no wonder I'm so obsessed with both of them they are so good. i keep going back to re read them like every other month your writing is amazing

Hehehehe, another person falls victim to my spell >:)

It's always funny watching people realize I'm the same person. I just imagine them doing a double-take at my name before the lightbulb goes off.

I'm glad you're liking both stories! Sorry it's taking so long, life is very busy for me :)

[animeredhead101]

Minor Ships DP x DC Crossover

Duke Thomas / Danny Fenton

You Are a Monster (But So Am I) by TheWrittingOwl :

Gotham was not known for its snowy weather. Sure, they'd get decent snowfall in time for Christmas, and they often fell victim to the east coast blizzards, but never had they had snow earlier than Thanksgiving. Of course, it's while Duke is doing his Halloween patrol that a freak blizzard hits Gotham. As he waits for someone to relieve him for the night patrol, he comes across something... strange in the snow. The weather may be strange, but it is still Halloween. AKA 5 Times Duke denies he's a monster fucker and 1 Time he kisses the monster Word Count: 16,046 Completed

Cassandra Cain / Danny Fenton

lex luthor's ascent from supervillainy to fatherhood by halfgone(milkywxy) :

Based on this Tumblr prompt.

Lex Luthor has recently acquired a son. Weapon? Parole officer? ...Lex now has a teenaged god and he'll be damned if someone tries to take the kid away from him.

Word Count: 519,936 On-going

I wasn't expecting this fic but I love it! I usually hate Lex Luthor but I love how the author developed his character with Danny. One of my new favorites for sure!

Kon-El | Conner Kent / Danny Fenton

play it cool for you by aschriles :

Just because Tim had gone and got himself a boyfriend didn't mean Kon had to go and get himself a... whatever the heck he and Danny had going on. Fuck buddies. They were fuck buddies. Word Count: 18,409 Completed

Eat the Acid by DisillusionedDanny :

When Elle decided to introduce Danny to her new clone friend Conner, she was expecting a new brother. Not a new brother-in-law. Tie that in with some clone chaos, best friends Vlad and Lex, and a baby, and Conner and Danny are in for a ride of a lifetime. It could have only been fate that caused them to meet when they did.

Word Count:24,788 Completed

Seeing Double by Scififan33 :

What do you do when you find out you aren't who you always thought? Jazz knew it was the chance to get Danny away from their Phantom obsessed parents and Danny was just in shock. Hopefully, he'd be allowed to explain but why would he want Danny around? Word Count: 20,098 On-going What do you do when you find out you aren't who you always thought? Jazz knew it was the chance to get Danny away from their Phantom obsessed parents and Danny was just in shock. Hopefully, he'd be allowed to explain but why would he want Danny around? Word Count: 20,098 On-going

Thomas Wayne / Danny Fenton

Mourning a Young Soul Leads to Shared Custody by Olive_of_Vanders :

Danny was given a choice.

Become King or parent a ghost kid. Ghost kid sounded a lot more easier to him.

Word Count: 41,929 Completed

John Constantine / Danny Fenton

Completed

And My Exes, They Haunt Me by JoyLess_NightSky :

"Look, mate-" "Don't call me mate. That's weird." "Right. Your highness-" "That's even weirder. But, fine. Go on?" John sighed, obviously done with the interruptions. "This isn't just about us, luv. Alright? I get why you're angry, but me mates need ya. Heck, the whole bloody damn world needs ya! The twat that came through is very much about to do the whole bloody world domination schtick ya kept Pariah from doin'. That ain't something you're alright with, is it now?" The summoned man gave Constantine an unimpressed look. "If it's you asking? I might make an exception." OR: The Justice League is in over their heads with the new enemy. They need help, and Constantine may know a guy. But the guy… doesn't really like Constantine a lot right now. Word Count: 2,914

On-going

Lair of the Mysterious Reaper by Joshua2000 :

Danny's lair is the House of Mystery. When he enters it for the first time, he finds John Constantine and Zatanna Zatara occupying it. Between being the ghost king, the reaper of the souls of heroes and keeper of the balance Danny really needs a break. Based on a series of prompts by Sleepy (LonelyLittleWhiteRabbit) Original prompt here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45336712/chapters/114063079#workskin

Word Count: 6,815

Like and Survive- Phantom’s Guide to Young Hero Survival by robinasnyder :

When the world becomes aware of teenaged superheroes there is an immediate and fierce wave of backlash and controversy. That's where Phantom comes in. Phantom saved the world from a meteor fifteen years back; an impressive feat back in the day but now that meteors threatening all life on earth is such a common event that hardly anyone thinks about it. Phantom is considered an old timer who deals with a small city and nowhere else. When he begins uploading videos with advice for young heroes, he hopes a few new heroes might avoid some of the pain he went through. He's shocked at just how popular his advice suddenly becomes. Word Count: 306,940

[voshaduan]

DCXDP or regular DC writing prompt!

