#const4ntine

zatanna remembers what it is like to be kissed by john constantine. it's just the two of them, she does not know why she let him so close. but it's easy. it's easier than running and trying to put a sea between them. she's looking at him and he's older, stopped being that young man she fell in love with. it's not like he has changed, but maybe she has, the circumstances certainly have. she sees him and she does not see the fire, or death looming grim over his shoulder. she just sees him, getting lost on blue eyes. he leans in. and the old zatanna would've moved away. the old zatanna would have been upset. but she's been livining stuck in the past, like a broken record, living like a ghost, like she was the one who died.

but her mind clears, her cheeks warm. and her hands on his shoulders, the hesitation of pushing melts into the intent of pulling him just that little bit closer. leans closer and faster than him. a conscious decision. zatanna almost melts into it, the tension leaving her body. and she remembers, it's this very silly warm feeling. it's like casting magic without any of the words. she's twenty again, it's all the good with none of the bad. the rub of his stubble, the way the smell of cigarettes kisses the airs. damn you, john constantine.

her plan is flimsy at best, her trust on john on thin ice. it's been too long, why is she nervous? solitude can make a woman mad. lead her to places she wouldn't think to be in. she sits on the stool next to him. and clears her throat. not looking at him just yet. she simply hopes she doesn't regret this.

"john."

her tone is as neutral as it can be. she is trying to appear as put together as one can be after putting distance between them and john constantine.

There's no surprise to the witch's voice as she pulls the building's door closed and locks it with a simple turn. No need to turn around and verify, nor carve the distance between them with her gaze.

She'd been told to expect him today. The birds, the breeze, even the bay bubbled and breathed with a hack and a wheeze, if one could hear it clearly. And, if they could not? One hoped they'd be able to smell it clearly, all burnt poisons and lovelessly packaged herbs.

❝ If you've come to offer an apology, @const4ntine, know that she's not in. ❞

here it lies the gentle yet obvious reminder of why they haven't talked to one another in so long. this whole back and forth between them, it seems to be unavoidable. john constantine is a miserable man at times, and that haunts everyone around him. he doesn't need the guilt, he carries enough with him. but zatanna grows exasperated by the minute.

she's feeling too much perhaps a lot. she thinks of the girls like her, scared. worried. alone. with powers they seemingly cannot control. and she feels something else, it's beyond empathy and understanding. and zatanna does not know where constantine is coming from. these days she rarely does.

"spare me the dramatics, john." alone, she is incredibly alone. by choice or by fate who can really know. and that is also constantine's fault. "-you do not need to keep up the sad little miserable man act with me." she crosses her arms over her chest, purple gaze looking at him. it's not hatred. it's something else in the middle of the longing. she walks closer, entering his space is a dangerous game. the kind both of them loose everytime. "if there's something we can do about the poor girl together. then, why shouldn't we? life isn't fair but. maybe we can be."

       𝐎 ' 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐀        𖤐      𝐎 ' 𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐀

         ✱     NOT ACCEPTING    |    deleted prompt    |    @const4ntine

" ------- not yet, anyway. " air swills, filling out the sacs of his lungs until the thin fabric of it strains. that tightness lingers behind his sternum, heaves at the sinew stretched between the the bands of his ribs. bending double, hands braced over his thigh caps, bow clutched sidelong in one fist. those sounds ... the sweat wicking the little diamond hollow in his throat & tamping stray strands to his matting forehead goes wintry against his flesh. tiny pinpricks rash all over him.

this looks really bad.

he's no stranger to guilt, not even immune to the sensation of someone else's voice reverberating between the bounds of his temples. but what he'd heard, it's the kind of chill that seeps deep into his marrow & evokes unseen terrors only the pitch ink of the witching hour could evoke. swallow pummeling down & up, a rivulet of perspiration traveling along with it, clint pushes himself to standing. " ---------- what do they want? "

georgie scoffs, it's an easy thing to then turn her full attention to him. some sort of a stake out. tracking what @const4ntine thinks is a demon, she thinks it's something else. but good luck trying to argue, the best thing they can do right now is just wait. and waiting makes her skin crawl, neither of them are good with patience, but she thinks she might be worse. conversation makes it just a little bit easier.

"on occasion?" she smiles. knowing. she's slowly starting to get the hang of it. this whole figuring out monsters and making sure more people don't get hurt. it's not the most honest profession but anything to earn a living, right? (georgie doesn't forget why she's here. what the end goal is but still. working up to it.) "-i believe you wrote the manual on dickery. all i am suggesting is that you could refine your methods. i can give suggestions. pointers even, to be less of an ass." she turns her dark eyes back to the entrance they're keeping an eye out for. she tugs on his trenchcoat. make him pay attention.

zatanna rarely manages to sleep this profoundly, she doesn't like it but she is often a light sleeper. worries of supernatural threats to the world do in fact keep her up on some subconcious level, but the sleep she is trying to pull herself out of is deep, she groans, opening up her eyes lets too much light in. her head hurts, her mouth feels dry. the early indicators of a good night, a wild night. not something she indulges on too often. usually she can pinpoint her bad decisions on one man.

she lifts her head up, slowly and gently sitting up on the bed, too hungover to try and magic the headache and the feeling of dread away. purple eyes scan the room, which is...frankly speaking a mess. trails of clothes, and an absolute destruction of some of the fancy furniture the room had to offer. ( as a general rule of thumb, she has her own exceptions as to what to use her magic for, there are some trivial things she handles with the right set of words, and making up for the destruction of property after a night out is usually not on the list. ) her fingers thread through her hair, unkept, she can still feel the leftover make up on her face. and then there is secondary feeling, on her finger, her heart picks up, extending out her hand and it comes into view. a nice ring, too nice of a ring on. on her ring finger. there is a ring on her ring finger. surely it's just a ring. surely she just needs to figure out more before freaking out, but it's too late, she can't remember last night, not every detail but you see here john constantine is still here.

"oh my god."

next to her lies the source of every single headache she's ever had, she's sure of it. somehow his blonde hair looks more unkept than usual, and he's out. out like a light. moving, and talking hurts. but shock, anger, worry are a hell of a cocktail. "john." she shakes him, bunching the covers on her hand over herself. "john wake the fuck up." her voice is stern, louder than usual, rings in her ears. she's not above taking it up a notch if he weren't to wake up.