Bisexual, just a magnet for men with bad intentions and good looks.
ᅠ — 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕... —
This blog is rated 18+ for muns. That "but I turn 18 in x amount of time" excuse will not fly.
The mun/writer is 21+
Mixed canon plus au headcanons. I've read all of Justice League: Dark (2011), Zatanna: Bring Down The House, Zatanna: It's Showtime! (2025), and I'm currently reading the new issues of Zatanna (2026) as they come out. I've also watched the animated movies and adored them. If you have recommendations for reading material, please tell me!
Mostly Literate (multiple paragraphs, few mistakes) and above. However, I am down for silly interactions and no pressure stuff too! Just please try not to mix in the silly stuff (like gifs and reaction images) during a more serious roleplay.
Current content warnings: pregnancy | occasional swearing | sex work | flirtiness/suggestiveness | romantic and erotic tension | violence | occasional horror | elements of PTSD | self isolation | (I try to tag everything appropriately, please lmk if I missed a tag)
General rules of roleplay: no godmodding | no incest | no ERP | Canon characters, OC's, crossovers, etc., are all welcome to interact!
ᅠ — 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 —
#zivazee — original posts
#love letters 💌 — asks
#secret admirers 💌 — anons
#clients💜 — People asking about her job
#set list 🎶 — music posts
ᅠ — 𝑵𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 —
— Post with more navigating stuff
— Post with lore
— Post with general headcanons
— Mun's other rp accounts
— Old pinned (for ease of finding)
Dividers are from pixopix | text image is mine | images/gifs: i, ii
I would assume either you or Damian would, since you're both his blood sons. Pretty much everyone else has a place, I think? I don't keep up with the bats anymore..
I've been needing to make this for a while,and here it is! The response to Geezer's death. However, that comes second to something else; the erasure of a Constantine variant. Not as long as I wanted it to be, but writing dissociation tends to make it happen lol. Heed the warnings below please, and enjoy!
She's been fiddling with her phone for a few hours now. The heat outside is intense, suffocating, and Ziva hasn't bothered to find anywhere besides her own home to cool off. Going to a pool requires finding a swim suit, and her ever swelling belly poses an annoyance that there is not enough energy to work around. Her messages are open to the list, her finger scrolling through it. She always comes back to one, though. Strangely but blissfully seperated from the other who has been in her phone for a long time, is a Constantine. Labled simply as 'Demaris's Dad', seeing as they never quite got the chance to do anything official, and as such never quite got any such cute nicknames like 'Starlight', and there will only ever be one 'Johnny'.
The text conversation is finally opened up. She lets out a soft breath, scrolling through it. There was more time spent bickering or talking about Demaris than anything else. It makes the absence a little easier, though the unanswered questions and ache are hard to forget. On a whim, she presses the call button and presses phone to ear, dread building up as it rings. Zee could only pray that she finally answers, finally is willing to talk to her again, but–
"It's the mailbox, idiot. Unless you're Mari or Zee, piss off." Beep.
Her heart sinks. Still nothing? "It's Zee." The words come faintly, almost breaking apart in her throat on the way up. "For probably about the millionth time, I think." The disappointment is thick, turning her tongue to lead. She has no idea what could possibly be keeping him from answering like this. "Please, call me back, or come see me? Mari and I are worried, and even Lucifer is concerned. Please come home." She skips over the 'I love you', ending the one-sided call. It's better that way, just in case her admission is what caused this, and to avoid the deeper emotional damage that's been done through all of this. The less she acknowledges it, at least until it's truly over and done with, the easier it will be to manage. Hopefully.
She goes to set her phone down and catches a glimpse of her palm. Something is... off? Her phone does get put down, and then full attention goes to her palms. It seems normal, at first glance. Nothing too out of the ordinary for the hands of a pregnant woman. Except when her eyes glance across the bottom of her palms, and she takes a moment, it clicks. Missing. The scars are missing. Now, Ziva knows damn well that she's avoiding magic use, and that nobody else has healed her lately, but the little crescents that had become a fixture of her life, the ones linked to that man, are suddenly gone. She stops breathing, picking up her phone again and quick dialing the number.
