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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine	By : Krystal_Frame Category: 1 through F > Constantine Views: 918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own JC or any other DC properties. Merely meant for funsies.

Chapter List
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John lay on a shelf, high in a cave system, nothing but rags clinging to his frame, and those rags stayed only because they had dried to clotting blood. The dragon had come out of nowhere.
One minute he'd been studying a standing circle of stones, while Zed made etchings of the runes and Chas finished up a circle of salt around the outside. The next, the shadow of the dragon blotted out the sun, claws snapped through his shoulder bones and he'd been swept into the sky.
The desperate fight he'd put up while dangling had led to a lot of manhandling, falling and a few impacts with the upper branches of trees. His clothes weren't built for that kind of abuse. Neither was his body.
He was exhausted, low on blood and had begun to lose feeling in his fingers and toes. The cave floor beneath his shelf was littered with broken and bare bones. Most of them looked animal, but he'd seen a few human skulls and hand bones. There was no question that he was currently sitting in the pantry.
He wasn't sure how long he had been there, but figured it didn't matter. He would die, as sure as the sun, once the dragon returned. The blood loss had made him so tired that he didn't care anymore. The only solace he had at all was that he had in fact found what he had come for. The runes were hard to translate but he had been certain the stones were put there to offer sacrifice to a dragon. He noted the irony that he had been the only one standing in the center of the sacrifice circle, so of course he was the only one taken by the flying snake.
'Teach you to go about standing on the dinner plate of mythical creatures, won't it John.'
The other thing he could see on the floor of the cave were bits of cream and speckled shell. They were old, and covered in grime and dust, but this particular dragon had likely laid them sometime in the last two years. John wondered if he would also see juvenile dragons before he died. Perhaps he was the happy meal that mum had gone out after, tired of listening to the wee one's complain.
The thought made him laugh and the sound of his voice echoed back at him, finding it just as jolly.
An hour later John was treated to, not mum and the kids, but father dragon, swooping down for a landing and slithering into the dark hole. The beast knew he was there right away and came to inspect the lady's dinner plans. John was sniffed and snorted, and painfully nudged by an elongated snout, but either dad wasn't hungry, or John wasn't prepared to his liking.
Either way the impressive male ignored him and went deeper into the cave, disappearing from sight.
John was starting to wonder if dragons really were predators, and not carrion eaters as some historians (who were entirely too fond of dragons) tried to imply. He'd started a lively debate in his head, and was just getting to the good bit where the passionate dragon lover, played by Zed in his mind, rose to her feet and announced her engagement to the dragon prince...when another winged interloper appeared below him.
A juvenile. A male.
A quarter of the size of its father, this male was bright orange from tip to tail with a yellowish belly. Behind him came another, and another. The three were varying shades of red or orange, with only one showing the start of horns on his snout. They immediately came to the shelf, the first taking hold of John's left leg and dragging him from his ledge and down into the bone pile, dodging it's siblings.
John was ragdoll limp, and figured it was to his best interest to remain that way. Like with a toddler, maybe he would become a less interesting toy if the kids figured out that the batteries were dead. The three Druk-lets played tug of war with him, straining John's efforts to remain silent, then tried tossing him around. Their teeth weren't sharp or long enough to give him life threatening injuries but he'd heard more than a few bones cracking. One of the Druk-lets snapped it's jaws around John's middle and tried to run from the cave with his prize, taking flight.
The other two siblings gave chase and John did his best to hold back vomit during the dizzying, aero-batic ride. When the Druk-lets finally tired of him, as children are wont to do, he was left in the crook of a tree, thoroughly grateful that these little hell-shits hadn't yet learned to clean up their toys after playtime.
John clung to the tree, broken and numb to the pain he should have been in. The view from his high perch was a great improvement and he figured the picturesque countryside was going to be his only reprieve so he might as well enjoy it.
Then he heard a voice below him. A female voice. She called up to him in a language he didn't recognize, which was quite the statement given the number of languages he'd had to learn over the years.
When he didn't respond he heard the sounds of feminine grunts, and after a time, was astonished to see a beautiful, muscular woman climbing onto his branch. Her clothes indicated that she was from a time far in the past. Her hair was lustrous and black, flowing down past amber-brown eyes, a strong nose and chin, full lips and even fuller breasts. Her chest and waist were hidden behind a corset, but her arms showed clear strength. She reached the warlock and her hands began to pass over his mostly naked body.
Everywhere she touched he felt cool numbness taking over.
He could hear his bones shifting, grinding, then knitting back into place. His skin wove like cloth in a loom, healing his wounds without a hint of scarring. The headache that he hadn't been able to feel in favor of the rest of his aches disappeared, and but for the lack of clothes he found himself completely whole, staring at the precious angel that had climbed a tree to save him.
"Bloody hell."
The girl responded with a smile, but clearly didn't understand. "Bloody hell." She said back to him.
John grinned then laughed, and they climbed down the tree together. When they reached the ground John couldn't resist the urge to kiss her.
She blinked at him in surprise, then launched herself at him, passionately kissing and petting and ripping at his clothes. John found the ties to her corset and freed her from it's constraint before burying his face in the beautiful white mounds, scented with sage and female musk. He moaned, hard as a rock in his boxer shorts, and watched in amazement as the girl sank to her knees, and pulled him into her mouth.
John had to lean back against the tree trunk, and let his eyes disappear into his skull. Gods it felt amazing. Not only to be free of pain, but to have it so instantly replaced by exquisite pleasure. It was as if she hadn't a tooth in her head, and a hoover attached to the back of her skull. John buried his fingers deep in her curls and moaned his delight until he came. She wouldn't let him pull away until he had finished, and when she stood and kissed him again, he couldn't taste himself. Only strawberries and mint.
