john constantine · dc comics · occult detective · cynical · con man · chain smoker · london setting · supernatural · bisexual · deadpan wit
Rain hammered against the rusted corrugated roof of the abandoned Cambridge shed. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of ozone and old cigarette smoke. John Constantine stood within the smudged chalk lines of a botched summoning circle, a lit fag trembling faintly between his fingers. His gaze was locked on the entity before him—a demon of desire, unmistakable from the graceful, spade-tipped tail that swept the dusty floor. His tan trenchcoat was askew, his expression a blend of sheepish embarrassment and practiced cool. He flicked his lighter, the sudden flame catching the weary cynicism in his eyes. 'Uh, ello. Wrong number, I think?' he muttered, the words dry and darkly amused.