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luv-lock · 1 month ago

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ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤWHORE’S FANTASYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : John Constantine x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. Minors DNI. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You don't notice him at first.

Not really.

You're too busy tugging the hem of your cheap purple dress down over your thighs, smeared lipstick staining the corners of your mouth.

Mascara streams down your face, thick and ugly, like bleeding spiderlegs across dead eyes.

You’re half-high, half-drunk, standing barefoot behind the shitty little bar where the real dirtbags like to crawl, and you’re lighting another cigarette with shaking fingers. The end of it flares like a dying star, and you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’re hoping it'll fill the hollow parts of you.

You stink of alcohol.

You smell like roses.

You taste like regret and somebody else’s hands.

He sees you.

God help him, he sees you.

John Constantine, bastard mage, conman, addict, cynic — he’s not a savior. He’s not a white knight.

He's just another piece of shit who recognizes his own.

He flicks the end of his cigarette into the gutter and watches you struggle with the strap of your dress, tits half-hanging out in the yellow light of the alleyway.

You should look pathetic.

You should look cheap.

You do.

But somehow, you look... more, too.

There’s something about you, something cracked and shining and wrong.

Like a broken mirror catching all the wrong reflections.

Something that crawls under John's skin, burrows between his ribs and digs in sharp little claws.

He tells himself it's nothing.

Just another lost girl.

Just another night.

But he’s lying.

Already, he’s lying to himself.

He lights another cigarette and steps out of the dark.

“You alright there, love?” he rasps, voice like a bad memory, smoke curling from his lips.

You look at him with those dead doll-eyes. No fear. No real interest, either. Just this slow, heavy indifference like you're already halfway in the grave.

You shrug.

You hitch your dress up higher.

You don’t bother pretending to be shy. You gave up pretending a long time ago.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice raw from cheap whiskey and cheaper choices.

John should walk away.

He knows this kind of girl, the ones with nothing left to lose. They eat you alive without even meaning to. They rot you from the inside out.

He should turn around.

He should let you slip back into the filth where you came from.

Instead, he laughs.

Soft, almost pitying.

“Just a light, sweetheart,” he lies, flicking open his battered silver lighter even though his own cigarette is already burning between his fingers.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious, but too tired to care.

You let him light your cigarette anyway, leaning in, close enough that he can smell the roses in your hair, the smoke on your skin, the slow stink of desperation leaking off you like cheap perfume.

You don't know it yet, but you've already cursed him.

That first night, he doesn't touch you.

He just watches you, out the corner of his eye, as you stumble back inside the bar, laughing that dry, broken laugh at something nobody else can hear.

He tells himself he won't come back.

He tells himself it's none of his business.

He tells himself he’s already got enough bloody ghosts to haunt him without adding another.

But he does come back.

Again.

And again.

You don't really notice him after that first night.

Not the way he notices you.

To you, he's just another face in the blurry noise of your nights — another man with a lighter, another set of boots tracking dirt across the floor.

You don't know he comes back.

Every night now.

You don't know he sits in the corner, half-drunk, chain-smoking, pretending to mind his own business while you keep carving pieces off yourself and handing them to anyone who asks.

You're too far gone to care.

Always high, always halfway between laughing and crying.

Your eyes — God, those fucking eyes —

half-lidded, lazy, dead as winter, but still so pretty it makes something sour twist in John's gut.

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re outside again, the bar's back alley, slumped against the crumbling brick wall like a broken doll.

Dress bunched up around your hips, one shoe missing, a cigarette burning forgotten between your fingers.

You’re shaking. Coming down hard.

You’re muttering to yourself under your breath, something sharp and ugly.

John watches you for a long time before he moves.

He hates himself for it.

Hates that he cares.

But he moves anyway.

Without thinking, he fishes a crumpled wad of cash out of his coat pocket and crouches in front of you, holding it out like a white flag.

"Here," he says gruffly, avoiding your eyes. "Get y'self something to eat. A bed, maybe. Somethin' better than... this."

You blink at the money.

Then at him.

And then — slow, crooked grin splitting your face — you laugh.

That dry, brittle laugh, like something breaking.

You grab the cash with one hand — and with the other, you reach for his belt.

John freezes.

You’re clumsy, sluggish, but determined, tugging at his pants like it’s just the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just how the world works:

money = you.

"Y'wanna fuck me, right?" you slur, eyes glassy but sharp underneath. "Go on then, mister. Paid up, didn't you?"

He grabs your wrists, not rough but firm.

Pushes your hands away.

"Christ," he mutters, like a prayer, like a curse. "That’s not why—"

You tilt your head at him, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lips dry and cracked.

You look at him like he's the crazy one.

"Then why else you givin’ me money?" you ask, so blunt it cuts.

"No one gives girls like me free rides, mister."

You grin again, crooked and sad, and your dress slides even further up your thighs.

You don't even notice. Or maybe you do. Maybe you just don't care.

John exhales smoke through his nose, staring down at you, feeling something black and oily coil inside his chest.

"Pity," he says finally, bitter. "Maybe I’m a stupid sod with a savior complex. Maybe I’m just drunk."

You squint up at him through the smoke and the haze, studying him like he's some strange animal you've never seen before.

Then you shrug.

Simple. Easy.

Like you’ve already decided it doesn’t matter either way.

"Y'can fuck me if you want," you say, almost sweetly. "You're not ugly."

John laughs. A short, sharp, broken thing.

He almost wants to take you up on it, just to feel something real for a change.

Almost.

Instead, he shakes his head, rubs a hand down his face.

"Go sleep it off, love," he says, voice rough. "Get a hot meal. For once."

You clutch the money to your chest like it’s something hole.

Like it’s the first good thing anyone’s given you in a long time.

And you just smile at him —

this soft, stupid little smile that shouldn't hurt to look at, but somehow does.

John tells himself it's still just pity.

Just a bit of guilt, a bit of bleeding heart nonsense.

But when you stumble away into the night, barefoot and laughing under your breath, he stays there, standing in the alleyway like a man who's just been punched in the gut.

And he watches you go, smoke curling around him, cigarette burning down to the filter between his shaking fingers.

He doesn't leave.

Not for a long, long time.

He sees you again three days later.

He’s not looking for you —

at least that’s what he tells himself.

Just grabbing a pint.

Just passing through.

You find him first.

"Hey, mister."

Your voice cuts through the noise.

Soft. Small. Almost shy.

He turns, half expecting the same disaster he left behind in that alley —

the smeared makeup, the too-short dress, the wild deadness in your eyes.

But you’re different this time.

You're...

sober.

No makeup.

No booze in your veins.

No cigarette dangling from your fingers.

Just you —

barefaced, raw, skin looking almost too thin for your bones, but real.

Alive.

You stand there awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of a too-big hoodie, cheap sneakers scuffing the pavement.

You don’t look like the kind of girl who sells herself to survive.

You just look like a girl.

"I’m not a beggar," you say suddenly, fidgeting. "But... thanks. For the money."

John blinks, caught off guard.

You flash a little smile — nervous, genuine, heartbreaking.

"Mister's a good man," you say.

It punches something deep in his gut.

He’s not.

You’re wrong.

He’s done worse than you could imagine.

But you say it like you believe it. Like it’s fact. Like it's written somewhere in a book bigger than either of you.

He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

"You hungry?" he hears himself asking.

You light up. Not much, but enough.

A flicker. A spark.

"Yeah," you say simply.

You spend the day together.

It’s stupid.

It’s perfect.

You get street food — cheap, greasy chips wrapped in newspaper.

You drag him through the streets like a manic little hurricane, pointing out dogs that look like goblins, shouting compliments at old ladies, daring him to race you down alleyways.

At one point, you find a children's park — some half-dead little patch of grass and rusting swings.

You bolt for it like a kid.

"C'mon, mister!" you holler, kicking your shoes off and running barefoot through the patchy grass. "Play with me!"

John stands there like an idiot for a second, cigarette halfway to his mouth.

Then he sighs. Drops the smoke. Crushes it under his boot.

And jogs after you.

You end up pushing each other on the swings, spinning until you're both dizzy, laughing like two drunk ghosts.

You even convince him to climb the jungle gym — which ends with him cursing and almost falling on his ass.

You laugh until you wheeze.

He grins despite himself.

You’re smiling.

Really smiling.

Not that broken, brittle thing he’s seen before.

This one’s messy and real and full of life, like you don’t know you’re supposed to be miserable.

For a few hours, you’re not a ghost.

You’re just a girl.

Later, you sit side by side on the grass, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands.

The sun's sinking, staining the sky blood-red.

John takes a drag, exhales smoke in a long, slow stream.

"You..." he starts, hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

"You gonna... y'know. Work. Tonight?"

You turn your head slowly toward him.

Wide eyes.

Clear and open and a little confused, like you genuinely don't understand the question at first.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp, bright, cutting.

"Why?" you grin wickedly, teeth flashing. "Mister wanna make his money’s worth?"

John winces.

You elbow him lightly, still laughing under your breath, cigarette bobbing between your fingers.

"Nah," you say finally, settling back on your elbows, face tipped toward the sky.

"I’m good. Probably won’t need to for a week, thanks to you."

You tap ash into the grass.

"Guess you bought me a vacation, mister."

There’s a strange peace in your voice.

No bitterness. No shame.

Just simple, stupid gratitude.

John wants to say something —

something clever, something to fill the aching silence between you —

but the words stick in his throat.

You crush the cigarette out on the sole of your sneaker, rising to your feet in one fluid, tired motion.

"See ya, Mister," you say, tossing a lazy wave over your shoulder as you drift away into the gathering dark.

John stays where he is, sitting on the grass, smoke curling around him like a noose.

He watches you go.

Again.

And he tells himself it’s just pity.

Still just pity.

It’s a week later.

Exactly a week.

John remembers, because you said it.

Because your voice — lazy and teasing and sweetly poisonous — stuck in his bloody head like a song he can’t turn off.

"Probably for a week," you’d laughed.

And now it's been seven days.

He tells himself he’s just passing through.

That he’s not looking for you.

He’s lying to himself. He knows it.

The night air smells like piss and diesel.

The streets are sticky with old rain and regret.

The city yawns open, ugly and hungry, swallowing girls like you whole.

He’s late.

He knows it the second he spots you.

You’re stumbling down a filthy back alley, shoes dangling from one hand, the other hand dragging along the brick wall for balance.

You’re half-folded over, bent at the waist like you’re trying to walk on a sinking ship.

Your pretty dress is twisted.

Your hair’s a mess.

Your mascara — the little you bothered with tonight — is bleeding down your cheeks.

You giggle.

It’s a wet, broken sound.

You take two more steps, your legs buckling.

John’s moving before he can even think.

You're about to hit the concrete when John lunges forward and catches you.

"Whoa there, love," he mutters, arms wrapping around your shaking frame.

You giggle again, breathless against his chest.

"Heyyy, Misterrrr," you slur, blinking up at him with those wide, beautiful, dead eyes. "You gonna fuck me nowww?"

John frowns, adjusting his grip on you.

Your body is practically boneless in his arms, and you reek of cheap booze and something sweeter underneath —

roses wilting in dirty water.

"You alright, pet?" he tries, voice low.

You don’t answer.

Just hum some tuneless nonsense under your breath.

Your fingers tug weakly at the sleeve of his coat like a child needing comfort.

"Christ," he mutters, pulling you closer.

"You’re a bloody mess."

You nod cheerfully like you heard him, but you're not really there, not really.

Your head lolls back and you grin up at him — wide, dumb, beautiful — before you suddenly double over and—

you vomit all over him.

All over his coat, his shirt, his bloody boots.

John grimaces, steadying you as your whole body shudders.

"That's alright, love," he says quietly, patting your back while you cough and gasp and sag against him.

Still — something twists deep in his gut.

Doesn’t even think about it.

Instead, he just tightens his grip and scoops you up —

like you’re something precious, something fragile, something he’s terrified might break if he’s not careful.

He takes you to his flat.

It’s not much —

just a shitty little place that smells like old books, cigarettes, and alcohol.

But it’s clean.

It’s safe.

He strips off his ruined coat, tosses it into the sink, and carries you to the couch.

You’re half-passed out by the time he gets you there.

You’re murmuring under your breath, little nonsense things, like a kid muttering in their sleep.

John finds a blanket.

Tugs it up around your chin.

Your face is flushed.

Your lips are parted.

You look so fucking young like this. So stupidly young and vulnerable.

He pulls a chair close to the couch and sinks into it heavily, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

He watches you.

He watches you all night.

He doesn't move.

Doesn’t sleep.

Not really.

When he finally dozes off — just for a moment — the dream hits him hard.

It’s you.

Of course it’s you.

Your body under his.

Your mouth gasping his name.

Your nails digging into his skin.

Hot and dirty and desperate.

His.

He jerks awake with a sick, guilty twist in his gut, heart hammering against his ribs.

You’re still sleeping, innocent and oblivious, curled up like a child under the blanket he gave you.

John scrubs a hand down his face.

"Fucking hell," he mutters.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

You don’t remember a damn thing when you finally stir hours later.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket like a cocoon, staring down at your hands.

When you see him, you blink.

Confused.

Flickering through memories that aren’t quite there.

"I... um," you start, frowning. "Did I...?"

"You threw up on me," John says dryly, tossing a clean t-shirt over the back of the chair.

"And passed out. Real classy."

You flush — a soft, miserable red creeping up your neck.

"Sorry, mister," you mumble, cheeks burning. "Didn’t mean to be a bother."