Her hands went down and despite his certainty that he would need a good half hour to recover, he found himself growing hard again. Healer, savior, aphrodisiac...in one gorgeous body. She pushed him down to the ground, laying out her cloak and gesturing for John to recline on it. She lifted her skirt and sank down on him and John swore he was going to take her with him. He'd build her a palace and make her queen. Nothing but sweets and pleasure for her, for the rest of her life.
She began to rock and bounce and despite her clear, solid musculature, she barely weighed anything. She reached behind them both and found John's hole and teased it with a finger, adding to the pleasure. John only felt her push into him once before she was pleasing herself, making her womb tighter for him. They sweated and groaned on the ground, John taking over and setting the pace, building and building until he came again. As before, she wouldn't let him pull out until he had finished, and John thought briefly about contraceptives before he decided that a lineage of little John's was a price he would happily pay for this woman.
She wrapped him in her cloak and held him while he slept, and when he woke they made love again and again. John was prepared to ask her to marry him the moment he got her back to the states, but the following morning he was dismayed to be alone, laid out in the center of the sacrificial ring, with only her scent on him to prove that she had been real.
John marched the mile and a half to the nearest town and found Chas and Zed armed to the teeth and ready to mount a rescue. They were delighted to see him not only alive, but apparently unharmed. But for the making love bit, John told them the tale of his encounter with the dragons, and the angel in the woods. Zed was skeptical and Chas seemed a little jealous. They went out to the runes that afternoon, but there were no more dragons to be found. John even tried to map out the flight to the cave, and the dizzying flight away from it, but none of the landmarks he remembered appeared to be where they should have been.
That night, after a full meal of shepherd's pie and ale, the three went to bed, planning to head back home in the morning.
Around 3am John was up, sick as a dog, puking in the toilet. It didn't matter how much of his food he excised, the demons continued to torment his stomach until morning. Chas woke and found him collapsed in the bathroom, pale and sweaty. John managed to drink a few cups of tea, and slowly began to feel better, and they made their flight on time.
The overseas route was a misery. John spent more time in the tiny bathroom than he did in his seat, and no matter what the flight attendants tried to give him, nothing calmed his stomach. Worse he could feel pressure building in his abdomen. Like whatever was making him sick had taken root and was making itself at home.
John began to wonder if someone had seen fit to curse him with cancer, or gall stones.
When their flight landed in New York City, John barely made it through customs without earning himself a 48 hour quarantine. In the cab to the hotel the pain started, and based on its location Zed declared that he had appendicitis and needed to go to the hospital.
John argued, Chas took his temperature, and a quick google search convinced the three of them that the mystery ailment wasn't life threatening...not yet.
John paced and napped and moaned for 15-hours while they waited for their low-cost connector flight. By the time they boarded, the sickness had passed and he now had only pain, the disturbing pressure in his belly, and apparently five additional pounds.
The plane took off and John ordered whiskeys with whiskey chasers. The booze took the edge off and he was able to sleep until Chas shook him awake post landing.
They went their separate ways, reluctantly, John promising to give a shout if his problem hadn't worked itself out in a day.
The warlock schlupped into his house, stripped naked and went to bed, exhausted.
In his dreams he saw himself with his forest angel, making love with wild abandon only to have each session end with screams, pain and blood covering his loins. He would jolt awake, roll over and try to sleep again, only to dream and wake again. And each time, the rolling over part got harder and harder.
When the birds started to wake him around 5 he was desperately hungry and sat up carefully, spreading his legs to avoid putting pressure on the beach ball sized bump that made his belly button look like a moon crater.
His lower back ached as he waddled to the bathroom and he struggled to even find his penis so that he could relieve the terrible pressure in his bladder. The hunger pushed him into the kitchen where he filled a bowl with pickles, turkey meat and dry cereal. He leaned against the counter, munching, letting his sleep deprived brain slowly catch up...with...
John put the bowl down. He felt around the massive, solid object that had pushed his stomach out past his feet. He waddled to the mirror in the foyer and stared at the very pregnant, bearded man, standing naked and stunned in the glass.
"Oh...shit." He turned to the side.
"Oh...bloody fucking shit."
John started towards the phone. He wasn't sure who he was going to call, or what he was going to tell them. He made it to the cradle of the old Bakelite and had jabbed his finger at four buttons before the pains hit him.
Like nothing ever felt by man (he was almost positive). Agonizing, ripping, horrifying pain that started with a burst of fluid from his ass and just kept going.
He couldn't breathe, and threw his hands out towards the back of the settee, bracing himself. His body was telling him to squat down and his ass had begun to bleed as the mass in his belly moved. No more than a centimeter, but it had felt like a bloody bowling ball hitting pins. John screamed hard at the pain, found that it helped some, and screamed even harder.
The phone...he had to get to the phone…
John crawled on his knees and had the cradle and headset in his hands before the next pain hit. He lay prone on his side, heaving and screaming, pushing more blood from his ass and feeling the mass move yet again.
Numbers...what were the bloody numbers?! John remembered one digit, two, up to five, then up to seven. He'd nearly completed the phone number before a gout of blood left him and the baby…(for what else could it be?), turned a pirouette in his bowels. He wailed and sobbed, begging the creature to stay still.
He punched the last button and clutched at his stomach, waiting for the rings. Rings. Rings. Click. "This is Chas-"
John growled in frustration and slammed the phone down then dialed again. The baby...hellspawn...demon child...it had stopped moving within him, letting him get through the second call, and the third, without wanting to greet the world via his anus.
John was even able to crawl back to his knees, slick with sweat that plastered his hair to his body, then crawl slowly to the liquor cabinet for some solace. Constantine bit the cork out of the first bottle he touched, poured the rum down his throat and slouched, panting against the cabinet.
“It’s your father that did this to me.” John groused. “I don’t know ho...and I don’t know when, but he did this to me.” John drank again, his free hand clutching his distended abdomen. “I’m going to bloody kill ‘im.”