Dial tone. "The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please try ag–"
"Shit! Shitshitshitshit-", Ziva stands, hanging up and calling again. And again. Over and over and over and over again. Dial tones and invalid numbers. But it had just worked a moment ago, hadn't it? She even got a voicemail through! "This can't be happening, nononononono, what's happening?" Hard and shallow breaths now, pacing, checking her own voicemails. The one saved from him is gone. Their message history? It starts to vanish in front of her eyes, which are quickly becoming blurred and wet. This can't be real. It's gotta be a bad dream, right, of course. Ziva pinches herself, but just winces, releasing a stray, strangled sob. "This can't be happening...".
A memory hits suddenly and she's rushing into the kitchen, throwing open the pantry door. Mullein, lavender, and a few other dried jar herbs are pulled down. She made him a tea, to help with withdrawls and to clear his lungs.
Those jars are fuller than when she saw them last.
The tears slip down her face, and Ziva's eyes unfocus. The panicked breath not calmed, but rather forced to stop and restart, slower but just as shallow. Everything feels like lead, and there's ringing in her ears now, mind slowly blanking out. Carefully, she slides herself to the ground, the tears crashing but not felt against her skin. It feels like she's floating. It feels like peacefully drowning. Her house is empty, and nobody is coming to find her. She hiccups, and her phone buzzing barely registers, not quite breaking her free from the reigning apathy. The message from Terry forces her back into reality, mostly.
The old man is dead, too. Another massive blow to her already fragile state. A cold heat raises in her chest as that processes as well, and the smartphone is thrown across the kitchen, a scream following it. Hands finding and digging into her hair, pulling hard at the roots. Curling into herself, the screaming sobs cut her voice, strain so bad that it feels like her throat will tear itself apart. A glass jar — thankfully empty — shatters and she turns towards you, still sobbing, but the despair and rage deepset into her eyes.
"Why are you just sitting there," she seethes and interrogates, "watching me? Why did you let this happen?" A glass shard is picked up and thrown, but it only lands harmlessly across the kitchen, shattering into more pieces. No page has been cut, and no screen is shattered. The wall is paper thin, but enough to hold for now. "You could have done something, you could have saved him! You could have kept that Constantine alive, he didn't have to disappear! Why are you letting this happen to me?"
There's no way to answer her, of course. She shakes her head, scoffing, and turns away. "No answer. Of course. You're no different than The Presence. Worse, maybe. Who's to say? Not me, when I'm not even given the dignity of an answer.." Ziva glares over her shoulder, and the view of her fizzles out, a low warning being the last of her, for now.
Clark had heard the first sob from half a city away.
He hadn’t meant to listen or check in on her, not exactly. The city was loud and alive and hot enough that even the pavement seemed to breathe, all car horns and window units rattling in their frames and too many heartbeats beating too fast in the heat. He had learned, over the years, to let most of it pass through him like weather.
But Zatanna’s voice broke wrong. Reaching him through the cracks. It wasn’t the sound of someone startled or angry or even grieving in a way he recognized. It was thin at first, pulled tight around words that sounded like they had cut their way out of her throat, and then it frayed apart into panic so abruptly that Clark was moving before he had fully decided to. The world folded itself into speed. Heat shimmered off rooftops. Air cracked around him once, carefully swallowed before it became a boom low enough to rattle windows. By the time he reached her home, he had already scanned for smoke, for intruders, for the sharp metallic taste of blood on the air.
Nothing. No fire. No forced entry. No other heartbeat inside but hers, fast and uneven, and the smaller, softer rhythm beneath it. That almost stopped him harder than any wall could have.
“Zee?” he called, landing outside rather than bursting in, one hand braced against the frame as if manners still meant anything against the sound she was making. “Zatanna, it’s Clark. I’m coming in, alright?”He waited half a second. Maybe less. Long enough to pretend she had the chance to tell him no.
The kitchen was a disaster in small, intimate ways. Not the wreckage of a fight. Not exactly. Jars pulled from the pantry, dried herbs scattered in drifts across the counter and floor, glass glittering in pieces near the cabinets. Her phone lay across the room, face-up and buzzing in little desperate pulses. The smell of lavender and mullein hung thick in the air, crushed green and dusty-sweet under the heat of the room. And Zatanna was on the floor. Clark stopped in the doorway.
For one awful moment, all he could see was that she was crying and pregnant and alone in the middle of broken glass, her hands twisted into her hair so hard he could hear the strain at the roots. Her pulse climbed, stumbled, climbed again. Her eyes were wet and distant, fixed not on him, but past him. Through him. At something that wasn’t there.
