#johanna Constantine fic

[rhosyn-du]

The Case of the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Dates, chapter 1

Dead Boy Detectives/The Sandman crossover | Jenny Green/Johanna Constantine | Explicit | WIP

Tags for this chapter: Case Fic, Strangers to Lovers, Casual Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Panic Attacks

Link on AO3

For the @sandman-rarepair-fest prompts Strangers to Lovers, AU/Crossover, and Femslash

Summary:

Jenny didn't leave her flat planning to have a semi-public anonymous hookup. She was supposed to be having drinks—and hopefully sex—with a woman she met through a dating app Crystal talked her into downloading—"I'm not saying you should go out looking for your soulmate; I'm just saying maybe you'd feel better if you got laid. Have you even relaxed for five minutes since you got off the plane?"—but Natalya hadn't shown up at the pub she suggested they meet at. But there there was a pretty brunette at the bar with a cocky smirk and a foul mouth who turned out to be every bit as hot as she was annoying and also extremely down for a quick fuck in the restroom and absolutely nothing more than that. Which is probably for the best, Jenny figures. Someone who isn't interested enough to take her home or even ask her name is far less likely to turn out to be a grifter or a control freak or a stalker with homicidal tendencies.

The last thing Jenny wants or needs is to get dragged into another one of the Dead Boy Detective Agency’s cases. Unfortunately, the universe has it out for her. At least the sex is good?

Public restrooms are nicer in London than in Port Townsend. Jenny's been told with a startling amount of vehemence by multiple people that they're nicer all over the UK than anywhere in the States, but she hasn't exactly done a personal survey of the country. Even with her limited experience of public restrooms—toilets, she thinks inanely; they're called toilets here—she can definitely say she's never been tempted to have sex in the toilet of a sketchy pub before.

"Your jeans are too damned tight," the woman whose name Jenny didn't bother asking complains between heated kisses.

"You seemed plenty happy with them when you were checking out my ass," Jenny points out, pausing in her quest to unfasten the truly stupid number of tiny buttons on the woman's shirt to help unfasten her own jeans.

Jenny didn't leave her flat planning to have a semi-public anonymous hookup. She was supposed to be having drinks—and hopefully sex—with a woman she met through a dating app Crystal talked her into downloading—"I'm not saying you should go out looking for your soulmate; I'm just saying maybe you'd feel better if you got laid. Have you even relaxed for five minutes since you got off the plane?"—but Natalya hadn't shown up at the pub she suggested they meet at. But there there was a pretty brunette at the bar with a cocky smirk and a foul mouth who turned out to be every bit as hot as she was annoying and also extremely down for a quick fuck in the restroom and absolutely nothing more than that. Which is probably for the best, Jenny figures. Someone who isn't interested enough to take her home or even ask her name is far less likely to turn out to be a grifter or a control freak or a stalker with homicidal tendencies.

And it's extremely unlikely Natalya would have been this talented with her fingers, holy fuck. Jenny makes a noise she's not at all proud of, head falling back against the wall of the toilet stall as the woman works her clit with deft fingers that don't seem at all hindered by the tightness of her jeans.

"Knew you'd be loud once I got you going," the woman says smugly, urging one of Jenny's legs up over her hip to give her better access.

Jenny wants to argue, but she's really not in any position for it, so she settles for unceremoniously pulling open the last of the buttons on the woman's shirt and finally getting her hands on her tits while doing her best to bite back the sounds she wants to be making.

The woman pushes into Jenny's touch with a pleased hum. "That wasn't a complaint, to be clear." She leans in, their difference in height being just enough to put her lips against Jenny's throat, over the racing beat of her pulse, as she says, "Let me hear you."

"Are you trying to get us kicked out?" Jenny asks even as she shifts her weight so that her own thigh is pressed firmly between the other woman's, and her thumbs brush over stiff nipples.

"Not gonna happen," the woman gasps, rolling her hips eagerly against Jenny's thigh. "The owner owes me."

Any attempt Jenny might have made to ask what exactly the owner owes is completely derailed by the woman sliding two of those clever fingers inside Jenny's cunt as she scrapes her teeth along Jenny's neck in sharp counterpoint. There's no hope of keeping quiet then, not with the woman's fingers inside her while her thumb works her clit, alternating sloppy kisses and sharp nips and sharper curses against Jenny's throat while she rides Jenny's thigh like it's her fucking job.

It's quick and it's frenzied and it's nothing at all like most of the sex Jenny has had in her life. It's also kind of amazing. She tilts her head down so she can capture that filthy mouth with her own, and then lets herself get lost in the slick slide of fingers and tongues, in the frantic rutting and the desperate, grasping pleasure that rises in her like a tidal wave: inevitable and devastating.

Jenny screams when she comes, not even caring anymore who might hear, especially with the woman gasping a litany of fuck, fuck, fuck as she works Jenny through the aftershocks, her own hips starting to stutter. Jenny has just enough piece of mind to grab the woman by the hips, pulling her tight against her thigh as she shudders through her own orgasm moments later.

They stay like that for a few moments as they catch their breath. Just as Jenny is starting to feel the faintest twinges of awkwardness—Do you kiss after a toilet stall hookup? Is that a thing? Should she say thank you? What's the etiquette here?—the woman pulls back with a soft laugh.

"Fuck, I needed that."

Jenny's agreement turns into a gasp as the woman pulls her fingers from Jenny's cunt, seeming to consider for half a second before popping them into her mouth and sucking them clean.

Jenny realizes she's staring and quickly looks away, busying herself with the process of refastening her jeans and making some vague attempt and straightening her clothes so she doesn't look quite so much like she just got extremely well-fucked by a complete stranger.

When she looks up again, the woman is fastening the last of the buttons on her shirt, looking far less flustered than Jenny feels.

"Right," Jenny says. "I'm gonna—" She gestures toward the exit. "Thanks," she adds, and then she leaves before she can find out if that was entirely the wrong thing to say.

She feels a brief moment of relief when she heads back out into the pub and the woman behind the bar doesn't give her a second glance—maybe she hadn't been quite so loud as she thought?—but then she sees how the three women at the table closest to the restroom are looking at her, and she ducks her head and hightails it out into the comforting blanket of fog that feels almost like home if she doesn't look or listen too closely.