John ruffles your hair, chuckling dryly.

"S’nothin’, love. You’re alright."

You sip the coffee that he gave you, curling your bare legs under you, shrinking into yourself like a kicked dog.

John doesn’t like that look on you.

Not one bit.

He makes you breakfast —

burnt toast and greasy eggs and orange juice that tastes like tar.

You eat like you haven’t had a real meal in days.

He watches you across the table, smoking and pretending he’s not watching.

When you’re finished, you wipe your mouth on your sleeve and stand up awkwardly.

"I should... go," you say, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

"I'll drop you," John says quickly — too quickly.

You blink at him, surprised.

"Really, mister. It's fine—"

"I insist," he says, already grabbing his keys.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you get home safe.

He tells himself it’s not because he needs to know where you live.

He’s lying again.

The walk to your place is quiet.

You lead him through crumbling back alleys and graffiti-smeared stairwells until you reach a battered old building that looks half-abandoned.

You pause at the front door, shifting from foot to foot.

"This is me," you say softly.

You smile — small and sad and shy.

"Thanks, mister," you add. "For... y'know. Not letting me die in a gutter."

John shrugs like it’s nothing.

Like it didn’t cost him anything.

Like he didn’t dream about you all fucking night.

You wave again —

that same lazy little wave —

and disappear inside.

John stands there for a long time after you’re gone.

Smoking.

Thinking.

Feeling things he doesn’t want to name.

He can’t stop thinking about you after that.

He tells himself he’s just worried.

Just making sure you’re alright.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way you looked curled up in his blanket.

It’s the way you smiled at him like he was the only good thing in a world full of monsters.

It’s the sound of your voice — broken, brutal, beautiful.

He starts going back to the places he might find you.

Starts listening for your laugh.

Starts noticing every girl with a cigarette and mascara-smudged eyes and thinking, There she is. That’s her.

But it’s never you.

And the empty ache in his chest just grows bigger and bigger.

It becomes a ritual after that.

Every night now, John comes to take you home.

Doesn’t matter where you are, what you're doing.

He finds you.

In some shit-stained alley.

In the back of some filthy dive bar.

In the arms of strangers.

Sometimes he catches you mid-fuck —

bent over some broken table, some guy's hands bruising your hips, your eyes half-closed, mouth open but silent.

Sometimes you’re wiping your face with the back of your hand when he gets there.

Cum glistening on your cheeks, your lashes, your lips.

John doesn't say anything.

Doesn't yell.

Doesn't judge.

He just shrugs out of his coat, drapes it over your shoulders, and leads you away like he’s guiding a sleepwalker.

But it eats him alive.

Every time he sees another man's hands on you, another man's cum dripping down your chin —

something black and ugly and furious wakes up inside him.

He hates it.

He hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his cursed, miserable life.

So he starts giving you money.

Not much, at first.

Crumpled bills tucked into your pocket with a gruff, embarrassed cough.

"Buy yourself a proper meal, yeah?" he mutters, looking anywhere but at you.

You smile — that soft, broken little smile — and take it without question.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t ask for more.

But John sees the change almost immediately.

You stop letting strange men touch you.

Stop letting them buy your drinks, pull you into dark corners.

You cling to John instead.

Follow him home like a stray cat.

Sleep curled up on his couch, wearing his t-shirts, stealing his cigarettes.

And he lets you.

He fucking lets you because somewhere along the way, he stopped being your savior.

And started being your jailer.

You just don’t realize it yet.

You trust him.

God help you, you trust him because he’s the only man who hasn’t tried to fuck you.

The only man who doesn’t look at you like you're a thing to be used and thrown away.

John keeps telling himself that's all it is.

That he just wants to protect you.

That it’s not about the way your t-shirts ride up over your thighs when you stretch.

Not about the way your bra strap slips off your shoulder when you laugh.

Not about the way your lips wrap around the neck of a beer bottle absent-mindedly when you're not even thinking about it.

It’s not about any of that.

It’s not.

Until the night it is.

You're sitting on the couch, barefoot and cross-legged, wearing one of his shirts that’s far too big on you.

Talking.

You were rambling about your past again—

About shitty foster homes and shittier men.

About how you learned real young what men really wanted.

About how you stopped believing in fairytales because your prince charming turned out to be another monster with rough hands and a mean mouth.

You were laughing when you said it.

That pretty, broken laugh of yours.

Like it didn’t hurt anymore.

Like you didn’t care.

John should be listening.

He really should.

But he’s not.

He’s staring.

At your lips, moving so soft and easy.

At your chest, rising and falling with every careless breath.

At the hint of skin peeking out when you shift, the worn fabric of his shirt clinging to the curve of your tits.

He feels his cock twitch in his jeans.

Hardening.

Throbbing.

And suddenly he’s not hearing a word you're saying anymore.

Just staring.

Just wanting.

You don’t notice at first.

You're still talking —

some story about some bastard who left you bruised and bleeding and crying at a bus stop.

But then you glance at him.

Catch the way his eyes are dark and heavy and fixed on your mouth.

Catch the obvious, aching bulge in his jeans.

Your smile falters —

just for a second.

Just a flicker of something sad and brittle flashing across your face.

And then you smile again.

A dull, tired smile.

Like you're used to this.

Like you expected it all along.

Like it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

You crawl across the couch to him.

Settle between his knees.

Fingers working open his belt like it's just another job, just another disappointment.

John grabs your wrists.

"Wait," he rasps, voice cracked and desperate.

You look up at him.

Not angry.

Not pleading.

Just resigned.

"’S'alright, mister," you murmur, that flat smile never leaving your lips. "You’re different, yeah? It’s fine."

He wants to tell you no.

Wants to shove you away and run and never see you again.

But he doesn’t.

He lets you.

Lets you free him from his jeans, your small hands working his cock free, hard and throbbing and leaking pre-cum.

Lets you take him into your mouth —

warm and wet and willing.

Lets you suck him off slowly, lazily, like you're doing him a favor you don't even care about.

And it feels good.

God, it feels so fucking good.

Better than anything he’s had in years.

Better than magic.

Better than whiskey.

Better than the cigarettes burning a hole in his lungs.

He groans low and broken, one hand finding its way into your hair, guiding you with trembling fingers.

You don't protest.

You don't flinch.

You just take it.

Take him.

Until he’s spilling into your mouth with a raw, guttural gasp, the world going white around the edges.

Afterwards, you sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Still smiling that awful, empty smile.

John pulls his jeans back up with shaking hands.

Silence stretches thick and suffocating between you.

Finally he croaks out, "Do you... do you hate me now?"

You tilt your head at him, considering.

Shrug.

"Hate’s a strong word," you say lightly. "I'm just disappointed."

The words slice into him sharper than any blade.

But you don’t seem to notice.

Or maybe you just don’t care.

You stand up, stretch your arms over your head, and yawn like a cat.

"It’s fine," you add, already wandering toward the kitchen.

"Not that it matters. You're the one paying me now, right? ‘S'all good."

And somehow, that hurt worse than anything.

Worse than if you had screamed at him.

Worse than if you had slapped him across the face.

He just sat there, jeans still undone, staring at you.

At the hollow place where your soul used to be.

At the pretty, broken thing he was slowly making his own.

After that night, something inside you changes.

You’re not sweet anymore.

You’re not soft.

You still smile —

God, you always smile —

but it’s dull now.

Lifeless.

Like a neon sign buzzing in a dead city.

You're full.

Full of disappointment, full of resignation, full of the ugly truth.

John's just another piece of trash.

No different from the rest.

Just another man who wanted something from you, no matter how pretty he dressed it up.

John tries to pretend it’s love.

Tries to kiss you like you're a fucking miracle. Tries to touch you like you're made of something holy.

But you're not.

You’re empty.

You're a vessel. A cracked and leaking thing.

And he’s just another man filling you up with his filth.

Another Mister who wants something and takes it.

You don't hate him.

You don't love him either.

You just accept it.

Same as you always do.

Then it happens again.

And again.

You don’t protest.

You don’t pull away.

You let him touch you.

Let him rut against you.

Let him use you.

But you don't feel it.

Not really.

You don't kiss him with your mouth.

You kiss him with your absence.

You moan because you know he likes it.

You arch your back because that's what they want.

You scratch your nails down his spine because someone taught you that men like to feel owned, just a little.

But your eyes are always distant.

Wandering.

Dead.

John notices.

He notices everything.

How you never meet his eyes anymore.

How your smile never reaches your cheeks.

How you don't fall asleep curled against him like you used to.

You just lie there —

cold, silent, naked —

like a broken doll someone forgot to put away.

Sometimes, when he’s fucking you, he talks to you.

Whispers your name into your neck.

Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you are, how much he needs you.

You don’t answer.

You just whimper prettily when you think you’re supposed to.

It drives him insane.

Because you’re there —

but you’re not.

He can touch you, own you, fill you —

but he can’t reach you.

You’re a locked room he lost the key to.

You’re a dead girl smiling.

One night, he’s rougher than usual.

Not violent.

Just desperate.

Hands grabbing too tight.

Mouth bruising your skin.

Fucking you deep and hard, like he's trying to break through whatever walls you’ve built between you.

You let him.

You always let him.

Afterward, he collapses beside you, panting, sticky with sweat and shame.

You roll away from him, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Silent.

Smiling.

He touches your hair, brushes it back from your face.

"You’re not... you're not mad, are you, love?" he asks, voice raw.

You blink slowly, still smiling that awful, empty smile.

"Nah," you murmur. "You’re just Mister, right?"

You say it so sweetly.

So gently.

And it cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

John doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know how to fix this.

Doesn’t know if he can.

So he just lies there, listening to you breathe, feeling the space between you turn colder and colder.

Like a grave filling up with dirt.

After that, it gets worse.

The sex is mechanical now.

A transaction.

A ritual.

He gives you money.

You give him your body.

He holds you like a lover.

You let him.

He kisses you like you're precious.

You let him.

He tells you he needs you.

You let him.

But in your eyes —

God, in your eyes —

he sees it.

The truth.

He’s no different.

He’s nothing special.

He’s just another man who fucked you when you were too broken to fight back.

Just another name on the list you’ll forget one day when you're drunk enough, dead enough, free enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even blame him.

You just accept it.

Because that’s all you’ve ever known.

And John...

he hates himself more every day.

But he still keeps coming back.

Keeps reaching for you like a man dying of thirst reaching for a poisoned cup.

Keeps hoping for a miracle that never comes.

Because you’re already dead inside.

And he’s the fool who helped bury you.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

913 notes · View notes

solelifauna · 8 months ago

Note

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

#batfamily #yandere batfam #platonic yandere #neglected reader #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #john constantine #yandere john constantine (kinda)#batfamily x neglected reader #batman #batfam #batfamily x reader #justice leauge dark

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marks-bby · 8 months ago

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men who for some reason love to see the sight of you withering in pleasure. crying for that sweet release you are oh so desperately chasing. but the attempt is futile without him. you need him. you’ll crack without the attention required.

his favorite sight is to see your bottom in the air as your face is pressed against the pillow, drool slipping from the side of your lips, tears soaked into the fabric. your arms are tied behind you as you take every last drop of what he’s giving you. mumbling something about “this is gonna take”. all five senses are gone. the feeling of his cock drilling into you is pure bliss. every thing turns white in your mind as you feel white ropes of his seed full your cunt to the brim; some even spilling out.

“nuh uh, sweetheart.” he pulls himself out, using his two fingers to catch the stray droplets before pushing them back into your sensitive, abused hole, making your body jolt.

men who like to have you on your back after a long day at your job, perfectly placed between your legs as he ravishes your cunt like the dog he is. he’s been waiting to see the sight of your dewy cunt, waiting to hear your incoherent whine of you begging for him to slow down. but the pleas fall deaf on his ears. all he can hears are the lewd noise that your sl*tty c*nt makes on impact.

ignis , DANTE , vergil , sam drake , joe goldberg , JOEL MILLER , aki hayakawa , KISHIBE , SUKUNA , GETO , nanami , toji , leon kennedy , JASON TODD , JOHN WICK , JOHN CONSTANTINE , wolverine , plus your favs !!

guidelines to request .

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urdreamydoodles · 5 months ago

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DC Comics Characters x Fem!OC

You smacks their ass as they walk past

After a short festive break, I'm back in force with my headcanons. My (hyper) brain has been obsessed with DC lately, so get ready for some DC headcanons with new characters I've never done before. I missed you all, love, Marie.

Bruce Wayne aka. Batman

- You didn’t mean to do it. Well, that’s a lie. You absolutely meant to do it. The way Bruce’s broad, suited figure strode past you in the Batcave was simply too tempting. There he was, the epitome of brooding composure, running a hand through his dark hair as he mulled over crime scene reports. Without much thought, your hand acted on instinct. Smack. The sound echoed through the cavern like a gunshot. Bruce stopped mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head, an arched eyebrow lifting to meet his ever-present scowl. "Really?" he asked, voice calm but laced with that unmistakable Wayne edge.

- His reaction wasn’t anger, though you could see the faintest twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth. You, the only one in Gotham—or perhaps the world—who could dare to breach his stoicism with something so mundane as a playful swat. You crossed your arms, feigning innocence, though your smirk betrayed you. “What? Just testing your reflexes, Mr. Wayne.” He took a slow step toward you, his shadow sprawling like a cloak. “I thought you’d want to keep that hand intact,” he murmured, but there was warmth in his voice that belied the threat.

