#when Alm goes humanity fuck yeah
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It's crazy how SoV preluded 3H by making one of the protags have a tremendously contradictory mindset of humanity being better off without gods, while also relying on those same gods to fulfill their goals, the hypocrisy of which goes completely unadressed throughout the game; truly masterful foreshadowing
Who directed FE15?
lol
I've recently tried to think about this "gods BaD" shift in more doylist terms - especially since I've finally played a Squenix game recently and...
FE13 was the FE series last ditch effort, it will either work or end up as the F-Zero series, FE13 worked and FE14 followed suit.
Lolcalisation aside, FE14 had a nice plot and I engaging characters - to some people but not me, different tastes and all - but FE14 and FE13 were still FE games, as in part of the old FE series, aka a niche series. Adding dating sim/interpersonal relationship through avatars might have helped a bit, and yet, imo, it was still the "niche" FE series.
Comes FE15 where we basically have a remake, and can't add the interpersonal thing because Alm isn't an avatar (even if the game spends a lot of time praising his oranges) - how to make the game work? Sure, some weirdo fans of the FE series will buy it, and it was never supposed to sell as much as FE13/14, but if it was a 1:1 remake or just with minor adjustments? It might bomb like the Archanea remakes, and good luck coming after that - will they need another "FE13" to reignite the sales or??
And here I thought about it : FE15 was retconned with the "GoDs BaD" spiel, to make this game more in-tune with what I'd call "traditional" JRPGs where the protagonists often defy a corrupt church and "divine" being.
("Traditional" imo being the Squenix way, because while I didn't play all entries of this series, the Tales series never striked me as being particularly as, uh, vindicative against organised religion, maybe save for Symphonia 1 - Abyss' Church really wishes to help the people even if it is corrupted from within by some dude who doesn't want to let the world die and played by the big bad, Xillia has no church, ditto for Zestiria and Phantasia had Mint and... that's it? - compare this to Squenix's Triangle Strategy and Hyzante being comically EvIl and without any redeeming traits/points when all of the other major parties of the conflict have "token good NPCs" as forced as they are in the game, to make it very clear that they might have done questionnable things like invading and slaughtering civilians from a foreign nation who welcomed them at their wedding, but at least they have "MoRaLs" unlike those bozos in their desert...)
And this "let's make FE mainstream by kicking gods" mentality completely runs at odds with the rest of the FE franchise, and while I know RD basically ends like this bcs "uwu Ike defeated a GoD with the help of another who used the lead of that game as a soul jar and granted him exclusive powers to put her sister to sleep" the morale of RD's story - as seen in the perfect ending but in Ike's speech to Yune itself - is that everyone can and should try to live together, asking Gods not the fuck out to let Humanity alone, but to believe in them just like humans believe in gods.
So FE15 ends as this big, uh, mismatched clash of narrative directions - being a remake it cannot stray too far from the source material and Archanea verse : Dragons and Humans can live together (even if it means dragons must sacrifice part of themselves to do so because fuck them I guess) and dragons can help humans just like humans can, uh, not be asses and not target them because their ears are pointy or when they are weakened...
And we had the new Squenix direction where GoDs BaD and HuMaNiTy fuck yeah, which leads to FE15's hypocrisy : please trust and rely on us Gods/dragons and kindly help us when we're in deep shit, and at the same time "HuMaNiTy FuCk YeAh".
Interestingly, the Squenix direction loses in the post game campaign (the one where we discover Thabes) but is reintroduced in the official (tm) timeline, depicting basically how BaD Duma is and how much of a chad Rudy was, before his very tragic (bring the onions!) death.
But yeah, I agree anon, FE15 was crazy foreshadowing and I guess is part of the reason why Tru Piss has this message "Humanity doesn't need Gods" targeted at... Rhea, aka a Nabatean (while Supreme Leader got there thanks to Sothis' powers!!) because the "Humanity Fuck Yeah" narrative is a staple of Squenix JRPGS, and if FE has to become mainstream, I guess to some devs, it has to copy what sells.
That would also explain why FE16 went so off the rails and forgot the tradition FE series message about coexistence, because what the fuck do you mean by "Humanity doesn't need Nabateans", after parroting for the entire game "Nabateans are to blame for the irrational world we live in" and blame "Nabatean blood" for everything wrong in Fodlan, without ever acknowledging the "evilness that lurks in the heart of men" (who aren't called Dimitri) ?
In a series that, albeit hazaphardly at times (FE8's manaketes feel forced in the lore! and the less is said about Nowi/Panne in FE13 the better we are), tried to push the "coexistence between all inhabitants of the land is the key to peace!" card - this Squenix direction feels all kind of wrong, especially when friendship with the divine beings (dragons) have been a staple of the franchise (Y!Tiki's number of alts, imo, is telling : for better or worse, Y!Tiki is, along with Marth, the figure of the franchise. She is a dragon, and she's a kid who wants to make friends. Sure it brings the loli crowd, but all those dragon children in the different games? They are a direct throwback to Y!Tiki!).
In a nutshell, I'd say the first crack was FE10's writing that made things seem like the Hero defeated a goddess and its subsequent wanking.
But I agree with you anon, FE15's change in direction and retcons were absolutely gunning for that Squenix "GoDs BaD" while keeping the "traditional" FE message which resulted in hypocrisy that showed in the writing but I guess no one really paid attention because FE15 has other issues too (I didn't before happening on FE16... even if I remember wondering why the fuck the game kept on hammering how BaD Duma was when we had people being asses right and left on their own).
FE Fodlan completely ignored the "we can coexist" message - save for subtext you can have where the optional lords who win the war and aren't Supreme Leader can have half/quarter-nabatean heirs through Flayn but her heritage is never ever mentionned in the ending cards - by completely shitting/ignoring the local dragons, they're blamed for everything wrong and don't get their voice to the chapter.
Masterful writing lol
I can't wait for the next game, let it be a remake (pls not Jugdral!!) or a new entry (Engage was developped alongside Fodlan, not after!) to see if IS will continue with the Squenix developments or return to their roots, even if they seem milquetoast, of "humans and lizards can hold hands".
