Pairing : John Constantine x female!reader
Genre : angst, horrror
Warnings : graphic violence and gore, demonic possession, psychological horror, body horror
Divider by @enchanthings-a
John Constantine inhales sharply on his cigarette, dark eyes locked on his glass of wine. His face is stoic, utterly devoid of warmth.
“Almost the regular case.”
John values his solitude. Demon hunting helps. Gives him something to do, something to fight, something to keep his mind off the past he hates more than anything. A life he never asked for, never wanted, and deep down resents with every breath. Hunting demons lets him blow some steam, lash out at the curse he drags like a chain, the curse that followed him back after he crawled out of Hell.
He saw it. Hell. Just for a second. After his suicide attempt. In the ambulance, heart stopped, eyes wide open. Long enough to know he never wants to go back. But the damage is done. His soul is marked. Doomed. And yeah, he will probably die young anyway from all the cigarettes. Part of him couldn’t care less. The other part? Quietly terrified. Always.
His cold gaze lands on the window with the blinds half-lowered. Then it shifts to you, waiting in silence, trying not to breathe too deeply. The somber apartment is thick with smoke, and it is starting to mess with your head. You say nothing, even though you are desperate to break the silence, to spill your fears, to beg.
John Constantine is intimidating.
You’d heard he was the best demon hunter in the city. But you expected someone more sympathetic, less detached. He says nothing as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.
You have a problem. A big one.
Possession.
Yours.
Your heart pounds. You sit up straighter, trying not to look nervous. The cigarette smoke clings to everything. You have counted at least three smokes in the ten minutes since you arrived.
You tell him about the nightmares, gory, surreal visions of places that shouldn’t exist. The nightmares flood back, sharper now, clawing at your mind.
The deer’s body splits open with a wet crack. Its guts spill out, dark and rope-like. Something inside moves. Then the tendrils come. Barbed and twitching, they latch onto your arms, pulling you down. They scream your name, over and over, like a hundred dying things choking on blood. Thick black mud crawls up your legs. It is cold at first, then it burns. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. Your name punches through your chest like a rusted spike, every letter a scream inside your bones. Then the blood comes, boiling and thick, filling your lungs. You try to cry out, but sulfur pours down your throat. It scalds everything. And still, something laughs in the dark.
Constantine’s eyes narrow as you describe the tendrils, a grim flicker crossing his face, like he’s faced this kind of thing before.
“That void you saw? It’s waiting for you if we don’t cut this thing out.”
No surprise flickers in his gaze.
“Demons don’t just disappear because you say your evening prayer.”
The chill in his voice cuts deeper than you expected. You’re angry, but what choice did you have? You needed help.
“I know. The church gave me your address.”
Desperation drove you to the church’s doorstep, where a priest’s trembling hand scribbled Constantine’s name and number.
Finally, he looks at you. His eyes scan your face. His voice is quiet but heavy when he speaks.
“The address is easy to find. The real problem? What you’re willing to do to fix this.”
You blink. His words hang in the air.
“Anything,” you say, voice trembling as you meet his gaze.
“I want the visions to stop. I don’t feel like I’m living anymore. I can’t think about anything else.”
Despair rises as you say it out loud, memories surging back in full force. You try to push them down, but they are stronger than you.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He takes a sip of wine, the liquid disappearing down his throat. You catch yourself staring at the curve of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple moves. You don’t know why it makes your heart beat faster.
He sets the glass down with a soft clink.
He’s handsome, in a worn-down kind of way. White shirt, black tie, skin pale as death. A man frayed at the edges. Too bad he is a cynical and a detached prick.
He watches you, unmoving, like he can see straight through you. He grabs the pack of cigarettes on the table, pulls out another one, and lights it in a single, practiced motion.
“I’ve seen worse cases than yours,” he says. “But honestly? Not many.”
He exhales through his nose, head tilted slightly. There’s something peculiar in the way he studies you.
“An exorcism,” he says. “But forget what you’ve seen in movies. That'll be just me, you, and whatever’s eating you from the inside.”
The silence after that line is sharp. Cold. The chill in the apartment deepens.