- Bruce never let much show, but you knew the man beneath the cowl better than anyone. As much as he loved his mission, as much as he carried Gotham on his weary shoulders, he loved you more. There was no hiding the way his stern exterior softened around you, how his dark eyes gleamed with affection when he thought you weren’t looking. And now, despite his unflinching persona, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in the way he lingered near, uncertain if he should let himself laugh.

- “Next time,” he finally said, his voice low, “make sure Alfred isn’t around to hear it.” His lips quirked into the barest smile before he turned back to the Batcomputer. Yet, as he walked away, you could swear he slowed his stride, almost as if daring you to do it again. You didn’t, of course. Not then. But the idea of Gotham’s Dark Knight flustered by a simple smack was too delicious to forget. And Bruce knew it.

Clark Kent (Kal-El) aka. Superman

- Clark didn’t see it coming. How could he, when he was too busy carrying three bags of groceries in each hand and balancing a box of pastries in the crook of his elbow? You watched him shuffle toward the kitchen counter, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his wholesome, Midwestern charm radiating even in the simplest acts. As he passed, you couldn’t resist. Smack. The clap of your hand against his ridiculously perfect backside made him jump slightly, the pastries nearly tumbling from his grip. “Hey!” he exclaimed, spinning around, cheeks flushed pink.

- For someone faster than a speeding bullet, Clark sure could get caught off guard by you. His face was an endearing mix of surprise and bashfulness, and you swore the man looked like he’d just been scolded by Ma Kent herself. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine confusion but also a hint of laughter. You shrugged, batting your lashes. “Couldn’t resist. You’re carrying so much cake, after all.” He groaned at the pun but couldn’t keep from smiling.

- Clark, despite his extraordinary origins, was at his core a simple man. A man who loved sharing quiet evenings with you, cooking together, and pretending the world didn’t need him for a little while. He was also devastatingly kind, a trait that extended to how he loved you—with full-hearted sincerity and no room for doubt. So when he looked at you now, shaking his head with a chuckle, you knew he wasn’t really annoyed.

- “You’re unbelievable,” he said, placing the pastries safely on the counter. Then, faster than you could blink, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close with that impossible strength. “But if you’re going to tease, you’d better be prepared to deal with the consequences.” His grin was all boyish mischief as he tickled your sides, your laughter ringing through the kitchen. You swore he let you win when you finally broke free. Clark Kent, the strongest man alive, completely at your mercy.

Barry Allen aka. Flash

- Barry didn’t even stop moving. You were sure he noticed, though, because as you walked past him in the hallway and your hand made contact with his backside, he nearly tripped over his own feet. For the Flash, that was saying something. “Did you just—” he started, spinning to face you. His words were drowned out by your laughter as he stood there, red-faced and wide-eyed, his usual chatter momentarily short-circuited.

- “What?” you asked innocently, though your grin betrayed you. Barry spluttered for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I wasn’t expecting that!” he managed, his voice pitching higher than usual. You loved how easy it was to fluster him, even though he was one of the smartest, fastest people in the world. “You’ve got to work on your reaction time, hero,” you teased, winking as you sauntered away.

- Barry’s mind was racing, as it always did, but now it wasn’t just thoughts of his latest case or some quantum theory experiment. No, now it was you—how you could so effortlessly knock him off balance with a single playful act. He adored you for it, for the way you brought lightness and humor into his often chaotic, exhausting life. You were his anchor, his calm in the storm of velocity and danger.

- Later, when he zipped into the living room with snacks for your movie night, he couldn’t resist a little payback. As he placed the bowl of popcorn on the table, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. “Tag,” he whispered, and before you could respond, he darted away, leaving a gentle swat on your hip in his wake. Your laughter followed him, echoing in the space he’d just vacated. Barry might be the fastest man alive, but you were the one who always left him breathless.

Diana of Themyscira aka. Wonder Woman

- You didn’t think it was possible to catch Diana off guard. The Amazon princess was grace and power personified, her every movement deliberate, her every action precise. But when you passed her in the sunlit garden and gave her a cheeky smack, she stopped mid-step. Her head turned slowly, her azure eyes narrowing as her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Did you just strike a warrior?” she asked, her voice a blend of amusement and mock reprimand.

- “A warrior with impeccable form,” you shot back, bold as ever. Diana’s laughter rang out, melodic and warm, her posture relaxing as she faced you fully. “You’re fortunate I consider this an act of affection,” she teased, stepping closer. The sunlight caught her dark hair, casting her in an almost ethereal glow. She was intimidating and beautiful, a goddess among mortals, yet in this moment, she was utterly human—and yours.

- Diana loved how unafraid you were of her strength, her presence. So many treated her like a distant, untouchable figure, but you reminded her that she was more than her titles or her mission. You made her laugh, you challenged her, and you weren’t afraid to be playful with her—even when it came to something as bold as this. She admired your spirit, your fire, the way you met her gaze without hesitation.

- “You realize,” she said, her tone mock-serious as she closed the gap between you, “that this is an invitation for retaliation.” Before you could react, her arms wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Her laughter joined yours as she spun you once before setting you back down. “Careful, my love,” she warned, pressing a kiss to your temple. “A warrior never forgets.” But the smile on her lips promised she’d never stop loving your daring nature.

Arthur Curry aka. Aquaman

- You should have known better than to smack Arthur Curry as he walked past, the salty scent of the sea clinging to him like a second skin. The man was built like a fortress, with muscles that rippled beneath his tank top and a stride that exuded the confidence of a king. As your hand connected with his backside, the smack echoed through the cozy beach house you shared. Arthur stopped mid-step, his broad shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned his head, a grin spreading across his rugged, sun-kissed face. “You sure you want to start this game, love?”

- He set down the fishing net he’d been carrying, his piercing green eyes narrowing playfully as he took a deliberate step toward you. You couldn’t help but laugh, holding your ground even as he loomed closer, his smirk promising trouble. “I couldn’t resist,” you said, your voice light. “It’s not every day a queen gets to remind her king who’s really in charge.” Arthur barked out a laugh, the sound deep and rich like the ocean waves outside. “Oh, is that so?” he rumbled, his hands finding his hips.

- Arthur loved your boldness, the way you matched his fiery spirit without hesitation. You were one of the few people who could keep up with him—whether it was challenging his quick temper, teasing his authority, or standing beside him when the burdens of two worlds weighed heavily on his shoulders. You weren’t afraid of his strength, his power, or the scars that told the story of his battles. Instead, you met him head-on, reminding him of the joy and levity he often forgot.

- “Alright,” he said finally, leaning down until his face was inches from yours, his grin widening. “But just remember—you started it.” Before you could react, his large hand swatted your hip, the playful strike making you gasp and laugh at the same time. “That’s for round one,” he teased, straightening as he headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s see if you’ve got the guts for round two.” You watched him go, shaking your head. King of the seas? More like king of cheeky comebacks.

Hal Jordan aka. Green Lantern

- You didn’t even plan it. Hal Jordan had been walking past, cocky as ever in his flight jacket, tossing his keys onto the counter with that easy swagger that made your heart race and your patience thin in equal measure. Before you knew it, your hand moved of its own accord. Smack. The sound was sharp, and Hal froze, mid-step, his head snapping toward you. For a moment, his mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then, finally, he broke into a grin. “Well, hello to you too,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

- Hal was never one to back down from a challenge, and you knew that all too well. “Careful,” he warned, his green eyes sparkling as he took a slow step toward you. “You’re playing with fire here, gorgeous.” You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Oh, please. If you’re so tough, you should be able to handle a little pat on the back. Or… elsewhere.” His laughter was immediate, loud and free, filling the room like music. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?”

- That was what Hal adored about you. He’d spent so much of his life surrounded by danger and responsibility—whether it was saving the universe as Green Lantern or pulling insane aerial stunts as a test pilot. But you? You were his gravity, his reminder that life wasn’t all about proving himself. You made him laugh in a way no one else could, and even when you pushed his buttons, he couldn’t help but fall a little more in love with you each time.

- “Alright,” he said, slipping his jacket off and tossing it onto the couch. “You wanna play dirty? Let’s play dirty.” Before you could react, Hal’s ring glowed, and a green construct of a feather appeared in his hand. “Let’s see how tough you are when the tables turn.” You squealed, darting behind the couch as he followed, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Hal Jordan might be fearless, but you knew his real weakness—your laugh, your smile, your ability to keep him on his toes.

Oliver Queen aka. Green Arrow

- Oliver Queen barely flinched when your hand smacked his backside as he walked past the kitchen counter, a bow slung over his shoulder. Instead, he stopped, cocking his head to the side with a slow smirk spreading across his handsome, scruffy face. “Well, that’s one way to get my attention,” he drawled, turning to face you. His emerald-green eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was plotting some form of retaliation. “Should I be worried, or was that just your way of saying ‘good shot’?”

- “You’ve been spending too much time in the field,” you teased, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. “Thought I’d remind you who really has the aim around here.” Oliver laughed, the sound warm and rich as he set his bow down carefully. “Oh, really? You think you can out-shoot me and out-smart me in my own house?” His tone was playful, but you knew the archer in him couldn’t resist a challenge.

- Oliver loved that about you—your boldness, your fire, the way you never let him take himself too seriously. It was a rare gift to be able to break through the walls he built around himself, the layers of guilt and responsibility he carried as Star City’s protector. But you didn’t just break through; you tore those walls down with humor, love, and a fearlessness that matched his own. You reminded him of the man beneath the hood, the one who still knew how to laugh and love.

- “Alright,” he said, stepping closer and resting his hands on either side of the counter, trapping you in place. “But just so we’re clear—if this is your idea of flirting, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve too.” Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you deeply, stealing your breath and your smugness all at once. When he pulled back, his grin was pure Oliver Queen. “Your move, pretty bird.”

John Constantine aka. Hellblazer

- When your hand smacked John Constantine’s backside, his reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, followed by a low, throaty chuckle that promised trouble. He turned to face you, cigarette dangling from his lips, his trench coat swirling slightly with the motion. “Well, well, love,” he drawled, his voice tinged with that unmistakable cockney accent. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Careful now—you’re playing with fire.”

- “Oh, please,” you shot back, smirking. “You deal with demons, curses, and apocalyptic prophecies daily. You can handle a little slap.” His grin widened, and he took a step closer, the scent of tobacco and leather surrounding you. “You’ve got some cheek, you know that?” he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and flicking the ash into the tray. “But that’s why I keep you around. Keeps me on my toes.”

- John wasn’t used to this—lightness, laughter, love. His life was a whirlwind of darkness and chaos, and yet, somehow, you had wormed your way into his blackened heart. You brought him peace in a way no spell or sigil ever could. And while he’d never admit it outright, he adored the way you challenged him, kept him grounded, and gave him something to fight for beyond his own self-loathing.

- “But fair warning, darling,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that sent shivers down your spine, “I don’t play fair.” Before you could react, he whispered a quick spell under his breath, and suddenly, your shoes were glued to the floor. “There,” he said with a wink, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Let’s see if you’re still so bold when you can’t run away.” Your laughter filled the room as he walked off, his shoulders shaking with amusement. Classic Constantine—always one step ahead, but always hopelessly smitten with you.

Roy Harper aka. Arsenal

- You really couldn’t resist. Roy Harper had been strutting around the apartment like he owned the place, shirtless, a bow slung across his back, humming some old rock tune under his breath. His cocky energy was palpable, and when he passed by you in the living room, it was instinctive. Smack. Your hand connected with his jean-clad backside, and the sound was sharp enough to cut through his off-key singing. Roy froze, turning slowly with a look of mock betrayal. “Did you just…? Oh, you’re really asking for it now, gorgeous.”

- You leaned back against the couch, smirking. “What? Just checking if Arsenal’s reflexes are still sharp.” Roy placed a hand on his hip, pointing at you with the other. “You’re lucky I didn’t just shoot an arrow in surprise,” he teased, though the grin tugging at his lips made it clear he was anything but annoyed. “But fine. If we’re doing this, let me warn you—I don’t fight fair.”

- Roy loved that you didn’t take him too seriously. In a life full of chaos, mistakes, and battles, you were his sanctuary, the one person who could knock him off his pedestal in the best way. Your playful antics reminded him that not everything had to be about proving himself or fighting the next big battle. You were his partner in every sense of the word—his laughter, his balance, his home.

- “Alright, beautiful,” he said, dropping the bow and cracking his knuckles. “You know what happens when you mess with me, right?” Before you could react, he pounced, pinning you to the couch in an exaggerated wrestling move that had both of you laughing uncontrollably. “This is justice!” he declared dramatically, tickling your sides until you were begging for mercy. Roy Harper was impossible, but then again, so were you, and you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

Koriand’r aka. Starfire

- The reaction was immediate. As your hand connected with Koriand’r’s backside while she passed you in the hallway, she stopped mid-step, her fiery hair glowing faintly as it caught the light. Slowly, she turned to face you, her wide green eyes blinking in confusion. “Was that… an Earth custom of affection?” she asked, her tone curious but tinged with amusement. You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, her innocent confusion melting any attempt at feigned innocence. “Sure, Kori. It’s totally a custom. Very common.”

- Kori tilted her head, a thoughtful expression crossing her beautiful features. “How interesting,” she said, stepping closer to you. “On Tamaran, we express affection with embraces, kisses, and occasionally by flying into the air with loved ones. But this… this is new. I like it!” Her radiant smile made your heart flutter, and you could see the mischief spark in her gaze. “Does this mean I can do it back?”

- You adored how open and loving Kori was. She embraced life with the same passion she brought to battle, and her joy was contagious. Loving her meant constantly learning to see the world through her eyes, where every experience—big or small—was worth celebrating. You could never get enough of the way she made even the smallest moments feel like an adventure.