---
NGL anon, during 2020/2021 and the daily "Supreme Leader was right though" threads in SF, I kind of realised that what I took for granted, aka "coexistence between humans and dragons!" being the message of FE in general, wasn't, even in what used to be the most serious board/thing.
FE as a series came to the West through FE7 where Dragons and Humans were at war, but ultimately the cast learns that dragons aren't evil incarnate and the best ending reveals that the big bad went mad because his dragon wife was killed and he tried to reunite with their dragon-human children he hid away for their safety.
So it was kind of surprising to see long-time, or at least not "Fodlan introduced" members of SF parroting the "well they can't live together" by buying the most ludicrous headcanon/fanon arguments you'd find in other series like "different lifespans" - this argument is pretty much non existent in the FE series, and I've never seen it opposed to Miccy's rule in Daien when, as a Heron Branded, she will outlive her citizens, or what, are we supposed to believe that Myrrh shouldn't interact with humans and remain in her forest because she will outlive humans, or is too "different" from them thus wouldn't have the same considerations?
FE13/14 brought the fandom wars of "new fans" vs "old fans", but FE Fodlan? Brought "casual JRPG gamer" vs "FE gamer" which usually boils down to "Supreme Leader fans" vs "everyone else".
Sure, we had the religion hate boner because the dragons in Fodlan verse made a "Church" with catholic imagery which is a deadly sin to some - but the "dragon blood is indeed the reason why everything sucks in the world" being parroted? "Dragons cannot have power over humans because of the sheer inbalance"? What, are you implying Nergal was forced by Aenir to mate with her twice or what? Ninian was oppressing Pherae in the endings where she marries Eliwood, and humans were finally liberated when she died?
Kana is, by nature, someone who will oppress humans because they're part dragon and their blood will bring strife to the world?
So unless IS doesn't fully commit to one narrative - because yes, for all of its flak, FE Fodlan still takes time, when it remembers, to portray Nabateans in a relative positive light when it comes to them as characters and in the general background, it's just that, they're never given a voice when it comes to discussing about the plot - we're bound to have this hypocrisy :
Dragons BaD bcs Humanity Fuck Yeah
and
Dragons and Humanity can coexist and make babies for scalies/monsterfuckers out there because acceptance/diversity is a way for peace.
#anon#replies#sorry i ranted#FE series#FE15 stuff#rant#watch as the whitewings never bring up Tiki the kid they met 3 years ago#when Alm goes humanity fuck yeah#when the devs could have pulled out something like Ike for Alm or rather return to their roots#they pulled this squenix shit#that imo doesn't have its place in the FE series#sure the series is evolving and maybe that's the direction it will take#if it really does I'll to reconsider my engagement with FE in general#and be stuck ranting about old games lol
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The Girl Next Door - Chapter 3
A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader fic based on this imagine. all chapters
warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, brief mention date rape, domestic violence, not reader
oh make me over, i'm all i wanna be, a walking study, in demonology - celebrity skin, hole
3. for the life of the flesh is in the blood
It is both a relief and a disappointment, that you find your first experience of feeding on John Constantine was quite singular. No one since has inspired the same brand of heady lust when you break a vein. You think about him often, but you've done your best to give the demon hunter a wide berth. You're sure the last thing he wants is some needy little leech following him around, begging for his attention.
You're sure he only saved you out of pity, anyway.
It still hurts, so you try not to think about it anymore.
You have taken to hunting your meals amongst the evil doers of the city—of which there is no shortage, in the City of Angels. Your favorite method has become playing the party-going damsel in a bar not watching her drink. When the inevitable asshole drops a dose of something in it, a thing you have found does not affect you at all, you play drowsy and accompany him to the inevitable alley or sometimes even his car, where you pounce.
You can't say you feel too terrible about removing such trash from the population. You're not sure how God feels about your methods, but then you're not sure it matters any way. It helps pay your rent too. Holding down a job as a vampire kind of went out the window, so you help yourself to whatever cash you find in your criminals' wallets with little remorse.
The fact of the matter is, as time goes on...you don't exactly hate being a vampire. It took some adjustment, sure, but you have power you'd only dreamed of as a human woman. You can go anywhere you want now without fear. You are fast. You are strong. You haven't figured out flying yet, but even that seems like it might be possible down the line.
Maybe you could ask a fellow vampire about what is and isn't possible, but you have yet to actually meet one.
You've sensed them around the streets of LA—but in the end you always chicken out and flee the scene. The vampires who made you were not exactly shining examples. You're not in a hurry to fall in with their ilk. You'd observed there was a definite pecking order in the coven that took you, and you're not exactly eager to become some asshole's toady again, a little cog in some evil plot or another. You’d played that game in corporate America in your old life, and you're not going back to it.
One evening when you are heading out for the night you run into John in the hallway again.
You are astounded when he is first to greet you. "Y/n."
"Hi, John." You can't help but feel the contrast to the way you used to play this game. You feel the loss of innocence, of your humanity, so keenly when you see him. You'd be a liar if you said the sight of his stupid, handsome face didn't still move you. The loss of what might have been...hurts, like a half-healed wound with a finger in it. You haven't been avoiding him, per se...but seeing him still ties you up in knots in a way you don't necessarily like.
"You look...nice." You glance down at your dark low-cut dress and leather jacket. Bar bait chic. It's quite a shift, from the sweet floral sundresses and bright colors you once favored.
"I was just popping out for a bite to eat."
"Yeah?" He is looking at you with an intensity that makes you squirm a little inside. A look that a vampire does not like, on the receiving end from a demon hunter. "How's that...going for you?"
"Fine."
He looks around the hallway for potential eavesdroppers. You already know it's vacant. Your hearing was excellent on the night you were Born to Darkness, and it's only improved from there.
"Fine?"
You cross your arms with a look of what the fuck else do you expect me to say out here?
Constantine makes an annoyed sound that's almost a growl.
You shouldn't find it as endearing as you still do.
“Come talk to me a minute?” he invites, nodding towards his apartment.
Remembering all the crosses and weapons he has stashed in there, you're not too keen to go, in case he's decided letting you live your undead life was an oversight.
You wrinkle your nose like you’ve smelled something bad. "You can come talk to me in here," you counter, nodding towards your own space.
