#Scruffy Constantine

[a2remedy]

DPXDC Prompt# 5- War between Warlocks

-A dichotomy I love has always been hard worker vs natural talent, so let's take this running.

Constantine spent the day lying on his couch. A new pack of beer and smokes are beside him while he's watching one of Z's performances while she's off world. A usual partly cloudy in Liverpool.

It was nice....

-Or it would've been nice if he couldn't recall who he saw. Correction, who he thought he saw. Because there was no bloody way that magic-wielding bastard survived. ...

Shut up.

It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real.

But karma was a bitch and it was making itself known.

For once in his life, John's phone was still.

Nobody.

Nobody has reached out to him to exorcise anything for a week and he was slowly losing his shit. Looks like he has to go out and find out for himself. ---

Danny couldn't help but laugh.

That marks his 10th exorcism this week, and he could already see the con man pulling his hair out when he just chose to take a little weight off an old 'friend's' shoulders while he's on his vacation from ghost king business.

He must be pissed.

It couldn't be helped. Danny's natural disposition made magic a breeze. He's one of the most occult things there is, after all. If he can't dodge it all, he might as well embrace it. Who could've guessed it would come with the scruffiest blonde with a fun accent getting on his case? John Constantine. A delight to watch work and in bed. That's all in the past now, anyways. Sometimes, he just needed to take a minute to remind himself that he's human, too. What better way to do than to fuck with the one person he's felt most like that with?

He felt horrible thinking his last moment with John was going to be looking at the desperation and fear written all over his face. No need for that now. The spark of a locator spell flickered off his barrier on the rooftop. He cackled as he heard John's "I BLOODY KNEW IT!" through the streets. The phone in his pocket buzzed again. John really was such a busy man. He ensured the non-teleportation tattoo he made last time hadn't faded before hopping to the next roof and answering. "This is Hex speaking. I've stolen John's phone, but I can assure you I can get the job done ten times easier than he can." Making his way out of a portal on the roof he left, "I can hear you, cheeky bastard!" "That's the point, dipshit!" Danny stuck out his tongue and kept moving. Tsk. Barely 5 minutes to catch up. Looks like he's getting rusty. Oh well, nothing a little refresher and practice can't fix.

Thus began the reunion between a king and a con man.

[mustasekittens]

just when you think youve hit rock bottom, you wanna fuck a blond guy

[naoa-ao3]

I've always felt that in terms of looks, John Constantine should stay looking like Sting but as Sting is famously into health and taking care of himself he shouldn't look as good as him. I don't mean make him ugly, there are plenty of issues where it's clear John can take care of himself and cleans up nicely but he's probably not going to get as expensive of a hair cut as Sting or have a personal chef/nutrition. He smokes constantly so his teeth are gonna be a bit worse for wear too.

I got frustrated with some of the later Hellblazer comics because in the beginning, John has clear ups and downs. Sometimes he looks great, his suit is neat, his hair is combed and he's going around confidently but then when shit hits the fan or his mental health suffers he can be seen looking unkempt and haggard. Later writers seemed to have him rolling off a perpetual bender which kind of took away from the realism of how John's mental health had been portrayed in the early stuff. Before, you knew he generally liked to be clean and to take care of his appearance. It makes it more painful, more human when you see him fall into depression and stop shaving or washing up. You know he's not supposed to be this way, you know it's not how he likes to be. You see the effects of his mental health suffering clearly. Later, when he's scruffy and scuffed up all of the time it's comes across as gimmicky and doesn't mean anything any more. The ups and downs of the character were one of the humanizing factors that really drew me to him in the first place and I know I'm not the first person to give my opinion on this but I was disappointed by this shift in interpretation and depiction. I didn't like him constantly being some slob who was just happy to roll around in filth and shit, when he get's like that it's because he's going through the bad times again. Otherwise it's just a meaningless gimmick.

So yeah, I maybe biased as a Sting- enjoyer but I like it when he looks like Sting. I just don't think he should be as generally fit and polished as Sting. I think of it as kind of like those pictures of identical twins where one twin smoked for 20 yrs and the other didn't. Also if one twin had vastly more money and didn't experience untold horrors every other week.

[johnconstanbean]

@nihtscada

Hellblazer summed up in one photo

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Just remembered your Bryce White story, and anted to know if you'd do a DCxDP au of it. I would love to know what kind of spin you'd give it.

Bryce had her hand over her eyes, not bothering to hide the sheer exhaustion in her body.

“Mom?” Damian asked nervously, holding the hand of his twin brother.

“I’m alright,” Bryce sighed as she removed her hand.