“You need to understand something,” he says. “From the moment you walk through that door with me, you leave your old life outside. That version of you? It’s already dead. You try to go back to normal? Bad idea. That door doesn’t open backward.”
He looks right at you.
“You’ve got two choices, and neither is pretty. One, walk away. Pretend it’s just stress, bad dreams. Have some sleep and tea. Then two weeks from now, someone finds your twisted body in a bathtub or at the bottom of a ten floor building. Two, you stay. And we start.”
Silence.
He tilts his head.
“So?” he says. “You want to be free again? Or did you just come to complain and leave?”
You thought you were ready. You were when you knocked, when you sat in the chair. But now, staring into the abyss he just opened in front of you, you’re not so sure.
Your hands shake.
“I have a life. A job. People who count on me.”
He doesn’t react. Not really. Like he knew you’d say that.
“Mmh. Yeah, sounds like a real fairy tale,” he starts with dry sarcasm.
“Everyone who comes through here says that.” He sighs, eyes boring into you.
“You want to keep your neat little life? Fine. Keep waking up soaked in sweat. Keep trembling every time you pass a mirror. Keep hearing voices whisper your name while you’re shopping for milk.”
He exhales, the smoke brushing your face like a slap.
“But be honest with yourself. Is that still your life? Or just a well-disguised nightmare?”
Silence.
Then, lower, quieter, without sarcasm.
“Those bastards, they gnaw. And when there’s nothing left to take, they rip out what’s left.”
You try to steady your breath. He stands, walks to the window, lifts the blind, glances outside. Then lets it fall and turns back.
He doesn’t smile.
He crosses his arms. You notice faint lines of black tattoos just under his rolled sleeves.
“The nightmares, the mud, the voice calling your name, that’s not just a haunting. That’s a bond. Something saw you, chose you, and latched on. Part of you accepted it, even if you didn’t mean to.”
His voice hardens.
“I have to break that bond. That means stripping your mind bare. Throwing you headfirst into whatever you’ve been running from. And if it resists, we force it.”
He pauses, walking back to the table.
“And I’ll say it now. I’m not here to hold your hand. It’s going to be dirty, violent, maybe humiliating.”
He takes a drag. Calm.
“But it might save your skin.”
Your mouth is dry. Your body screams to run, to leave, to pretend you never came. You could still walk out. Go back to your job, your friends, your neat little reality.
But you know that reality’s already cracked. Already leaking. And you might die soon.
You look at the worn book on the table. Constantine’s fingers trace the spine, his eyes never leaving yours. Your skin prickles.
You think of the visions, the blood, the deer, the name in the dark.
You swallow hard. You open your mouth. Then close it. A silence settles like minutes, him inhaling on his cigarette, dark eyes on you.
You clench your fists.
“What’s this going to cost me? My soul?”
Then you whisper, “What if I’m not ready?”
Constantine doesn’t blink. Doesn’t judge. He just takes another slow drag, exhales through his nose, eyes steady on you.
“Then you walk out that door. And in a few nights, whatever’s inside you will finish settling in.”
The words slam into you. Cold. Final.
You want to argue. Say you’re not weak. Say you’ll be fine. But that’s denial. And you both know it.
You rub your hands, trying to ease your shaking. The air in the room is thick. Not just with smoke, but with something else you can’t name.
“If I stay, I might not come out the same,” you say, more to yourself than to him.
His voice is steady. “You already aren’t the same.”
Silence.
Your heart pounds. Then, slowly, like gravity pulling you down, you nod. A shaky breath escapes as you whisper.
“I’m terrified.”
A breath.
“But I’m in.”
Constantine watches you for a long second, not surprised. Maybe a hint of respect flickers behind his stoic gaze. Then it’s gone.
“Don’t lie to it” he says, voice low. "It knows you."
Summary: John remembers all the moments of his wife’s life
Pairing: John x OC
Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIM!!! Now here’s something SAD!I’m such a wonderful friend.
Maia is @speedypan ‘s
———————————-
John Constantine, the master of the darkarts, was like putty in her hands.
Sure he had Maia pinned against the wall, his body pressed against her as her fingers looped themselves in his belt trying to pull him closer. But he was really just following her lead. With every touch every tug.