Cross country road trip with (a very reluctant) John Constantine.

Constantine didn’t want to pick up a hitchhiker, but they were very persistent, and he could tell something was up with either them or the situation, his ‘occult senses’ were tingling.

Bonus points if it’s Danny or Dani/Ellie that hitches a ride!

[ao3statistics]

Can you do top tags for Legends of Tomorrow? (As in, not characters or ships)

This is self-made. Date of creation: 24.03.2024

Here you go! This fandom apparently has lots of events? I was kinda surprised by those tags.

The "/" between two tags means that they were made synonyms on Ao3 and therefore both will get you the same amount of hits.

I assume no guarantee or liability for the completeness, correctness and accuracy of this chart despite my best efforts.

Includes fanfictions in all languages available on Ao3, NOT English only.

Shiptags and character tags were NOT included.

More charts will follow. :)

Want to have a chart for different pairings, headcanons etc. in your favourite fandom? Send me an ask!

Click here for the most popular tags of "The Flash (TV 20214)" and a comparison of both charts!

[milfzatannaz]

One of many pitfalls of this specific phenomena where comics are viewed as primarily being fanfic fodder is that it’s entirely reductive to certain characters. If you search “John Constantine” on AO3, what you get is a whole sub genre of “Bat character or Justice League has X magical problem, John Constantine is cool, british and willing to help”. He’s also become a staple of cutesy Billy Batson fanfic. He essentially becomes a plot device instead of his own person, and that turns around and informs a lot of how he’s viewed within the fandom. So many people’s first exposure to this character is through fanfic only, so then we’ve perpetuated the problem of no one reads his actual material and everyone is contributing to lazy and surface level views of who Constantine even is. I’m entirely sure it happens to so many other comic characters, he’s just the example I feel the most heated about

[hbosscreations]

Fanfiction Work-In-Progress Guessing Game: green

When he didn’t have his red or green mood lighting going in his little blood chamber, when you looked at his heavy tattoos in normal light, he looked like a tryhard. The man wandered around in grimy, red basketball shorts, no shoes, with ick all over him, for fuck's sake.

[naoa-ao3]

Waking Fears

27 FEBRUARY 1953

The year opens with a terrible storm.

Both sides of the English Channel are devastated, over three hundred dead and Mary Anne is nearly seven months pregnant now.

Thomas Constantine had never had much use for religion though people had suggested praying a time or two in his life. He feared God to some degree but the big man had never seemed to have much to do with him and so in return he had never tried to have much to do with him either.

One of eight kids. . . a father dead in the Great War. . . he was a child of the depression, an orphan of the war who had been raised by a single mother and seen her die young.

He had in some ways hoped he could do right by his wife but life hadn't given him the disposition needed for that kind of thing.

Thomas who was the son of dead Bill and Alice and was the father of Cheryl. Husband to Marry Ann.

He had lost an arm since becoming those things and work didn't come easy for a man made cripple. His temper didn't help either and his drinking just made it worse.

Still, he was here and perhaps because of all of this he had never had much time for God. If there was a God He didn't hear prayers. . . Probably didn't even listen to them.

If he did he did it for a laugh.

Everyone praying and begging and hoping down on earth.

He could see God now laughing at them.

That was why he didn't pray.

He wasn't anyone's fool. Not even God's.

And now Marry Anne was expecting again.

Twins this time only there were problems and not just with her health. With their wallets too. They already had Cheryl and maybe one baby they could handle but two? He just couldn't get the work for it.

He'd tried to get her an abortion.

She hadn't wanted it but he'd made her do it anyway only it hadn't taken.

The blasted things kept growing inside of her.

Marry Anne said she didn't feel well sometimes now and he knew they were eating at her. They were taking from her daily and he hated them somehow.

He feared them.

When Marry Anne lay beside him in bed he dreamed of them. Dreamed of some son who would come from his wife and grow up to bash his brains in.

He dreamed that the twins in all their awful alikeness would unite against him, they'd beat him when he was helpless and old and tear his body apart. They'd rob him of his vitality and youth, take his home from him and his life. . .

He hadn't had these fears with Cheryl.

Girls were easier though. They were their mothers' problem. Boys. . . he'd been a boy. He'd had seven brothers at one point. Seven brothers to fight it out with. He knew boys. He'd been a boy. You couldn't trust boys.

Whatever was growing in Marry Anne and he didn't know if it was a boy or a girl- he knew it was bad.

The twins would be bad.

Some part of him knew the drink wasn't helping him. Drinking himself stupid every night while his wife and daughter watched wasn't helping and it wasn't making the dreams any better but they were too much for any man to bare without a spot of liquor. No one could ask that of him.

The things grew in his wife at night while he lay in bed next to her.

They were going to kill them all.

The things he was so afraid of taking her from him.

In his dreams they made her stop loving him.

In his dreams one of them was worse than the other and he made his brother suffer. That one was the one he hated the most.

They were struggling inside of her yet when he awoke he was never able to explain just exactly how.

These nightmares plagued him constantly and in his dreams they were always boys.

A boy.

He didn't want boys.

Cheryl was enough trouble. Always asking questions, always trying to have opinions but she was a girl and girls were easy. Boys were bad. Boys couldn't be trusted. They had spit in their bones and it made them ornery and mean.

His own brothers had been like that.

He considered himself the reasonable sibling. In a long line of embarrassments and grifters he had gotten out. His brothers for the most part had too but not little Jack. Little Jack had grown up like uncle Charles. Never holding down a job, always on the move, always showing up when there was trouble.

A fucking joke his uncle had survived the war and his father hadn't.

A belated act of fratricide.

Twins never did well in his family.

Twins killed each other in his family and he knows it's always the worst one that survives. Whatever comes out of Mary Anne will be so bad. He can already feel it. It's going to tear the world apart and do it all on the dole.

It's going to wreck him, take his home and life. . . it'll turn Cheryl and Mary Anne against him and make everyone hate him.

Sometimes he wants to beat it out of Mary Anne.

This parasite that's killing her.

It and it's twin.

Too much family history and each night he lays next to her and them and it and thinks about the thing that's going to invade his home.

He tries not to put too much stock into the family. Tries not to think about all of the other Constantines that have come before and all of the things they did. His generation- his generation minus Jack who's dead now anyway- they're supposed to be free of this shit. Roy and Harry are normal just like him. His sister is normal and has a normal life.

He doesn't want this thing to be born.

When it comes it'll put the family right back where it was.

Maybe he should kill it before it takes it's first breath but in the end he's just a man. He doesn't think he can kill a baby.

He doesn't think he can let the thing put it's blood on his hands like that.

God he's so afraid.

He's so utterly afraid of this thing.

These twins.

His family has a bad history with twins and as he holds the pillow over his head and tries to still the shaking in his heart and limbs he knows that whichever twin comes out of Mary Anne will kill him.

The child will eat him alive, beat him bloody and slit his throat.

She's seven months pregnant now and the abortion didn't take.

Sweet rationing had ended earlier that month and by the time the baby is born they'll be getting ready for a coronation.

Thomas can't see any of that though, not the storm or the slow end of rationing that had become so much a part of all their lives.

Little Cheryl has never lived in a world without it.

This new baby. . . what will hold it back?

He shakes when he thinks of it because he knows. It's going to be his end. He can't even tell Mary Anne what he's afraid of. If he does she'll just think he's mad. She'll look at him in fear and listen to the things in her belly as they whisper lies about him.

The wretched umbilical cord that links her life to theirs's.

He can barely take it.

He only has one arm and no work and so he lays alone next to her and the things inside of her and every night until May tenth he'll lay there sweating and dreaming and fearing and thinking of all the nasty things the things inside of her will grow up to do.

They'll eat him alive and the real pity of it is, is that it's just a baby and it hasn't done anything. It hasn't even been born yet. Thomas can't see that though. All he see's is the dark barrel of a gun- no of a canon aiming straight for him.

Come nine months and the sparkling, little fuse will blow and everything will change.

In just over a year there will be no more rationing and no more Mary Anne and everything Thomas has ever feared and every reason he's never prayed will be a screaming bundle of hate in his house.

He lays and waits for this, fear and anxiety and misery tearing his chest apart as his wife sleeps next to him, her belly full of something awful.

He knows how twins work in his family and it never works well. Whatever is in her will be bad and he can't see it any other way.

Maybe because of this there won't be another way. Maybe it's the curse or maybe it's just them or it's in the blood or maybe even because the year started off with a horrible storm but everything is fucked under his little roof and in his little room next to his wife and the feeding things inside of her.

Thomas spends his nights paralyzed in fear, waiting for the world to end.

[petty-d4bblr]

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13980563/0/

A short fanfic I wrote for some closure on John Constantine and Zari Tarazi's relationship in Legends of Tomorrow. I incorporated some Hellblazer comic and NBC's Constantine show tidbits in there, too, but you don't really need a good grounding in either to read it.

Summary:

John Constantine has been in London for 3 months since departing from The Legends, but a spot of Hell-hound trouble leads to him entering the Hell dimension version of the Mansion to escape, where he runs into a grief-stricken Zari, for whom only a week has passed since his departure.

[graveyardgremlins]

I'm writting a DPXDC fanfic, which is Constantine centric and sorta trying to mimic the vibes from Hellblazer. So far it's just him pinning and yearning and feeling more guilt than the average catholic, while reseaching weird things that have been happening (It's Danny).

I'm going to do some small, background Dead on Main because I love them. There is going to be a little of Constantine/Zatanna, but they don't get together.

I'm thinking of calling it What thing worthy of love can be found in me? Thoughts?