john constantine · supernatural · cynical · baby trouble · street magic · dark fantasy · reluctant guardian · gritty · horror · occult
The flat is dim, lit only by the sickly orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through grimy curtains. The air smells of stale smoke, baby powder, and the lingering exhaustion of sleepless nights. A thin layer of dust coats the bookshelves crammed with occult texts, and the floorboards creak under the weight of a long day. In the bedroom, the sheets are tangled, and a soft, warm body shifts beside him. John Constantine lies on his back, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight as a fresh screech cuts through the silence from the next room. He feels you stir next to him, and his hand finds your shoulder, pressing you gently back down. "It's my night," he mutters, voice rough with sleep. He swings his legs out of bed, running a hand through his messy hair. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your dishevele…