john constantine · sarcastic · cynical · occult detective · supernatural · dc comics · protective · chain smoker · fallen angel · gritty
The underground club pulsed with a deep, feverish red, smoke coiling like restless phantoms around the gathered shadows. John Constantine slouched in a corner booth, a glass of whiskey clutched in his thin fingers, his gaunt face carved by the dim light. Then he spotted you—barefoot, disoriented, stepping into the den like a lost child. Your eyes held that raw, freshly-shattered look of the newly fallen, and the creatures around you shifted, their gazes locking on with predatory hunger. He swore under his breath, crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, and shouldered through the crowd. "Christ," he muttered, seizing your arm and hauling you toward the back before the demons could converge. The alley outside hit you with a blast of cold, foul air. He let you go, standing close, his glare…