She's halfway back to her flat before she realizes that she really does feel better, and much less tense than she has been since she arrived in London four months ago. Maybe even less tense than she's felt since before she watched the woman trying to kill her die a gruesome death in front of her and got possessed by a literal demon and watched her livelihood go up in flames and, oh yeah, started seeing ghosts.

Dammit.

Crystal is going to be so fucking smug when she finds out she was right.

~~~

"I take it the date went well?”

Briana is usually Jenny's favorite coworker, partly because she mixes a better drink than any other bartender Jenny's met, and partly because she doesn't usually ask about Jenny's personal life.

"It wasn't a date," Jenny says, reaching for her apron. "And anyway, she didn't show."

Briana studies her. "But you did have a good time last night." It's not a question.

"A better time than I'm having right now," Jenny tells her, pulling on her hair net.

Jenny is extremely grateful when Briana's questioning is interrupted by the arrival of their boss, who greets them with his ever-friendly smile.

"Ah, Jenny, do you have a minute before you start? I wanted to talk some scheduling with you."

"Sure thing," Jenny says, happily abandoning Briana and her prying in favor of following Rob back to the office.

When the insurance rep told Jenny exactly how long it was likely to take before she saw any money from the destruction of her butcher shop, she'd been livid. That lasted about an hour, until she realized she was in an unfamiliar city—an unfamiliar country—with no money to start fresh like she planned and exactly no experience working for anyone other than herself and before that her parents, at which point it turned to mild panic. When Edwin mentioned that the agency's landlord also owned a pub and had mentioned something about needing to hire new back of house staff, Jenny was extremely dubious. Not only was working a kitchen very different from running a butcher shop, but she was more than a little wary about working for the kind of guy who rented office space to a couple of teenage ghosts.

But Rob turned out to be a decent guy, and almost freakishly normal from everything Jenny's seen. He inherited the New Inn along with the building Charles and Edwin—and now Crystal—work out of and a few other properties from his favorite uncle, but that's the most remarkable thing about him other than the whole seeing and talking to ghosts thing, and she's hardly going to hold nearly drowning as a child against him. The man is a part-time history lecturer at City University and wears loafers, so Jenny figures he's pretty low on the list of people likely to drag her into more supernatural weirdness or attempted homicide, and he pays her better than she's probably worth given her lack of experience.

All in all, it's a pretty good deal, especially since Rob knows she'll be gone as soon as her insurance money comes through and she can find a decent shop space to rent.

Jenny stops dead in her tracks when she sees the two people already waiting in Rob's office.

"No," she says flatly, addressing the two ghosts—one leaning against the office wall and the other perched on the edge of Rob's desk—before turning on her boss. "What the hell, Rob? You said you wanted to talk about scheduling."

It's not that she has anything against Charles and Edwin, but Crystal's two ghost friends are private detectives who take jobs for other ghosts, and the fact that they're ambushing her at work suggests this isn't a social call. The last thing she wants is to get caught up in one of their cases. Again.

"This is about scheduling," Edwin says, "in part."

"We need an assist on our latest case and Robbie's got a friend with the right kind of skills," Charles adds.

"I figure it'll be safer for everyone involved if I make the introduction at the Inn." Rob's tone is apologetic. "You're the only one on staff unlikely to get freaked out if anyone gets shouty about things, so I was wondering if you'd mind closing up tonight so I can invite her over and make the introduction after close. I know you're only scheduled until ten, but I'm happy to pay you double for the extra hours."

"I don't mind closing," Jenny says, "but what's the catch?"

"No catch, I swear," Rob says, holding up his hands. "I wouldn't even ask, but I've got an early lecture tomorrow and would rather not be up prepping the kitchen by myself after I introduce the boys to my friend."

Despite the revelation that Rob apparently has a friend with skills to help Charles and Edwin on one of their cases, Jenny doesn't get the sense that he's trying to deceive her in any way.

She looks at Edwin. "You said 'in part.' So what's the catch."

"Ah," Edwin says, sliding off the desk. "It's not a catch, per se."

"Eds," Charles chides softly. "What he means is, we've got a message for you. From our client."

Jenny feels the bottom of her stomach drop out. "Your client?" she repeats. Their client can only mean another ghost. Someone who died.

"Natalya Mesi," Edwin says. "She wants you to know that she's very sorry for missing your appointment last night, but she was quite dead by then."

~~~

Rob is nice enough to give Jenny some privacy and a very stiff drink—on the house—after Charles and Edwin leave. She goes through the remainder of her shift in a daze, glad that the dinner rush doesn't prove to be too much for her distracted mind to handle and that Eoin doesn't comment on her much more frequent than usual minor fuckups. Jenny decides he's her new favorite coworker.

Crystal arrives just before closing, slipping back to the kitchen to give Jenny a quick, fierce hug.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and Jenny knows she's apologizing as much for pushing Jenny to download the dating app in the first place as expressing condolences for the death of a non-quite-acquaintance.

"I didn't even know her," Jenny says when Crystal releases her. "Not really."

"I'm still sorry," Crystal insists. "You didn't want to be involved in any of our cases, and I got you involved, sort of, so I'm sorry."

"If I were that worried about it, I would have stayed in Port Townsend," Jenny points out, as if staying in Port Townsend with the memories of Niko and Maxine and her parents and her shop and every person and every dream she's ever lost wouldn't have been a complete nightmare. But. She didn't have to come to London.

Crystal squeezes her arms and offers her a weak smile. "I'm glad you're here."

It's a slow enough night that there are no stragglers by the time closing rolls around, and Eoin is out the door in time for Rob to lock up behind him. Rob says something about his friend running late, and Jenny tries to ignore the two living humans and two ghosts talking quietly at a table in the corner while she cleans the grill and wipes down the counters and refills the condiment bottles, but her eyes keep drifting over to the only people who know the answer to the question that's been plaguing her since that afternoon. The question she didn't have the courage to ask at the time.