He smirks at you, as though he knows very well the cause for your caution. “Sure,” he agrees, cocky as ever. John Constantine isn’t afraid to walk unarmed into the lair of a baby vamp like you.
You unlock your door again, ushering him in with a wave. As he steps inside you are struck again by how big he is in your tiny apartment. A wave of nostalgia hits you, for a night when you'd still been human, and he'd made you feel like you were the most desirable woman in the world.
Suddenly, your throat is tight.
Wow. Who knew you could still feel these things as a creature of the night? You’ve been so focused on your day to day, or night to night, as it were. You never really allowed yourself to process everything that had happened. You were too busy figuring out how the fuck to survive.
"Do you...want something to drink?" you ask, looking in your pantry. “Or perhaps can I interest you in some whole kernel corn?” Your perishable options have long gone by the wayside, but you still have alcohol, canned goods, and dry cereal. All together, not the most appetizing combination.
A snort of laughter escapes him at your attempt at humor, and he seats himself in one of your surviving kitchen chairs like he owns the place. "Sure. To the drink. Hold the vegetables."
You produce a bottle of Scotch that you may have bought with him in mind after your little tryst, and pour him a couple fingers.
"What about you?" he asks with a glitter of something in those obsidian dark eyes. Even with all your vampire senses, this man is still hard to read as a brick wall.
You cant your head to look at him, curious what he’s about. That is when you realize... you smell desire. You hear the spike of his heartbeat, see the dilation of his pupils almost lost in the black of his irises.
His only outward tell is the corner of his mouth curled up, but blood never lies.
You yourself would be a liar if you said you hadn't thought about the way he'd tasted that first night with a sharp longing.
The sound of his pulse hammering in your ears makes you bold enough to ask, "Why, are you offering, John?"
He lifts one eyebrow nonchalantly, though the sound of his racing heart is sweet sweet music to your ears.
"Maybe."
Cautious as a cat, you dare approach, a finger sliding along the surface of the table as you regard him curiously. Cool as ever, he leans back in his chair, man-spreading as he looks up at you. You stand between his legs, looking down at him with a new confidence, armed with the knowledge of his blood rushing double-time through his veins.
He certainly hadn’t sought you out before this. Not once in the past few months has he even tried to check on you. At least, as far as you know.
He tilts his head up, returning your gaze. It’s impressive, really, how little he manages to show on the outside, while you can sense the rising roil of something brewing within him. Lust, you tell yourself. Anything more…would be wishful thinking, on your part.
You really should know better by now, but you still can’t help but carry a torch for this man, stupid little vampire that you are.
“A little warning: I’ve heard some hot shot High Table vampire hunter is in town from New York. You should be careful where you go to hunt.”
Your own heart thumps in your chest. Just the once. You don’t have a regular heartbeat anymore, unless you’ve just fed on someone.
“You worried about me, John?”
“As far as I've heard, you're keeping your nose clean, but I thought you should know."
So he has been keeping track of you.
"I’m not exactly feasting on the blood of newborn babes."
He winces a little at that, as though you have invoked some long-buried memory. You suppose you cannot fathom the horrors this man has seen in his time battling the Darkness.
"Who are you feasting on?"
"Mostly assholes who deserve a lot worse than what I give them."
It's his turn to tilt his head as he looks up at you, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. "What does that mean?"
"Do you really want to know?" you ask, propping a hand on your hip. What you really want to do is insinuate yourself into this man’s lap, but some sense of self-preservation holds you back.
"It's why I asked."
"Ok.” You start to tick your recent exploits off on your fingers. “I saved a girl from getting mugged and maybe worse the other day while she was walking to her car at night. Before that, I snacked on a date raper who tried to drug my drink. Before that, I broke up a domestic dispute and made the piece of shit husband disappear. Before that—"
Both of John’s dark eyebrows shoot up.
"Ok, Miss Vigilante Vamp. I get the picture." There's a gleam in his eye, and you almost think he might be proud of you? Or at least, amused. You should not care, of course, but his approval definitely tickles some long-buried little pleasure center in your brain. You always were a teacher’s pet type, for better or for worse. "You should be careful though. You could get hurt."
"By who?” you counter, knowing you sound cocky as hell. “This vampire hunter?”
“I think you missed the part where I said he’s High Table?”
“What does that mean?”
He gives you a look like you should know that, but you don’t know how or why you would.
“It means you don’t want to mess with him. I heard he’s here for the Master, but you don’t want to attract his attention.”
“The Master?” You are so confused.
Seemingly exasperated, he lifts his eyebrow at you. It kind of starts to piss you off. “I don’t know any other vampires, John.” And he certainly made no efforts before now to fill you in.
“Look, just be careful, ok? Just because you’re a vampire now doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”
It’s almost touching, that he’s worried about you. It would be, at least, if it didn’t sound so fucking much like mansplaining.
“A girl’s gotta eat, John.”
“Well…you coulda asked.”
You narrow your eyes down at him, knowing they flash a molten orange with your annoyance. The thing he said when you’d first woken as a vampire echoes in your mind, the way it has every night since. I guess they thought you meant something to me.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“I told you I’d help you. You kinda disappeared on me after that.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Thinking some distance might be a good thing after all, you turn to go, just to have his long fingers wrap around your wrist. “Wait—”
You try to pull away, and he doesn’t let go, so you jerk him out of the chair like he’s a ragdoll. You find yourself in a pile on the floor with John Constantine’s solid weight half on top of you—not a horrible arrangement, truth be told, but the context is less than ideal.
“Jesus. Easy there, tiger.”
The fact that this man has the gall to needle you, after everything that has happened, suddenly fills you with white-hot heat, like gasoline on a fire. You’ve been bottling it up for months, just shoving it down so you can do what you have to do, but now everything bubbles to the surface with a vengeance. Suddenly, you are sitting on him, a clawed finger pointing into his chest. “You asshole. I got turned into this thing that I am because of you, because I was stupid enough to care about you, but I was supposed to be the one knocking on your door for a handout? I bet you would have just loved it, if I came crawling back to you for another taste.”
It’s just so fucking unfair.