“Are you trans to?” Danny asked. Danny Fenton aka Danny Phantom, a cartoon from her past life.

Just like she was in the Batman comics from her past life.

She needed to hit something or eat a lot of sugar.

“No, your mother decided that I was a man, specifically she believed me to be my elder brother who’d hidden himself,” Bryce said bluntly. “I’m Thomas Wayne’s bastard kid.”

“So she lied about your love affair,” Danny nodded with a shrug.

“Talia is a beautiful woman,” Bryce said. “I however have no interest in her.”

“Your interest is in scruffy detectives,” Damian remarked, looking more at ease. Bryce rolled her eyes at her son.

“John is a lovely man,” Bryce said.

“Constantine-“

“Constantine?!?” Danny asked in horror.

Bryce sighed. Here they go.

[gaywriterdude]

Time Travel AU Part 3

fic | masterpost | prev | next ~ 3.2k words

Jason really hated cults, he thought as he downed his sixth coffee in as many hours, glaring blearily at the monitor as if it was the computer’s fault he hadn’t slept in three days. The case had been keeping him busy, busy enough to resort to asking for help. 

When Jason had finally given in and called Tim for assistance — because he still wasn’t ready to face Bruce and his Bruceness, Dick had things going on in his own city, and Cass and Steph had begged for the weekend off months in advance — Tim had declined because he was with his weird vaguely-polyamorous friend group in California investigating suspicious activity on the coast. Jason figured that it was a half-assed coverup for a beach trip where his brother got to see them in swimsuits. But hey, happy days were few and far between in their line of work, and Jason knew if he asked Tim would come back to Gotham in a moment to help out. If he was honest with himself, Jason knew that any one of his family members would drop everything to come to his aid if he let on how serious he suspected the case was. He wasn’t ready to face that information just yet, though, so he called up Constantine. 

He’d summed up the whole situation — kids snatched off the kids, Jason investigating and finding a series of recently-abandoned bases for a cult, finding the forgotten hastily-sketched runic circle (that did God-knows-what) on a used napkin, and an otherwise severe lack of information. Constantine had taken one look at the sketched circle, sweared ferociously, and told Jason he’d call him back. 

So Constantine was no help whatsoever, as usual, but later promised to talk to one of his contacts about it and send him Jason’s way. Jason sincerely doubted that that would happen, because he knew the type of people that were John Constantine’s contacts. Case in point, Jason was one of his contacts. 

Which led to now, with Jason approaching his third day awake and already pouring another cup of coffee. These cultists were dangerous — dangerous because they were stupid people, most likely amateurs who got brainwashed by the leader into thinking they were improving the world, but somehow two steps ahead of Jason at every turn. And they were taking children as hostages, which usually meant sacrificial bullshit. Children. Sacrifices. 

No one messed with children in Jason’s territory. No one. 

Just the thought of it made his vision bleed green around the edges, anger burning hot in his throat. He had been investigating this for almost two weeks, and the situation was only getting more dire. The cultists were moving bases more and more often, and if Jason didn’t save those kids soon they would be shipped out of Gotham and murdered. 

Jason ran a hand down his face with a sigh. 

Fuck. 

He’d wanted more information, but he was running out of time. He had a location, and a few hours of staking it out beforehand would have to be enough. These kids couldn’t wait. 

Half an hour later, he was crouched on a decrepit rooftop in full Red Hood gear. The warehouse across the street was the target, because it was always a fucking warehouse.

Jason watched as a van pulled up to the warehouse doors. The driver, a lanky man with a scruffy beard and a weakness in his left leg that he tried to hide, got out and went inside. Jason took the opportunity to grapple across the street and perch on a closer rooftop. Through one of the scare windows, he could see a group of 20 or so people moving around inside. A few of them stood toward the back in a circle, guarding what Jason realized, with dread pooling in his stomach, was a group of unconscious hostages. Children. Unconscious children. Jason had to fight to stay present and not let the green take over. God, how he wanted to slaughter every one of those bastards hurting kids in his turf. But he had to be smart about this. The kids would get hurt if he didn’t. 

Jason sat and observed the cultists for a while. He could tell that there were more cultists, probably a few different teams of them doing the same thing across the US. Most of the men were untrained, and talked about their leader as if he was God himself. Unfortunately, he wasn’t learning much more than what he’d already assumed. Child sacrifices, brainwashed cultists, an egotistical leader. They referred to the ritual as “The Summoning” in hushed whispers, talking of their leader’s soon gain in power eagerly. Either they were going to sacrifice the kids to this leader in order to summon him, or they were going to sacrifice kids to summon a different being and use that being to give their leader more power. Either way, kids would die. Kids would—

—a warehouse, forehand or backhand, laughter, fire, pain, green green green—

Jason shook himself out of the memory. Those kids wouldn’t be him. He had a distinct lack of back up, and Constantine’s guy had failed to contact him with any help as to what the ritual actually did, but it was fine. He had won with worse odds before. 

