#{coldblazer}

[waveblazer]

ColdBlazer/Coldstantine (Leonard Snart/John Constantine) + Blue

[kleptoandpyro]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For @roguesjustwannahavefun for the @arrowversequarantinefic-exchange

A very late gift, of which I apologise

Pairing: John Constantine/Leonard Snart

Rated: Teens & Up

Summary: “All my life I’ve hurt people, conned them, made people’s lives a living Hell and now I find myself on this ship with you lot, hunted down by someone I’ve spent years trying to save and I don’t know which way is up.

"So I may not know Mr Snart like you do, but from what I do know about him, I reckon we have more in common than we know. So who knows, eh? I go pay him a visit and maybe we can help each other out.

“...And he’s bloody gorgeous, so there’s that.”

Or:

The one in which Leonard Snart gets himself into a spot of bother in The Afterlife and John Constantine knows he's the only man for the job.

Excerpt:

Of the things he’s capable of feeling, it’s the very uninspiring ‘doubt’ variety which is the worst kind, which affects him most, John thinks. More so than fear, than anger. Only makes his conscience shift uncomfortably even when reason and experience hold him firm and remind him over and over that he’s in the right.

And John can’t afford to be shaken, to be off-kilter. Because it’s precisely the swell of his will power and the steadiness of his hands and the intensity of his faith in his abilities that drives away the dark things. Gives him the strength to carry his burdens. Keeps the flame lit and guiding him forward into the unknown.

Not even the religious kind of doubt is as affecting, as there’s a marked difference between belief in Divine Judgement and outright knowing it’s there. And the rules are very clear on what happens to non-believers, rules which are written and immovable, and John knows precisely where he stands in that regard -- and where he will stand on Judgement Day, for that matter. It’s what allows him to just bloody get on with it and keep one step ahead of the shadows. The finality affords a kind of peace, which he can appreciate. There’s a simplicity in the inevitable, and life could always do with being simpler.

But second guessing himself has ever led him down dangerous paths. Hesitation to act begets the illusion that he has a moral compass, which only leads to fruitless attachments, which leads to somebody dying. It’s as cyclic as the day and night, and part of the reason people are better off without him.

He does what he has to do because it has to be done, and for a long time this outlook was enough.

Continue Reading on AO3

[kattahj]

There was this Facebook post with LGBTQ comic book characters, and someone in the comments went, “Constantine is bi?” in this kind of dubious way.

Which could be completely reasonable, depending on which context you’ve seen him in, but since I’ve mostly seen him on LoT (and in Sandman), I did a bit of a double-take, because

That would be a very definite yes.

[kleptoandpyro]

For Six Sentence Sunday. Ship: Coldstantine. First Sentence: In his line of business, John constantly gets into messy situations with the law, although it's not his first time, he somehow managed to end up in a cell.

A shared cell this time, he realises - only when he eventually stops spitting bile at the cop on the other side of the bars long enough to notice - with a few sweaty bikers, a passed out meth-head and another man; a man that John immediately thinks looks fairly out of place in this dingy holding cell with his clean, stylish clothes, deceptively youthful and very, very - damn near ethereally -  handsome features and eyes so intent and fixated ahead like the secrets of the world are written in cursive on the wall in front of him; a picture of sophistication like the types that model cologne on airplane magazines yet lounging devil-may-care with an indifference that speaks of someone who doesn’t expect to be there for much longer; and then John comes smack dab into a realisation, one that has him letting go of the bars and feeling more like his default of cosmic plaything.

He chuckles sardonically and begins rummaging for a cigarette, full in the knowledge that Hells Angel 1 and 2 are going to think he’s best mates with the guy twitching on the bench for what he’s about to do but he’s already past caring as he approaches the man and sighs, “Why don’t we just cut to the chase and you tell me why you were sent down ‘ere, and don’t say to get my bail or you might give me the impression that someone up High actually cares, and God forbid an Angel does something angelic when I’m involved.”

Despite the stillness of his form, Handsome snaps his head towards him almost immediately and John gets a sub-second look at two high cheekbones, a perfectly shaped widow’s peak and a pair of quite untrustworthy blue eyes, and he’s so focussed on how the colour of them is actually quite a normal looking blue rather than the supernatural blue he was expecting, that he almost misses the, “If that’s a variant of ‘Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven’ then allow me to be the guy that urges you to update your cheesy pick up line catalogue,” drawling back at him.

If there’s something that John hates more than being wrong it’s being unsure, and the longer he peers at the guy - going back to his wall-vigil - the more the feeling builds and he takes a seat under the window, fiddling with a bent cigarette, thinking whether or not to press on or backpedal before clumsily deciding on, “So, what got you in ‘ere then, mystery man, if not a fall.”

But when the door to the precinct dings and the cop tentatively abandons his post with a confused expression to get it, the guy merely glances at his watch, smiles devilishly and moves to the padlock with three long strides pulling out something from his pocket along the way, answering, “It’s not what gets you in,” and the lock is picked in impressive time, “it’s what gets you out,” and John thinks, as he watches Handsome walk through the bars with a teasing smirk before disappearing round a corner, is that maybe Someone is looking out for him, before raising an eyebrow, placing the bent cigarette in his mouth and taking after him.

If anyone wants me to continue any ficlets, let me know!

[coldestthief]

Clearing The Air

New Version of my little ColdBlazer/Captain HellCanary thing.

This is roleplay specific content for this blog and @inmywiring’s Sara. It is not meant for widespread distribution! Anyone not directly associated with this particular verse may NOT reblog.

"Out, both of you!", Sara says finally, having just pushed her way in between Leo and John.

