𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗛𝗲𝗹𝗹 || 𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗲 ||
A/n: Dad!Constantine, Reader is a demon ( the two of you are in love )
Your apartment used to be quiet.
Then you married John Constantine.
Then you had magical children with John Constantine. Adorable children that he loved more than anything, children he would die for of course but now.
Now? Quiet is a fairy tale. And speaking of fairy tales—your toddler just popped into the living room out of thin air, holding half a packet of biscuits she’d stolen from the kitchen.
“John!” you called toward the bedroom, “Your daughter just teleported again!”
From the other room, John groaned like a man who’d been stabbed—mostly because he had been stabbed before, and apparently parenting was worse.
The man emerged in his wrinkled trench coat despite being indoors, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking every inch the weary father of magical chaos gremlins.
“How many bloody times do I have to tell you lot—” he began, before freezing mid-sentence.
Because there, floating two feet above the couch, was your baby.
Just… drifting like a chubby little helium balloon. Giggling.
John’s eyes went wide. “Oh, for—OI! You! Put yourself down! Gravity’s not a toy!”
The baby babbled happily, spinning in slow circles.
“He's six months old, John,” you deadpanned. “He doesn’t know what gravity is.”
“Well, he's learnin’ it now, innit?!” John barked, moving toward the couch like he was approaching a live bomb. “Right, you—back in the pram. No floatin’ in my bleedin’ house!”
Your toddler reappeared next to him in a puff of glittery smoke, looking smug. “Daddy said bad word.”
“I’ll say worse if you keep nickin’ biscuits through pocket dimensions!” John shot back. “I told you—no jumpin’ ‘round the flat unless there’s a fire or the taxman’s at the door!”
The baby giggled harder, now bobbing dangerously close to the ceiling fan.
John’s voice jumped an octave. “Oh, bloody—! Love, he’s gonna get pureed!”
You tried not to laugh as he dragged a dining chair across the room, clambering up like an exhausted exorcist who’d just been told he had to wrestle a ghost. He reached for the baby—
—only for him to lazily drift out of reach.
“Oh, don’t you float away from me, you cheeky little sod!” John growled, pointing at him like he was a demon he was mid-banishing. “I am your father, and you will come down this instant or so help me—”
POP.
He vanished.
Reappeared… on top of the kitchen counter.
John just stood there, staring. “Right. That’s it. No more magic toys, no more ‘practice spells,’ and no more levitatin’!”
Your toddler was giggling uncontrollably now. “Baby’s like a balloon!” she squealed, before promptly vanishing again.
From the hallway, her voice echoed faintly: “I’m on the roof!”
John’s hands shot into his hair. “I married you ‘cause I thought you were trouble, love. Turns out the spawn are worse!” Trouble you were but that didn't stop the fact he loved you, you were his soulmate, his love, his light!
You leaned back on the couch, trying not to grin. “You’re the one who wanted kids.”
“I wanted normal kids!” he protested.
“You married me, John,” you reminded him, smirking. “This is the most normal they’re gonna be.”
John groaned into his hands. Somewhere above you, a small voice shouted, “Mummy, can we have a pet dragon?”
“NO!” John roared toward the ceiling. “And if one of you summons one, I swear—!”
The morning after the “floating baby” incident, John woke up looking like he’d been through a war.
Well… technically he had—just the domestic kind.
Your toddler was teleporting between the fridge and the biscuit tin every thirty seconds. The baby was levitating herself out of the crib and into the dog bed. And you were halfway to Googling “boarding school for under-fives” when John announced:
“That’s it. I’m puttin’ wards on the flat.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Wards? Like… baby gates but magical?”
“Exactly,” he said, already rummaging through his trench coat like a madman. “No leavin’ rooms without my say-so, no floatin’ without permission, no summonin’ creatures from realms I’ve not bloody approved first.”
“You realize,” you said slowly, “if you trap them with magic, they’ll treat it like a challenge.”
“Not if I’m clever about it.”
Cue John on his hands and knees, chalking runes on the skirting boards while muttering in Latin. The toddler watched curiously, sucking jam off her fingers.
“What’s that say, Daddy?”
“It says, ‘Stay in your room, you little bugger,’ but in a language older than sin,” John muttered, finishing one symbol with a dramatic flourish.
“Cool,” she said, and promptly teleported to the opposite corner of the room—inside the half-finished ward.
John froze. “…Right. That’s… interestin’.”
“Maybe the runes need to, I don’t know, actually be closed?” you suggested.
“I’m gettin’ there, love,” he grumbled.
By the time the final chalk mark was done, John was sweating like a priest in a nightclub.
“Right, that’s it—go on, try it now,” he told the toddler smugly.
She grinned. POP. Disappeared.
Reappeared standing directly on top of the chalk rune.
John stared at her like she’d just pulled a knife on him. “You little… How did you—”
“I just… wanted to,” she said innocently.
Before John could lecture her, the baby—still in his onesie—slowly drifted into the room… upside-down.
The wards didn’t even flicker.
John let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Alright. Plan B.”
“Which is?” you asked.
“Big bloody net.”
Five minutes later, your living room looked like a circus act gone wrong—ropes, nets, and a few dangling crystals that John swore were “mystical tripwires.” The toddler thought it was hilarious. The baby floated through one, batted a crystal with his hand, and John yelped as the entire net came down on him.
Your toddler clapped. “Daddy caught himself!”
John fought his way out, hair full of chalk dust, trench coat now smelling faintly of burnt sage. “You lot… are gonna be the death of me.”
You just leaned against the doorway, smirking. “You keep sayin’ that, but between you and them? My money’s on them.”
From the kitchen, your toddler’s voice called out, “Mummy, can we have TWO dragons?”
John’s shout could probably be heard three floors down.
John was pacing the living room, hair sticking up in at least six different directions, trench coat half-off like it had tried to escape his body in protest.
“That’s it,” he announced to no one in particular. “No more kids. Done. Finished. Shut the bloody factory down.”
He was still muttering under his breath when you strolled past the doorway.
Well… strolled wasn’t exactly the right word. More like glided — barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his old, wrinkled shirts, hem just barely skimming the tops of your thighs. Your human glamour was gone; magenta skin shimmered faintly in the lamplight, the sinuous twitch of your tail betraying your mood.
John froze mid-pace.
Your eyes caught his, slow smile curling. “One more can’t hurt.”
John nodded before his brain could intervene. “Two more sounds great—” His voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.
Your tail swished lazily, brushing against his leg on your way past.
From the couch, your toddler’s voice piped up innocently: “Daddy! Can we have a hell hound puppy?”
John’s eyes were still fixed on you as you disappeared down the hall. “Whatever you want, poppet!” he called back, voice light and happy like a man who’d just been offered eternal salvation.
He followed you toward the bedroom, stupid grin plastered on his face.
Which is why he completely missed the sight in the corner of the living room—
—your toddler sitting cross-legged in the middle of a very precise summoning circle drawn entirely in red crayon, the dog’s food bowl sitting at the center like an offering plate.
Her grin was pure mischief. “Here, puppy puppy puppy…”
From the shadows above her, the air began to shimmer, the faint sound of claws clicking against stone echoing faintly.
Somewhere down the hall, John’s laugh trailed off, oblivious.