The warehouse door slid open with a shuddery groan. Jason looked down to see the cultists roughly dragging the kids to the van one by one. 

Fuck. He was out of time. 

He made sure that the kids were out of sight first. Then, Jason backed up, took a running head start, and jumped off the roof with his guns already aimed. He’d tried to hold off on killing to keep the timid peace, but he didn’t have time to waste on non-lethal methods. He shot two cultists on the way down, and a third once his feet hit the ground. A fourth man came running at him with a poorly held knife. Jason shot him in the kneecap and kept moving. He fought his way inside, knowing the kids were safe in the van behind him. The fifth, sixth, and seventh cultists collapsed in the doorway. The eighth and ninth tried firing at him, which earned them each a headshot. 

Jason lost count after that. 

He let the green bleed in, just a little, just enough to feed it and keep it satisfied. He fought like an angry beast, which he was. By the time all the cultists were dead the warehouse was a bloodbath.

Footsteps. Jason turned to see the same lanky driver from earlier run out the warehouse doors. Fuck. It was a distraction. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—

Jason sprinted after him, but he was at the back of the large warehouse and despite how fast he was, he wasn't the Flash. In the few seconds it took to round the corner to where the van was, the door was slamming and the man was driving away with all the kids in the back. 

Jason sprinted across the street to where his bike was parked in an alley, barely on it before he was ripping away after the van. It was trying to lose him with sharp turns and shortcuts, but Jason had been raised on these streets. He knew every shortcut. He followed the van viciously, pushing the bike to its limits of speed. 

It was leaving Gotham, Jasonr realized as the van led him on a twisted chase across Gotham toward the bridge. 

Fuck. If he didn’t catch them in Gotham, the cult was basically lost to thin air. Fuckfuckfuck—

Jason needed backup. 

He needed Bruce. 

He hadn’t talked to Bruce since he’d gotten back to Gotham from his escapades with the outlaws, save or a few stilted acknowledgements when they crossed paths on rooftops. It wasn’t as hostile as it had been when Jason’s every day was full of green, but they didn’t talk. Surprisingly, Jason talked with everyone else. Reluctantly, but Dick had heard his baby brother was alive and wouldn’t let anything stop him from hugging him. Alfred ended up joining Jason for tea every Sunday, because “I will not let him keep me from my grandson any longer,” which did not make Jason tear up. Then Tim had wormed his way in, somehow. 

Tim was different. Jason, in a rage-filled green haze, had planned to clip the baby bird’s wings to teach Bruce a lesson. He’d been snapped out of it by the thought that Joker had clipped Jason’s wings, bragged about it in those exact words, and the Red Hood refused to be a child’s Joker. He hadn’t gone through with it, in fact his repulsion at the idea of him hurting a kid the same way he himself had been hurt had shocked the green back long enough for him to learn to get a hold on it. But the guilt stayed. And he’d antagonized Tim, admittedly, to try and ignore that guilt. But Tim was nothing if not determined, only proven by the fact that he’d blackmailed Batman into becoming Robin and it worked, so eventually after weeks of Tim somehow showing up wherever Jason was — be it his numerous safehouses or on the way to the grocery store — Jason had relented. He had a little brother now. 

The girls showed up in his apartment one day with Tim and didn’t leave. Cass, who he learned had been adopted sometime during Jason’s training with the League, and Steph, who’s whole shtick was showing up and not leaving, as it turned out. They grew on him. 

Point is, he somehow ended up with a myriad of siblings that regularly invaded his safehouses. But he hadn’t talked to Bruce, or gone back to the manor. He wasn’t ready. 

But everyone else was unavailable, and there were more cultists than his limited information told him about. Jason would throw away his pride if it meant the kids lived. 

He called Bruce. 

He didn’t have Batfamily comms to call Bruce. His siblings just hacked Jason’s own comms when they needed to talk. He only had his phone. 

Jason, like an idiot — a desperate, stupid idiot — called Bruce on his personal line that he’d memorized at the ripe age of 11 when he’d been adopted. The private one that only his family knew. 

“Hnn,” Bruce grunted when the call went through. 

“Bruce,” Jason said with embarrassing desperation in his voice. The silence was charged for a moment. “Bruce, I need help. Cultists, child sacrifices, I tracked them down but the guys in the warehouse were just a distraction so that the driver could get away with the kids, and I’m trailing them but I’m only one person, and they’re about to leave Gotham and then the kids will be lost and– I need help,” Jason rambled, barely recognizing what he was saying. 