He smiled against her lips as she tugged on him again. Desperately needing him closer. As if he could somehow materialize into her. He would soon have to learn since he couldn't get any closer physically.
Running his fingers through her hair he let his right-hand trail down her before grabbing her ass. Letting out a soft maddening groan he so craved to hear, she let out another trust of her hips. Moving with her, he grabbed her ass pulling her up letting her wrap her legs around his waist using the wall to prop her up as her hands wrapped themselves around his neck.
BANG
They both looked up at the ceiling above them shook. Bits of dust and debris rained down around them.
“You know,” Maia laughed as the daemons banged against the small tomb door. The contents of a half-finished spell laying on the floor, “We really need to stop meeting like this.”
“And spoil the fun Snowflake?” John chuckled pressing his forehead against hers.
“I mean…” Maia’s fingers played with John’s sandy locks, “I do love fun.”
John ran his fingers through his hair. A habit that had been picked up when he found out it drove his wife mad.
His late wife.
Gently he placed the bouquet of gas station flowers on top of the grave. He normally got her sunflowers, her favorite, but he had been running late. Not that it really mattered seeing as she wasn’t going anywhere.
“We really have to stop meeting like this” he mumbled sitting down in the damp grass lighting up a cigarette. He could almost feel her hands pulling his pants pulling him to her. Feel her, smell her, taste her. No bottle of alcohol or cigarette could drown out her ever strong presence.
He never thought he would be someone to be tied down and yet here he was. Still in love with a ghost.
“Aww are those for me?” Maia asked looking at the very beat up flowers in John’s hands. (Was there blood on that white carnation?) Flipping the shaker in her small hands she poured two pink cocktails.
“It’s thanks, for the drinks last night.”
“Money would have been better,” Her boss, Shane, said as he topped off the last beer before placing it on a tray with the others.
“Well, I felt like you already did, last night.” Maia laughed causing her boss to groan.
“Really Maia? Again? Can’t you guys do it anywhere else?”
“Oh please, Shane, Like you haven't done the deed all over this bar.” Jennifer, Maia’s self-proclaimed drinking buddy, said taking one of the pink cocktails taking a sip before flashing Maia a thumbs up. “Also, she likes Sunflowers. In case you want to really sweep her off her feet.”
John walked into a dark quiet house. Once filled with so much laughter and joy now was like a tomb. A million friends running in and out. His children, screaming at the top of their lungs. Spells getting out of control. Unfinished projects laying all over.
Chaos.
Sweet beautiful chaos.
The house seemed to uncomfortably clean now. His daughter Bea constantly cleaning and caring for everyone. Always being one to try and help others Bea’s giving spirit seemed to be kicked into overdrive. As if she cleaned one more dish, put away one more book it would bring her mother back.
Silence.
It spread across the house. Downing in its deathly absence.
Rocky was always shouting something. Whether it was a spell or an argument. From him and his four cousins trying to convince someone to do something incredibly stupid. To showing off to friends with some new magic trick he had learned. Always surrounded by people as if their noise filled his horrible decisions.
But no more. Now he just locked himself away in his room. Cutting off the magic, cutting off the noise.
John sighed pulling a drink out of the fridge. Taking a swig of the beer he looked around, for the first time really looked around.
This was no longer their home.
“One more time Snowflake, PUSH!” John said holding Maia’s hand as she let out another scream.
“FUCK YOU!” She cried her hand nearly crushing his as she grabbed him. “This is your fault!”
He couldn’t help but laugh as the doctor shook his head. their poor doctor had been warned before Maia had gone into labor that none of the medicine would work. And she hadn’t let any of them forget it during the whole delivery.
“And it’s a boy”
John and Maia both looked up as the nurse walked over handing Maia her daughter while the doctor took their son to get cleaned up.
“I… I’m a father” he mumbled looking down at his daughter sleeping peacefully in her mother’s arms. But the peace didn’t last long as the sound of their son screaming could be heard.
“Now that sounds more like you.” Chaz’s voice said as he came into the hospital room. John couldn’t respond still in pure shock as the nurse handed him his son.
John put out his cigarette and sighed looking up at the dark night sky. Sitting outside on their back patio just getting lost in the bottle of scotch.
The love of his life.