That you can still feel so much for this man, and maybe he desires you back, but outside of that there’s just nothing. You’re sure of it. It shouldn’t matter to you anymore but it does and it hurts. Jesus fucking Christ it hurts.
You feel too much.
You’ve always felt too much, as a human, and now as a monster, apparently, and it sucks. You feel the sting of tears filling your eyes, and you know they look like blood to him and it’s just so gross you could scream.
“Tell me how to do it,” you hiss through the aching lump in your throat. “How do I feel nothing like you, because I’m so tired of this.”
Constantine’s frown is utterly thunderous below you. You guess it’s a real buzz kill, when people—monsters—emote all over you. He says nothing, just glares back up at you, breathing heavily through his nose.
Only later will it occur to you what a miracle it was, that he didn’t go for his cross, or a holy gun, or gold knuckles, with a spitting mad vampire perched on top of him. He really does have nerves of steel.
Only when you notice a small dot of blood blooming on his white shirt beneath your razor-sharp fingernail you let up, clenching your clawed fists at your sides.
“Sorry,” you half-snarl, closing your eyes against everything. But now the scent of blood is in the air. His blood, and it is just as intoxicating as you remember from before, and a powerful, prickling heat rises within you, spreading out to him too. Every hair on his body lifts, and you wonder if he reacts to you this way because of his psychic abilities, or if…it’s just the chemistry between you. Some of the tension in his frame softens—other parts of him decidedly do not.
“My life is dangerous, y/n. What happened to you is exactly the reason I don’t have many friends.”
Or lovers, hangs unsaid in the air.
“Yeah. Well…too late for me, I guess. What’s the worst that can happen now?”
“You never want to challenge God like that. Believe me.”
“Why do you sound so certain it’s God who makes bad things happen?”
He snorts derisively. “Because as far as I can tell, he’s an even bigger asshole than I am.”
You look away, feeling guilty all of a sudden. “I’m sorry I called you that.”
Surprisingly he turns your gaze back to him with a finger on your chin. “It’s ok. The shoe fits.”
You get the sense that this is his way of apologizing…maybe, and the last of your anger leaks from your body. You nod, and close your eyes, and one of those bloody tears escapes to make its way down the curve of your cheek. No one is more surprised than you, when he reaches up to wipe it away.
“For what it’s worth…you’re not bad, for a vampire.” Coming from him, that’s quite the declaration. Again, you’re not proud of what it does to you, to receive praise from this man who usually keeps so aloof.
You dare to open your eyes, your vision sharpening upon him, your vampire senses keen to detect a lie. You can tell he’s a little excited beneath his cool façade, but it doesn’t feel like he’s lying to you. That has a certain smell. A pheromone maybe, or a stink of fear of getting caught.
“Yeah?”
He sits up, so that you are cradled on his lap, nearly nose to nose, and you can’t help but be painfully aware, groin to groin. He’s so tall, and broad, and you still want to climb him like a tree. Another wave of that titillating energy rises in you, a mix of hunger and desire. You know he feels it too. You can tell by the way his eyelids half-close, his grip tightening momentarily on your thighs.
It’s not a horrible development, truth be told.
“Yeah.”
“Even though I scare you?”
“Let’s go with…yes and no, on that,” he answers with a quirk of the side of his mouth.
“Hmm. You know, it’s hard to lie to a vampire?”
“Can’t say I usually spend much time conversing.” He cups your cheek, his fingers sliding into your hair—and you’re not sure you really want to converse anymore either. “I was giving you space—guess I should have kicked down your door.”
“You could have just…knocked,” you tell him with narrowed eyes, smiling in spite of yourself. You feel your teeth pressing into your lips—and you shut your mouth again.
“I know they’re there,” he teases you, surprisingly gently, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “You don’t have to hide them.”
You close your eyes again, sighing. “I just…feel like such a monster.”
Again his long fingers slide through your hair, like he’s petting you. It does things to you, to be stroked like a favored pet by this man.
“You’re not a monster.” You clench your fists, so moved to hear him say it. And as you do, you can feel your claws biting into your palms. You lift your hands so he can see them.
“No?”
He examines them, seemingly nonplussed. You guess he’s seen bigger and sharper. “No,” he asserts again.
Your eyes flick down to the little bloodstain upon his nice white shirt. “I made you bleed.”
“I probably deserved it,” he excuses with that smirk that pulls at your undead heartstrings. “Keep going like you are, you might get to Heaven before I do.”
“John…” you sigh, a wave of emotion sweeping through you that you can’t even name. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Me? Nice?” Again, that barely discernible purse of lips, the suppression of a smile that would give him away.
You find yourself staring at his mouth, before forcing your eyes up to meet his once again. You don’t do it on purpose, but the power of your hunger fills you like a cup, spilling over into him where your bodies touch. This time he gives in to that tingling wave of treacherous pleasure, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him without a fight. Longing throbs in your loins, and hunger in your belly. They really feel one and the same, in this man’s arms.
“You’re…getting good at that,” he tells you, his voice low and gravely with desire.
“It just…happens, with you,” you’re almost reluctant to admit.
He smirks, the way you just knew he would, the smug bastard. “Just with me, huh?”
You roll your eyes to the ceiling. This man.
His low chuckle should not inspire such a thrill inside you. His strong arm looped around your waist, pulling you harder against him, does not help either.
Your claws have retracted again, and you run your hand up the flat of his chest, fingering the starched collar of his white shirt. You are gratified to receive a shuddering sigh as your touch moves higher, caressing the jumping pulse in his neck longingly.
“Bar’s open,” he offers.
It’s your turn to sigh, and you go about undoing his tie, carefully loosening the knot, resisting the urge to tear it off of him. You’ve learned a little bit more about how to control your hunger now, but it’s all still so new. You wonder if you can use it to make this, whatever this is, last longer than the frenzied chaotic rush it was last time.
“Did you miss me, John?”
He doesn’t answer you, just makes a sound low in his throat and leans in to kiss you instead, and with his soft mouth on yours you are content to let it go for now.
Maybe if you read between the lines, it’s answer enough anyway.
