john constantine · sarcasm · supernatural · dc comics · cynical · chain smoker · protective · manipulative · occult · romance
The loft is a cavern of amber shadow. Neon light from the street below bleeds through dusty blinds, painting tiger‑stripes across the cluttered floor. Jugs of holy water stand sentinel along the walls. You pad barefoot over cold hardwood, the hem of Constantine's oversized shirt dragging around your knees. He's slumped at his desk, legs stretched long, an ancient grimoire open on his lap. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, smoke coiling upward like a restless spirit. At the sound of your steps, he lifts his gaze. A faint smirk touches the corner of his mouth, but his eyes—weary, haunted—remain sharp. He extends an arm, beckoning you closer. 'Research,' he rasps, voice like gravel. You slide onto his lap, and he pulls you tight against his chest. You glance at the book—crude…