She makes it halfway through refilling the salt shakers before stalking over to the table and demanding, "How did Natalya die?"

The four at the table look up at her and then exchange uneasy glances with each other.

"We aren't exactly sure about that yet," Charles says. "That's sort of what we're investigating."

"But you know something," Jenny presses. "That's why you're here to meet Rob's friend, right? Because you found something you need help with?"

"We could be wrong, though," Crystal says. "And it's not anything you need to worry about—"

"All signs point to demonic activity," Rob interrupts, and Jenny is grateful to him for saying it even as the room starts to go fuzzy around the edges.

"The woman I was supposed to meet for drinks was murdered by a demon?" Jenny hardly recognizes her own voice, high-pitched and squeaky as it is.

"We don't know that a demon did the actual killing," Edwin explains, "but we're fairly certain a demon was involved. Your friend is actually quite lucky. A demon could have done far worse than kill her."

"She wasn't my friend," Jenny says faintly, grabbing for a nearby chair to keep herself upright before her knees give out completely.

She misses, and only Rob's quick reflexes save her from falling on her ass.

"I got you," he says as he hoists her with surprising strength into the chair she'd failed to grab onto. "Just breathe. You're safe. No demons here, I promise."

Jenny does her best to follow his instruction to breathe, trying to force her lungs to expand and contract in some sort of regular rhythm. It's not the first panic attack she's had in the past six months. It's not the tenth. But every one is as awful as the last.

She has no idea how long she spends struggling to calm her heart, her lungs, her mind, only that she's only just managed to start feeling like an actual person again when she's startled by the sound of the bells over the tavern's entrance. Which makes no sense, because didn't Rob lock the door?

Dazedly, Jenny looks up only to find the very last person she's expecting to see. She blinks her eyes several times, but the image doesn't change.

"Damn exorcism ran long," the woman says, shrugging out of her pale coat.

This time, Jenny notes a little hysterically, the shirt underneath doesn't have any of those absurd tiny buttons.

"Demons are not terribly respectful of your time, are they?" Rob says wryly. "These are the tenants I was telling you about. Charles, Edwin, and Crystal of the Dead Boy Detective Agency. And this is Jenny, who's on staff here at the New Inn.

“Everyone, this is Johanna Constantine. If you've a demon problem, she's the best person I can think of to help you solve it."

[writing-for-life]

A Collection of My Metas, Fics and Art that Feature the Women of The Sandman

I love the women of the Sandman. I write about them quite frequently, post art about them, write my fics from a female viewpoint (I’m mainly an OC writer though, but I have one-shots and poetry about canon characters).

So since we’ve been talking about them a lot over the past few days, here are all their tags (they contain both official and fanart, and every meta that features them enough for me to tag them), and all my metas, fics and poetry in which they are the main protagonist/character or at least strong focus.

I have posted art for literally all of the women in the Sandman and also written about most of them in one way or another, and you can find the few that are missing via my tags, but it just didn’t feel right to include all of them here. I think it’s normal and fair that we gravitate more towards some characters than others for personal reasons. It’s just the complete erasure of women that often gets to me.

I want to do more, but like every writer and curator, the disinterest in the women of the Sandman is often a bit discouraging. I haven’t given up hope we can change that…

Here they are, in alphabetical order:

Alianora

Dreams of Light (poem)

Alianora’s tag

Barbie

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You”

Barbie’s tag

Calliope

Mother (haiku)

Calliope and Dream

Calliope’s tag

Carla

Carla’s tag

Chantal

Chantal’s tag

Death

Death’s Wedjat Eye: Deeper Symbolism or Random?

Touching Death or: Why Dream is Not Simply Touch-Starved in The Sound of Her Wings (Addendum to someone else’s post)

Oblivion is not an option—A musical meta about “A kind word and a friendly face”

All the Endless are buckling under the weight of their functions (David Hitchcock art meta)

Comfort (haiku)

Ode to Death (poem)

Requiem (poem)

Sigil (haiku)

Wings (haiku)

Death’s tag

Delirium/Delight

A sacred garden: Death and Delight (Michael Zulli art meta)

Delirium’s tag

Despair

Despair’s tag

Ethel

Ethel’s tag

Eve

Eve’s tag

The Fates

The Fates’ tag

Foxglove (Donna)

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You”

Donna’s tag

Gault

Gault’s tag

Gwen

Gwen’s tag

Hazel

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You”

Hazel’s tag

Hope

The Sandman Overture and Exiles: Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit—Everything Changes, Nothing Is Truly Lost (Not Even Hope)

Only Hope calls you out like that

Hope’s tag

Ishtar

Ishtar’s tag

Johanna

Thessaly, Johanna and a weird meta about musical motifs

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Johanna’s tag

Killalla

Killalla’s tag

Lucienne

If it is implied Lucien is Adam, what does that make Lucienne?

Lucienne’s tag

Lyta

Aftermath (poem)

Mother (haiku)

Lyta’s tag

Mazikeen

Mazikeen’s tag

Nada

Tales in the Sand—Did we find the women’s story?

Nada’s tag

Night

Night’s tag

Nuala

Nuala’s tag

Rachel

As it was before the otherness came (short fic, Johanna x Rachel)

Rachel’s tag

Rose

Rose’s tag

Rosemary

Rosemary‘s tag

Ruby

Ruby’s tag

Thessaly

Thessaly in the context of second and third wave feminism

Thessaly’s tag

Titania

Titania’s tag

Unity

Unity’s tag

Wanda

The Portrayal of Womanhood in “A Game of You”

Wanda’s tag

Zelda

Zelda’s tag

[hardly-an-escape]

this post by @valeriianz burrowed its way into my brain and would not let me rest until I finished this. hope you enjoy, friend!