“Location,” was all Bruce said. Jason sighed in relief. 

“Headed to the bridge near Burnsville, they’re probably gonna try and cut across to that small airport outside of town. Windowless white van; driver is a medium height skinny white male with brown hair and a brown scruffy beard, wearing all black and a green beanie. Approximately 15 unconscious children in the back ages 4 to 11,” Jason reported. 

“Bridge. If not, airport. Keep me on the line,” Bruce said gruffly. In the background, Jason heard the batmobile starting up. It was still early evening, Bruce usually started patrol later. Was he already in the suit or had he put in on the moment Jason asked for help? Jason didn’t dwell on it. 

“Fuck, they got a headstart — shit — they’re almost at the bridge—” Jason mumbled under his breath, not caring that Bruce was listening. 

“10 minutes,” Bruce grunted. 

“I don’t have 10 minutes, B” Jason snapped. The nickname slipped out on reflex, like Jason was a disobedient teenager again. Goddammit, this was why he didn’t talk to Bruce. 

He was racing across the bridge, weaving expertly between cars with the van in his focus ahead. The van turned off at the end of the bridge with a squeal of tires and onto the diagonal road that cut across all of Burnsville. 

“Shit, van just turned onto 5th St. Fuck, B, hurry up.” 

“I’m coming, Jay,” Bruce said from the other end of the phone, voice slightly haggard Jason ignored the slip, just as Bruce had ignored his own. 

“Police?” he barked. 

“Meeting us there. Ambulance too.” 

“Good,” Jason huffed. His fingers tightened around the handles of his bike as he sped down 5th after the van. “Fuck, I’m coming, kids, hold on…” Jason muttered. 

A car honked as Jason swerved around it at a red light. He didn’t have time for stoplights. The van was already too far ahead of him and Bruce was too far behind. 

Another minute passed in tense silence. The van had made it to where 5th street turned into a highway out of town. 

“5 minutes,” Bruce grunted. The batmobile roared in the background. Jason’s motorcycle roared in response as he sped up. 

He was almost to the airport. He was almost to the kids. They would be fine. They had to be. 

Jason saw the airport in the distance, a small plane and five other white vans waiting. Fuckfuckfuck—

“Ambush,” Jason managed to grunt out before he was leaping off his bike, guns out and firing in an instant. Bruce might’ve said something in response, but Jason didn’t hear it. 

The cultists were smarter than Jason’s tired brain gave them credit for. They’d planned for decoys to distract Red Hood and his notorious anger, had an escape plan and multiple teams outside of Gotham, as well as more waiting at the airport to load up the kids. And to Ambush Jason, but they probably didn’t plan on him not being lost with all the twists and turns through Gotham. 

The fight was brutal and quick. Jason was on them before the door to the kid’s van could be opened, guns ablazing. Roughly 30 people in all black with a red insignia on the chest, rushing at Jason. Jason rushed back, pushing the cultists away from the vans and away from the kids. Not all were armed, and even fewer had actual guns, but Jason had just fought 20 of them and he’d been awake for 3 days. Luck was not on his side. 

He distracted the cultists, yelling sarcastic remarks to get them angry and careless, while the batmobile screeched to a stop. 

“Fifth van! Kids!” Jason yelled over the chaos. He barely saw Batman’s nod before he was gone. 

10 cultists were down. Police sirens wailed in the distance. One man got a lucky shot in and hit Jason in the shoulder. Jason shot him in the head for that. 

Sirens closer, roaring in his ears. Or maybe that was his heartbeat. Jason only had to hold out for a few more minutes. 

Batman joined the fray, fighting off anyone who tried to get close to the van. More cultists dropped. 

The plane whirred to life in the background. 

Three cultists surrendered upon seeing Batman gunning for them. The other two got quick shots to the head. Jason would probably be lectured about that later. 

A slew of cop cars and ambulances ripped into the parking lot. They made quick work of arresting the cultists that were alive, while the EMTs rushed over to the van where the children were being kept. 

Jason swayed on his feet. 

Batman turned to him, but one police officer called him over for clarification. Everyone was distracted, no one noticed the woman who’d hidden behind the van and snuck behind Jason with a needle and a knife. 

“Guess you’ll have to do,” she hissed as the world went fuzzy. 

By the time Batman looked back, Jason was being dragged onto the plane that was seconds from taking off.  

Jason blinked, saw Batman’s concerned face running toward him from across the airstrip, and then the world went black. 