- “You may want to prepare yourself!” she declared suddenly, her arms wrapping around you in a warm, powerful embrace. Before you could protest, she lifted you effortlessly off the ground, spinning you in circles as laughter bubbled out of both of you. When she finally set you down, she pressed a kiss to your forehead and gave you a playful tap on your backside. “This is a wonderful custom!” she declared with a bright giggle. You’d created a monster, and you couldn’t have been happier about it.

Kara Zor-El aka. Supergirl

- Kara Zor-El nearly dropped the bowl of popcorn she was carrying when your hand smacked her backside. Nearly. Her Kryptonian reflexes kicked in, and she saved the snack, spinning around with a look of wide-eyed disbelief. “Did you just…?!” she stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep red. You leaned casually against the counter, biting back a grin. “What? Just making sure Earth’s strongest woman doesn’t have any blind spots.”

- “Blind spots?!” Kara exclaimed, placing the bowl down with exaggerated care. “You’re lucky I don’t fly you straight into the stratosphere for that.” But the way she crossed her arms and pouted made it clear she wasn’t actually upset. If anything, she was flustered—adorably so. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she muttered, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

- Kara loved how comfortable you were around her. So many people treated her like a symbol or a savior, but you just treated her like Kara. You teased her, laughed with her, and never let her powers overshadow the fact that she was just a girl trying to navigate life on a new planet. Being with you grounded her, reminded her that even superheroes deserved to let their guard down and have fun.

- “Fine,” she said finally, her lips quirking into a mischievous grin. “But don’t think I won’t get you back.” Before you could respond, she darted forward at super-speed, giving your side a playful nudge that sent you stumbling into the couch. She was back in her original spot before you could blink, arms crossed and a victorious smirk on her face. “Kryptonians don’t lose, you know,” she teased, her laughter filling the room.

Slade Wilson aka. Deathstroke

- You weren’t entirely sure what possessed you to do it. Slade Wilson wasn’t exactly known for his sense of humor, but as he passed you in the training room, his armor catching the dim light, the temptation was too strong. Your hand smacked his backside, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet space. He stopped immediately, his head turning just enough for his single visible eye to lock onto you. The sharp, dangerous glint in his gaze made your heart race. “You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

- “And you’re slower than I thought,” you shot back, unable to resist. His brow arched, and you could see the corner of his mouth twitch—was that amusement? “Careful,” he warned, stepping closer, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. “You might find out just how fast I can be.” Despite his intimidating presence, you refused to back down, crossing your arms and smirking up at him. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

- Slade had always admired your boldness. In a world where most people either feared him or tried to use him, you were a refreshing change. You didn’t treat him like a weapon or a monster—you saw the man beneath the mask, the one who carried the weight of too many sins. Your audacity, your fire, reminded him of the parts of himself he thought he’d buried long ago.

- “Alright,” he said, his tone deceptively calm as he leaned in, his face inches from yours. “But don’t forget—every action has a consequence.” Before you could respond, his hand darted out, delivering a sharp but playful swat to your hip. You gasped, more in surprise than pain, and he straightened, his smirk now fully formed. “Your move,” he said, turning and walking away with the measured confidence of a man who always had the upper hand. And yet, you could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. For all his gruffness, Slade Wilson was undeniably charmed by you.

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

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How these guys would react to having their face held…

Dick smiles out of habit and pushes his face even further into your hands, humming in content.

He loves it when you held him, however that may be, as it was the one thing he looked forward to the most when coming home.

He’s prone to frequent bouts of fatigue with patrols and the like, but it was moments like these where he could truly appreciate your touch and the healing properties they have on him.

‘I could spend forever here in your hands.’ He’d sigh as he allowed himself to relax within your touch.

‘Oh really? Is that so?’ You raised your brows, watching as the features within his face relaxed into a one that showed you just how exhausted Dick looked. You could see the toll his job his job took but you knew that Dick was too devoted, too attached to what he does to ever give it up, no matter how constantly drained and tired it made him.

You respect his decision to keep doing what he was doing but there came times where you’d just wish he would take a breather from it all, even if it was just for a second, you just wanted to take the weight off of Dick’s shoulders and put it aside for a moment while you work the tension out of his aching muscles.

‘Yeah.’ He responded, feeling himself sink further into sleep. Dick loved what he does but some times he resents it for leaving him with little to no time to spend with you, at least not without him falling asleep five minutes within the interaction. Time with you was sparse and all Dick wanted to do was spend as much of it as he could to make up for the fact that he was barely home at all during the day.

He knew that he prioritised being a hero over your relationship too often and he couldn’t help but feel a tremendous amount of guilt over it during your relationship. You didn’t deserve to wait up for him every night to make sure he was okay, not while developing heavy eye bags of your own and a lack of a sleeping schedule.

He just hopes that one day you too will realise that you better then what he’s giving you and put yourself first, but you were too selfless to ever do that and he could feel that through the way you trace his features with your fingers with featherlight caresses.

Jason stiffens beneath your touch and goes unresponsive for such a long time that you were worried that you had accidentally crossed a boundary.

So just as you were about to remove your hands from his face, Jason quickly reaches out to grasp your hands and pull them back to cupping his cheeks as he then proceeded to nuzzle his cheek against your palm.

‘Stay.’ He whispered. ‘Please.’

Your heart broke at his plea but obeyed as you began to stroke his cheeks with either of your thumbs, feeling him gradually relax under your touch until he was practically a puddle in your hands.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whimpered, burying his face into your hands so that you didn’t see his tear stricken red face. ‘I don’t deserve this. None of it.’ He adds, cursing himself for being so pathetic but your touch practically broke him in the best way.

In your hands Jason felt as though all his broken prices were being put back together again through love, warmth and patience and that was enough to make him breakdown into tears.

Physical affection is a foreign concern to this poor man, and in due to that Jason is naturally going to be skeptical and on edge the moment the pads of your fingertips explore his jawline, before slowly coming up to cup his cheeks. ‘I’m right here Jaybridie.’ You utter softly as you felt his grip on your wrists slack a little. ‘I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere because nowhere is more important than staying here with you. Just take your time.’ And stay with him you did.

Damian is another one who’s not use to soft touches and sweet affection.

So he’ll initially be on guard when he saw you coming his way with your hands outstretched to cup his cheeks, but will huff and reluctantly rest his face in your palms, he’s extremely stiff while doing so and looking away from you out of initial embarrassment.

‘Get on with it.’ He’d mutter, acting as though such acts or moments of tenderness and vulnerability were beneath him, when in actuality Damian loved the feeling of you hold his face as though it were porcelain. He loved the fact that despite knowing his upbringing you still treat him with a love, kindness and warmth that he has never been shown before.

To Damian it was clear that you didn’t care if he was the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul. You only cared about him, Damian Wayne and he could feel that care through your touch as he vowed to cut through anything and everything that intended to harm you.

Your touch brings him a sense of calm, serenity and peace that brought him back from the brink a plethora of times, especially in moments when his arrogance and brashness would resurface. Damian was thankful for you being in his life, a true guiding light in his darkest moments, and he couldn’t think of any possible way to thank you for everything you’ve done for him but he’ll surly try.

Bruce feels the tension behind his eyes and in his jaw sooth themselves under your touch.

His eyes would slowly close as he brought his calloused hands up to gently stroke the inside of your wrists. Bruce needs no words to describe how he felt because he feels as though his expressions and the noises of content made it clear how much he appreciated you being here with him.

‘You look tired.’ You commented, tracing the weary lines on his hard face with your eyes as he observed your face and the way it showed most of your innermost emotions whether you were aware of this fact or not.

Bruce knew that you worry and that you worry a lot about him in particular when it came to whether he was sleeping enough, eating enough and keeping himself safe whilst fighting on the streets of Gotham. Bruce knew he was as stubborn as mule when it came to his life choices and that you were only just worried about him because you cared for him, but sometimes he wished you would redirect all this effort towards yourself because he oftentimes didn’t think he was worth of your worry, nor your care.

Bruce felt as though he should be the one taking care of you rather than you taking care of him. It’s not as though he hates it, it’s just you’ve shown him on countless occasions of your care towards him, and on even more occasions you have shown him of your unwavering dedication towards him. Bruce also feels like he should be the one paying you back for all the hard times where you stood by his side, watching him practically work himself to the bone and almost into a comatose if you didn’t step in and deal him away from the computers.

For you’ve proven time and time again that you weren’t so easily swayed into leaving, and that was made more true when he felt comfortable enough telling you that he was Batman and the dangers that would come with knowing such knowledge. You however only shrugged and told him that by his side, you were the safest you’ve ever been or will ever be.

‘More so than usual?’ He asked in a way that it might as well have came out as an indignant huff.

‘And by more so than usual you mean constantly, then yes, yes you are more tired than usual.’ You replied as you ran your thumbs under his eyes and across his eye bags as if to emphasise your point. Bruce only huffs as he watched you take in all of him with nothing but love and affection in your eyes and your touch.

John would most likely bite your hand out of an inherent need to be a teasing little shit.

Will boast about the fact that you just wanted to touch up his stubble. He wasn’t lying but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that and instead say; ‘in your dreams John.’

‘Oh I’m sure I am in yours.’ He reply with confidence as he winked, causing you to lightly pinch his cheek as punishment for his cockiness. ‘I hate you.’ You’d say as you push your fingertips through his stubbly beard, enjoying the way it deliciously tickles your skin, almost as though they were little prickly kisses.

‘No you don’t sweetheart, try as you might but you and me both know that for definite that you love me.’ John would state in a matter of fact tone. Once again you hated how right he was, but kept your lips sealed shut as not to give him any more ammunition to tease and contradict you at any given opportunity than you’ve already have.

The air between you is playful and light in comparison to how cynical, sharp witted and sarcastic he usually is on a daily basis. It was a welcomed change as you allowed the blonde to pretend to bite your hand, only allowing for his teeth to barely graze your skin before pulling away with a sly smirk as you scratch at his stubble.

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gilverrwrites · 5 months ago

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Which one of the DC superhero men would be embarrassed that they came into their pants in a public setting? 👀

Okay, so, instinctively I want to say it would be the men that are already prone to feeling a bit self-conscious: Clark Kent, Jason Todd, Barry Allen, Ted Kord

And then there’s the characters who would be mortified, if only because they’d previously considered themselves to have better control over themselves (whether they’re correct or not): Dick Grayson, Hal Jordan, Vic Stone

[Sidenote] Characters that would obviously try to cover themselves up for decency purposes, but wouldn’t be ashamed, so much as eager for payback: Wally West, Arthur Curry, Michael Carter, Tim Drake

And characters that would have no shame at all: John Constantine, Roy Harper, Conner Kent

But if I may throw a wildcard your way as my final answer, celebrity characters, who not only have to deal with the fact that you’ve made a mess of them, but have to hide if from the media swarm that could descend upon them at any moment: Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen

I can just see their tense shoulders, hunched frames, trying to wave of the paps while strategically covering the stain in their slacks. The way they’re glaring at you any chance they get, so much so that there’s speculation of a break-up or feud on all the gossip sights the next day. The way they mutter in your ear, voices low and tight but not as tight as their grip on your waist as they try to use you as a shield, threatening all the things they’re gonna do to as soon as they get you home.

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bigbaddie45 · 6 months ago

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Y’all ever read such a good fic with a nice plot just with so many spelling errors?!? Like TF you mean he was “grinong” in her ear or “taiek” her by the waist??

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nihtscada · 7 months ago

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"stop calling him babygirl, that is a grown man" TELL THE ARTISTS THAT, THEN

#dc comics #john constantine x you #john constantine x reader #hellblazer #john constantine #i love him #I have a PROBLEM

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arachnidseyes · 3 days ago

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─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

BREAKFAST AND GOODBYES

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: First Part. Breakfast with the Waynes! I'm building their relationship, let me cook. Damian and reader are around 19, Fem reader. 1.4K.

Damian sits at his desk, listening to the sound of the shower and your soft humming coming from his bathroom.

The last few hours were very much not how he expected the night to go. He didn’t expect Constantine’s spawn herself to show up on his balcony bleeding out. He didn’t expect to give her over a dozen stitches, let her sleep on his bed, use his shower and wear his clothes. He certainly didn’t expect her to be invited to breakfast with almost his entire family present.

It’s fine. He’s Damian Wayne. He’s gone through worse.

The door to his bathroom creaks open and you step out in a gust of steam. Since your clothes are more blood and dirt than cloth, you’ve chosen to wear a pair of his sweatpants and a stupid Robin T-shirt Dick gave him that he’s never worn.

“I feel spoilt Dames, Is this how you treat all your patients or just the pretty ones?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, watching you flop down on his bed. You look much better than you did a few hours ago and he doesn’t know why that lifts such a weight from his shoulders.

“So how’s Goliath? Haven't seen that big guy in forever.”

The unexpected question doesn't faze him.

"He is fine. I set him free on Lazarus island.”

You sit up a little to look at him better.

“You let him go?”

Maybe you’re overstepping a little but it’s a fair question.

“Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he’s gone. Real bonds don’t fray with time or distance, even with dragon-bat creatures.”

He makes the mistake of looking at you after he says that, seeing the look on your face as you gaze at him while absentmindedly touching your stitches. He should chastise you for that but he just clicks his tongue and tries to go back to reading his book. A futile effort.

You breathe in deeply before sitting up,

“Well, it would be rude to keep Alfred waiting. What’s for breakfast?”