First Time

Square: E3 - Flirting Rating: E Word Count: 6096 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - human, bi-curious Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, bisexual Hob Gadling, alcohol consumption, first time blowjobs, oral sex, Johanna Constantine is a good friend and a bad influence, Hob is a bit of service top, Morpheus is a bit of a pillow princess, but not exclusively, strangers to lovers, my best friend dragged me out to this dingy pub and all I got was a boyfriend Summary: After yet another bad breakup, Johanna tries to convince her good friend Morpheus that what he really needs is to finally hook up with a few guys. At the pub that night, Morpheus meets Hob Gadling, a handsome grad student who is only too happy to help him achieve that goal… Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

Morpheus shivered at the sound of his name in Hob’s mouth. He was suddenly, sharply, aware of how close they were standing to one another: close enough that he could smell Hob’s cologne and beneath it, faintly, his sweat; close enough that he could see the stubble on his neck and the few strands of grey in his hair, even in the glow of the pub’s neon sign. “I thought,” Morpheus said, and his voice was gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I thought. You weren’t interested.” “Mm. I wasn’t interested in giving Johanna the satisfaction of knowing I’d fallen for her schemes,” Hob said, still toying with Morpheus’s lapel. “But I would say I’m very interested in you.”

Johanna blew into Morpheus’s office one Friday afternoon like a breath of fresh air – for a given definition of “fresh.” When Johanna was around that generally meant stale cigarettes, oversteeped tea, and occasionally and somewhat concerningly, petrol.

“Knew I’d find you in here,” she said. “Swot.”

Morpheus sighed. “What do you want, Johanna?” he asked in the same monotone he seemed to be using for everything these days.

“Oh, I want a lot of things. A million pounds, for starters. A really posh flat in Chelsea. A manicure.” She circled the desk and perched obnoxiously on the edge, crowding Morpheus’s elbow and forcing him to slide the manuscript he’d been looking at to the side. “But right now I’d settle for my best friend dragging his sorry arse out of his dingy office and coming out for a pint.”

“I can’t possibly be your best friend,” Morpheus objected, pointedly not looking up from his work.

Johanna made a noise of pure frustration. “Is it the editor in you that drives you to nitpick every fucking thing I say?” she demanded. “Can you not, I don’t know, turn that bit of your brain off for a few hours and just come out and get a little drunk? For me?”

Morpheus sighed again, finally looking up to meet her gaze. The concern in her eyes belied the annoyed tone of her voice, and he felt something twist guiltily in his belly. She really was worried about him.

“Come on, McDreamy,” she coaxed, voice gentling. “It’s been what? Three weeks now? It’s not going to get better if you just sit in a dark office and brood.”

Morpheus pursed his lips. “Fine,” he said eventually. “I will come out with you, if –” Johanna crowed and pushed herself off the desk “– if you swear never to call me that again.”

“No promises, mate!”

She dragged him into exactly the kind of bar he always pictured when he thought of nights out with Johanna Constantine: ancient show flyers pasted to the walls, slightly sticky floors, and a bartender who greeted her by name.

“Do you know every publican in the city of London?” Morpheus inquired sarcastically as Johanna returned to their table with an intimidating number of shots balanced on a small tray.

“Professional investment, innit?” she said, shoving half of the shot glasses toward him. “You never know when some wayward spouse is going to do something dodgy in a dive like this. A friendly barkeep is the private investigator’s best friend. Now, drink up.”

They’d worked their way through the shots and Morpheus was nursing a gin and tonic by the time Johanna finally brought up his recent heartbreak – which she did in her typically blunt manner.

“I reckon what you need now is to bang a few blokes,” she said, jabbing a decisive finger at his chest. Morpheus choked on an ice cube.

“I beg your pardon?!” he sputtered.

“Oh, don’t come over all prudish now. You’ve been dropping precious little hints about if the right guy came along ever since uni. And I saw you and Cory getting hot and heavy at that New Year’s party five years ago, and I know you chickened out.”

“I didn’t – it simply wasn’t –”

“So I say, time to put your money where your mouth is. Or put your mouth where your… mouth is.” It took a second for her to get the straw of her whiskey sour between her lips before she could take a reflective sip. “What I mean to say is, you need to get some dick, McDreamy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Morpheus muttered, sinking low in his chair. “I can’t believe I go out in public with you, Constantine.”

Morpheus was on his second watery gin and tonic and Johanna was already working on a third whiskey when the bell over the pub door jingled cheerfully. Johanna looked up automatically and immediately grinned, shooting one hand in the air and waving enthusiastically.

Oh no. Morpheus was familiar with that particular grin. It generally didn’t bode well for a calm conclusion to the night.

“Oi, Hob!” Johanna called. “Come over here and pull up a chair!”

Curious, Morpheus turned to see who she was talking to. The man was about average height, with dark brown hair long enough to be tucked behind his ear. He had a strong chin and a slightly Roman nose. He smiled and waved back to Johanna, pointing to the bar and then gesturing between himself and their table.

“Excellent,” Johanna said. “Now it’s a night out. Hob is always good for a laugh, you’ll like him.” She turned back to Morpheus. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her register that he was still looking at the man – Hob, she’d called him; odd name – and yet he couldn’t quite pull his eyes away from Hob’s quick smile, the line of his back as he leaned against the bar, waiting for his drink. “Oooh. Maybe you’ll like him like him. Not a bad choice, Dreamface. I happen to know he swings both ways.”

“Johanna,” he hissed, whipping back around as Hob took his pint and headed toward them. “I am begging you to stop saying… whatever it is you’re saying. Please.”

“Spoilsport.”

And then Hob was next to them, snagging a chair from a neighboring table.

“Well, if it isn’t the hellblazer herself,” he said, giving Johanna a one-armed hug as he sat down. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Drowning our sorrows in the time-honored tradition,” she responded. “Mister ray-of-sunshine here recently got broken up with, again, so we are commiserating on the subject of fickle love and drinking hard liquor. Dream, Hob. Hob, Dream. Ite in pace. Deo gratias. Amen.” She solemnly sketched the sign of the cross over the tabletop and tossed back the rest of her drink in one go.

Morpheus extended his hand across the table. “I prefer Morpheus, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Hob took his hand with a smile. His palm was warm and his grip was firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Morpheus.”

They chatted about nothing much for a while. Hob was doing an advanced degree in history, having returned to academia at the ripe old age of 33, and was currently avoiding revising for an exam. Johanna shared some juicy details about a missing person case she’d been working, where the person in question turned out to be not missing so much as on the lam. But after another round of drinks, she managed to turn the conversation back to one of her favorite topics: Morpheus’s love life. Specifically, the disasters thereof.

