If you feel comfortable writing trans readers, then I would love to read some John Constantine x ftm!reader who's had top surgery but not bottom surgery (uses terms like "front hole" and "t-dick" though!) Maybe some two-way soft oral and praise kink (for both reader and John)
﹂Contains: mentions of: alcohol, t-dick and front hole; some plot to sweeten the pot, developing relationship, (reader has a good influence over Constantine so he might be) slightly ooc, plenty of praise to go around, early orgasm (character), slight fingering at the end(?)
✒First time trying out ftm!Reader so I'm sorry if it's not perfect;;
This isn't how Constantine pictured he'd spend the night after exorcising some havoc reeking demons.
He tries not make it a habit of getting overly involved with clients. More often than not, it leads him to trouble he'd rather avoid— he has enough on his plate as it is.
But you, you were hard to forget and deflect. Sweetening his ear with the promise of drinks and some fun he'd regret missing. Or maybe that was just him getting ahead of himself.
He's seen you before. Handled a few occult-type anomalies in the areas you just so happen to pass by. You would think some of them were linked to you or at least trying to corrupt you into making a deal.
But that wasn't the case, more of "wrong place at the wrong time" kind of deal. Luckily, you have yet to get in harms way, somehow avoiding the dangers lurking in the dark streets and alleys.
If only some of that luck would rub off on him.
The bourbon he's nursing grows warmer the longer he holds it, his attention pinned on your little smile as you natter on about the weird things you've been seeing as of late.
Something about cold spots, rotting smells of decay near an abandoned condominium that scheduled for reconstruction. He should probably look into that...at another time.
Against his better judgement and possibly encourage by the few glasses of whiskey he downed earlier, Constantine gives a jest of summoning him using a seance if you ever need him. An immediate rush of discomfiture passes over him as he laughs it off, claiming it was merely a bad joke.
When was the last time he's felt like this? Or sat down to really enjoy a drink with company rather than alone in some run down motel room.
He doesn't even remember but your laugh eases his ineptness a bit. It sounds nice, the faint twinkle in your eyes makes him look away lest he starts staring.
"Must be the alcohol," he'd reason to himself while on his way out of the bar. As if that were really the issue when he normally drinks from dusk to dawn most days.
Time fly by and he's stuck on you. Recalling those few moments as if they were countless hours rather than just two. He had to see you again, even if only for a drink or small chat.
And that's when he remembered the poltergeist happening right under his nose. The perfect excuse to wander around the same vicinity as you. He's bound to run into you one way or another.
Just like before he takes care of the issue, sending the otherworldly entities back to where they belong before aimlessly looking for you. Takes some time but he stumbles upon you just as the sun began to set.
Working up the courage to ask you out for dinner, which you gratefully agree to much to Constantine's liking. He's a nervous wreck throughout the meal. Stumbling over his words and messing up the pick up lines he definitely didn't practice beforehand.
The date, if you would call it that, ended on a high note with him scoring your cell. Inwardly patting himself on the back despite the minor screwups on his end. You left smiling so that's a win in his book.
He ends up taking you out on more dates and gets to know you more little by little, growing more enamored and hooked. It's not typical of him but you bring a little rationality to his otherwise chaotic day to day life.
Your flat is spaciously cozy, welcoming from the cold nights whenever you ask him to stay overnight. The two of you haven't done more than hold hands or sneak a few lingering kisses.
Maybe it's because you're nervous about how he'll react or respond, you've told him already about your transition. And he was open-minded, much to your relief.
He purposely teases you with sugary endearments like Handsome, Beau, Hotshot, Pretty Boy and others just to see your reactions. Focusing and using the ones that make you smile or add a tinge of color to your face.
Then one night after a few drinks and heavy gazes, his lips press against yours. Hands caught up with the buttons of your shirt; fumbling with them long enough to let a frustrated groan into the kiss.
You help him out after letting him struggle for a minute or two more. Sighing contently when his palms meet your skin. He's quick to undress, not wanting to keep you waiting or feeling like the only one exposed.
Constantine can feel his breath hitching in his throat with each touch of your fingertips tracing over the faded scars on his heated skin. Words of encouragement seep from his lips with every caress.
Hands start roaming more boldly— gripping and pulling each other unceasingly closer to the point that you can hear one another's heart beating rapidly in your ears. His lips trailing down your neck, shoulders, chest while your hands grip his sandy blonde locks.
Everything gets more heated when he goes lower and lower, deliberately teasing the skin just below your naval. He can't help but spout out how wonderful you look the more of you he sees. With his teeth he pulls at the band as he removes them.
He hardly gives you a chance to react properly as he places kisses along the way. Not letting any room for insecurities to worm in and ruin this precious moment. His eyes meet yours as he mouths your front hole, drawing out sweet moans that motivate him to continue.
Soft breathy praises of how good of a job he's doing has him getting all the more chubbed and hard. Constantine can hardly contain himself when your grip on his hair tightens.
He grows more enthusiastic, hungry— needy for your approval; but you don't want him to all the fun. With a change of positioning, you're face to face with his aching arousal as he is to yours.
Quickly picking up where he left off with a groan. His eyes shutting closed when you return the favor and really working him over with your mouth and tongue.
Much to his embarrassment, he ends up finishing first despite you taking your sweet time with him. "I'm not done so keep going," and that he does, not that you'd have to tell him twice.
Limbs intertwine and skin presses against skin, breathless pants can be heard with the occasional moan. He's taking things nice and slow, really wanting to enjoy every bit of you he can, for as long as you let him.
Just as he utters many sweet nothings and praises, his fingers get the job done. The way you looked so lost in pleasure filled him with a sense of accomplishment.