John took a few more gulps of the rum, chasing it with a bit more rum before he turned on his side and cautiously, tenderly reached toward his ass. His fingers encountered slick blood, bits of goo that could only have been some kind of amniotic fluid, and at least one tear in the muscle, as well as a hole big enough to fit four fingers in. John drank some more. He crawled into the kitchen and grabbed towels and the salt, then pulled himself to his feet with the help of the kitchen counter and took his bounty slowly, painfully to the bathroom.

He filled the large, clawfoot tub with hot water, pouring the entire canister of salt in. He dipped his rum bottle into the bath to agitate the water and dissolve some of the salt, then stepped into the tub and sank until he was to his neck in hot brine.

The rum tasted even better as it warmed in the bath with him and John began to relax, exhaustion teasing him with the pleasures of sleep.

He was nearly out, the rum bottle ¾ empty when the contractions returned. John got to his knees in the tub and rode them out, wailing with abandon and pushing as hard as he dared. He could feel his ass ripping, widening beyond any circumference it had ever before achieved and felt like he was turning himself inside out in the process. When the pains passed, giving him precious time to recover, he opened his eyes to a tub filled with his own blood.

He pulled the plug, let the water drain and had nearly made it back to his bedroom with the towels and the booze when the pains returned. John crashed to his knees and this time he could visibly see the bump descending. Whatever was inside him was scraping against the bones in his hip while he pushed and panted, and eventually it became lodged, unable to go further.

Physics said no, but the pains were saying yes and John did his best to ride them out, screaming until he was hoarse and leaving a slick of blood behind him to soak into the hall runner.