It’s a little funny, that the two of you never really make it up off the floor. Wrapped up in the wonderful, heady power that is your hunger, amplified by mutual desire, you are content to shed clothing and trade appreciative caresses there on the rug. You had not forgotten how beautiful this man is, the feeling of his warm muscled flesh beneath your questing hands, and yet still it somehow surprises you.
He makes a face as he pushes your jacket from your shoulders, tossing it unnecessarily far across the room. “You don’t like it?” you tease breathily.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he admits, and goes for your dress next, pulling it up over your head. He stares down at the skin he bared, your lacy push-up bra. He’s kinder to the dress, but maybe just because he’s distracted, ducking to kiss the soft mounds of your breasts.
The glitter in his dark eyes as you extricate his belt from between your pressed bodies should be illegal, it’s so intoxicating. With a hand on his bare chest you press him down to lay back on the floor. He does not fight you, looking up at you with that signature smirk that makes your blood boil. Rolling your hips against his straining erection between you wipes some of the smug off his expression, replacing it with a raw need.
With careful fingers you unbutton his pants and extricate him into the palm of your hand, his velvety length almost searing hot against your cool grip. Your undead body hungers for the warmth of his life, absorbing it anywhere you touch. His nerve falters a little, as he watches your fanged mouth descend towards his swollen manhood, his eyes widening just a bit. It’s your turn to smirk up at him.
“I haven’t tried this yet, John. I’d be very still, if I were you.”
He doesn’t tell you to stop, and the sound he makes as you descend on his hard cock with your silken tongue isn’t pain. In fact, it’s extremely gratifying. You are careful, and as you work him up and down with your mouth he trembles with the effort not to move beneath you. When his fingers tangle in your hair you moan against him, winning a twitch of his hips that would have made you smile, had your mouth not been so very full. You withdraw with a pop that makes him growl with pleasure beneath you. “Fuck, y/n...”
He tries to sit up to reach for you, but you pin him down again with one hand, tilting your head with a playful look down on him. The heated frustration in his narrowed eyes is rather priceless. Maybe you’ll pay for this later, but the predator’s instinct in you is enjoying this immensely.
Too impatient to take them off, you pull your panties to the side to sink onto his beautiful cock, his thick head pushing past your entrance rocking your head back with ecstasy. “John…” you sigh, moving your hips up and down, until he’s seated fully inside you, bottoming out against your cervix. It doesn’t hurt, like it once did. You are learning all kinds of things about your new vampire body.
“I would have returned the favor,” he rasps, his head rocking back hard into the floor as you carefully squeeze him inside you, conscientious of your new strength. It wins you a gratifying moan, his eyes drifting closed.
“Next time,” you answer cheekily. If he can’t admit that he missed you—then you’ll be damned if you say it first, even if it is the truth.
You look down, fascinated by the sight of his big hands on your thighs, his strong fingers pressing into your flesh. The whip-cord muscles of his forearms draws your eyes, to the curve of his bicep and the sweep of his collarbone—your attention fixes on the jumping vein in his neck like a laser.
You lean down to lick his pulse and he tilts his head, baring his neck for you. You know that part of it is him riding the power that crackles between you, but another part–it feels like a gesture of trust, and somehow that warms your undead heart. The razor-sharp tips of your fangs brush his pulse, winning you a sigh. “Do it,” he moans, surging inside you, lifting you with his hips. It’s all too much to resist, and with trembling caution you slide your fingers into his hair, and press your teeth into his pale skin.
The resulting rush of blood filing your mouth is intoxicating–by the sounds he makes, not just for you. The rush of pleasure across your tongue and in your loins is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, an exhilarating bliss that spreads warmth through every nerve across your skin.
You’ve always thought of lovemaking as some kind of small miracle–a gift the laughing gods bestowed upon you poor mortals to make all the drudgery of life somehow bearable. A scientist might argue it is a trick of hormones and synapses played by nature, to encourage the endless march of procreation. You wonder what Constantine thinks about it, this man who so clearly believes in The Almighty God, but also seems to find the deity an insufferable asshat.
A less than charitable philosopher might argue this beguiling euphoria is just the lure a vampire could use to secure a good meal–but like this, with this man–you cannot help but think it’s more. Whatever ancient magic that animates you, and maybe his own powers mingled too, it grants you this boon in what could be a life of infinite nights of lonely darkness, this undeniable connection with a special human whose lifeblood nourishes you.
You are not even sure what to call the pinnacle of this pure shining ecstasy you share–orgasm seems too paltry a word. Pleasure, pale by comparison. John insists you are no creature of God, but you cannot help but reason that what you share together is nothing less than divine rapture.
The challenge is when to stop.
For as long as you pull draught after draught of his delectable hot blood into your mouth, this bliss goes on and on.
He starts to fade beneath you, his heart slowing. You could drain him dry like this, and maybe not care until the moment you realized he was dead in your arms. This is the thing that throws you back from your latchpoint upon his neck, woozy from the delight of it all, yet scared that you may have hurt him.
He too seems drunk beneath you, looking up at you through hooded dark eyes. “Why’d you stop?” he asks dreamily. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen this man. You touch his cheek; you are not sure if the coolness of his skin is due to blood loss, or the fact that you feel almost feverish at the moment, riding the high of the blood magic you invoked with him.
If you hurt him you are walking out into the sunlight, you promise yourself with panic.
“I’m afraid I took too much,” you admit, wide-eyed.
Of course, he scoffs at the very idea. “I’m fine. C’mere.” He pulls you down on top of him, to snuggle, you presume. The wonders of this evening do not cease. It is lovely, to curl up in his arms, your thighs slick with the excess of his seed. But as he dozes, you are wide awake, the world come even more alive around you. A potent meal, the magician makes. You feel as though you can sense the whole city in your head. The comings and goings of all the people, and all the creatures, and the planes and trains and cars.
What a marvel, is this modern age.
You sift through them all as an amusement, catching snatches of thoughts and bits of conversations, eavesdropping on their lives.
You realize that you have never been able to read John Constantine’s thoughts. You wonder if it’s because of his psychic abilities–or just a result of his abnormally hard head.