She's facing John, staring him down with a fire in her eyes that makes him choke on the 'e started i' that he had had lined up. "Don't even think about it. Let it go.", she hisses at him and he knows with the same clarity that he'll take his next breath, that she doesn't mean the argument. She means the magic he's gathered to his fingertips, ready to strike at Snart.

Later, much later, he'll wonder when she'd become so familiar with his … everything, that she could tell.

In that moment, he gives her a sardonic little grin and let's go of the power with a physical shake of his arms.

Snart smiles down at him over her shoulder and just like she's sensed John's magic, she seems to sense the smugness on him. Without even turning around, she inclines her head to acknowledge the thief. "And you. Wipe that grin off your face. I meant it. Get out, both of you."

They slink out of the room, one after the other like chastised schoolboys only a moment later, Sara following them with her arms folded under her chest. Right before she closes the door on them, she gives both of them a once over and says: "You better sort this out. The sexual tension is giving me a headache." And with that, the two men are left alone.

It takes the span of a sharp breath in for John to spin around to Snart and say: "There's no..."

Snart shakes his head in a quick little move, brows furrowed even deeper than his natural scowl. "No."

They face each other, John with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, Snart with his arms folded over his chest. Two sets of blue eyes, one suffused with acid green, the other dulled to an icy blue-grey, hold each other for a second, before they trail along the other's body.

Slowly.

There's a moment of tension when their eyes meet again.

And then, a small start of leaning towards each other, even if neither of them moves from their spot.

"Bloody'ell…", John groans and rolls his eyes and a second later, Snart has crossed the distance and pinned him against the wall.

"Shut up.", Snart purrs. Not growls, purrs. And John's already pressing up into his bulk, even if it is with a shiteating little grin.

"Make..." me, John wants to say, but he's interrupted by another one of those purrs that seems to run straight down his spine and settle as heat in his groin. "Don't dare finish that."

And John doesn't finish it.

Because the next thing he knows is cool lips against his, the scent of freshly fallen snow in his nose and the taste of something sharp and herbal against his tongue when Leo doesn't waste time coaxing his mouth open with a grip on his jaw.

They end in Snart's room, because, as the thief points out "It's closer." and John is half out of his coat when one of those strong, cool hands stops him. "Leave that on.", Snart drawls with a grin that is positively sinful and John replies with a grin of his own and a small arch of the brow, but he doesn't say anything.

Well, not anything related to his coat.

What he does say is: "Only if you pu' on those gloves la'er."

Leonard let's John push the smooth, black wool coat off his shoulders, so the warlock can run his hands over the the thief's shoulders, curl his fingers into the contours of the body he usually keeps so well hidden.

There's muscle there. The kind of casual muscle that doesn't come from vanity, but necessity, and the flex of them under his palms is exciting when Leonard grips him by the tie and pulls him back into another kiss.

When those clever, skilled fingers make short work of the buttons of John's shirt, just touching through expensive cotton isn't enough and John reaches for the hem of Leonard's shirt.

Only to be stopped with a hard grip on his wrist.

"Don't", Leonard snaps. "do that."

The grip is cold and near painful. The expression in those glacier eyes matches it perfectly.

And John remembers something … something Sara's told him when John made a cruel throw away comment about Daddy issues.

His free hand lifts away from Leonard's chest and moves to his own, pushing his tie out of the way before shrugging one shoulder out of the shirt and coat. Under his collarbone, in the hollow before chest curves into shoulder, there's a puckered, round scar.

"Cigare'e.", John says quietly, his mouth pressing into a thin line when he jerks his head into something between a shake and a shrug. "Me dad. 'e didn' like me much."

The expression on Snart's face softens, lips curving into a gentle smile.

"I still won't let you take off my shirt." John scoffs a laugh. "Didn' mean i' tha' way, luv. Jus' sayin' I ge' i'. Fuckin' shame, bu' I can work with tha'."

And apparently, that's the right thing to say, because Leonard kisses him again, harder this time, with a kind of rough sensuality that has John painfully wanting by the time that cool tongue curls against the roof of his mouth.

John's always known that Leonard's good in bed, not least of all because he's caught him and Sara weeks ago, her legs around his hips, her back against the wall. The kind of abandon on her face, even as she kept herself quiet with a hand over her mouth while he sucked a mark into her neck … John didn't know if he should be jealous of her pleasure or of the apparent ease with which Snart seemed to cause it.

Now he's on the receiving end of Leonard's eerily composed focus, of that sardonic mouth and those thrice damned hands and by the time John slides into Leonards lap, drawn in by the lapels of his coat, he's already nearly fallen over the edge twice.

The thief is strangely gentle as he guides John down and oh, Christ the bastard is exactly as well endowed as John'd thought (why not admit to having thought about it now that the bastard's shagging his brains out?) and that inhumanly low body temperature extends all the way, chasing shivers up his back.

John's shaking, gasping and there's barely more than an uptick of Leonard's breathing as he holds John by the back of his neck with one hand and under his thigh with the other. It irks him, the way the man can keep his … well, his cool while he's taking John apart.

So for the second time that evening, John gathers his magic. He lifts one hand from Leonard's shoulder and to his lips. "fulgur super cutem meam", he growls, breathless and delights in the shudder, the small faltering of Leo's movements when those icy grey eyes catch sight of the hellfire glow in John's own.

"What are you …"

Leonard doesn't get much further than that, because John's already touched his tongue to his fingertips and placed his hand against what little bare skin he can reach along the side of Leonard's neck. The prickle of electricity to the touch drives the breath out of Leonard's lungs and John grins before he leans in and kisses him again.

And that, the magic on his skin, his lips, his tongue finally pulls a low, deep purr from the thief. A second later, John is on his back and in heaven.