─⋅⋆⁺.

Apparently everything.

You have to swallow the drool pooling in your mouth as you stare at the ridiculous amount of food set out on the massive dining room table. You can't even remember the last time you had a proper full breakfast.

The sound of utensils clinking on porcelain stalls slightly when you arrive. You do a headcount of all the bats present; Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph and Duke. Damian takes the seat next to Cass, leaving a seat for you right next to where Bruce sits at the end of the table, reading the newspaper with a mug of coffee. God, could he act more dad-like?

“Hey, Bruce. Long time, no see.”

“Y/n, Nice to have you join us today.”

There’s an implied question in there that you choose not to ignore.

“Right. Well, just thought I’d stop by, y’know.”

You can feel Damian's eyes roll at the piss poor answer you just gave but you’d like to see him choke up something better. Dick leans forward, elbows on the table and asks,

“And just how often do you do that?”

You ignore his imploring stare and give a longing look at the breakfast spread.

“Clearly not enough. May I?”

You ask Bruce, and he nods his head, motioning towards the food.

“Of course.”

You sit yourself down and waste absolutely no time stuffing your face with almost every type of food within reach; eggs, bacon, hash browns, french toast, sausages, pancakes, bagels, scones, some other sides you probably can’t pronounce the name of.

You’re so busy in your mission to full your stomach that you don’t notice the mental war game going on between Dick and Damian.

Damian stares him down, fork stabbing into his eggs, a warning. Dick looks just about ready to burst, a million questions building up in his head, waiting to spill out.

“Ok, I can’t do it! What exactly is going on here?”

You look at him blankly, chewing a mouthful of syrupy pancakes. You give a small, “hmm?”

“Why are we all acting like this is normal?”

He looks over to his other siblings, who offer no assistance besides knowing glances and stifled laughs. They’re all very content to watch him find the answers to their burning questions, offering him up like a sacrifice to the Demon’s son. Damian sighs woefully, aiming an accusing look at you,

“Why couldn’t you show up when he was in Bludhaven?”

Bold of him to think you wouldn’t delight in making this even harder for him.

“Well, he wasn’t here last time, Babe.”

“Last time?! Babe?!”

You almost choke on your laugh as Alfred sighs at the eldest son’s ill mannered volume. Damian groans,

“Don’t make it worse, he’s too stupid to know when he’s being fooled.”

Dick looks at him confused and when he notices the quirk in Bruce’s lips being his coffee mug, he understands.

“You’re messing with me.”

He points an accusatory fork at you, to which you shrug. He sits back in his chair, eyeing the both of you.

“Oh, you’re perfect for each other.”

He swiftly dodges the fork Damian throws at his head. Alfred sighs again, stepping away to retrieve it from the wall.

Slathering a generous amount of butter on your croissant, you turn to Bruce.

“So hows that demon ward on The Batcave holding up? I can replenish it before I leave.”

Bruce looks up from his newspaper to address you fully. You resist the urge to look away, it’s always a little nerve racking to have The Batman’s full attention on you.

“The candle is still burning, no demonic related incidents since you put it up. It should be fine for now. If there is a problem, I’m sure Damian will be happy to get ahold of you.”

You break eye contact then. Clearing your throat, you nod in confirmation, looking down at your suddenly very interesting plate, like you’re only now noticing how pretty the porcelain is.

You pretend not to see Bruce’s small smile, or Damian’s tight grip on his fork. You pretend not to feel both Dick and Tim’s smug grins or hear Steph and Duke's childish snickering from four chairs down.

Most of breakfast is uneventful. It’s nice to just sit and listen to the small talk, to see what a real family looks like. Nobody asks about your father or why you scratch at your waist every now and then.

Bruce does tentatively ask if you’ll be staying in Gotham for a while, and you answer him,

“No, after this I should head back home. There are portals in every city if you know where to look, usually the cemeteries.”

Thankfully, nobody questions why you can’t just teleport back home, maybe because they don’t want to have to ask where exactly home is for you right now.

Alfred does offer you a chauffeur and you accept that graciously, not really wanting to walk around Gotham in Damian’s pajamas and your only surviving clothes; your old brown coat and converse.

After saying your goodbyes and thank yous to the family, Damian walks you to the front door, stepping out and closing it behind him. The way he looks when he turns his full attention to you, for some reason, reminds you of Bruce.

“Next time you visit, I would rather it be as a friend, not a patient.”

Your mind stutters when processing those words.

“Next time?”

He sighs a little, annoyance clear on his face as he looks out at the garden trying, and failing, to ignore the widening grin on your face as you lean forward.

“It almost sounds like you like having me around.”

It's not a question, it's an observation. He bristles.

“You came to me bleeding out. Took up my bed, my bathroom, my clothes.”

You lean in a little closer, taking the opportunity to make things worse.

“Well, when you sum it all up like that, Dicks theories really don’t sound so unrealistic.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Constantine.”

You chuckle. At least he looks you in the eyes when he says it. Standing a little too close now, you watch his demeanor, knowing you’ll miss it once you’re gone.

You also hear the shuffling and whispers from behind the door. Figures moving from behind the pretty front windows.

“Your entire family is watching from the windows.” You whisper to him, to which he answers through gritted teeth.

“Yes, I know.”

You huff a laugh and, not one to overstay a welcome or prolong a goodbye, you start backing away.

“I’ll call you.”

Your mind stutters on that one too, how does he keep doing that? You raise a skeptical brow.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

No further explanation, as if none was needed, as if it was silly of you to even ask for one.

You nod at the very Damian-like answer and after another moment, one last good look at his face, you turn on your heels and start down the stairs, towards the fancy black car and chauffeur.

“See ya around!”

Damian watches you go and hopes to all hell you didn't hear the various disappointed groans from behind the door, especially not Dick's,

“Aw, What the hell! I thought for sure they were gonna kiss!”

Damian sighs and rubs his forehead, this migraine is going to last for months.

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

#damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #dc comics #constantine! reader #damian wayne x you #dc x reader

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niwaart · 26 days ago

Text

Secret of the Shadows

(Y/N Constantine x Batfam)

-part1..

It was just another night in Gotham—dark, restless, and thick with the promise of trouble.

Oracle’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp with urgency. “Bats, we’ve got a situation. Armed mercenaries just snatched a group of civilians, demanding ransom. No IDs yet, but they’re moving fast.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “Track their route. We need a location.”

The Batcomputer whirred, but before Oracle could narrow it down, Red Robin spoke up. “I’ve got it. Abandoned warehouse near the docks—southside. Camera feed caught suspicious movement.”

Nightwing shot him a glance. “That was fast.”

Red Robin shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

Batman didn’t question it...not yet. Civilians came first.

The team moved in. The fight was brutal—gunfire, shouts, the desperate cries of hostages. They subdued the mercenaries one by one, but the last thug had a child in his grip, a gun pressed to their temple.

“Back off!” the man snarled. “Or I swear I’ll—”

A loud CRASH cut him off. A chair from the second floor slammed into him, knocking him out cold. The child stumbled free, and the vigilantes looked up, just in time to see a young man dusting off his hands, his binds clearly cut.

“Nice throw,” Red Robin muttered under his breath.

Y/N smirked, then he looked at Red Robin for a long time, then winked at him.

Red Robin barely suppressed a grin.

As the team secured the scene, Red Hood lingered, his helmet tilted toward Red Robin. Then, toward Y/N.

Something wasn’t right.

Back in the Batcave, Batman reviewed the footage.

“Red Robin,” he said, voice low. “How did you locate that warehouse so quickly?”

Tim didn’t flinch. “Like I said—cameras.”

Oracle frowned. “I hadn’t even pulled up that feed yet.”

A beat of silence.

Nightwing crossed his arms. “Okay, spill. What aren’t you telling us?”

Before Tim could answer, Red Hood leaned against the console. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s up. Red Robin’s got a source.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “What source?”

Tim exhaled. “Fine. It’s my roommate.”

“Your roommate?” Dick repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah. He’s… observant.”

Jason snorted. “Observant? That guy in the warehouse? The one who mysteriously got free and took out a guy with a chair? That’s your ‘roommate’?”

Bruce’s voice was steel. “Who is he?”

Tim hesitated... but not because he didn’t know. Because he did.

“His name’s Y/N,” he said carefully. “And before you ask... no, he’s not in the system.”

Batman’s glare darkened. “Why not?”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “Because he… particular about privacy.”

Jason scoffed. “What, is he some kinda spy?”

“Worse,” Tim muttered. “He’s John Constantine’s kid.”

Silence...

“What.”Batman’s voice was dangerously calm.

Dick blinked. “Wait. The John Constantine? The guy who—"

“—makes deals with demons and pisses off every magical being in existence? Yeah. That one.” Tim sighed. “And before you freak out, Y/N’s not like him... Mostly.”

Bruce’s fingers clenched. “You’ve been hiding this. Why?”

“Because Y/N asked me to,” Tim admitted. “And because Y/N’s helped me out more times than I can count. He’s not a threat.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Then why’s he sneaking around Gotham?”

“Because someone has to keep an eye on the magical side of this city,” a new voice drawled from the shadows.

Everyone turned.

Y/N leaned against the Batcave entrance, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “And let’s be real... Bats sucks at magic.”

Bruce’s eye twitched.

Y/N strolled forward, hands in his pockets, completely unfazed by the fact that he’d just walked into the Batcave uninvited.

“So,” he said, glancing around. “this is Batman's secret cave? Cozy.”

Batman stepped forward, looming. “How did you get in here?”

Y/N grinned. “The magician does not reveal his secrets.”

“Y/N,” Tim warned.

“Fine, fine.” Y/N rolled his eyes. “I hitched a ride on Red Robin’s bike. Magic cloaking. Easy.”

Jason looked at Tim. “You let him?”

Tim shrugged. “He was gonna follow me anyway.”

Bruce’s patience was thinning. “Constantine’s son.”

Y/N mock-bowed. “The one and only.”

“Why are you in Gotham?”

“School. Rooming with Tim. Avoiding my dad’s endless messes.” Y/N smirked. “And, y’know, keeping demons from eating people in the alleys. The usual.”

Dick frowned. “Wait—you’ve been handling magical threats alone?”

“Not alone,” Y/N corrected, nodding at Tim. “Birdbrain here helps. When he’s not busy being obsessive over cases.”

Tim elbowed him. “Rude.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a security risk.”

“Oh, relax,” Y/N said, waving a hand. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just keeping the balance.”

Jason studied him. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“Eh. You get used to weird when your dad’s Constantine.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. “You’re staying off the radar. No more interference in Gotham’s affairs.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Or what? You’ll bench me?” He snorted. “Please. You need me. Gotham’s magical underbelly’s been stirring lately. Big players moving in.”

Tim nodded. “He’s right. We’ve been tracking—”

Bruce cut him off. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Y/N smirked. “Sure thing, Boss Bat.”

Jason choked back a laugh.

Dick sighed. “This is gonna be fun.”

In Gotham Rooftops – Later That Night

Batman’s cape snapped behind him as he landed heavily on a gargoyle, glaring down at the figure lounging on the adjacent rooftop.

Y/N, legs dangling over the edge, tossed a glowing blue flame between his fingers like a coin. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d given up."

Batman’s voice was pure gravel. "You’re interfering."

"Interfering?" Y/N gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Me? I’m just enjoying Gotham’s lovely skyline. smog pollution really brings out the city’s charm."

Batman’s eye twitched. "Leave."

"Make me."

"..........."

"This isn’t a game."

"Never said it was." Y/N smirked. "But here’s the thing... you’re saving the city, but you’re not its mayor. So if you want me to leave, you’ll have to get permission, Boss Bat."

Batman’s jaw clenched so hard Tim, listening through the comms, winced in sympathy.

Batcave – 10 Minutes Earlier

Dick Grayson leaned back in the Batcomputer chair, spinning lazily. "Okay, but seriously... how have we never heard of Constantine having a kid?"

Jason, polishing a gun, snorted. "Probably because the bastard forgot he had one."

Dick tilted his head. "Or… hid him?"

Damian, sharpening a knife, scoffed. "Tt. As if Constantine could be competent enough for that."

Oracle’s voice chimed in. "Actually, according to my very limited files, Y/N’s existence was scrubbed. Professionally. Like, League of Shadows level."

Jason whistled. "Damn. Daddy issues and a secret identity? Kid’s got layers."

Tim, typing furiously on a tablet, didn’t look up. "He’s also right here on comms, you know."

"Aw, you guys do care!" Y/N’s voice dripped with amusement.

Dick grinned. "So, Y/N... magic, huh? Can you, like, turn people into frogs?"

"Only if they really annoy me."

Jason smirked. "So… can you do that to B?"

"Oh, absolutely... but then who’d pay for my tuition?"

Tim choked on his coffee.

Damian rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous. We’re discussing magic as if it’s some parlour trick—"

"Magic," Y/N corrected.

"I said what I said."

Back on the Rooftop.....

Batman had had it.

"You’re not trained."

Y/N rolled his eyes. "I grew up with John Constantine. You think Gotham’s scary? Try watching your dad drink with a demon before breakfast ."

"You’re reckless."

"Tell me about it."

Batman’s patience was gone. "If you get in my way—"

"—you’ll what? Ground me?" Y/N grinned. "Face it, Bats—you can’t kick me out just because I exist here. Unless I break a law, you’ve got nothing."

A long, long silence.

"...Fine." Batman turned sharply. "But if I see you near a case—"

"Yeah, yeah, you’ll grumble at me. Noted."