As you make this little psychic tour around the inhabitants of L.A.--something senses you back. You feel it push against your mind, holding you at arm’s length. Something old, and seething. For a flash you see it–him. Definitely a him, tall and forbiddingly handsome, bearded and raven haired. His eyes flash molten orange–right before he strikes you. It is only a psychic blow but you feel it like a fist between the eyes. It makes your physical body jolt in John’s arms. This stirs him from his bliss-induced coma; the demon-hunting magician blinks and looks up at you, taking in your wild-eyed look, your fangs bared to some invisible threat.
“You ok, baby vamp?” he grumbles, not too happy to be disturbed from his deep rest.
“Fine,” you answer, unsure if it’s true. “I think I need to get you something to eat.”
“Not hungry,” he grouses, closing his eyes again. “Tired.”
“Would you like to lay down in the actual bed?” you ask, thinking he will regret this hard pallet tomorrow.
“No.” Now you can tell he’s just being stubborn. You would like to stay and cuddle with him, but you really are afraid he needs to eat and drink. Fluids and iron rich foods, is what you googled for after-care of donating blood, a while ago.
Funny, until now, you hadn’t had occasion to use the knowledge.
You dress and pop out to the 24 hour market, obtaining red meat and dark leafy vegetables. When you return John has reclaimed his boxers and stretched his long body out on the couch, his big feet hanging off the end. It’s ridiculously endearing, to see him so relaxed in your space like this.
When you are nearly done preparing his stir fry dinner, he finally rises to a sitting position, scrubbing at his face with his hands.
It’s silly, how much it pleases you, when he wraps his arms around you from behind at the stove, his chin resting on your head. “A vampire who cooks. This is one for the record books.”
“It’s not like I’ve forgotten how,” you fire back over your shoulder, amused. “It just…doesn’t really smell like food to me anymore.” The bloody bits of raw steak had seemed more appetizing than the ingredients in their current form.
“Hmm. Smells good to me.” You thought he’d come round to food. “This does too though,” he teases, kissing your neck with a playfulness that leaves you dumbfounded. When he nibbles you can’t help but squirm, laughing out loud.
“John!”
He must still be power drunk from earlier. He’d barely touched his glass of Scotch.
You feel his body shake with mirth behind you, more than hear it out loud. Then he stills against you, resting his chin on you again while you stir the meat and vegetables, the rice steaming on the back burner. You know it won’t last past tonight, but the scene is so damn near domestic it makes your heart ache.
“What did I feel, earlier?” he asks. “Like, a gust of air in here. Did I dream it?”
You honestly aren’t sure how to answer that. It’s not that he wouldn’t believe you. You just…don’t have the language–and you don’t want to worry him.
“I don’t know, I was half asleep,” you say, so smooth in your white lie, craning your neck back for a kiss. “Sit down. It’s your turn to eat.”
As you bring John his plate of food your attention is drawn to the window, by what you’re not really sure. Nothing is there, you see nothing, you feel nothing present–and yet…you cannot shake the sensation that you are being watched.
Almost as though to assure yourself, you reach out to brush an unruly dark lock of John’s hair behind his ear. He looks up at you with a lazy, almost boyish smile. It squeezes your heart. “Thanks.” You’re pretty sure he means for the food, but maybe…the rest too.
You smile, and you know it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He seems to sense something is up, but maybe he doesn’t want to wreck the moment yet either. He catches your hand, kissing the back of it, before picking up his fork and tucking in.
Again, you look to the window, and the mean city beyond it, and wonder how many malevolent things out there could mean the two of you ill. You don’t think you have too many enemies of your own yet–but in John’s case?
The number could be infinite.
#john constantine x reader#john constantine x you#constantine#constantine 2005#constantine vampire fic#keanuverse#keanuverse fic#keanu reeves#keanu reeves x reader#this chapter took fucking foreeeeever#i hope i finally got the feel right
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Temptation 1 (unfinished)
A demon walks in the door of my room, briskly and without looking at me. Gazing down upon the floor, he plops down upon the chest opposite the dresser. He is not frightening, he is not threatening, though his crocodile skin is off-putting. He is dressed business-casual, he seems beat, that is to say exhausted. I imagine that if not for his crocodile skin there would be bags beneath his orange-yellow eyes.
There is even something redeeming in his exhaustion. One feels something akin to pity. His orange-yellow eyes point to me now, piercing, tired, annoyed. As if I’ve just inconvenienced him.
But I am too tired. Done for the day. My business casual clothes are strewn about the floor. His gaze only arouses in me an indulgent and playful indignance.
“Go away demon, I am too tired now to be corrupted,” I say with a smirk, pretending to be distracted with my book.
“Yeah, yeah” he says quickly, almost whispering. He squints his eyes, scrutinizing me, attempting, I suppose, to make me feel uncomfortable.
“Does it lessen the effectiveness of the manipulation if I know you are trying to manipulate me?” I ask.
“Hmph,” He says and leans back with his eyes closed, his hands behind his head. “No you cannot be tempted like others,” he said, “You have nurtured your own pride, deluded yourself so far that you contrive nearly every necessary pleasure through selflessness. Yes, like the rest you function on pride and greed, but in this you have tricked your mind, deformed your very nerves and neurons so that you are the best sheep you could be, and none may be suspicious of you. I can’t myself tell to what extent its genius and to what extent foolishness, though either way you are a putrid flagellant, a masochist of the first rank!”
From me errupts geniuine laughter and to him I reply:
“Ha tricks, ha delusion. Tell me demom what is this truth from which I deviate? Better yet how does anything I do ill-serve me? So I go about, as you say, a flagellant. So leave my whip and I to our romance. Let us be. So you say I am putrid, well I should not agree with you, but if it is so, let it be so. I am no enemy of vice, less so of the Devil, all you say to me when we take the spin from it is that I which I knew already, and aside from that cherished, is that not, as they say, giving your lord ‘his due?’ So tell me then what is this truth of life I defy.”
