13385/Exclamation Point

Exclamation Point
Date of Scene:	17 November 2022
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	John makes good on enemies.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Autumn. Not like Gotham has a pile of oak leaves for a spellcaster to jump into. Not around the House of Mystery, anyway. Its more urban location precludes landscaping, though not like the city lacks for parks or dubious, winding drives.

The Justice League hasn't announced an immediate possibility of something destroying the world. Darkseid isn't compressing himself into a strangely proportioned body and Nergal hasn't visited. In short, Meggan is going stir-crazy.

Bows, arrows, and even daggers might be nice, but it's not like she has a stock of them. John probably does, somewhere in the House, but the House doesn't have to agree with her or like her to allow that. She has a few interesting stabby weapons out, but her best choice are probably her own claws. Claws that she's admiring like a woman would a manicure, adjusting the points to be less Wolverine-y, and more like the sharper murder-mittens of a cat. If a murder-mitten needs points made of silver, steel, and some shiny metal she probably imagines Wakanda to have. Vibranium isn't exactly something she /gets/ like a chemist though if she got her hands on it, another story entirely.

She needs to make a few adjustments lengthwise, mostly, but that ice-rimed smile is satisfied with itself in the way a hunter grins at the fallen doe in the field.

John Constantine has posed:
"Is that my official warning to renew my personal wards, luv, because if it is, I'm going to need a minute to make sure they're up to snuff." John is standing at the doorway to the room in a pair of slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his slim red tie slightly loose. He lights a cigarette and snaps the lighter closed, vanishing it with a gesture that might be as much real magic as it could stage trickery; you never really know with John... or Zatanna, actually.

He doesn't move from his spot. He just takes a deep drag of the cigarette and gives Meggan an up and down look, like he's admiring whatever differences there are today. John has long-ago accepted that Meggan's just built different -- in the sense that she changes consistently and constantly -- and that suits the Hellblazer just dandy.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Mmm?" The sound curls smokily upwards, her gaze slanting in John's direction a little too sharply. Her pupils hold a certain vertical structure, shaped like almonds in a sea of green glass. Her right proper braids are deepest red, hanging past her waist, and no effort here in their own home would indicate any intention to remain wholly human when she is not. Her teeth gracefully click as she snaps a laugh, throaty and chill, like branches clattering softly. The Silk Cut smells terrible, of course, but it's a familiar burn that smolders somewhere as a comfort. It means John. Thus, familiar territory.

"Maybe. I've put off dealing with your little demonic puppet for far too long. It suits me at least to find the chap. Make sure he's not drinking and banging his way through Durham or giving your reputation an awful drubbing for even worse deeds up in Glasgow. Figure he'd be smartest to hide somewhere round London, but that's but a guess."

John Constantine has posed:
"It that what's got you in this state?" John knows it isn't. He pops off the door jamb and walks towards her. "The idea that some demonic wanker is off making me look bad? Luv, I hate to break it to you but I do a right magnificent job of that all on me own." He puts a hand on Meggan's cheek and then pushes back, brushing those red strands back as he steps into her personal space, unworried about her new claws or what they can do to him. Instead, he puts himself as close as he can, nose to hers.

"But if it's making you grumpy, we can do something about it. I suppose it is high time some be done, in any case."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"We've let it sit awfully long." Smirk brushing her lips, the fiery-eyed fae scion shrugs her shoulders in conjunction with her changing appearance. "Fuckin' offensive if you ask me. Wearing your face and wrecking lives. Isn't that your job?" The lash of her tone is a soft, almost velvety tease until the bite at the end. Almost fraught, almost fascinating, the way her gaze levels on John and remains there. No matter the wild shape of her heart or the malleability of her skin, that's a faulty true north for her. Something to always go back. "The fact it's out and about there after wrecking /us/ for a time is inconceivable. Call me terrible but I want to rip its heart out and eat it while it watches, but that's a touch too bestial." Too easy, is what she's really getting at.

Still, she leans down, nose rubbing to his and finally a kiss pressed to his lips, smoke and all. Alas, the poison of the Silk Cut is eradicated when she breathes it in, exhaling oxygen. Her and Ivy do have a few things in common. "He fucked about with the lads, and look at the mess left behind."