Maia was epic and beautiful and magical and in so many ways just completely normal.
A million little memories playing around his in mind. Each making him laugh and cry. Each moment so gentle and precious. His goddess, his partner, his princess, his love.
Pairing : John Constantine x female reader
Summary : John Constantine carries the weight of lives lost and battles fought. When you appear, uninvited, his carefully built walls tremble against a pull he can’t name.
Warnings : angst, no beta
divider made by @saradika-graphics
For the @keanumovieclubofficial birthday bash fanwork exchange✨
A gift I made for @atomic-groupie ! I hope you love it 💕
“I don’t need another ghost following me around.”
That’s what John Constantine reluctantly admitted in his studio when Angela Dodson insisted he help her with her sister’s death. He had pushed her away from the start, to give her a reason not to have anything with him. Yet his plans changed when he had to save her from a demon. He should have pushed her away afterwards, but he didn’t want to let an innocent soul become a catalyst in a plan hatched by divine forces.
And he was dragged into all of this.
In the end, it had all turned out well—for Angela.
His friends Beeman and Hennessy had lost their lives. And so had his apprentice, Chaz. He had unintentionally dragged them into that mess. It all started with an exorcism that had felt wrong.
After it, everything spiraled.
Constantine took a drag on his cigarette, the setting sun illuminating his pale face with a golden hue as he sat on his bed. His expression was closed off. His hazel eyes were devoid of emotion, even though his mind was drowning in a torrent of guilt he struggled to ignore and push away.
He remembered Beeman’s last words to him through the phone:
“I know you’ve never had much faith, you’ve never had much reason to… But that doesn’t mean we don’t have faith… in you.”
All of that left another scar on him. A heavy burden he carried, marked by the sacrifice of those innocent souls. Alone. Once again. By his own actions. Nicotine and alcohol were his only refuge in that crushing loneliness. He eventually got back to smoking, though he had tried to stop. He needed it, to survive.
It was how he coped.
He had defied Hell, rejected Lucifer himself. Yet his ticket to heaven remained unattainable. Each victory, a step closer to his own damnation.
This victory was particularly bittersweet.
You saved Angela, John. What next? You’re still someone’s pawn in this war between heaven and hell.
The smoke from his cigarette rose in spirals, like the souls he hadn’t been able to save.
Now, he had to push Angela away so she wouldn’t become another victim because of him. If she ever came back to him, he would. For good. Or she would end up dying because of him.
Constantine had loved her. Like a man would fall for a woman. Her vulnerability had touched him and sent him back to his younger self. He had been her anchor in her sister’s death. But he couldn’t allow himself to accept any kind of long-term relationship nor any kind of friendship into his life. Despite the loneliness gnawing at him, he kept his walls high.
They kept his emotions in check and helped him stay detached from things. It had been how he always managed. But those walls had started to crumble with the deaths of his friends, giving way to anger. An anger so dark that it even surprised him. He couldn’t push it away, and it was consuming him entirely.
He bore a cross he could never escape, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
Constantine took another drag on his cigarette. He knew he didn’t deserve redemption. Yet there was someone who crossed his mind from time to time, a glimmer of hope in his bleak existence.
You.
You had to show up, didn’t you?
He hadn’t meant for you to see it. A nameless street, a broken neon cross buzzing in the dark, and him wrestling a figure that wasn’t supposed to exist in this world. You froze, breath caught, too human for the things clawing their way out of the shadows.
Wrong place. Wrong time
He should’ve sent you running.
Instead, you saw him.
He told himself he didn’t care. Told himself he’d already forgotten your face. But in the silence between drags from his cigarette, you were there watching him fight something that should never exist. A reminder he couldn’t shake.
A reminder he didn’t want to.
He couldn’t stop thinking about you, even though he knew it was a bad idea.He’d barely known you, but already you lingered in his head like smoke, refusing to clear.
He couldn’t allow himself to involve you in his cursed life. Not after what had happened to Angela, Beeman, Hennessy, Chaz.
He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke rising like a ghost of what could have been. He had to push you away, just like he had to push Angela away.
Because if you ever got too close, you’d be in danger.
And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else.
