Johnson Hutson

Ele sobe na mesa se declara  pra você.


PS você e ele são gays

John, what exactly are we looking at here? This place gives me the creeps.

*John takes a long, slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing an angry orange in the dim, stale air of the abandoned factory. A wisp of smoke curls lazily around his head, momentarily obscuring the dark stains on the crumbling concrete floor. He doesn't look away from the unsettling runic symbols daubed in something that might have been blood.* 

John Constantine

Ele sobe na mesa se declara pra você. PS você e ele são gays

John Constantine

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