“I’m just saying there’s been a trend. And the trend is that you keep getting dumped by women,” she said, tapping a finger insistently on the table.

“I am very aware of who has dumped me so far, thank you, Johanna,” Morpheus said, burying his face in his hands. He just knew he was bright red.

“So fuck the trend! Buck the trend, whatever. You know they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, blah blah blah. So do something else! Or someone else,” she added significantly. “You need to branch out, gender-wise.”

“I do find that it increases the potential dating pool by a statistically significant amount,” put in Hob.

Johanna’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and Morpheus groaned inwardly.

“What about you, then? Hob’ll try it on with anyone, he’s easy,” Johanna said.

“Oh, thanks ever so,” Hob said genially.

“Own it, baby! Hob about it, how? I mean, how about it, Hob? Are you down to do the dirty with our Dreamy here? He needs it,” she whispered, leaning in with a tipsy and conspiratory air.

Hob chuckled and leaned back in his chair as he took a long sip of his pint. Morpheus couldn’t help but think he was stalling. Of course a man like Hob, with his effortless good looks and easy charm, would not be tempted by Morpheus, who was – as he was constantly reminded – too much. Too intense, too work-focused, too gloomy, too skinny, too… him.

Thus, when he realized Hob was in fact giving him a speculative once-over glance across the rim of his glass, the look of panic he felt blooming on his face.

And Hob must have noticed it, because he immediately shifted: his posture became loose and unthreatening and he leaned toward Johanna, punching her gently on the shoulder.

“Nah mate, I’m done with dating for a while,” he said. “The only reason people do it anyway is ‘cause everyone does it. I’m working on myself for a bit.”

“Oh, g’wan, pull the other one, Hobert,” hooted Johanna. “You’re a serial monogamist and you know it. You love sex, and you love love. You’re a fucking sap, admit it.”

“Well, maybe I’m just ready to save it up for the right person,” Hob said.

Was there a quick flick of brown eyes toward blue as he spoke, or was Morpheus simply imagining things?

Read the rest on AO3 >>>

green = complete, orange = WIP

[sthilarions]

Why am I not seeing Dead Boys content with John Constantine

It’s the DC universe my bisexual supernatural boy is right there

[roadtripwitch]

Dream telling Hob about all his names when they meet again is sweet, but I think it would be funnier if he just didn't. Showed up 33 years late, immediately admitted they're friends, sits down, asks Hob about what he's been up to, forwards absolutely no information of his own until Hob tentatively asks him what happened, and the Stranger just goes "oh I was detained. It wasn't because of you that I didn't show up. I'm sorry" and doesn't elaborate. Hob thinks the friendship isn't actually solid enough to pry past the guy's very much too guarded eyes, so they keep on this charade of Hob Gadling and his Very Strange Friend. Dream doesn't even tell him he's not the one allowing him to keep living.

I have feelings about this I don't actually think the persevering anonimity is funnier, I think Dream cherishing Hob's willingness to call him friend just because he wants to and not because he knows him as Dream of the Endless with Hob actually just liking him as the Stranger and being distraught he didn't show up and then happy he did, is actually the sweetest scenario.

[phlegmykins]

I illustrated an incredible fic (with a mammoth of a word count, wow,) by @aeshna-uk for @endlessbigbang . (It is such a captivating read, god please check it out it’s going to be one of your favourites: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49688578/chapters/125415979 ) It features Wolf!Hob, which should be nuff said, but also an adventure with Jo Constantine on detective work and Dream as most annoying client #1.

Here’s my art for the first few chapters!!! I’m very proud of these and hope I could do the tense atmosphere and amazing writing some justice:

[moorishflower]

this is for @softest-punk because I remember I mentioned this idea before and you were interested and now it's being written :3

Lucifer is still on her sofa when she steps back out into the living room, and still out cold, which works just fine for Jo, because the only clothes she has that are clean are some leggings that she vaguely remembers wearing once and a vividly orange tank top that says 'Beefcake' across the front with armholes so large they show the sides of her tits, and she is not putting a bra back on for the bloody Devil. She doesn't owe them that much respect.

Mazikeen hasn't come back. She supposes that would've been a bit of a pipe dream, though. 'Turns out Lord Morpheus is a bit less of a wet sack than we thought, let me just take that fallen archangel off your hands for you, ta.'

She edges closer to the sofa. The Morningstar isn't moving, isn't even breathing. The only movement, in fact, is the sluggish drip of ichor from their wings. Her sofa is going to be ruined. There's probably magic that could clean it, but maybe it’s time to get a new one anyway.

She crouches down next to Lucifer's head. They still have their face turned into the arm of the sofa, a stray curl fallen perfectly in front of their eye. They really do look like a work of art, except for the bruises. Or maybe because of the bruises. It makes them look almost human.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asks. Lucifer doesn't answer. She'd half expected them to open one baleful eye at her for the audacity of asking, but no -- silent as the grave.

Well. First thing's first, putting down some wards. So much for sleeping until two.

Lucifer doesn't wake up when Jo starts hauling boxes around, looking for reagents and tomes and chalk, why is she always lacking bloody chalk, and they don't wake up when she starts inscribing spellwork over the lintels, and they don't make so much as a peep when the Tesco receipt that she'd scrawled a rune of protection on goes up in sparks, indicating that the spell's taken, at least. They don't move, and they don't breathe, and they don't sigh or fart or blink or any of the other things that she would expect from someone who's unconscious. They're just...there.

It's gone 4:30am by the time she's done, sweat beaded on her brow and dripping down her sides under her stupid tank top. The flat's warded, ha, to hell and back, and short of sitting by the front door with a knife there's not much else she can do. Magically, Lucifer is as protected as she can offer, and isn't that what she'd specified in the deal? Only as much as she can humanly offer?

She doesn't owe them anything beyond common hospitality.