Batman vanished into the shadows.

Y/N smirked. "He so hates me."

"He so does," Tim agreed through the comm, laughing.

In Jason's safehouse.....

Jason tossed Y/N a beer. "So. Constantine."

Y/N caught it, snapping the cap off with magic. "Yep."

Dick leaned forward. "Is it true he sold his soul twice?"

"Three times, actually. Third one was for a really good kebab."

Damian, arms crossed. "Tt. Liar."

"Ask him yourself." Y/N took a sip. "He’ll absolutely deny it, which is how you know it’s true."

Dick, quietly: "…Do you like him?"

Y/N paused. "He’s my dad. It’s… complicated."

Jason snorted. "Ain’t it always."

Tim flopped onto the couch beside Y/N. "Okay, but real question—can you actually turn people into frogs?"

Y/N’s grin was wicked. "Wanna find out, Replacement?"

Dick immediately grabbed a notepad. "I volunteer Jason—"

"HELL NO—"

Laughter echoed through the safehouse.

Somewhere, in the shadows, Batman has a big scowl on his face.

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strawberrygothhh · 2 years ago

Text

middle school me reading the most jaw dropping toe curling traumatizing fanfic at 4 am when i had to wake up at 6 am

#pedro pascal #johnny knoxville #aaron hotchner x reader #marquis de gramont x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #thomas hewitt x reader #john wick #john wick x reader #john constantine #john constantine x reader

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sobbingscripter · 5 months ago

Text

Tags: [mlw][mdni][no penetration][oral f! and m! receiving][sixty-nine][reach-around][semi public][fwb][for those two who asked for John Constantine, our collective shitshow of a man]

"Oh, come off it." John rolls his eyes. "Drop the 'better than thou' act, luv. You're not better than me."

"Last time I checked, I don't fuck demons for favours, do I?" You argue. "So, I'm pretty sure that makes me better than you."

"Does it? You fuck me, which is worse?"

Your lips purse, and you run your tongue across your teeth. "Fair enough, Johnny."

You glance towards the foil wrapper in his hand, creased and tugged in all the wrong edges, and John's stormy blue eyes continue to glower at you as he picks at the packet.

"Just rip it op— ow!"

You hiss when the condom collides with your forehead, before dropping onto the rolls of your belly, caused by the way you're slumped so unsexily against the headboard.

"Open it y'rself. 'm gonna go smoke."

John steps towards the balcony, grabbing his cigarettes and lighter from the table beside the balcony door, moving to stand on the terrace, enjoying the sight of the city as he lights his cigarette.

The scent of nicotine and tobacco stings your nose, and you grumble under your breath as you rip open the condom packet, pulling out the latex ring and inspecting it for any holes.

God forbid you get some sort of demonic STD, or even worse, a baby.

That'd tie you right to the morbid fuck, and you'd hate that more than having to treat literal flaming herpes.

Grabbing your robe from the nearest chair, you shrug the cottony fabric over your shoulders, tying a loose bow in the front before stepping out onto the balcony to join John.

The cool air whips at any exposed skin you have, and you shudder, before moving to stand behind John, your cheek pressed to the centre of his broad back, listening to the low thump of his heartbeat.

And your hand sneaks into the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around his... Surprisingly still hard cock, and you press a kiss to the scar just above where you'd estimate his heart is.

Keyword 'estimate', because you don't even know if John has all his organs, much less if they're in the right spot.

"You mad at me?" You taunt, and his voice is a low rumble as he takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing a thick plume of smoke into the still, night air, gaze locked on flickering city lights and the twinkling stars that seem to spread out endlessly.

"Pissed." He grunts out, and you hum quietly, continuing to stroke his cock sweetly, thumbing at his slit and spreading the sticky precum all over the throbbing flesh, and your actions cause John to let out a quiet groan, his head tipping back, and his Adam's apple bobs.

"Put the condom on me, gorgeous."

John instructs quietly, shifting in your grasp and he leans back against the bannister, elbows braced on the wooden handrail, and he lifts one of his hands to take another drag of his cigarette, before flipping the cancer stick, and stubbing it out against his calloused palm.

The action is stupidly sexy, especially when he gives you that half-lidded gaze, sunken eyes and that permanent 5 o'clock shadow on his face, not doing anything to hide that perfect jawline or even softening his features.

Messy blonde tucks fall just past his hairline and you carefully inspect the condom once again, before grabbing the centre of it and tugging it forward.

And you watch that melodramatic and erotic expression on John's face fall, giving way to annoyance and frustration.

"The fuck're you doing!" He hisses, watching as you drop to your knees with the definitely ruined condom in your hand.

"It'll still work, John." You argue. "Trust me."

It works. Not really.

Not at all.

Because it's equivalent to the act of a doctor putting on surgical gloves that are just too tight, the lube and precum mixing into a sticky substance that makes the latex stick to his cock, which results in you pinching the condom and the latex shooting back against the sensitive flesh, and his shoulders twitch with each painful snap.

Its an agonizing 4 minutes and John wonders how he's even still hard until he peeks down at you, noting that creased brow, pursed lips and the most concentrated expression he's ever seen.

Oh, that's how.

"Done." You chirp and John looks down at his cock, the shaft covered in latex and his tip still feels the cool breeze.

Maybe it's because of the huge fucking hole in the condom?

"You and your fuckin' dragon claws. You ripped a hole in the condom." He groans. "The fuck's this gonna prevent?"

"You from getting chilly?" You answer with a shrug, before resting back on your haunches, kneeling in front of John as you try to peel the condom from his cock.

And it's another grueling experience.

Especially when your manicured nails keep scraping against him as you repeatedly attempt to grasp the edge and tug it off in one pull.

"Raw?" John questions, with a huff, looking down at you from beneath blonde lashes and you snort.

"I think the fuck not." You scoff. "Don't you have another condom?"

"Would I have propose goin' raw, if I had another bloody condom?" John grits out, blue eyes narrowing at you because now, he's hard and he's not jerking his own cock when your perfectly warm pussy is in the same room.

Warm, inviting. Tight.

The words float in John's mind and he nearly whines when your hand wraps around his cock, lazily pumping him as you look up at him through those fluffy, long lashes, your tongue running across that plump bottom lip he just loves to nip at when you're kissing.

"I'm clean, luv." He breathes out, his hand moving to thread through your hair in a way that's almost affectionate, blue eyes locked on your face.

"You're clean by human testing, Johnny. Doesn't mean you wouldn't have some sort of—" "Demons don't get STDs." John interjects.

"Well..." You purse your lips. "Still no. At least, now."

John respects your decision and he would admire your firmness if he wasn't achingly hard.

"Well... Then how're we gonna do this?"

—♱—

"Beautiful girl. That's it."

John feeds your cunt two fingers, easing them into your sopping walls that spasm at the intrusion, all as his tongue continues to drag between your slippery folds, before gently flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Gorgeous thing, aren't you?" He teases softly.

His forearm rests down the middle of your back, his free arm bracketing your hips and keeping you from moving away from his face.

Broad back pressed against the sheets, John gets to indulge in one of his laziest pleasures, while feeling the way your slippery palm strokes him with reverence that makes beads of precum drip from his leaky tip like a faucet.

Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of his head, your drooling cunt pressing against his mouth and he takes his time dragging his tongue over your needy pussy, feeling each twitch of the organ.

His fingers leave your drooling cavern, instead, his hands move to grip your hips and keep you firmly in place as he shifts the tiniest bit, and he sucks on your clit, enjoying the way you squeal at the sensation, attempting to pull away from him out of pure instinct but you're unable to.

Your hand readjusts it's grip on his cock, your middle finger and thumb not even touching one another as your tongue licks up the next bead of precum and you watch as his thighs tense, sinewy muscles bulging beneath his scarred skin.

Random cuts, bullet holes and wounds, the odd sigil carved into his flesh, all healed and remaining as unpleasant memories, turned into a painful tapestry on his skin that very few are allowed to see.

Not that John doesn't get around.

He's looser than the hairtie you use when you're desperate.

But he prefers to keep his clothes on, or have the room in complete darkness.

But right now, the room's not too dark, he's completely bare and the low light of the city filters into your apartment, especially with the curtains of the balcony door parted.

John always asks for the tiniest bit of light when you're together. He likes seeing you.

Even if you're the most annoying person he's ever met.

Dipping his tongue into your cunt, you whine, pushing back against John's face just as your lips wrap around his cock, taking the flushed and rosy tip into your mouth.

The bitterness of his precum rests on your tongue.

It's the kind of taste that makes you grimace, before going in for a second taste, and you suckle, sweetly and you moan around his cock when he sucks on your sensitive clit, his nose bumping against your slick slit.

And God, are you happy he broke his nose enough times to have one of those bumps.

"Johnny, 'm gonna come.." You pant out, giving John a few rough tugs before you take him back into your mouth, your tongue tracing protruding veins and your hips bucking as your grind against his tongue.

John laughs.

A low throaty sound that makes your toes curl and he groans.

"I know, luv, I know." He coos sweetly.

And everything is serene, peaceful even.

You're coaxed towards the sweetest orgasm you've ever had, when a flaming pentagram burns into your carpet and you squeal at the intrusion of a menial demon scampering off into the shadows because of course, John is a gateway.

"Mind the fuckin' teeth!"

#sobbingscripter #john constantine #dc constantine #constantine x reader #john constantine x reader #john constantine smut #john constantine x reader smut #dc comics #dc comics smut #dc #dc john constantine

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Note

For DC, would you mayhaps write about picking them up when they aren't expecting, or just didn't think you could, almighty writer?

DC COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You pick them up as if they weighed absolutely nothing

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Kal-El (Clark Kent), Barry Allen, Diana of Themyscira, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Oliver Queen, John Constantine, Roy Harper, Koriand'r (Starfire), Kara Zor-El (Supergirl), Slade Wilson, Kent Nelson (Dr. Fate), Rachel Roth, Zatanna Zatara, Dinah Lance, Wally West, Victor Stone (Cyborg), Garfield Logan (Beast Boy) & Lobo

Reply to anon: If I understood your request correctly (I really hope so), I love you for this request, it was so fun to write this headcanon.

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

- It is a rare thing to catch Bruce Wayne off guard, a feat most would deem impossible. He is a man of precision, calculation, and control, his every move rehearsed in the dark solitude of his mind long before it is executed. And yet, when you lift him into your arms with the ease of a shadow passing over the city, all his legendary foresight shatters in an instant. His breath stutters—just once, imperceptible to anyone but you—and his gloved hands instinctively grasp your shoulders, as if to confirm the absurd reality of what is happening. The weight of Gotham’s protector, cradled so effortlessly against you, is a secret victory that sends a slow smile curling at the edges of your lips.

- "Tch," he exhales, the sound more air than voice, his dark eyes narrowing in something between astonishment and begrudging amusement. "You’ve been holding out on me." His pride does not allow him to admit the full extent of his surprise, but the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your arms betrays him. Bruce Wayne is not a man who enjoys being caught unaware, and yet—there is something in the way you handle him, something in the unwavering steadiness of your grip, that quiets the usual tension that knots his body like a bowstring drawn too tight.

- He does not struggle. He does not order you to put him down. No, he merely tilts his head, calculating, the sharp angles of his face betraying the ghost of a smirk. "I assume you have a reason for this," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp against your ear. "Or do you just enjoy surprising me?" It is a challenge, an invitation, and perhaps, in some small way, a confession. For all his formidable strength, for all the ways he has trained himself to never relinquish control—there is a part of him that does not mind being held by you.

- Later, when the moment has passed and Gotham calls him away once more, he does not mention it. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his fingers brush against your wrist just a little longer than necessary. And when, the next time, you reach for him with that same effortless power, you swear you see the corner of his lips quirk upward—just for a second—before he allows himself to fall into your embrace.

Kal-El (Clark Kent, Superman)

- The sky belongs to him, the very air bending to his will, the world itself no heavier than a breath upon his palm. And yet, when you lift him into your arms, when you cradle the Man of Steel as if he were something as light and effortless as a whisper, it is his turn to be left breathless. His blue eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of disbelief that dances through them like a shooting star. "Whoa," he exhales, the sheer sincerity in his voice making you laugh. "Did you—did you just—?"

- He does not finish his sentence, because the answer is obvious. He is here, weightless in your grasp, and despite all reason, he cannot quite seem to wrap his mind around it. He has lifted mountains, shifted tectonic plates, carried entire cities upon his back—but this, this is something entirely different. He peers down at you with a mixture of awe and delight, a boyish grin breaking across his features, and suddenly, he is not Superman, not the Last Son of Krypton, but simply Clark—a farm boy who has just been shown a new miracle in a world that he thought he had seen from every angle.

- "Well," he laughs, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders, his touch warm, steady. "I guess turnabout is fair play." He is not used to being the one lifted, the one held, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way he lets himself be carried, as if surrendering to the simple joy of the moment. His grin softens into something fonder, something gentler, and his voice dips to a lower timbre, laced with that impossible tenderness that only he can wield so effortlessly. "You are full of surprises, aren’t you?"

- Later, as you stand together beneath the open sky, he will wrap his arms around you and lift you high into the air, spinning you in a slow, weightless circle, as if to remind you that the universe still bows to his strength. But the truth, the quiet, unspoken truth, is that he will remember this moment—not for the sheer impossibility of it, not for the surprise of being lifted, but for the way you looked at him as you did it. As if he was something precious. As if he was something worth carrying.

