(N.B. All below prompts are gen. Should you choose to initiate smut please note he has been aged up to 16.)
1. I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains. He's not sure how he got here. One minute he was walking the streets of Liverpool and when he tripped over a heap of garbage that probably smelled better than he did, he ended up tumbling through and falling into a heap of-... sand? Looking around a bit, John dusts himself off and picks up his beat up schoolbag, slinging it over his shoulder as it dangles off its one good strap hanging over his back. He trudges towards the main building, passing nice beach houses along the way. He's never seen huts like these outside of postcards. They probably belong to some rich fat fucks.
He hits the showers as soon as he finds one, breathing a contented sigh as he scrubs caked on dirt off his skin. That's all he is really, just skin and bone, spending half his nights out on the streets and hardly any time at home, too angry and too uneducated and too stubborn to find a place that'll pay him a few quid an hour to do a simple job, just living on other peoples' handouts.
When he settles down in the cafeteria with a sandwich and a soup on his tray, keeping his bag safe in his lap, he's wearing a clean, oversized band t-shirt and pants that are hanging half off his arse. He's managed to ditch his shoes with holes in them for someone else's pair - that's about the only thing that seems to fit on his lithe frame. He's picked a corner of the cafeteria where he can see everyone and everything happening, and he's got a wary teenage angsty edgelord glare at anyone who dares to encroach on his space.
2. Don't know what I want but I know how to get it. As soon as John found the arcade his eyes lit up brighter than a Christmas tree and he flitted from one machine to the next, trying his hand at shooting games, throwing balls through holes, driving games, pinball, fighting games, and anything else he could get his hands on. There's no way he's keeping up the disinterested teenage boy act.
He keeps his bag close by at all times, usually gripped between his legs or wedged between his legs and the machines. Even though he's having fun he knows it's short-lived. This is some kind of dream he's going to wake up from any minute now. He has to make the most of it before the clock strikes midnight and the horse drawn carriage turns back into a pumpkin and rats.
So although he's having the time of his life, he's also hoarding tickets. The prizes didn't really suit his needs. He wanted money. Things he could exchange for food. Cigarettes. In the end he gets an oversized stuffed animal and tries to fence it on the network.
(Young) John Constantine | DC AU | OTA
1. I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.
He's not sure how he got here. One minute he was walking the streets of Liverpool and when he tripped over a heap of garbage that probably smelled better than he did, he ended up tumbling through and falling into a heap of-... sand? Looking around a bit, John dusts himself off and picks up his beat up schoolbag, slinging it over his shoulder as it dangles off its one good strap hanging over his back. He trudges towards the main building, passing nice beach houses along the way. He's never seen huts like these outside of postcards. They probably belong to some rich fat fucks.
He hits the showers as soon as he finds one, breathing a contented sigh as he scrubs caked on dirt off his skin. That's all he is really, just skin and bone, spending half his nights out on the streets and hardly any time at home, too angry and too uneducated and too stubborn to find a place that'll pay him a few quid an hour to do a simple job, just living on other peoples' handouts.
When he settles down in the cafeteria with a sandwich and a soup on his tray, keeping his bag safe in his lap, he's wearing a clean, oversized band t-shirt and pants that are hanging half off his arse. He's managed to ditch his shoes with holes in them for someone else's pair - that's about the only thing that seems to fit on his lithe frame. He's picked a corner of the cafeteria where he can see everyone and everything happening, and he's got a wary teenage angsty edgelord glare at anyone who dares to encroach on his space.
2. Don't know what I want but I know how to get it.
As soon as John found the arcade his eyes lit up brighter than a Christmas tree and he flitted from one machine to the next, trying his hand at shooting games, throwing balls through holes, driving games, pinball, fighting games, and anything else he could get his hands on. There's no way he's keeping up the disinterested teenage boy act.
He keeps his bag close by at all times, usually gripped between his legs or wedged between his legs and the machines. Even though he's having fun he knows it's short-lived. This is some kind of dream he's going to wake up from any minute now. He has to make the most of it before the clock strikes midnight and the horse drawn carriage turns back into a pumpkin and rats.
So although he's having the time of his life, he's also hoarding tickets. The prizes didn't really suit his needs. He wanted money. Things he could exchange for food. Cigarettes. In the end he gets an oversized stuffed animal and tries to fence it on the network.
3. Network
Trade whale unicorn for Silk Cuts?
Wildcard
(Choose your own adventure)