￣￣￣￣

Jason woke up laying on his back, arms and feet tied together. He stayed perfectly still, glad he still had his helmet on so he could open his eyes and check his surroundings. He was in the center of a large runic circle. Shapeless figures in all black robes, that same red insignia on the chest, were wandering around the large dark room. Somehow, even after all the cultists he’d taken down, the room was full of more. In the center of the circle with Jason was a large, glowing green hourglass the size of a person. 

Through an open door on the back wall, Jason could see more chained kids. Probably backups from whatever cities the abundance of cultists came from. Jason’s heartbeat raged in his ears. He only hoped that Batman was tracking him and would get there before the cultists could try and use the kids in a second ritual. Knowing Bruce, he’d probably been tracking him since the first moment he’d stepped foot back in Gotham months ago. At least it would be worth it. 

Jason took a deep breath, trying to shake off the effects of the sedative. It was strong — and, God, did Jason hate being drugged — but he was a large man so it was already wearing off. His head spun, eyes slightly blurry, but nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. He could feel the blood dripping from his shoulder wound and onto the carved runes below him. 

Fuck, they were probably using his blood to power this shit. They had tied his lifeforce to the circle, even if he escaped he’d probably still die. 

Fuck. 

The cultists began to form a series of rings around Jason. The innermost ring all cut their palms and dripped their blood directly onto the carved runes. A drop of blood hit Jason’s face. 

The shapeless figures started chanting in a language Jason didn’t recognize. Below him, the blood moved unnaturally to coat all of the runes. He was getting more and more lightheaded. The sand in the glowing hourglass dripped down rapidly. The chanting continued to the beat of the pounding in Jason’s head. The circle was almost fully covered in blood now. 

The thing about realizing that he was about to die after forcibly clawing his way back to life through pure rage and spite, is that Jason really didn’t want to. He’d finally found equilibrium, he had siblings, and Alfred, and the Outlaws, and his trusted men in his gang. He even had Bruce, kind of. He wanted his dad, though, deep in his subconscious, and now he would never have that. At least it was him and not the kids. 

A window shattered as Bruce burst into the room. The outer rings of cultists shouted in shock as Bruce plowed right through them. 

Jason felt the smallest flicker of hope. 

The inner ring continued chanting, louder and louder. The circle was full of blood and starting to glow softly. The hourglass was nearly empty. 

Bruce knocked out more shapeless blobs on his quest to Jason. 

The volume rose. The glow got brighter. 

Bruce started running. 

Jason felt it, the moment the runes had locked onto his lifeforce. Seconds before the ritual would finish. He locked eyes with Bruce, and time slowed. 

“Dad!” Jason screamed. The hourglass broke, and the world was replaced by blinding red light and pain. 

[vladimirsangel]

It's scruffy, but I had fun! Loved seeing so many of these today in my feed.

Starting top left, characters who inspired Aurik:

Raziel, Soul Reaver video game series

Constantine, a vampire from Robin McKinley's novel Sunshine

Oswald Cobblepot, Gotham TV series

Fiver, Watership Down

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera

David, from the movie A1: Artificial Intelligence.

[constantinetwins]

He didn't know what, exactly, he expected with the questions. To understand how the multiverse worked? Solve his depression and massive imposter syndrome? Maybe he just wanted to see how fucking low he could sink.

By all the posts, photos, interactions... many other John's had a worse life than he did. He should be grateful.

He just felt more miserable.

"Are you going to sulk all night, then?"

John huffs, not bothering to look up as his twin wandered in, sharp eyes on the merchandise, hair artfully pulled on a bun.

Refined, polished. A whole word away from John's scruffy appearance.

"Don't you have better stuff to do?"

Jon wrinkles his nose, delicate fingers tracing the ward John was working on. He almost wished it was something dangerous, then maybe the git would mind his own business.

"Just here to deliver this." He says, putting a Tupperware with food on the counter. "And you skipped family dinner."

John almost never went, not if Jon was present. They'd just fight, and Gemma had enough of the both of them being menaces.

"Well, not that I expected you to show to a proper meal. The cur likes scraps, doesn't he?"

John grits his teeth, not falling for the bait. He'd normally be shouting by now, mad as all hell, but he just... didn't have it in himself, today.

No other Constantine had a twin. He didn't know what to think, that he was the exception.

"Mhm. You errant boy, now?" He asks, idle, presents not to see how Jon bristles.

"Ugh, see if I ever do her a favor again. You're the worst to deal with when you're hangover."

Huh, so he looked that bad. Well. As long as it worked.

Jon left, not saying anything else. John opened his phone again. He had so much research to do.