“Zee,” he said again, softer.
Clark stepped carefully over the glass. His boots crushed one sliver with a small, brittle sound, and he flinched like he had broken something living. He lowered himself a little like he might with a frightened animal or a child trapped under debris. Not because she was either of those things.
His eyes flicked across the room, searching for the cause. Some residue, some symbol, some cursed object left cooling on the counter. He didn’t know what magic looked like when it was eating someone alive. He had fought aliens, demons, wanna-be gods, etc., and still, standing in Zatanna’s kitchen, he felt stupidly useless.
The missing scars meant nothing to him. The herbs meant something, maybe, but not enough. Her phone messages disappearing would have meant something if he had seen them happen. He hadn’t. All he had was Zatanna, reduced to shaking pieces on her own kitchen floor, mourning someone Clark had no memory of, someone the world itself seemed to have taken without leaving fingerprints.
Magic, then. It had to be.
“Can you hear me?” Clark asked. His voice stayed low, though his throat had gone tight. “It’s me. It’s Clark. You’re at home. You’re in your kitchen. There’s broken glass, so I need you to stay still for me, okay? Just for a second.”
Grief and resentment are just love with no place to go. That's what her parents would have said, most likely, about her fit of grief-filled rage once she had been well and truly alone. It didn't matter much, really, but things breaking felt cathatric, and maybe the scattered lavender would calm her down, even. Doubtful, but maybe. Her little fit had covered the only chance she would've had to hear someone approach her door and call out. She was firmly caught in the throes of her grief, returning to her curled up position, and her eyes unfocusing once more.
Her name, heard faintly, is assumed to be a hallucination at first, or the return of the spirit she had banished from this house. She would not let it have her attention or feed further from her pain, of course not, but a ghost and a hallucination can't break glass by stepping on it, nor would they flinch over it. Her focus comes back, slowly, as Clark kneels and speaks to her. Trying so hard to bring her back to a reality which she would rather shatter right now. Zee takes a stuttered deep breath, starting to see him better.
"Clark?" Ziva blinks a few times, eyes searching his face as her pupils contract, vision finally coming back into focus. "Why are you here; aren't you supposed to be in Metropolis right now?" For the life of her, she doesn't really understand why he's here, of all places, instead of at home. He has a normal job, and Metropolis will always need Superman, so why would he be here? She goes still though, as he asks, letting him do whatever he's going to do. Probably clean up the glass.
"I know where I am," she mumbles, not quite wanting to argue but wanting to make it clear. "I know about the glass. I broke it. Just mason jars."
Her sentences being reduced to short and blunt is a bit startling, even to herself. The woman with the magic words, reduced to this? Over somebody that nobody else would even remember, if they had even had the chance to meet him. It's over the loss of her best friend, too, of course. A compounding issue, really. How many others are hurting over his loss, she wonders? Terry, of course, but he already said that he's not leaving Gotham until he's positive that everything possible is done for the old man. She could go and help, but Terry might not want his adoptive mother there, when he lost his biological father. All the other mourners will either handle it alone or go see him one last time.
Who would mourn him, beside herself and his daughter?
Nobody. Not even Lucifer would mourn the only Constantine he would've allowed to share Zee with him. Demaris isn't really easy to find these days either. Maybe she's gone too, so really, it's just her. Left to be the only one to remember and mourn, yet again. What a cruel joke.
May the Valkyries welcome you and lead you through Odin’s great battlefield.
May they sing your name with love and fury, so that we might hear it rise from the depths of Valhalla and know that you’ve taken your rightful place at the table of kings.
I've been needing to make this for a while,and here it is! The response to Geezer's death. However, that comes second to something else; the erasure of a Constantine variant. Not as long as I wanted it to be, but writing dissociation tends to make it happen lol. Heed the warnings below please, and enjoy!
She's been fiddling with her phone for a few hours now. The heat outside is intense, suffocating, and Ziva hasn't bothered to find anywhere besides her own home to cool off. Going to a pool requires finding a swim suit, and her ever swelling belly poses an annoyance that there is not enough energy to work around. Her messages are open to the list, her finger scrolling through it. She always comes back to one, though. Strangely but blissfully seperated from the other who has been in her phone for a long time, is a Constantine. Labled simply as 'Demaris's Dad', seeing as they never quite got the chance to do anything official, and as such never quite got any such cute nicknames like 'Starlight', and there will only ever be one 'Johnny'.