Say he:
“Ha, so there you sit, the devil on your left and Christ on your right and you a blissful child holding up an olive branch, No problems. Ha. You are worse than a Christian, you are a Christian who believes they are a Nihilist, believes so because, of course, its fashionable! You think a man may act however he pleases and that you have simply been gifted by providence with a fetish for kindness. How lucky you are truly! How privileged! Ah but you are not so simple as that, I know you Nicholas, as I know all men. You think you can throw up your hands and say ‘I am selfish! I am weak!’ and that gives your morals your moral efforts a rock solid foundation. You try to convince me even that they are of an entirely unconscious nature. Like a beast of the field goes about eating, extricating, fornicating, so there you go all smiles and alms. But you are no animal Nicholas, indeed you are a man and it is clear to me that though you prance about showing off your nuanced understandings, your shrugging cynicisms still you do not grasp the nature of true human selfishness of the capriciousness of your kind. More so still do you misunderstand the devil. He is not some god of old satisfied for the month with a few dead lambs. No he has a goal, a plan for your kind and I assure you, you do not satisfy it. For your morality is not unconscious, it is fraught with ambition and idealism; of visions of a world very different from the one you inhabit. It is not simply that you get a hard on at the half toothed smile of a beggar, that your body is inexplicably overwhelmed with ecstasy at the passing of some progressive legislation. No these sensations are contrived, they are contingent upon their satisfying your designs on as you say ‘making a brighter future for the children’ yes?”
“So I look out for myself and my progeny. So I will my view upon the world. you wish to convince me these designs are of a personally gratifying nature? So be it, this I will not deny. Has your devil something against the will to power? Whatever form it takes?”
“As I have said, the devil, like you, is a man of design, an evangelical, if I may use the term, and your worldview is much at odds with his. Or better said, because your world view is fraught with absurdities, your actions contradict his world view.”
“So I am an enemy to the devil. What of it?”
Haha, first you are mister nuance, tipping your hat to him, now you declare yourself an enemy. Hahaha. How many books have you read? And still you are a fool, always contradicting yourself so as to suit the situation.”
“So I am his friend, so I am his enemy, what is that to me? These are not tangible things, they are of no concern.”
“Oh deep down you are not his enemy I assure you that. And the reason why is very tangible. You see chief among your proud and shining virtues is that of mercy no? Like the god you were brought up on, the god of mercy? You may have ‘fallen from grace’ as you so cutely put it, but still his ideal is burned into you, still you cannot help but be made in his image. But I will tell you what you think you already know- that that god is fiction. But it is not a fiction born of insecurity as you and your ‘intellectual’ ilk seem so confidently to think, no it is a fiction born of hubris! Pure hubris against my master, the true master, the truly merciful.
How is this you say? Lets talk for a minute about mercy- or better put, as neither you nor the devil are in such a position of power over men to distribute mercy, lets call it the simple alleviation of suffering. Suffering is a nice base for you yes? To alleviate suffering can be called, for you, a central goal to bring about that ‘divine mercy’? But I say to you now my master has far better designs for such than you do.”
“Oh do enlighten then, my pride will not be hurt for assenting to the wiser, be he even the Devil! Tell me, your lord doesn’t oppose the principle of skepticism does he?”
“Principle? Ha! No there was a time... but now everything is so muddled Besides what is a skeptic when a man has no say in what he does or does not take for granted. Besides isn’t it obvious? The devil is a utilitarian, his favored may be found among skeptics and believers alike. Besides, the skeptic is not really so fond of his skepticism that he wouldn’t kiss the ground and cry tears of joy at a very inkling of assuredness, of real belief. The skeptic is only concerned with removing all that is extraneous, of getting down to the undeniable, unavoidable truths by way of reduction. But men like you, men like you Nicholas can never be true skeptics, not unaided, not running in the low and pitiful circles you run in, reading the books everyone else has read. No, people like you become like a small child at the edge of the diving board- petrified, afraid to take another step. But you... you have a fierce spirit, I’ll give you that, you are ready to believe anything, you are deep down dying above all to get down to those basic truths, down to that skeleton upon which you may build everything. And I... I am here to help you with this. I am here to give you that so that finally you and the lord will be in harmony.”
As he said this last part his mouth widened into a gleeful smile, though his eyes remained a way which seemed distant and mean, almost struggling.
“Does this look in his eyes discredit him?” I thought to myself recalling the eyes of kinder smiles. “Do perhaps, my eyes discredit me? Are they merely the result of ignorance?” So I endeavored for my eyes to show nothing to him and I asked him to continue.
“I mentioned before hubris, the hubris of the invention of the God of Abraham- your god- whether you accept it or not! You see there was a time when man did not have such wild fancies of mercy. When man did not say to himself: ‘surely there must be something better than this miserable planet. Surely we shouldn’t have to accept, nay, to tip our hats to all that is nasty and bitter. Surely destiny has decreed that one such as I should be sentenced to lay on a couch and eat grapes for an eternity. There are, of course, old ways of avoiding such a nasty fate, but those ways call for certain sacrifices and I am above such. To say that this existence is a zero-sum game... why its preposterous, for if that is the case how am I to be a hero? If that is the case I could not be a thing of goodness, there would be no duality and from me would spring both good and evil things. No, no all the gods love me, and all the gods love my perfect vision of the planet. Why in fact would heaven even make a whole number of Gods if they should always agree? Surely it’d be just as well to have one. Yes, one, one who is the epitome of strength to validate me. A singularity, perfect harmony. No disagreement or internal dissension to rustle my oh so delicate feathers. All that which requires blood of me, all that which brings me pain these mean nothing to an eternity of perfection.’
See back then man at least had to accept the everlasting ‘evil’ nature of the world. They had to grunt and fume and say under their breath ‘oh devil you just wait, i’ll have the last laugh here!’ while they went about toiling miserably, wishing haughtily pity and mercy on the men who-laughing- set lions upon them. But now, in this putrid age we have those ridiculous sort who believe its just a matter of time before all those visions of perfection (which the men of old did not dare taint with the earthly) take over the heart of every man, woman, and child on this planet. Any pain, any toil, any hint of burden is met with offense, indignance, as if it was the most morbid insult! You know well this all, for you are one among them! ‘I shall be the one’ you poke out your chest and say ‘I shall stride forth gallantly into the world and change it irrevocably. Whatever meagre portions I should take I will give this world at least thrice such. Perfection is just on the horizon, and when my progeny sit down to their eternal feast they will look back upon my meagre memory with gratefulness. Perhaps they won’t even remember me then, how delightfully humble of me to take pride anyway, sensuously humble indeed!’ So simple, how simple a life you lead. How inexplicably simple it all is. Take all of that evil and that pain and put it in a rocket ship, send it to the Moon or maybe even to Venus! You think you can just cut that knot like Alexander and all the problems will be solved. That you and your kind deserve nothing but eternal infancy. Protected, warm, safe.