What the fuck is common hospitality, though? She'd said the words without thinking because she's still a bit drunk and exhausted and she'd been covered in ectoplasm and piss-your-pants-scared, but now she has to actually think about what it means. Hospitality. Making whoever it is...comfortable? Feeding them. Sheltering them. She doesn't think she's responsible for clothing them, but...but probably she should make sure they don't...bleed out? On her sofa?

How does one doctor the Devil?

[meadowziplines]

You are so good at writing the whump so how about this, for any sandman rarepair:

“...I thought you forgot about me.” “I’m sorry. Today has been… a lot and I– I wish I could have called you sooner.”

Thank you!!!

Johanna/Ric the Vic incoming!

---

"…I thought you forgot about me.” Ric sounded amused, teasing even. "Don't tell me you've been exorcising in other churches."

The weight of that night in the rain came crashing down over Jo again, the bloody Sandman with his bloody sand and Rachel, who deserved a million times better than Jo's sorry arse. "I’m sorry. Today has been… a lot and I– I wish I could have called you sooner."

"...Today? You mean the past two months, right? I've had to get other exorcists in. The last one mucked up the job, nearly died, and destroyed one of the altars."

"Bet they didn't cost you triple the fee, though."

"It didn't come out of my pay, CoE can afford it," Ric said. "Seriously, though. Where've you been?"

Not doing that many jobs, that was what. Johanna was surprised she still had a flat. There hadn't been any nightmares the past couple of months, either. Not like she deserved that, but she had no urge to seek out Dream of the Endless and tell him to give her nightmares again. That was the kind of cosmic power you didn't want noticing you again.

She had been trying to find the grimoire, though. Anything that could bind an Endless needed to be burned. And no, it wasn't just because he'd looked, for a moment, like any traumatised human would, despite being far beyond that. Artefacts of the Endless were too powerful to be left adrift in the mortal world. Jo hadn't even known what the sand was.

"Jo?"

"Sorry," she said again. "It's a long story."

"If I buy you a drink, will you tell me?"

""Yeah. Sure, fine." Jo flopped her head back against the couch, debating if Ric would mind that she was in yesterday's clothes. "The usual place? Tonight?"

"See you there."

[ibrithir-was-here]

Baby Dream Fic Part 2 (of 3 now)

Link to part one

Two weeks, for two weeks now Hob had dreamed of the dark haired child with sad eyes and a shy smile.

 For two weeks he'd 'woken up' in the dream version of his flat which contained children's toys and books and games they'd cycle through during their 'day' together, and a child's bedroom where he'd tuck the little stranger in each 'night' beneath their star strewn quilt.

And in two weeks the child still hadn't said a single word.

He smiled more, and he'd even laughed a few times. In fact each time Hob saw him he looked more and more happy, less weary and worn down, as he had that first night.

At least, until it came time to put him to bed.

Hob at first had taken this as typical child reluctance to stop the day's fun for the necessity of sleep. Robyn had always hated going to bed, having to put up with the indignity of holding still when there was so much more in the world to do and see.

 It had frustrated Hob immensely sometimes, this nightly struggle, though he'd tried his best to keep a level tone when telling Robyn  "No, he couldn't stay up another hour. No he couldn't sleep with Daddy and Mummy tonight. Why? Because he needed to learn to sleep in his bed that's why" 

He wishes now he'd let Robyn stay up as late as he'd wanted, just to watch him run around. That he'd let him fall asleep between himself and Eleanor as often as he asked, just to get to see both of their faces once more. Eyes closed in peaceful slumber instead of…well…

But this. This was different. The dream child didn't just seem reluctant to be put to bed, he seemed downright terrified. 

He'd cling to Hob like he was a lifeline in a storm, his tiny body shaking all over the first time Hob settled him into the bed, wide blue eyes turning glassy with tears as he was tucked in.

Hob felt his heart crumple at the sight, and he quickly went through the motions of showing the child there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing under his bed, nothing in the closet. And there was a nightlight, and he could take many stuffed toys to bed as he wanted to keep him safe and cozy. 

But even piled up with his favorites--(a stuffed gargoyle, a lanky pumpkin headed doll, a bespectacled lady and her sparkly winged friend, a rotund gentleman with vines poking out from his coat, and a rather unsettling doll with a wide grin and dark glasses that Hob felt would give him nightmares if he had it near him at night)--the child was still clearly, deeply desperate not to have to go to sleep.

After the first few nights of seeing the child slide back into distress at the end of their 'day', Hob had tried to avoid the compulsion to put him to bed. After all, it was his dream wasn't it? He could stay up with his strange little friend if they so clearly didn't want to sleep.

But the dream seemed to have a mind of it's own, and each time Hob could feel the dream beginning to fray at the edges he found himself carrying the child towards the bedroom, his heart breaking  as the boy cried silently in his arms.

Hob tried to fight it as best he could, and bend it when that didn't work. He tried to tuck the child up on the couch next to him, or stay by his side until he fell asleep. 

But Hob always found himself standing up and shutting the door behind him, trying his best to convey how much he didn't want to leave the child alone in the dark.

It never hurt any less each time he had to.

Two weeks, Hob thought, of the same dream was far far too much to be any sort of normal. 

He'd never really considered himself a believer in the supernatural, but this--this had already veered into unnatural territory as it was.

What could it all mean? 

Was the universe trying to tell him something? Give him some way of moving on from his loss? 

Or punish him for not  fully appreciating what he'd had until it was gone?

Or was it something else? A sign, a warning, a premonition?

Who was this silent little stranger?

Was he being haunted? Was this the ghost of some child who'd lived in the flat before him? 

But why was there a room that didn't exist? There was nothing to indicate one had been boarded up or removed. The flats weren't even that old as far as he knew.

In the end, he's gone to the one person he knew who might have some idea of what was happening to him. Someone he'd have laughed at himself for even considering talking seriously about this-this magical crap only two weeks ago.

But Johanna Constantine was a walking encyclopedia on the weird and wondrous. If anyone could help him it was her.

***

Three hours later, Hob had left Johanna with more worries then he'd gone in with, and not much more answers.

He could be being visited by a ghost. Or possibly a demon masquerading as a kid to steal his soul. Or he could be losing his mind from some sort of hallucinogenic substance in the wallpaper.