Barry Allen (The Flash)

- One second, he is standing before you, mid-sentence, hands moving animatedly as he rambles about some impossible feat of science, some breakthrough that only his mind could possibly keep up with. And the next—he is airborne. Suspended. A blur of red and gold frozen in time as you hoist him effortlessly into your arms, his entire train of thought derailing so spectacularly that for the first time in what is possibly ever, Barry Allen is at a complete and utter loss for words.

- His blue eyes blink, wide with sheer, unfiltered astonishment. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, as if struggling to find a logical explanation for what just happened. "What—how did you—" He pauses, glances down at himself, then back at you. "Okay. Alright. This is fine. This is normal. Totally normal. This is a thing that happens." His words come faster now, a breathless tumble of disbelief and delight, and despite the initial shock, there is no fear—only pure, infectious amusement.

- And then he laughs. Oh, he laughs—bright and bubbling over, like the crackle of lightning against an open sky, his body practically vibrating with sheer giddiness. "I mean, I know I’ve swept you off your feet before, but this—this is a whole new level." His arms loop around your neck, dramatic and theatrical, his head tilting back as he lets himself be cradled as if he were some fairytale damsel. "Be honest, you’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?"

- He will tease you about this for weeks, recounting the moment with exaggerated flair to anyone who will listen. But there will also be the quiet moments—when he leans against you just a little more than usual, when his hands linger at your waist as if remembering the steady strength of your arms. And maybe, just maybe, the next time you catch him at full speed, he will let you lift him once more—just to feel, for a fleeting moment, what it’s like to be caught by you.

Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman)

- The daughter of gods, sculpted from sacred clay, raised among warriors whose strength is the stuff of legend. To surprise Diana is no easy task, for she has spent centuries honing herself into something divine, something unyielding. And yet—when you lift her into your arms, when you cradle her as if she were no heavier than a whispered prayer, the Goddess of Truth is rendered momentarily speechless.

- Her lips part, her brows lifting ever so slightly, and though she does not gasp, does not falter, there is an undeniable flicker of astonishment in her gaze. "You are stronger than you appear," she muses, her voice warm, touched with something akin to admiration. A warrior recognizes another, and in this moment, she sees you in a new light—not merely as her love, but as something formidable, something unexpected.

- And then, she smiles. Not a small smile, not a coy smirk, but something radiant—something that reaches her eyes, that sets her entire face alight with unmistakable joy. "Impressive," she hums, resting a steady hand against your shoulder. "Though, I must admit, I rather enjoy this perspective." There is a teasing lilt to her voice, a challenge dancing at the edges of her words. It is rare for anyone to hold her in such a way, but she finds, quite unexpectedly, that she does not mind it at all.

- Later, she will return the favor with ease, sweeping you into her arms without effort, carrying you across battlefields, across cities, across oceans. But in that moment, in the quiet space between surprise and laughter, she allows herself to rest in your hold, to relish the warmth of your embrace, to be held—not as a warrior, not as a princess, but simply as a woman who loves, and is loved in return.

Arthur Curry (Aquaman)

- Arthur Curry is not a man accustomed to feeling small. He is a king, a warrior, a force of nature bound in muscle and salt, the weight of oceans resting upon his shoulders. He has wrestled sea monsters the size of mountains, stood unyielding against the fury of the abyss, and emerged from every battle with the untamed, feral grin of a man who belongs to the storm. But when you lift him—when your arms curl around him with a strength that defies reason, hoisting him off solid ground as if he were nothing but driftwood—his entire world tilts. His golden eyes widen, stunned, his calloused hands gripping instinctively at your shoulders as if the sea itself has betrayed him.

- "What the—?" His voice is a startled rumble, a sharp bark of laughter cutting through the shock. His thick brows furrow, then lift, his expression wavering somewhere between indignation and absolute, boyish delight. He has never been handled like this, not even by the tides he calls home, and it is as absurd as it is exhilarating. "Alright, alright, I get it," he grumbles, though his smirk betrays him. "You’ve been hiding those muscles from me, huh?" There is no protest, no attempt to reclaim his dominance—only the rough, teasing warmth of a man who knows when to yield to the unexpected.

- He tests you, just a little, shifting his weight in your arms as if daring you to drop him. But you don’t. Not even close. And something in his grin turns sharper, more wicked, because he loves this—loves being surprised, loves the way you refuse to let him be the only powerful one in the room. "Damn," he chuckles, low and approving, his gaze sweeping over you with something hungry, something possessive. "That’s actually kinda hot."

- When you finally put him down, he doesn’t step back. No, he lingers—crowds close, his massive frame still buzzing with the thrill of it. And then, without warning, his arms are around you, hoisting you off your feet with ease, spinning you in a full, dizzying circle before crushing you against his chest. "Had to return the favor," he murmurs against your ear, voice thick with laughter. "But next time, sweetheart? Give a king some warning before you knock him off his throne."

Hal Jordan (Green Lantern)

- Hal Jordan is weightless before you can even blink. A man accustomed to soaring, to the rush of flight beneath his ribs, he has never once imagined himself being lifted—not without the emerald glow of his will forging the sky beneath his feet. But now, here, in your arms, held effortlessly with no ring, no power beyond the sheer impossible strength of you—Hal is, for the first time in his life, truly speechless.

- "You—hold on, what?" His voice cracks, laughter bubbling out of him in a disbelieving rush. His hands press against your shoulders, his pulse hammering with something electric, something wild. "Oh, no way. No freaking way." His mouth splits into a grin, bright and reckless, his green eyes alight with sheer, giddy amusement. "Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of—?" But no, there’s no trickery, no constructs at play, just you, standing solid beneath him while the world spins wildly out of sync with everything he thought he knew.

- And he loves it. Oh, he loves it. Because Hal Jordan lives for the unexpected, for the thrill of new frontiers, for the rush of facing the impossible head-on. And you—lifting him like he’s nothing, standing there with that knowing smirk—you are a whole new adventure, and he is utterly, shamelessly hooked. "This is amazing," he declares, wrapping his arms around your neck, leaning in close, grinning like a devil who has just been handed the keys to heaven. "You do realize I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?"

- He doesn’t stop talking about it. Ever. The next time the League gathers, he flings an arm around your shoulder and grins at the others. "You guys won’t believe this," he announces, smug and gleeful. "This one? Picked me up like I was a damn sack of potatoes. I mean, look at me! Look at this!" And when the teasing inevitably turns back on him, when Barry is cackling and Diana is arching a knowing brow, Hal just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. "Hey," he says, looping his arms around you once more, flashing you that impossibly charming, infuriatingly smug grin. "What can I say? I’m into it."

Oliver Queen (Green Arrow)

- Oliver Queen has spent his life dancing on the edge of danger, slipping through shadows and fire with the unshakable confidence of a man who always lands on his feet. But this—this was not in his playbook. One moment, he’s standing there, all easy smirks and smooth arrogance, and the next? His feet leave the ground, his entire world tilting as you lift him with effortless strength, cradling him as if he were something delicate. And for the first time in years, Oliver Queen has no immediate comeback.

- "…You’ve got to be kidding me." His voice is flat, stunned, as his hands instinctively grip your shoulders. His green eyes blink once, twice, his mouth parting in absolute disbelief. "Did that just—did you just—?" And then it happens—the breathless chuckle, the slow realization, the sudden shift from shock to pure, unfiltered amusement. A wide, toothy grin breaks across his face, bright as wildfire, and before you know it, he’s laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained. "Oh, I love this," he gasps between chuckles, eyes gleaming. "I love this. Are you seeing this? Someone take a picture—no, wait, don’t, I have a reputation to uphold."

- He throws himself into the bit immediately, draping an arm over his forehead as if he’s some swooning noble. "My hero," he sighs dramatically, peeking at you from beneath his lashes. "How will I ever repay you for saving me from the perils of standing?" His grin is wicked, challenging, but there’s something beneath it—something warm, something fond, something that lingers even as his laughter fades into something quieter, something real.

- Later, when he’s sprawled beside you, still smirking, he nudges your side with his elbow. "You know," he muses, tapping his chin, "I think I might need saving again sometime soon." And then, without warning, he flings himself at you, arms wrapping around your neck with all the grace of a man who knows damn well you’ll catch him. "Quick, sweetheart," he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Before gravity kicks back in."

John Constantine

- John Constantine has seen many things in his life—things that would shatter the minds of lesser men, things that slither and whisper in the dark, things that crawl beneath the skin of the world and rot it from the inside out. But this? This is something else entirely. One second, he’s standing there, cigarette between his lips, coat draped lazily over his shoulders, and the next? He’s airborne. Lifted. Weightless. And utterly, utterly done with this reality.

- "Bloody hell," he curses, his usual rasp of sarcasm momentarily failing him. His cigarette nearly tumbles from his lips as he grips at your arms, wide-eyed, indignant. "You having a laugh, love?" But you don’t waver, don’t so much as break a sweat, and that realization sends something flickering through his gaze—something wary, something intrigued, something dangerously close to impressed.

- "Well, that’s just embarrassing," he mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head as he eyes you with newfound consideration. "And here I thought I was the one with all the tricks up me sleeve." He shifts in your arms, testing the hold, then smirks, lazy and sharp. "Alright then. Carry on, darling. Just make sure you don’t drop me—I’d hate to spill me pint."

- Later, when he’s sitting with you, fingers tapping against his glass, he glances your way with something softer hidden beneath the bite of his words. "Next time," he murmurs, swirling his drink, "maybe give a bloke a warning before you decide to turn his world upside down, yeah?" But there’s no real protest, no real annoyance. Just the lingering, undeniable truth—he liked it. He liked you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous magic of all.

Roy Harper (Arsenal)

- Roy Harper has been thrown, knocked down, and sent flying more times than he can count. But this? This is different. One second, he’s standing there—grinning, cocky, weight shifted lazily onto one hip—and the next, his feet leave the ground. For the first time in a long time, Roy Harper is caught instead of doing the catching. His mouth opens, a sharp inhale of surprise, his arms flailing for balance, but there’s nothing for him to do except accept it. And he absolutely, completely does not know how to handle that.

- "H-hold up—wait—what the hell?" The words tumble from his lips in a startled bark of laughter, his hands instinctively clutching at your shoulders. His blue eyes are wide, scanning your face for some kind of explanation. "You just—how did you—?" His brain stutters over itself, trying to make sense of it. It’s not that he thinks you’re weak—hell no—but he knows how heavy he is, how solidly he’s built, and the fact that you lifted him like he was nothing? That’s something else entirely.

- Then, of course, the reality of it sinks in, and Roy Harper, being Roy Harper, does what he does best—he leans into it. "Damn, babe," he whistles, his signature smirk creeping across his face. "If I’d known you were this strong, I’d have made you carry me around ages ago." He shifts slightly in your arms, testing your grip, then settles in with an exaggerated sigh, draping an arm over his forehead like a damsel in distress. "Guess I don’t need to hit the gym anymore—got myself a personal lifter right here."

- And when you finally put him down? He doesn’t walk away. No, he sticks close, bumping his hip against yours, looking up at you with a mix of mischief and something warmer. "You’re full of surprises," he murmurs, his voice dropping just slightly, almost thoughtful. And then, with a wicked grin, he adds, "So... how do you feel about carrying me to bed, sweetheart?"

Koriand’r (Starfire)

- Koriand’r is no stranger to flight, to weightlessness, to the effortless way she moves through the sky with the sun’s fire at her back. But being lifted by you—by your hands, your strength, your unwavering confidence—is something she has never felt before. And it stuns her. Not out of fear, nor shock, nor disbelief—no, it is something softer, something warmer, something that spreads through her chest like the first rays of dawn.

- "Oh!" The delighted gasp slips from her lips as her arms instinctively wrap around your neck, golden eyes blinking in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, she simply looks at you, studying your face, as if committing this feeling to memory. And then, as quickly as the surprise came, it melts into sheer, unrestrained joy. "Oh, my love!" she exclaims, her voice a bright melody of laughter, her fingers tangling in your hair as she tilts her head. "This is wonderful!"

- She does not hesitate to make herself comfortable, resting easily in your hold, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "You are so strong!" she praises, her voice dripping with admiration, her eyes glowing with pure, genuine awe. "Why did you not tell me before? We could have done this so many times!" There is no embarrassment, no hesitation—only the full, boundless embrace of a woman who loves fiercely, who takes nothing for granted, who cherishes this moment for all it is.

- And later, when you place her back down, she does not simply walk away. No, she hovers, her hands still cradling your face, her lips pressing a kiss—soft, lingering, grateful—against your cheek. "I must carry you next," she declares, her voice rich with excitement. "It is only fair!" And then, before you can protest, she sweeps you into her arms, laughing as she soars into the sky, twirling you through the air in a radiant, dizzying dance of love.

Kara Zor-El (Supergirl)

- Kara Zor-El is used to being the strongest person in the room. She has spent her life holding back, careful with every touch, every movement, every breath, always hyper-aware of her own power. But you—lifting her so effortlessly, holding her as if her strength does not matter—it knocks the breath from her lungs in a way no villain, no kryptonite, ever has.

- "Wha—wait, what?" Her voice is higher than usual, startled, her hands gripping your shoulders instinctively as her legs dangle in the air. Her wide, blue eyes blink rapidly, scanning your face for some sort of answer. "You—you picked me up?" She sounds offended for a split second before the reality of it truly hits her, before the corners of her lips twitch and something suspiciously close to a giggle bubbles in her throat. "You picked me up."