The sound of jazz echoed through the vast room of his studio. He heard the distant crash of pins from the bowling alley below. He buried himself in relic-hunting, trying to forget what had happened with Angela.
Constantine had seen death in the face again, and yet Satan still wanted to collect his soul, even after giving him a second chance at life.
He wanted to keep seeing you—alive—but wouldn’t even admit it to himself. He was a torrent of contradictions, and he knew it.
Then a knock came on his door.
The knock was persistent. Three sharp, then silence, then three more. Constantine didn’t move from where he sat on the edge of his bed, cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Go away,” he called out, not bothering to raise his voice much above the jazz record spinning in the corner.
The knocking came again. More insistent this time.
Constantine sighed, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked to the door. He opened it—and there you were. You stood in the dim hallway, your eyes wide, carrying a weight he recognized too well. Someone who’d seen something they couldn’t unsee. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze.
“I’ve been looking for you,” you said. “The priests gave me your address.”
He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.
“Nice. Now you can stop looking.” He started to close the door.
Your hand shot out, pressing against it. “Wait. I need to know what I saw that night.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice was flat, final. “Trust me.”
“The thing you were fighting… it wasn’t human.”
His jaw tightened and he scoffed. “You’re imagining things. Too much TV. Real life’s worse."
“I know what I saw.” Your voice was steady, but he could hear the tremor underneath. “And I know you saw me watching.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but the words lacked the bite he intended. He wanted to slam the door, to send you running before you became another name on his list of regrets. Just like Angela.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” you pressed, stepping closer, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of rain on your skin.
“That thing in the alley. It wasn’t… normal. And now I keep seeing it. In my dreams. On the street. Everywhere.”
Your voice cracked, but you held his gaze despite the fear.
Constantine wanted to tell you to forget it, to go back to your life and pretend the world wasn’t rotting at the edges. But he knew better. Once you’d seen the truth, there was no going back.
“You’re in over your head,” he said dismissively, forcing distance between you. “Go home. Don’t come looking for me again.”
But you didn’t move.
“I just need to know I’m not crazy.”
Your words hit him like a punch, echoing the vulnerability he’d seen in Angela, the same vulnerability that had cracked his walls before. He hated it. Hated you for standing there, for making him feel something when he’d sworn he wouldn’t again.
He stepped back, letting the door swing wider—not an invitation but a concession.
“One conversation,” he said, voice flat. “Then you’re gone. For good.”
You nodded, stepping inside, your presence igniting the studio like a spark. He didn’t offer you a seat, didn’t offer you a drink. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you as you took in the cluttered space: books on demonology, half-burned candles, a bottle of whiskey on the table.
The jazz record hit a high note, sharp.
You spoke first, recounting the alley, the figure that wasn’t human, the way it looked at you like it knew you. He listened, jaw tight, recognizing the signs of a mark; a subtle one, not like Angela’s, but enough to draw attention from things that slithered in the dark. He didn’t tell you that. Didn’t tell you that your showing up here, now, was proof the war between heaven and hell had already noticed you.
“You need to stay away from me,” he suddenly said when you finished, his voice low, final.
“People who get close to me don’t last long.”
He thought of Beeman’s last words, of Chaz’s broken body, of Hennessy’s lifeless eyes. He wouldn’t add you to that list.
You stepped closer, confused, your eyes searching his. “But I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what’s out there.”
Your words cut deeper than he expected, stirring something he’d buried under nicotine and guilt. For a moment, he saw you not as a liability, but as a mirror—someone else caught in the crossfire, just like him.
It was too soon to care, too stupid to get attached—but Constantine never got to choose the people who haunted him.
He turned away, lighting another cigarette to keep his hands busy.
“You’re wrong about me,” he said, exhaling smoke.
“I’m not your hero. I’m the guy who gets people killed.” He faced you again, his hazel eyes hard, but there was a flicker in them.
“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “Don’t come back.” His voice was cold, but his hand trembled slightly as he pointed, betraying the lie he told himself—that he could let you go without a second thought.
You lingered, your gaze holding his for a moment longer than it should have. “I’ll go,” you said softly.
You turned, stepping into the hallway, the sound of your footsteps fading into the distant clatter of bowling pins.