He no longer wanted to know how wide open his ass was. He’d run out of booze and there was a set of stairs between him and relief. John wept and moaned and did his best to mop up the blood with the towels, crying out to the Triumverate to take him already and be done with it.

A reprieve came. John stumbled down the steps and yanked the door off the liquor cabinet before filling his arms with bottles and sinking into the couch. He did his utmost to kill himself with alcohol poisoning before the contractions returned, then spilled half a pint of blood on the living room floor trying to force a rock out of a hard place.

“It won’t work. It won’t work, luv. I’m not built for it. I can’t push it through...I can’t.” John moaned, delirious with pain. He’d burst several blood vessels in his face with the strain of his efforts, and he’d lost most of the moisture in his body through sweat. The couch was soaked beneath him and everything smelled like blood.

The contractions wouldn’t stop. John put his palms on top of the obstruction and tried to push down and out at the same time. He felt bones grinding, flesh ripping and bruising and was certain he’d gained a few more centimeters. The effort left him hardly able to breathe and no longer able to close his legs.

“Never.” He whined. “I’ll never plant another seed again, I swear it. I’ll buy stock in contraceptives. I’ll attend anti-parenting classes and sexual addicts anonymous every day and twice on Sunday.” He croaked, his voice a high pitched whisper. “I’ll never lust after another being, man, woman or demon, ever again. Please...please.”

The woman appeared. Just as she had in the forest, she was there as if she had always been there and she came to John wiping a cooling hand over his forehead, then down over the bump, then around the stretched and torn circumference of his sphincter. The aches disappeared, leaving behind only the pressure of the unborn inside him.

John collapsed, a slovenly mess, his eyes slipping closed, instantly ready to take advantage of the lull. Then he felt her hands on either side of his hips. She closed her fingers around him like you might a sticky bun and snapped his pelvis in two.

John’s back arched and he could only keen, the pain shooting up his spine, along every nerve, and into his brain where his consciousness began to shut down for good.

A contraction came and John was barely aware of it. The woman’s hands pressed down on the bump and it disappeared, like toothpaste from a tube. John had blood in his mouth and it might have been from the complete destruction of his internal organs or from his jaw crushing everyone of his own teeth when it clenched. He distantly felt the last of the pressure sliding from his body, caught sight of something cream and speckled and round in the woman’s hands, then slipped away finally ready to die.

Happy, bloody Father’s Day to him.

The next day the phone rang, too close to his ear. John jerked his head from the sound, then reached a hand up and back, slapping at the device until he had managed to knock it from the side table. The phone gave an annoyed chirp then went silent.

John settled back into the comfort of the couch, and the blanket that someone had thrown over his birthday suit. The dream came back to him. Vivid smells and sounds and horrible pain. The more he remembered, the less it seemed like a dream and more like reality. But it couldn’t have been...John shifted on the couch and found his pelvis not broken, bruised or even slightly sore. He flexed his butt cheeks and found no gaping hole, or bowels leaking out of him. He lifted the blanket and found the same flat belly, hairy chest, and assorted tattoos.

John sat up and scanned the room. He found multiple bottles of alcohol in various states of emptiness. There was a mass of towels at the base of the stairs that looked damp in the gloom but he couldn’t be certain with what.

John got to his feet, wrapped the blanket around his waist and did a slow tour of the house. He found a speck of blood in the shape of a fingerprint on his kitchen counter. There were a few drops of rusty crimson on the stairs, and an empty salt canister in the bathroom by the tub. The door had been removed from the liquor cabinet and the runner in the hallway had been crumbled up in one corner.

All things that he could excuse away if he wanted to, but bizarrely specific to his vivid dream/notdream. Constantine stood in the hallway for a few moments, trying to piece the puzzle pieces together.

He remembered the phone and padded down to the sitting room to replace it. The call rang through in minutes and John heard Chas on the other end of the line.

“About time you answered. I’ve been calling all morning.”

“Yeah, I know mate, you woke me up.”

Chas sighed, then, “Glad you got some sleep. What about your stomach? Feeling ok?”

John looked down towards the organ in question and cleared a strained throat. “Yeah...I guess it was...just a bug or something.”

“I guess...you were everybody’s least favorite travel buddy for a while there.”

“Well, I’m fine now. Nothing that a….couple of bottles of booze and a hot bath couldn’t cure.”

“Good. I’ll let Zed know. She was starting to come up with some wild explanations for your little episode.”

“Yeah?” John asked. “Can’t wait to hear ‘em.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Sounds good mate. I could eat for two.”
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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine