#constantine dc

↳𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

A/n:I fear I am obsessed with this man, I have more places with this man.

1. Against the Wall of His Flat – First Taste of Chaos

It’s never subtle with John. Not when he’s had a rough day with demons clawing at his heels and the weight of the world on his shoulders. The moment you step into his flat, his trench coat hits the floor, and he backs you up until your spine meets the wall with a quiet thud. You barely have time to inhale before his mouth is on yours—hungry, desperate, like you’re the only lifeline keeping him from drowning.

His hands are all over you—under your clothes, pushing your thighs apart, hoisting you up like it’s the only thing he’s certain of. And when he presses into you right there, against cracked plaster and faded spell glyphs, it’s filthy and fast. He fucks like he’s trying to chase something out of his head—like you’re both a prayer and a vice.

His voice is ragged in your ear, “This—this is the only bloody thing that makes sense.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

2. The Penthouse Tub – When He Lets Himself Feel

Bruce gave him the penthouse. John resented the comfort—until you lit candles one night and coaxed him into the absurdly massive marble tub. At first, it was quiet, warm, intimate. He rested between your thighs, the water fogging the mirrors, his hair wet and pushed back, a cigarette still balanced at the edge of the tub.

And then his hand slipped under the water.

The way he fucked you in that tub was slow, indulgent. He worshipped your body like he didn’t believe he’d be allowed to touch it again. Water sloshed over the edges, your legs over his shoulders, soft moans swallowed between kisses. His thumb on your clit, lips brushing your ankle—his eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t talk much. But afterward, he leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “You’re the calm in my bloody storm, love.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

3. On the Roof – Under a Cigarette Sky

It’s late. London hums beneath you, streetlights flickering like lazy stars. John’s trench coat is wrapped around your shoulders. He says he likes the view, but his hands are on your hips, guiding you into his lap with practiced ease.

He fucks you on that roof with the skyline spread out behind you, his boots braced against concrete, your back arching to the night sky. His voice is a gravel whisper in your ear—filthy, reverent, broken in all the right places. One hand wrapped around your throat just enough to remind you who you belong to, the other gripping your hip like you might disappear.

“I’d curse the bloody moon if it meant keeping you,” he growls between thrusts, his breath hot against your neck.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

4. In the Backseat of a Stolen Cab – Dripping with Adrenaline

You’re still laughing from the chase when he shoves you into the backseat of the stolen cab. Sirens in the distance. Blood on his lip. Smoke still curling from the ruined talisman in his jacket pocket.

But none of it matters.

He climbs in after you like a man possessed, kisses you with too much teeth, and pulls your panties down with a growl. The leather squeaks beneath you as he drives into you, pace brutal, raw, unfiltered. You claw at his shirt, nails catching old scars, and he just mutters something in Latin you don’t understand.

“Can’t take you home like this,” he snarls. “Need you now.”

And fuck, he means it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

5. Your Bed – When He’s Soft (and Pretends Not to Be)

He doesn’t stay the night, usually. Too dangerous, he says. Too intimate. But every once in a while, John crawls into your bed like a ghost in the dark, curling around you like you’re the only safe place left on earth.

That’s when he’s slow.

He makes love to you then—though he’d never call it that. Kisses your shoulder. Buries his face in your neck. Moans your name like a confession. No sarcasm, no spells, no shields. Just the sound of skin against skin and the soft thud of his heart syncing with yours.

You whisper, “You’re safe here.”

And he looks at you like that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

6. In a Circle of Salt – Between Heaven and Hell

There are rituals. Ancient magic. And sometimes, when the stakes are high and death is on the table, he fucks you in the middle of a protective circle like it’s the only anchor he has left.

Candles flicker. Ash floats in the air. And John—bloody, ruined, panting—has you on your knees, his fingers tangled in your hair, his body pressed to yours like he’s begging for salvation.

The salt around you glows faintly.

You ride him until his head falls back, jaw slack, muttering things between English and Enochian.

He comes with your name on his lips, shaking like a man who knows he shouldn’t be allowed this much light. And then he kisses you like he’s thanking every god he doesn’t believe in.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

7. In the Astral Plane – Where He Can Be Anything

He teaches you how to find him there.

Floating through dreamscapes, half-lucid, half-lost, you find yourself pressed to his chest in a place where reality bends. You look different here—more powerful, more free—and John drinks you in like sin made flesh.

He kisses you beneath the stars he conjured. Touches you with hands that don’t bear the burn scars. And when he takes you—gently, passionately, deeply—it’s with the reverence of a man who thinks maybe, just maybe, he deserves something good here.

Here, you’re not haunted. You’re home.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

8. Your Kitchen Table – Morning-After Mayhem

He was supposed to be making tea.

You’d barely dragged yourself out of bed when you walked in to find him shirtless, cigarette already lit, muttering to himself about a Hellmouth beneath Camden. You hadn’t even said good morning—just walked over, tugged the cigarette from his lips, and kissed him until his fingers dug into your thighs.

Now you’re bent over the kitchen table, one leg hitched around his waist, your robe barely hanging on.

He grunts your name like a prayer, teeth gritted, hand splayed low on your back to keep you in place. The table creaks with every sharp thrust, mugs rattling near the edge. Sunlight spills through the curtains, and his stubble scrapes your neck when he leans in close to mutter, “God, look at you—ruined for anyone else, aren’t you?”

You are. And he fucking knows it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

9. In Zatanna’s Library – Reckless, Defiant, Yours

You’re not supposed to be here.

Books line every wall. Wards hum at the edges of the room. Zatanna’s spellwork is precise and ancient—but John doesn’t give a damn. Not when you’re sitting on her mahogany desk, skirt rucked up, his mouth trailing kisses from your collarbone to your navel.

“Reckon we’ve got ten minutes before she comes back,” he says.

He fucks you with your legs over his shoulders, his laughter low and wicked in your ear when a protective sigil flares in the air behind him. You grip the edge of the desk, nails digging in, barely stifling your moans. Every thrust knocks over ancient tomes and candleholders.

“You’re gonna get us cursed,” you hiss.

He grins. “Worth it.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

10. In the Rain – Alleyway Desperation

It’s pouring. London rain—hard, cold, relentless.

John drags you into the shadows between two buildings, lips crashing into yours like he’s starved. Your clothes are soaked. Your breath fogs. And still, he fumbles your jeans down, his hands shaking—not from cold, but from need.

He spins you to face the wall. Your palms brace against wet brick as he pushes into you, groaning low. The rain drums on his coat, his breath hot at the back of your neck.

Fast. Messy. Loud.

“You shouldn’t make me want you like this,” he pants, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “It’s not bloody fair.”

But he doesn’t stop. And you don’t want him to.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Constantine: Before we begin, I'd like to thank Robin for his generous gift of two dollars, which he handed me outside this morning. Not necessary but much appreciated.

Raven, whispering : Why'd you give him two dollars?

☆ dc • constantine.

They never gave him a name.

Names were dangerous. Names created identity, and identity created resistance. So he was Thirteen. A number carved into memory through repetition, whispered through cold halls lit only by flickering candles.

“Thirteen does not speak unless spoken to.” “Thirteen does not feel.” “Thirteen exists to serve.”

The words were not rules. They were reality.

The place he grew up in had no windows. No sense of time. Only rituals, voices, and the ever-present hum of something unseen—something watching. The cult called it The Infinite Quiet, a force beyond life and death. They said it would choose a vessel, and that vessel would transcend humanity.

Thirteen was meant to be that vessel.

They taught him silence before speech, obedience before thought. When he cried, they called it weakness. When he hesitated, they called it failure. Eventually, he stopped doing both.

But something inside him never fully broke.

The ritual happened when he was fourteen.

They drew symbols across the stone floor, old and wrong, their shapes twisting if you stared too long. Voices rose in unison, echoing off the walls like they were being swallowed instead of heard.

“Offer the vessel.”

Hands pushed him forward.

For the first time in years, fear surfaced—raw, unfamiliar, burning. Not because of what they were doing, but because of what he felt watching him from beyond the circle.

It wasn’t quiet.

It was waiting.

And it was curious.

The moment the ritual reached its peak, everything shattered.

Light—green, violent, alive—burst outward instead of inward. The symbols cracked. The air screamed. The thing they worshipped didn’t take him.

It touched him.

And then it let go.

When he woke up, the cult was gone.

Not dead. Not destroyed. Just… gone. Like they had never been there.

But he was still there.

And he wasn’t the same.

His reflection didn’t always match him. His breath sometimes came out cold. His body flickered when he panicked, edges dissolving into something not quite real.

He didn’t understand it.

So he ran.

Gotham City didn’t ask questions.

That’s why he chose it.

The city was loud, chaotic, alive in a way he didn’t understand. People shouted, laughed, argued—expressions he’d never been allowed. It overwhelmed him, but it also hid him.

He learned quickly. Stay in the shadows. Don’t draw attention. Don’t trust anyone.

But power doesn’t stay hidden forever.

It started with small things.

A mugger frozen in place, unable to move as something unseen pressed against his mind. A flicker on security cameras—white hair, glowing eyes, gone in a blink. Whispers in alleyways, like the air itself was watching.

Batman noticed.

Of course he did.

The first time they met, Danny didn’t fight.

He froze.

The man in black moved like authority, like control—like everything Thirteen had been trained to obey. His instincts screamed to kneel, to submit, to disappear.

Instead, he hovered.

Wrong. Weightless. Not human.

Batman didn’t attack.

“Who are you?”

The question felt… unfamiliar.

Danny hesitated. The word didn’t come easily.

“I…”

His voice cracked, unused.

“…don’t know.”

The Batcave was too quiet.

Not the empty quiet of the cult, but something controlled. Safe. That made it worse.

Danny didn’t sit. Didn’t relax. Didn’t even blink normally. He stood like he was waiting for instructions that never came.

“You’re not a metahuman,” Batman said. “Not entirely.”

Danny flinched at the analysis. Labels meant purpose. Purpose meant control.

“I’m not theirs,” he said quickly, the words sharper than intended.

The reaction was instant—defensive, afraid.

Batman noticed that too.

“The cult,” he guessed.

Danny’s silence confirmed it.

The Justice League didn’t agree on what to do with him.

Some saw a victim. Others saw a threat.

A being that could phase through walls, disappear at will, and radiate something that didn’t belong to the living world wasn’t easy to categorize.

But Constantine knew.

“You didn’t become a vessel,” he told Danny, lighting a cigarette he wasn’t supposed to have in the Watchtower. “You slipped the leash.”

Danny didn’t understand.

“You’re connected to it,” Constantine continued. “That thing they worshipped. But it didn’t claim you. Means you’re… something new.”

Danny’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered behind his eyes.

“Will it come back?”

Constantine didn’t lie.

“Maybe.”

The cult returned three weeks later.

Gotham felt it before anyone saw it. The air turned heavy, like something was pressing down from above. Symbols appeared again—on walls, streets, even in places no one could reach.

They weren’t hiding anymore.

They were calling him back.

Danny didn’t run this time.

He stood at the center of it, the same way he had years ago. The same symbols. The same voices.

But he wasn’t Thirteen anymore.

“You belong to us,” one of them said.

The words hit something deep, something old.

For a second, he almost believed it.

Then Batman’s voice cut through the noise.

“No. He doesn’t.”

Simple. Certain.

Danny had never heard certainty used like that before.

Not as control. Not as a command.

As… belief.

The fight wasn’t loud.

It was strange. Warped. Reality bending at the edges as Danny’s powers clashed with whatever the cult had brought with them.

They tried to bind him again. Tried to reduce him to a vessel, a tool.

But he wasn’t empty anymore.

Fear was still there. So was anger. Confusion. Pain.

But there was something else too.

Choice.

The green light returned.

Not violent this time. Not out of control.

Steady.

Danny stepped forward, not as Thirteen—but as himself, whatever that meant.

“I’m not yours,” he said.

The words didn’t shake.

The connection snapped.

The symbols shattered.

And for the first time, the silence in his mind wasn’t forced.

It was peaceful.

Later, Gotham was still loud.

Still chaotic.

Still confusing.

But Danny stayed.

He didn’t understand everything yet. Probably never would.

But when Batman asked him his name again, he didn’t hesitate as long.

“…Danny,” he said.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t complete.

You wanted a bisexual joke? They had Hal and Constantine

They wanted a joke that had an impact, it would have been better if the joke had been with Harley

(is that even Constantine would be Harley's type)

I don't forgive them for not making more references to the comics.