The text conversation is finally opened up. She lets out a soft breath, scrolling through it. There was more time spent bickering or talking about Demaris than anything else. It makes the absence a little easier, though the unanswered questions and ache are hard to forget. On a whim, she presses the call button and presses phone to ear, dread building up as it rings. Zee could only pray that she finally answers, finally is willing to talk to her again, but–
"It's the mailbox, idiot. Unless you're Mari or Zee, piss off." Beep.
Her heart sinks. Still nothing? "It's Zee." The words come faintly, almost breaking apart in her throat on the way up. "For probably about the millionth time, I think." The disappointment is thick, turning her tongue to lead. She has no idea what could possibly be keeping him from answering like this. "Please, call me back, or come see me? Mari and I are worried, and even Lucifer is concerned. Please come home." She skips over the 'I love you', ending the one-sided call. It's better that way, just in case her admission is what caused this, and to avoid the deeper emotional damage that's been done through all of this. The less she acknowledges it, at least until it's truly over and done with, the easier it will be to manage. Hopefully.
She goes to set her phone down and catches a glimpse of her palm. Something is... off? Her phone does get put down, and then full attention goes to her palms. It seems normal, at first glance. Nothing too out of the ordinary for the hands of a pregnant woman. Except when her eyes glance across the bottom of her palms, and she takes a moment, it clicks. Missing. The scars are missing. Now, Ziva knows damn well that she's avoiding magic use, and that nobody else has healed her lately, but the little crescents that had become a fixture of her life, the ones linked to that man, are suddenly gone. She stops breathing, picking up her phone again and quick dialing the number.
Dial tone. "The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please try ag–"
"Shit! Shitshitshitshit-", Ziva stands, hanging up and calling again. And again. Over and over and over and over again. Dial tones and invalid numbers. But it had just worked a moment ago, hadn't it? She even got a voicemail through! "This can't be happening, nononononono, what's happening?" Hard and shallow breaths now, pacing, checking her own voicemails. The one saved from him is gone. Their message history? It starts to vanish in front of her eyes, which are quickly becoming blurred and wet. This can't be real. It's gotta be a bad dream, right, of course. Ziva pinches herself, but just winces, releasing a stray, strangled sob. "This can't be happening...".
A memory hits suddenly and she's rushing into the kitchen, throwing open the pantry door. Mullein, lavender, and a few other dried jar herbs are pulled down. She made him a tea, to help with withdrawls and to clear his lungs.
Those jars are fuller than when she saw them last.
The tears slip down her face, and Ziva's eyes unfocus. The panicked breath not calmed, but rather forced to stop and restart, slower but just as shallow. Everything feels like lead, and there's ringing in her ears now, mind slowly blanking out. Carefully, she slides herself to the ground, the tears crashing but not felt against her skin. It feels like she's floating. It feels like peacefully drowning. Her house is empty, and nobody is coming to find her. She hiccups, and her phone buzzing barely registers, not quite breaking her free from the reigning apathy. The message from Terry forces her back into reality, mostly.
The old man is dead, too. Another massive blow to her already fragile state. A cold heat raises in her chest as that processes as well, and the smartphone is thrown across the kitchen, a scream following it. Hands finding and digging into her hair, pulling hard at the roots. Curling into herself, the screaming sobs cut her voice, strain so bad that it feels like her throat will tear itself apart. A glass jar — thankfully empty — shatters and she turns towards you, still sobbing, but the despair and rage deepset into her eyes.
"Why are you just sitting there," she seethes and interrogates, "watching me? Why did you let this happen?" A glass shard is picked up and thrown, but it only lands harmlessly across the kitchen, shattering into more pieces. No page has been cut, and no screen is shattered. The wall is paper thin, but enough to hold for now. "You could have done something, you could have saved him! You could have kept that Constantine alive, he didn't have to disappear! Why are you letting this happen to me?"
There's no way to answer her, of course. She shakes her head, scoffing, and turns away. "No answer. Of course. You're no different than The Presence. Worse, maybe. Who's to say? Not me, when I'm not even given the dignity of an answer.." Ziva glares over her shoulder, and the view of her fizzles out, a low warning being the last of her, for now.