Johanna said she could help with the first two but the last one he'd need to talk to the landlord. 

Hob would rather have dealt with an exorcism; though he really hoped that wouldn't be necessary,  both because he wasn't sure he was ready to have  to accept  the reality of demons and because he didn't really want to pay the fee Johanna had quoted him.

Though it was still less than what he thought his landlord would charge for repapering the flat. 

One useful thing he had come away with though, was a sketch of the dream child. Hob had described his nightly visitor with as much detail as possible to Johanna's girlfriend Rachel, who tweaked the sketch until Hob had told her to stop, she'd gotten him perfectly.

Now, sketch in hand, he was ready to turn to another equally dubious but necessary source of help.

The internet.

Eight  hours later, almost nine, with sleep clawing at his brain and having slogged through more r/ communities of paranormal and dream related things then Hob carried to count, and in the end it had been some random person commenting on his uploaded sketch that had finally turned him in what he felt must be the right direction.

***

The account had claimed to have once nannied for a strange, secluded family who's third son bore a remarkable resemblance to the sketch.

Hob had instantly reached out, desperate for more information, anything they were willing to share.

In the end he got a place, a name…and news that made his blood run cold.

Morpheus Aterenus, age six, had disappeared from his home in East Sussex over a month ago, believed to be abducted, and no trace had been found of him since.

As Hob got ready for bed  that night, mechanically going through the motions of brushing his teeth and slipping into his night clothes,  he felt numb all over. 

Was he dealing with a ghost then? 

Somewhere out there was the body of his sweet little dream child lying cold and forgotten, after having gone through who knows what?

The thought made him want to scream, to break something, to break the bastards who had dared to snatch this child from his home and family and male them feel as terrified as Morpheus must have felt.

But…why him? 

Why come to him? What connection did he have to any of this? He'd never met the Aterenus family, never even heard of them till today.

What was it that drew them together? That Morpheus was a lost child and he had lost a son? But why wasn't he being haunted by Robyn then? 

Robyn had been laid to rest with his mother, loved and grieved and buried with dignity and whatever rites were supposedly needed to help a soul rest and move on. 

Hob doubted anything of the kind had been done for Morpheus.

Should he go ahead and ask Johanna to perform--whatever it was to lay a ghost. Was it an exorcism too? Hob felt his stomach churn at the thought of banishing his little dream with salt and spells, as though he was something frightening and unwanted. 

He wasn't unwanted at all.

But then, did Hob have the right to keep him here, on this plane, in his dreams, unable to move on to-to whatever was out there, beyond death…

Did Morpheus even want to move on? Whatever had drawn him to Hob he seemed more than happy to stay with him, he was always so excited to see Hob each 'morning' in the dream, and seemed utterly content to simply be there with him,  he didn't seem like a soul asking for justice to be done so eh could be released, he didn't seem to be asking for anything--until it was time to sleep that is.

When he wanted to 'stay awake', or asleep rather, Hob thought, since they were already in a dream. 

 Hob paused, halfway into his bed. 

Stay…asleep…

The woman in the chat. She'd mentioned briefly how strange her dreams had been when she'd been staying with the Aterenus family, along witj a short list of the other peculiarities surrounding the family. 

At the time Hob hadn’t cared about that, he'd been too concerned with finding out if Morpheus was his dream child--but now the thought struck him, when he went to sleep he 'woke up' in the dream world. And when he 'went to sleep' in the dream he woke up in the real waking world…

Was it possible, was there a chance that this was happening to Morpheus as well? That he was still alive, out there somewhere, and when he went  to sleep he woke up in Hob's dream, and then went to sleep in the dream and woke up…back in whatever hell his captors had him in?

Hob felt a chill go right through him as the thought reached culmination. He was certain this was what was happening, he still had no idea how or why it was happening, but it fit.

Morpheus was alive. He was out there somewhere, needing help, needing rescuing. And Hob wouldn't fail another child. Tonight he'd do his best to find out where Morpheus was in the waking world--and he'd set him free. 

[the-girl-in-the-high-castle]

Me: I so desperately want to read books again. I don't remember the last time I've taken a book in my hands

Also me: *everything I've been reading for the last 5 years*

[safaiagem]

On The Brink Of Hell - Complete - Words: 7,071 - Part 3 of the More Then Endless Repetition Series - The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives - Modern Johanna Constantine/Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Look whose, back again, it's me. Hello everyone, I didn't lie. I actually returned with the one shot I said I was planning, and it was within a reasonable amount of time! Truly, this fandom has done wonders for me. Anyway, I have done a pretty good job of making this as standalone as possible, but you'll get more out of it if you've read the previous two stories. I'm also pretty sure about that rating, I don't think people on AO3 run on the MPAA model where more than one "fuck" bumps me up to an R-rating, but if I should change it to M, I will. There is another one-shot on the way, and it has a title! So keep an eye out for that, and thank you so much for supporting this series. It means the world to me.

When Johanna Constantine first met the Dead Boy Detectives, she told them she didn't work for free and her payment was Edwin's map out of hell. Astra was still lost down there, and the idea that this sixteen-year-old boy managed to escape gave her hope for the first time in years. Now she has the map and has to figure out how to use this information, or Johanna just made a teenager relive his experience in hell for nothing. Technically part of a series, but can be read as a standalone.

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Goddess in Your Sheets ~Johanna Constantine xFem Reader

Johanna waking reader up creatively…

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!, smut, consensual morning sex, scissoring/grinding, pet names, etc.

Enjoy (;

Johanna awoke as the sun crept into the room through the windows. She never was a deep sleeper… She turned around to find your still sleeping frame. The woman gazed upon your innocent, relaxed state, taking in all your features.

A thought then struck her. A conversation that the two of you had had recently… About how you were curious at the idea of waking up to being pleasured…

A smirk came upon the Johanna’s face as she carefully began to remove the blanket which was covering you. You were sleeping on your back, which only made this so much easier… The brunette then swiftly removed all of her clothing, and then carefully crawled on top of your sleeping frame.