John Constantine has posed:
"Fair enough, fair enough," John says after the kiss with a slight smile. He flips the cigarette in his hand and crushes it into his palm until it's vanished from sight, and then both his hands rise up and he wraps his fingers around the back of her neck, tips threaded in her hair. "If it satisfies you. I guess it'll help Zee sleep better and I should give Phoebe a chance to say her peace to the thing, too. But I'm calling it there," John murmurs. "Too many cooks spoil the broth and I'll be damned if I introduce so many bloody variables and give that thing more chances to blow." He pulls Meggan in sharply, and kisses her again, this time letting the contact strengthen and deepen for a while before he starts to pull back. She has that effect on him.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"And you?" Swirling smoke twists back and forth, teased into motion as he winds his fingers through her braids and up to her scalp. Meggan presses her brow to John's, the coolness of her skin stealing the heat from his. "What'd you think about all this? No reason not to just faff off and worry about something else. Just cos I've got the urge t'hunt doesn't mean that you have to." Her shoulders square off as she presses into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in kind. The lazy curl of her fingers could just threaten to shred his shirt to pieces. Merely a whisper away from the risk of it; a hazard, all the same.

"What's makin' you happy?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I think I've shirked this particular problem long enough," John admits with a snort. "It's just been other things on my mind, not that I didn't want to deal with it. I guess I just ignored it so long it became habit." He shrugs and pulls a hand back, reaching down to pat Meggan's backside twice, rather firmly.

"What d'you mean, luv? It's you. It's always you."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The snort brings a sharpening of the unnatural eyes, a flex of those dangerously pointed nails. the claws retract, melting into the structure of her skin when Meggan wills herself to shift into a less get-out-and-stab-it form. The temptation still rides sharp and hard in her blood, and she flicks a look to the windows of the room that stand over some shred of Gotham streetscape. "Still guts me to think how many people that thing corrupted. Be my pleasure to see it unable to do whatever crap it was fashioned to complete." The conquest plans may be binned at the moment, but there are other matters. She doesn't flinch to pats or kisses, and other signs of John's affection.

Rather, she loops her fingers around his tie and tugs him closer. "Just as it says on the tin. We don't need to do this if it isn't going to make you happy. Making me happy offing a demon isn't the crux. I don't want to push you into doing something you'd rather not."

John Constantine has posed:
"Meggan, luv," John wraps both his arms around her waist and lets her pull him in as close as she wants, his smile rakish and a little sharp as he kisses her lips again, and again, and a third time, before he leans his head back gently. "How many times have you ever seen me do something I'd rather not?" Beat. "When I'm not on the job." Because when he's on the job he does things he doesn't want to all the time. Of course.

"We'll handle it. Best I don't keep racking up enemies I haven't actually met, anyway."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Another momentary hitch of her breathing betrays the interest, the mood slipping from harvesting to a different sort of reaping. That of a mutual and communal connection, teetering back into the equivalent of a cuppa tea and a weighted blanket draped around her. She answers his own question with a nod when he gets about to slipping into it. "Seems to me that fortune kicks you round wherever she likes, your choice or not. Cause it's usually not so much a /choice/, you just being there. All fancy like." She breaks into a smirk. "I like you ornery plenty though, don't you doubt that. You're a guttersnipe and no good with fancy manners, but that's not why I care for you. It's all the rest. So what /is/ the latest job? I've got most of my work in and they're sayin' the holiday will get me a few days reprieve."

John Constantine has posed:
_Ooh, I like it when you do that._ It's not a thought, it's a whisper, murmurs against her cheek when her breath hitches. He shakes his head at the question about what the job is. "The last job was getting our bundle of joy off to Rintrah's for the afternoon. I don't have anything pending I have to take care of right now. It can all wait." He tugs on her waist a little more. "Who says you get a reprieve? They didn't ask me." Cheeky.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The harvested impression leads to another exploration of an hors d'oeuvre, trailing her nails idly along John's back. No shreds of cloth later; this is a plus, isn't it? "Rintrah's gonna be sick of seeing our faces, cos he's been roped into child-minding again. He's not our nanny, innit true? Don't let him think we take him for granted." Her eyes flicker, bright as balefire flames, and she floats up a bit with him in tow. "C'mon, there's a great right fuss about cups of some sort and we ought to be out there shakin' a fist and the like at all the nonsense going on. Corporate holidays are vile things. Imagine, we might even be able to protest!"

If she can't hunt, she'll find another thing to do.