[callsign-mimic]

So here's the first chapter of a Crossover fic that I have been working on when inspirations strikes. Once again borrowing Captain Castle Alistair from the lovely @charliemwrites

Content Warnings: Dresden and Constantine are likely going to be a bit out of character, not edited, not beta read, mentions of alcohol and Constantine being an ass, abrupt ending

A series of concerning reports had Mimic once again working alongside Captain Castle Alistair. The pair were on a mission in Chicago to gather intel and try to piece together why the reports all seemed so inconsistent, contradicting each other in ways that obfuscated the facts of the threat. If there even was one.

Mimic didn't like being in Chicago at the best of times. There was a reason the house she owned was in the middle of the woods in Wisconsin. Castle, ever the extrovert, was completely in his element as they walked through the crowded streets together. He had his arm around her waist, keeping her tight to his side as they headed to the first source of the strange reports.

McAnally's Pub was fairly detached from the main bar scene. It was one of those places that would have been easy to miss if you weren't deliberately looking for it. Mimic quickly glanced around the bar when they walked in, seeing only two other patrons as she and Castle quietly sat at the far end of the bar. The bartender greets them with a nod as he places an unlabeled bottle of beer in front of an exhausted looking, scruffy blonde man in a tan trench coat.

"Mac?" Mimic asks, her soft voice drawing the dark eyes of the tall man slouched at the other end of the bar. Castle noticed the blonde man shift from the corner of his eye, how his sharp blue eyes became alert and calculating as he studies Mimic. He looked almost like a predator sizing up his prey, deciding if she would be worth the hunt.

Castle finds himself slightly relieved when Mac nods and leads Mimic to a back room to speak privately. He doesn't miss how the tall man with dark eyes seems to perk up at the sight. This one seems more curious about her interaction with the bartender more than anything, though he does give her an appraising once over. Castle keeps both of these men in his periphery as he waits for his partner to return.

"Oi, that pretty bird yours, mate?" The blonde asks, looking over at Castle with a cocky smirk. Castle eyes the man, sizing him up, but the dark-eyed man cuts in before he can respond.

"How does she know Mac?" The curiosity in his voice is genuine, almost as if he's excited to know the answer.

"Mim knows a lot of people." Castle says vaguely, his own dark eyes locking onto those of the other man.

"Fair enough." He responds with a laugh, putting his hands up in a placating gesture as Castle notices the sharpness in the blonde man's gaze.

"Mim, eh?" The blonde asks, raising an eyebrow. "Strange name for a pretty little thing..."

Mimic walks back into the bar a step behind Mac and takes her place at Castle's side. She smiles at Mac and nods a silent thanks as he sets an unmarked glass bottle of soda in front of her. Castle wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against his side as he gives the blonde man a warning look. The blonde only chuckles, setting money on the bar and standing as he finishes the last dredges of his ale.

Castle and the dark-eyed man both watch him go, their attention turning back to their respective drinks once he's out the door.

"Apparently we should get into contact with a local private investigator named Harry Dresden." Mimic tells Castle, her voice soft enough to not be overheard. "I guess whatever's been going on in this city is right up his alley. And it would be beneficial to have a local help us get around."

"You're looking for Harry Dresden?" The dark-eyed man asks, perking up once again.

"Might be. You know him?" Castle asks in response, narrowing his eyes at the man. He knew Mimic had spoken quietly enough that she shouldn't have been heard from across the bar. Not unless the man had already been straining to listen.

"I am him." The man replies, a crooked smile appearing on his face that both Castle and Mimic find endearing. "Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, Chicago P.I." He gets up and walks over to them, pulling a card out of an inner pocket in his duster with a flourish and offering it to Mimic with a wink. "At your service."

She takes the card, looking it over curiously while Castle keeps his eyes on Harry. The P.I was tall, probably between 6'8" and 6'9", with a fairly lean build. He looked to be quick on his feet in a fight, and the .500 Smith & Wesson hidden under his duster was nothing to sneeze at. For a brief moment, Castle wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through the shaggy mop of dark hair nearly covering Harry's eyes, then shook the thought away. Maybe he would find out later, maybe not. Right now, he needed to focus on the mission.

"Wizard?" Mimic asks, looking up at Harry with a slight tilt to her head. Harry rubs the back of his neck, his crooked smile becoming a sheepish grin.

"Ah... Yeah, wizard." He says, looking slightly embarrassed for a moment. He clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. "Harry Dresden, Private Investigator and Wizard for Hire. The only wizard you'll find in the phonebook, too."

The way Mimic giggles at his response had Harry swallowing hard. The sound was light and melodic, like the tinkling of notes played on an angelic instrument. Castle relaxes a bit, not realizing just how tense he had been for the whole interaction so far. Seeing the tall "wizard" so easily flustered by the sound of Mimic's amusement sits better with him than the predatory look on the blonde man's face from earlier. And Castle couldn't blame Harry for being caught off-guard. After all, what person in their right mind would be able to resist the sound of Mimic's laughter? He grins at the faint blush that dusts Harry's cheeks, and gives Mimic an affectionate squeeze.

"Mac said you work with the Chicago PD, is that true?" Mimic asks, feeling the way Castle relaxes next to her. "Are supernatural incidents really that prominent here?"

"Kind of..." Harry admits. "They have a unit for especially strange and unexplainable cases. I work as a consultant for them from time to time." He sticks his hands in the pockets of his duster, another crooked smile adorning his lips. "I am very curious as to what you're looking for that would have Mac referring you to me."

Castle and Mimic exchange a glance for a moment before they both look back up at Harry.

"We're special forces operators with the U.S. military." Castle answers, his dark eyes meeting Harry's. "There have been some concerning rumors about potential terrorist activity in the city. Our higher ups sent us to investigate."

Harry whistles, his eyebrows raising in surprise as he looks between the two of them.

"Spec ops, huh? Well damn." He chuckles, pulling a hand from his pocket to run it through his hair. "The uh... The work will be compensated, yeah?"

"Of course." Mimic replies, her bright smile making Harry's heart skip a beat. If he wasn't behind on rent again, he would just ask for a date with her instead. Though he assumes that wouldn't happen, given how tightly her partner still has her held against his side.

"Then I'll be happy to help." He says, grinning and putting his hand back into his pocket. "Any ideas on where you want to start?"

[chaoticallyfluffy]

I read about John Constantine in fanfics before I ever saw what he looked like and when I first saw him I was so confused because… why is he an attractive young man?? Where’s the scruffy, messily shaven facial hair? Where’s the shoulder length hair that’s never brushed? Where’s the rumpled trench coat and fedora that’s slightly askew? The tired eyes? The slouch? I don’t think he was ever described this way literally anywhere but that’s thems the vibes and I cannot comprehend the animated version. Why’d they yassify him???

I did some quick drawings to prove my point:

Idk what to tell you, this is literally him. He looks a bit too much like a cowboy in the second one and I don’t think I fully captured the vibes but STILL! Let him be a stinky middle aged man who has never looked in a mirror in his life!! Cowards!!

[milfzatannaz]

I thought Joanna didn’t work bc she was too clean, too proper. Like part of Constantine’s charm (and an essential part of his character and themes) is that he’s scruffy and working class.

Jenna simply doesn’t have the range. She couldn’t add the actual sardonic asshole vibes that John exudes. She was vaguely misguided and rude but her delivery had no bite to it

[w1ng3dw01f]

Characters Who Are Scrungly (or Scrunkly)

Scrungly/Scrunkly: cute in a quirky, scruffy, or disheveled way

Like a wet cat, a tired ferret, or perhaps even a feral raccoon

Loki (when they want to be) (Marvel)

Bucky Barnes (Marvel)

Din Djarin (Star Wars)

Jason Todd (DC Comics)

John Constantine (DC Comics)

Dream/Morpheus (Sandman)

Ben Solo (Star Wars)

Jyn Erso (Star Wars)

Grover the Muppet 

Silco (Arcane)

Viktor (Arcane)

Jinx (Arcane)

Bunny (Pulp Fiction)

Matt Murdock (Marvel, specifically season 3 Daredevil)

Ballister (Nimona)

Sayid Jarrah (Lost)

Desmond Hume (Lost)

Benjamin Linus (Lost)

So, my friends and I started making this list. Does anyone have any additions or would like to argue against some of the existing characters being here?

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

D, I and O

D: What was the first thing you ever contributed to a fandom?AhahahHAHAHAHA!!! Oh man, it was this. Something that I'm 100% sure is older than a lot of my followers. I can't even confirm exactly how old it is, because the website that I originally posted it on doesn't exist anymore.

I: Has tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why? So, once upon a time, in the days of yore, while I was still a total novice at this whole Fandom thing, I picked up a DVD from the library. What's this?? I thought. Someone made a modern version of my favourite literary characters??? Wow, I wonder if anyone else thinks these two guys are in love. I should check online! And in my naivete, I did. And for a while, it was great! Sure, I created my blog in the midst of the 'You shouldn't bite someone's dick without permission' discourse, and sure I was accused of appropriating my own culture because I didn't agree with the sentiment that an AU about the characters as cavemen(I think? Fuck it's been forever) was being maliciously racist, and sure I received dozens of death threats when I cited examples that suggested one of the characters was recovering from an ED, and SURE I eventually stopped writing for years after being repeatedly harassed and misgendered and threatened by readers when I asked them to stop speaking to me offensively. And SU- Sorry. Where was I going with this? Oh right! Eventually, the thing that put me off entirely was when a fandom divide cropped up and they started fighting over whether or not there was a Conspiracy involved with the writers/directors/media/actors/actors' wives/the fucking queen, i don't know. I figured it was just silly fun, and said I didn't buy into said Conspiracy. Hoo, boy. The flood of hate was epic. So when 'that side' started chirping on about how they were so sweet and kind and generous compared to their Enemies, I said 'Uh, and what about this message I got? And this one? And this other? And these thirty more?' which got a response of 'Oh, those are obviously from people on your side sending you those messages pretending to be True Believers, to make us look bad. Or you probably sent them to yourself.' At which point, I blocked about a hundred people, added a crap ton of stuff to my blacklist, disabled anon, and noped the fuck outta there. Kept the beloved friends I made, though!

O: Choose a song at random, what ship does it remind you of? This one reminds me of TimKon. Specifically 100 Failed Cloning Attempts TimKon.

And this one isn't exactly random(and warning for lots of flashing lights), but it gives me of Constantine/First of the Fallen vibes.

Specifically from the First's point of view...

With young, scruffy punk John.

Which I definitely haven't written.... *CoughDevil'sMusicCough*

[ratblazer]

Hey! I've been wanting to say for a very long time that it gives me great joy whenever your art shows up the #johnconstantine tag. I love that you gave him a dad bod that feels true to his character, and I love that you draw him sorta dishevelled yet managing to have this sort of suave charm. Appreciate your constantine contributions!

Aww thank you so much! I'm glad to hear I balance the scruffiness and charm well, it's important to me that he has both. Even if I tend to draw him on the more.. scrunkly side, I do intend for him to be somewhat attractive too djdhdj

[baublecoded]

“Foxe would delight Henry by showing him a 110-page Latin dossier explaining the ‘true difference between royal and ecclesiastical power’. A momentous document whose scruffy, uninviting appearance belies its significance, it is headed ‘Ex sacris scripturis et authoribus Catholicis’ (‘Compiled from Holy Scriptures and Catholic Authors’) and known today as the ‘Collectanea satis copiosa’ (‘Sufficiently plentiful collections’). Evolving from the ‘King’s Book’ and then marshalling new sources culled from biblical texts, the Church Fathers, the decrees of Church Councils, Roman law, Anglo-Saxon laws and national histories and chronicles, it made the bold argument that the pope was merely the Bishop of Rome. As such, his jurisdiction did not extend beyond his own diocese, whereas the King of England was the ‘Vicar of Christ’ in his kingdom. According to the dossier, Henry’s ‘lawful’ powers were just as ‘imperial’ as those of the early Byzantine emperors, notably Constantine the Great and Justinian, or the Old Testament rulers David and Solomon (Henry’s favourite kings were David and Solomon, and he could quote verbatim from the Old Testament and the Code and Institutes of Justinian). Should he choose to reappropriate his regal powers, he might appoint his own bishops instead of merely nominating candidates to the pope, and he could reform the monasteries. He might then also empower the Archbishop of Canterbury, or else a panel of bishops, to investigate and reach a verdict on his ‘scruples of conscience’, with no appeal allowed. None of this, Foxe argued, would make Henry schismatic like Luther. He would merely be ‘restoring’ to himself legitimate royal rights which, historically, Anglo-Saxon and Norman kings had exercised, and which the papacy had usurped. (Some of the dossier’s claims were true, although their historical contexts could be misunderstood; others were twisted to prove what its compilers wanted the king to believe.) Only Henry II in late 1169 at the height of his quarrel with Archbishop Thomas Becket had dared to make claims like these, and he had been forced to make amends after the appalling scandal of Becket’s murder.”

— John Guy & Julia Fox, Hunting the Falcon: Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn and the Marriage That Shook Europe

[firespirited]

Whole internet : more Anakin more!

Me: Christensen as an unassuming court assigned group therapist with his own issues who also does vigilante stuff on the side and skips to a new town and look every 5 episodes, dissociates vivid imagery that he takes as cosmic guidance, produced by CBC. As scruffy or as polished, as charming or as dangerous as the story requires, urban-rural gothic but no blue or grey filter. Rust Cohle meets Constantine meets Poker Face. Just putting that out there, can you imagine the rest?