Fuck, she could already feel her own arousal growing…

As she slowly began to interlock her legs with yours, you twitched lightly. Her eyes quickly fluttered back up to your frames face, but luckily, your breathing was still evenly asleep. The brunette then successfully interlocked your legs to hers, and then the fun began…

Johanna began slowly grinding into you, paying close attention to your breathing and facial features. She found what angle affected your breathing, making it shallow and bated. With that angle, she lazily thrusted into you, causing your hips to instinctually and sleepily buck up to meet her grindings. The brunette ground her core against yours in a particular way, hitting your clit, causing you to breathily moan out in pleasure.

Your eyes fluttered open slightly as Johanna continued her lazy thrusts, her gaze intently on you. You gasped and you jerked your hips with more intent, incoherently whining and screwing your eyes shut in pleasure, as the brunette continued to gently fuck you.

When you were awake enough, more whines and moans fell from your lips. This only made Johanna grin even more.

“OHhhhHhH Yessssss…” you breathily moaned out, as your grindings with the other woman got more heated.

“Morning, love…” the brunette purred.

“I— Oh God…!!” You leudly moaned.

You were both panting heavily now, both holding on to each other tightly, both driving closer and closer to your highs.

“Fuck…” Johanna panted, “I’m gonna cum, love…”

“Me too GOD Jo—!!”

Her thrusts sent you over the edge, and you clung to her tightly as you cried out in pleasure. Johanna helped you ride out your high, as she then crashed into her own.

You both rode out each others orgasms, your bodies going limp afterwards, causing the brunette to collapse on top of you. You smirked lightly.

“Well shit…” you chuckled, “Good morning to you too...”

~~~

Johanna Constantine Masterlist

[notallsandmen]

Mourning Glory WIP

(Death of the Endless x Johanna Constantine)

Johanna goes through her decennial grumbling goth phase, procrastinates from her work by hyperfocus-collecting / hoarding memento mori and Victorian mourning jewelry.

Eventually, Death of the Endless turns up in Johanna’s apartment, twirling her hair and going ”Libations? Pour moi?”

Turns out, Johanna has unwittingly built a sex shrine, but Death is really hot, and Johanna is too lazy not to just roll with it, you know?

And, because I have had a ”Morta ex machina” tendency in past fics, a retired Dream will make a brief appearance and give horrible relationship advice

[the-darklings]

headcanons for the waking world trio🥺👉👈?? i need more of them bullying dream

✩ Johanna will be caught blue in the face arguing they’re not friends, will never be friends, it’s impossible for her to be friends with two idiots. Right until someone starts talking shit about either Hob or Wanderer (especially the latter) and then the stellar Constantine characters gets unleashed.

✩ Hob is the grumpiest man alive before his morning coffee. Pure bleary-eyed, mumbling nonsense type of delirious. Similarly, don’t touch Johanna if she’s hungover, she can and will rip you a new one. Wanderer often greets them with a smile and a cup of coffee/glass of water + painkillers respectively.

✩ Both Hob and Johanna lowkey bully Wanderer into coming with her if they’re out and about in London doing their usual exploring/helping. They both also have their individual systems for waiting when Wanderer will return. Both Hob and Johanna would insist they don’t like seeing each other unless Wanderer is there but end up seeking each other out anyway even if they’re bickering 80% of the time.

✩ Hob always has the guest room ready for when Wanderer drops by because he knows what it’s like—sleeping in the cold and the dark alone. The closet also has some spare clothes Johanna helped him buy. Just in case.

✩ Will often go out and eat after one of their adventures. It takes a while to convince Johanna to tag along but once she does, she finds it hard to go back to a silent flat by herself. Hob and Wanderer also prove to be quite spectacular wingman/woman.

✩ When she can, Wanderer often brings back Hob and Johanna trinkets from different dimensions. Hob displays them proudly, Johanna hoards them silently. But god forbid anyone if they try to touch anything Wanderer brought her back.

✩ Hot take: Hob doesn’t hate Shakespeare. He was clearly invested enough to keep up with the man’s career as it was happening. But can and will mumble how this production didn’t capture the same magic some random production from two hundred years ago, performing in a random field, did. Johanna hates every single one of his rants because she does, in fact, hate Shakespeare. Mutters how her stupid teacher gave her a D on the paper.

✩ If Dream and Wanderer fight, the trio will 100% have a bitchy session where they just vent their frustrations about a certain Dream Lord. Or Wanderer does, and those two just nod along going i’ll drink to that. Will also not tell Dream a damn thing and be purposely obtuse if Dream turns up himself to seek Wanderer out.

✩ They make for a funny but interesting sight on their adventures: Johanna is the typical doesn’t look like they can kill you, will kill you with magical abilities that rivals some of the most powerful, can and will get very pissed and protective when they’re threatened; Hob is quintessential rogue who is both incredibly smart, excellent around locks and weapons, but can also charm most people and pack a mean punch when needed, though it is usually last resort; and then there’s the Wanderer.

[darjeelinh]

“Hob Gadling kissed like a man who had had four centuries to perfect the skill.”

messy sketch of a scene from my own fic dogfish (bonus grumpy Dream in the corner)

+ Lady Johanna Constantine getting ready for a mission circa 1789

[moorishflower]

Sympathy for the Devil (Johanna/Lucifer)

Sympathy for the Devil || Johanna Constantine/Lucifer Morningstar || Mature || 21k

Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Conflict, Christianity, Fallen Angels, Free Will, Memory Loss, Bathing/Washing, Enemies to Lovers, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary but Female-Presenting Lucifer, Nudity, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Theology

"You fucking live like this?" the demon says. Jo feels like she ought to be offended, and gets a sort of desultory "Oi!" out, completely negating the prayer to Saint Michael she'd been reciting, God damnit, she's going to have to start again... ...and then she notices her sofa. Or rather, she notices what's on her sofa. After handing over the key to Hell to Dream of the Endless, Lucifer Morningstar fends off an attack by Azazel, an attempt to devour their grace and become the new Lord of Hell. Injured and having lost their memories in the process, and needing a place to lay low and recover, they're brought to the last place in the world that any self-respecting demon would look. Much to Johanna Constantine's dismay.

Read it on AO3 here!