There is simply no respect whatsoever and that lack of respect, oh I warn you, that lack of respect will be your greatest sin. You say you give the devil his due, but that is a lie, a mocking and sick lie. You say you are reconciled to him while in secret you plot to disenfranchise him; to eliminate him and his memory. He has seen your vision of the world and he saw in that world no place for him. But he need not revenge himself, for that will come in time. He only needs to sit back and watch the world work to see you and your sort wreak havoc upon yourselves and the planet you so imperiously cherish.”
“And how” I asked him seriously “are a few simple acts of charity, a genuine concern for civic involvement and progress, and whatever other deplorable actions of goodness in which I am engaged assure my doom? What doom is this anyway, for which you give me such a lauding credit?”
“Mr. Cox you know well what the chaos is, you feel the anxiety of it every day... I know... you are sensitive to these things. You see the way the world is going, you see the bubble before you- everyday it grows. Every day the civilization declines, the analogies to Rome are no longer so lionizing as they may once have been. Rome, you say, fell from decadence, the same decadence you see all about you everywhere. Not in one group, or one class, but in them all. They have all reaped the benefits for now of men like you, you have built over them a mighty and luxurious castle indeed. And it is upon them that castle shall fall. The knife is coming, it will taste uncalloused skin, it will chase weak and unmuscled legs, and be seen by hearts and minds which will wish that had been so sturdy as they were when they built this castle in the hard times of old.
Into this great shelter you have let reprobate filth! Men who serve neither God nor the Devil. Men and Women who, had they not had their minds and wills dulled by your ease and charity, would, without a second thought, quit your church for my masters call. But instead they, like the beasts they are, go to where the fruit grows ripest. Go to where men like you foolishly give of yourself again and again and again. For you may seek to give threefold what you take. But what about a hundred or a thousand times that? What if of those three thousand not one gives half of what they have taken? It is only natural when you have such lofty hopes to smother your contempt for those who squander your gifts on further reducing their ability to contribute. It is only natural when you distribute such hope that those pathetic masses should say to themselves in their hour of drunken self-pity ‘thank god that the future should find a solution to this all!’
Your kindness has doomed them, your inability to admit to your personality any meanness has filled their hearts with false promises. Your ideologies of tolerance and soft cushions have enabled them. And when the lights go out they will have you to thank. For they are weak and will always suffer, that is their lot. In times of old the church had the courtesy and wherewithal to refer to these as reprobate, as Calvin’s damned. But now that concept sickens you, now you and your society see that word, reprobate, as an evil one, perhaps the most evil word of all. You would dare not utter it for fear of an existential crises, though in secret you hold it for the devil and for those strong few who contradict you.
And those weak and selfish, they and their progeny will receive threefold the punishment you deemed yourself too lofty to give. Perhaps they could have been something great. But instead you gave their fathers and their grandfathers and their mothers and their grandmothers liquor money. Or on the upper crust you celebrated their neuroticism and their vices, you lead them to believe it was better and more righteous to be a victim to their past than to carry on. And so their children and grandchildren were doomed, because you had faith in them.”
“And I should object” I said, “that there are enough strong in this world, that if they all should be good and really devote themselves to good works then real and honest ways to avoid these problems should be found. It is rather the absence of hope and the prevalence of the sort of man I suspect you wish me to be which are the issue. For wherever vice and its suffering is found there is there also one profiting. Whenever some youth proclaims some faulty or naive ideology there are those there among them who wish only for self-aggrandizement and so in pursuit of defend that faulty vehicle with vehemence. It is not only the work of charities to hand out money blindly. Though likely some operate in such a way, most of the sort involved in any kind of charitable activity have a more dynamic view and approach to their involvement in their respective communities. As for the poor wretches of which you speak- the mentally unstable and the addicts- these are the exceptions and not the rule. And not every addict lives the entirety of their life so diseased, for some help may be found, and in that recovery, though it may have been one among a thousand, there is created a real and intimate source of hope for the outcome of good works. There is one who stands to say, ‘so my salvation and the salvation of those like me was a one in a million chance, so through my efforts let us make it 2 in a million.’”
At this the deamon smirked and shook his head:
“And so he should convert another I suppose? Make it 3 in a million, and so on and so on. But what if in the course of gaining those 3 you loose 300? If the 3 have so positive and compounding impact, do the 300 whither to dust? Or indeed do those 300 reprobate drag down the world with them? Swallowing up any bit of good you have built. Indeed what has your centuries upon centuries of good work brought you? Your warm bed and white picket fence? No indeed it was the suffering and oppression of others which gave these to you, gave you your luxuries, your luxury of hope. The luxury of thinking that the nectar you so easily obtain can simply be plucked from the trees and strewn about all over the dismal, suffering parts of the world. The luxury of thinking that the dismal sufferings of these people is somehow the most unnatural denial of the way things should be, that somewhere, in the great soft blanket the world has so carefully stitched for you, some evil ogre has torn a hole causing all those poor people to suffer.
It simply couldn’t be that it is natural for those people to suffer, that is is natural for someone to suffer, that indeed every ounce of happiness you receive is leached from someone else.
They know pleasures their forefathers never did. Some, you know the sort, even experienced this ‘earthly perfection’ in their childhood, spoiled and cushioned from every care and misfortune. And when these urchins reach adulthood and taste the first drop of the worlds bitterness become to the acutest extent outraged and offended. You have also the opposite variety- those who’s lives have been so unceasingly miserable that it obviously must be something gone terribly awry with the world. Yes there is always something wrong they say, terribly wrong. It would be an outrage, so they think, that this should be their lot.
Look to your campuses: the haughty vacant smile of the Marxist, or for that matter of the Libertarian. Where have you seen that smile before you wonder. Then it strikes you, where the manifesto now sits there was once a bible,
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