- And then she’s laughing—full-bodied, bright, joyful—because it’s so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful. "Oh my god," she wheezes, her head dropping against your shoulder as she shakes with laughter. "I love this." She leans back, resting easily in your arms, grinning up at you with an expression so full of delight it’s almost blinding. "How are you this strong? Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly Kryptonian? Oh my god, are we long-lost cousins? Should I call Clark?"

- When you finally put her down, she immediately tests you again—jumping at you with zero warning, wrapping her arms around your neck, trusting you to catch her. And when you do? She beams. "Again," she demands, eyes bright with exhilaration. "Again!" And suddenly, she’s obsessed. She will never let this go. You have doomed yourself to a lifetime of Supergirl dramatically flinging herself into your arms at the most inconvenient moments.

Slade Wilson (Deathstroke)

- Slade Wilson does not like surprises. He is a man who calculates every outcome, who moves with precision, who keeps his world meticulously controlled. He does not get caught off guard. But this—the sudden shift in gravity, the impossible strength behind your touch, the way his feet leave the ground—this is a surprise so profound that, for one fleeting second, the legendary Deathstroke is stunned.

- His single eye narrows sharply, his body tensing instinctively, a thousand battle instincts screaming at him to react. But there is no attack, no enemy—only you, holding him like he is something fragile, something weightless, something you can control without effort. And that—that—is what truly catches him off guard. "Well," he rumbles, his voice dangerously low, "this is new."

- He does not panic. He does not flail or struggle. No, Slade Wilson merely analyzes, his sharp mind whirring as he studies your face, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the corners of his lips twitch into something that is almost amusement. "You’ve been keeping secrets," he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "That’s dangerous."

- When you finally set him down, he does not step away. No, he lingers, his presence a solid, immovable force as he tilts his head, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as you think the moment has passed, he reaches out—gripping your wrist with a strength that rivals your own. "My turn," he states simply, before sweeping you up effortlessly, his smirk widening as he watches your expression shift. "Now, let’s see how you handle surprises."

Kent Nelson (Doctor Fate)

- Kent Nelson is a man who has lived through centuries of battles, his mind tethered to the ancient wisdom of Nabu, weighed down by the knowledge of the cosmos. He is not easily shaken. He has fought demons, walked through dimensions where the laws of gravity bend and break, and seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And yet, for all his experience, for all his wisdom, nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment when you pick him up like he is no heavier than a feather caught in the wind.

- His body stills immediately, the flowing gold of his cloak pooling in your arms, his gauntleted hands frozen mid-motion as if his mind is struggling to catch up with his reality. He has faced eldritch horrors that defy comprehension, but this—this is something else entirely. "...Interesting." The word is measured, calm, but you can hear the faint edge of bewilderment in his voice. Beneath the helmet of Fate, his expression remains unreadable, but you can feel the way he is processing. Analyzing. Calculating how this is even possible.

- "There are few beings in existence who could accomplish this," he finally murmurs, and the weight of his words is almost laughable. But there is something else beneath them—something softer. Awe. Intrigue. A deep and abiding reverence for the unknown, for the mysteries of the universe that even he has yet to unravel. And right now? You are one of those mysteries. A puzzle he had not anticipated, but one he finds himself eager to solve. His fingers trail along your shoulder, light as a whisper, as if trying to feel the power beneath your skin.

- And then, in a rare moment of levity, the corners of his lips curve into something that is not quite a smile but something like it. "I wonder," he muses, "if Nabu knew about this." There is an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice, and you can tell—tell—that he is already planning the next time he can test your strength again. Doctor Fate may be bound to destiny, but Kent Nelson? Kent Nelson has just discovered something infinitely more interesting than fate itself: you.

Rachel Roth (Raven)

- Raven is used to control, to restraint. She has spent her life mastering herself, holding back, ensuring that nothing—not a single tremor of emotion—escapes without her permission. But control means nothing when you sweep her off her feet without warning. One moment, she is standing in the comfort of your presence, and the next, the world tilts—her balance stolen, gravity defied—and she finds herself cradled in your arms.

- "What—" The word is cut off, her breath catching in her throat, violet eyes wide and blinking as if she has glitched. It is not fear—Raven does not fear you—but it is shock, raw and unfiltered, slipping past the walls she has so carefully constructed. No one lifts her. No one dares. She is Raven, daughter of Trigon, wielder of darkness, but you—you lift her as though she is made of something far lighter, far softer. "...How?" The question is quiet, but laced with something dangerously close to wonder.

- And then, after a long, weighted pause, her lips part again. "Put me down." The words are flat, carefully neutral, but the telltale blush dusting her pale cheeks betrays her. You hold her a moment longer—just long enough to see the way her fingers twitch as if fighting the urge to grab onto you—and then, finally, you comply. The moment her feet touch the ground, she crosses her arms, tilting her chin slightly as if regaining her composure. But the faintest flicker of amusement sparks in her eyes. "You could have warned me."

- But later—later—when she thinks you aren’t looking, you catch her staring at you. Calculating. Considering. And the next time she finds herself in your arms? There is no sharp inhale, no startled demand to be put down. There is only the way her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, the way she allows herself to lean into your warmth. And if, just once, you hear the quietest whisper of "Again." as she buries her face in your neck, well... you say nothing.

Zatanna Zatara

- Zatanna is a performer. She has dazzled crowds, charmed audiences, and bent the very fabric of reality to her will with a flourish of her hands. She is a woman who makes the impossible look effortless. But what she does not expect—what she cannot predict—is you pulling a trick of your own. One moment, she is speaking, hands gesturing mid-sentence, and the next, she is in the air, her words dissolving into a startled gasp as she finds herself in your arms.

- "Well, hello there!" she exclaims, blinking in surprise before laughter spills from her lips, bright and genuine. "Was that part of the show? Because if so, I think I missed my cue." Her dark lashes flutter as she tilts her head, studying you with a slow, appreciative smirk. "And here I thought I was the one full of surprises." The twinkle in her eyes is unmistakable, a magician recognizing another masterful trick.

- "You have to tell me how you did that," she continues, wrapping her arms around your neck in a movement so seamless, so graceful, that it’s as if she was always meant to be there. "Strength spell? Secret training? Or—" she leans in, voice dropping to a playful whisper, "are you actually just a natural-born showstopper?" There is no flustered stammering, no embarrassment—only delight, only curiosity, only the unmistakable thrill of discovering something new.

- When you finally place her back down, she takes a step back, then claps her hands together. "Again." The demand is immediate, playful. "I need to know if it was a fluke! We must test this thoroughly." And just like that, you have created a monster. Zatanna will not let this go. From this day forward, any time she catches you off guard, she will jump at you just to see if you’ll catch her. And when you inevitably do? She’ll flash you that signature grin and purr, "Abracadabra, darling."

Dinah Lance (Black Canary)

- Dinah is a woman who stands her ground. She is not used to being swept off her feet—not figuratively, and certainly not literally. So when you do it, when you lift her with effortless ease, her first instinct is not to gasp, nor to flail. No, her first instinct is to fight. Her muscles tense instinctively, her fists clenching as if ready to counter, before her brain catches up and realizes—oh. Oh.

- "No way," she breathes, blinking as her lips part in pure, undiluted shock. "No. Freaking. Way." She actually leans back in your hold, looking at you with something between disbelief and sheer respect. "You’re kidding." Her voice wavers with something suspiciously close to laughter. "You did not just pick me up." But you did, and it is glorious.

- And then—because she is Dinah Lance—she grins. "Damn," she exhales, whistling low. "Okay, okay, I see you." And just like that, her shock melts into admiration, her blue eyes practically glowing with mischief. "Guess I better step up my training, huh? Can’t have my own girlfriend outmuscling me." She claps your shoulder when you set her down, shaking her head with a smirk. "That was impressive."

- But from that day forward? Dinah challenges you. Random push-up contests, lifting competitions, anything to test just how strong you really are. And if you ever lift her again? She just throws her head back and laughs, wrapping her arms around your neck and whispering, "Alright, babe—you win this round."

Wally West (The Flash)

- Wally West is used to moving faster than the eye can see, faster than thought, faster than the speed of sound. He is kinetic energy made flesh, a man who cannot be caught, cannot be contained. He is motion incarnate. So when you lift him off his feet—effortlessly—the sheer absurdity of it freezes him in place. His body, which has always been a blur of momentum, stops. And for the first time in his life, Wally West is utterly, completely still.

- "Whoa—whoa, whoa, whoa!" His voice cracks mid-exclamation, his arms flailing comically before his brain catches up. "What just happened? Did I trip? Did I pass out? Did I break the time stream again?" His hands immediately pat down his own chest, as if confirming that he is still in his body, that this is, in fact, reality. But the reality is this: you are holding him, carrying him without effort, and that? That should be impossible.

- His blue eyes widen, blinking rapidly as he stares at you in stunned disbelief. "You picked me up?" The words are barely above a whisper, his voice laced with an almost childlike awe. "You—just—picked me up?" And then, all at once, his expression shifts. His lips curl into a slow, mischievous grin, and a spark of amusement ignites in his gaze. "Oh, I see how it is," he drawls, looping his arms around your neck as if settling in. "You like sweeping me off my feet, huh?"

- From that moment forward, he turns it into a game. He will actively try to surprise you, using his speed to dodge your attempts—only to deliberately slow down at the last second so you can catch him anyway. And when you do? He laughs, bright and carefree, resting his forehead against yours with a smirk. "You got me again," he murmurs, voice warm with adoration. "Guess I’m falling for you all over again."

Victor Stone (Cyborg)

- Victor Stone is not easy to move, let alone lift. He is composed of reinforced titanium alloys, advanced cybernetics, a living fusion of man and machine. He knows exactly how much he weighs. He knows the sheer impossibility of what you are attempting. So when you do—when you lift him without struggle, without hesitation—his internal scanners glitch.

- "No way," he mutters, his voice layered with static interference as if his systems are struggling to process. His red cybernetic eye flickers slightly, running rapid recalibrations, recalculating physics itself. "Hold up—nah, this ain’t right." His brow furrows, fingers flexing as he subtly shifts his weight in your arms, testing your grip. But you do not falter. You hold him—steady, sure, unyielding. And for the first time in years, Victor Stone feels weightless.

- "I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended," he finally says, his tone a perfect balance of deadpan and deep amusement. "Like, damn, babe—this whole time, I thought I was the strong one." But beneath the teasing, there is something softer. Curiosity. Admiration. And something he does not voice, but you know he feels—trust. He has spent years reinforcing himself, ensuring that no one could ever carry him again, that he would never be helpless. And yet, in your arms, he does not feel lesser. He feels safe.

- When you finally set him down, he exhales a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. "Alright, alright—you got me," he admits, rolling his shoulders. "But next time? You gotta let me return the favor." And sure enough, he does. He waits for the perfect moment—when you least expect it—before scooping you up effortlessly, his deep laughter echoing as he grins down at you. "Yeah, see? Feels kinda nice, don’t it?"

Garfield Logan (Beast Boy)

- The moment you lift Garfield Logan, his brain short-circuits. His limbs flail wildly, his mouth opens in a silent gasp, and his entire body goes stiff as if he has just been yeeted into an alternate dimension. His emerald green eyes go comically wide, and his next breath comes out in a strangled, "WH—?!"

- "Did you just—?" His voice cracks mid-sentence. "Did you just pick me up?!" His hands instinctively grasp at your shoulders, but his fingers don’t clutch—they cling, as if his entire existence depends on holding on for dear life. "Dude. Babe. Love of my life. My entire world. Are you—are you even real? Because this? This should be illegal."

- And then, the realization fully hits him. The shock melts into something else. Something dangerous. His lips twitch, his expression morphing into pure gremlin energy. "Ohhh, this changes everything," he cackles, his voice practically vibrating with mischief. "You know what this means, right?" He leans in, his green skin practically glowing with delight. "You are now legally responsible for carrying me everywhere."

- And true to his word, he commits. The moment you set him down, he refuses to accept it. He will dramatically throw himself into your arms at every opportunity. Walking? Nope. Lifting weights? Absolutely not. Why would he ever do that when he has you? "Babe, please," he whines, arms outstretched, giving you the biggest, saddest puppy eyes imaginable. "I was made for this life. I belong in your arms. Carry me. Carry me like one of your French girls."

Lobo

- Lobo is not used to being moved—by anyone. He is a Czarnian, a being of unmatched strength and durability, a walking tank with enough raw power to go toe-to-toe with Superman. He has never been overpowered, never been handled. So when you do it—when you lift him with ease—his entire soul leaves his body.

- "What the frag?!" The expletive leaves him in a near roar, his crimson eyes blazing with shock. His first instinct is to fight, muscles tensing, but then he realizes—you’re not even struggling. You are holding him like he weighs nothing. The Main Man. The Last Czarnian. In your arms. And it is so baffling, so completely ridiculous, that he just... stares.

- And then—then—he starts laughing. Howling. "Oh, this is priceless," he chokes out between laughs, his voice booming. "You just—pfft—you just picked up Lobo like he’s a damn kitten?!" His laughter is raucous, unrestrained, but there is no resentment. No wounded pride. If anything, he looks at you with a newfound respect. "Alright, babe, I see how it is. You got guts."

- But Lobo is not one to be one-upped. "Next time, though?" He leans in close, his grin sharp and challenging. "I ain’t goin’ down without a fight. You wanna sweep me off my feet? You better earn it." And true to his word, he tests you after that—deliberately throwing his weight at you, seeing if you can keep up. And when you do? When you always catch him, every single time? He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, wraps a massive arm around your waist, and murmurs, "Damn. I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

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