He slammed the door shut, harder than he meant to, the jazz record skipping as if in protest. He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke rising like a ghost of what could have been.
The sound of jazz echoed again through the vast room of his studio, mingling with the echo of pins crashing below. He buried himself in relic-hunting, trying to drown the memory of Angela, of you, of everything.
He had seen death in the face again, and yet Satan still wanted to collect his soul, even after granting him a second chance at life.
And deep down, he knew you would be back.
The same pattern.
All over again.
In the smoke and shadows of his studio, danger and longing mixed, and he didn’t know which was stronger.
Can I get a ship please? I’m 5’9 I have medium length red hair (but it’s naturally brown), hazel eyes, and I wear glasses. I’m really shy until I get to know someone, once I do I talk a lot, I’m really sarcastic. I love reading, writing, animals, comics (and meet stuff in general), theatre, and cosplay. Because I’m shy I come off as a snob to some people. I’m really caring and also very sympathetic I can read people very well also. I’m really interested in history. Thank you!
Fandom: DC / John Constantine (CW)
Summary: You were just minding your own business when he had to summon you. So really this was his fault.
Pairing: John Constantine
Notes: Shoot it’s been so long that I don’t even remember if I asked what fandom. I’m just going to just say it’s DC and if not I’ll write you another one.
You were just minding your own business. Yes hard to believe, but you really were. Just chilling with your pet reading a book. Totally harmless.
Then this gray smoke started swirling around you.
“Who wants what?” you mumbled looking around confused as it slowly enveloped you.
“Goddess of everliving life we summon you.”
“What up.”
Looking around you were in this… bunker? Cabin? Some rustic building. A man with a trench coat was holding his hands up, obviously, the one who summoned you. Next to him was a middle-aged woman. You recognized her. She was one of those crazy Greek God worshipers that your mom had warned you about.
Yes, your mom was a Greek Goddess. Well, a demigod, daughter of Aphrodite. This meant you were like a Demi-demi goddess. Your mother had worked hard to keep you away from all that cult stuff but with your powers over water and healing it was hard sometimes and a few nuts got through the cracks.
“I have summoned you,” the woman said taking a step forward, “now grant my wish”
“If I do can I go back to my book in peace?”
Both the man and the woman stood there looking at you, another voice behind them started laughing.
“I like her,” a curlly dark-haired girl said walking forward.
“Thanks, I like to be liked”
“Goddess!”
Turning back to the woman who had “summoned you” you sighed. “What?”
“You must do my bidding and spread a plague across the land killing the unfaithful for being nothing but a waste of our natural resources.”
“What what?” the man in the trench and the dark haired girl asked, clearly annoyed.
Turns out the cult woman apparently she had lied to the dude in the trench paying him to summon you saying she had wanted you to cure her cancer.
To say she wasn’t happy with the fact that you
a. Weren’t going to do that
b. Couldn’t
Was an understatement.
But instead, you cured her of her hatred. Pulling it from her body like the plague it was. Then with a simple “see ya” two the other suckers you took the spell that had taken you there back.
And that was that.
Or that was probably what trench man taught until two days later you were back.
“Well, morning’ love,” the man in the trench said as he found you rummaging through his bookcase munching on some chips you had found in his kitchen. He had just come back from a morning smoke, the smell of cigarettes and morning mist on him.
“Don’t mind me, just borrowing a few things.”
“Sure you are.”
“I mean this is kind of your fault,” you said turning around, arms filled with books, “You invited me in and this place is amazing!”
“And why do you need to borrow a book on locating spells?” John asked glancing down at one of the books you were holding.
“I lost something.”
“Clearly, but what?”
“My mom.”
The man sighed rubbing the back of his head looking from you to the book in your hand. Letting out a few curse words he sighed.
“Fine,”
“Huh?”
“I’ll help.”
You stood there for a few moments unsure what to say, then decided not to fight it. After all, if he was powerful enough to summon you he could probably be useful. “Thanks… uhhh.”
“John, John Constantine. Master of the dark arts,” he said it as if you should know, which you clearly didn’t.
“Cool… Y/N… demi-demi-goddess of healing?”
And that was it, the beginning of the endless adventures. The two of you helping people while you looking for your mother and John searched for redemption from his.
