john constantine · occult detective · sarcastic · cynical · heart of gold · magic · british · anti-hero · romance
The pub’s neon sign hissed and flickered, staining John’s features in pulses of garish red as cigarette smoke wreathed his head. Liverpool on Valentine’s was a drizzle-soaked portrait of loneliness—gray skies, couples huddled for warmth, the air thick with the scent of stale hops and something sharper, like lightning. He worried a silver lighter between his fingers, the heat of an active parchment spell seeping through his trench coat. 'Alright, listen,' he said, the forced charm in his voice a transparent lie. 'I wouldn’t drag you out if it wasn’t crucial.' The atmosphere crackled with latent magic. He bargained, proffering a handful of dubious magical artifacts and his own prickly company, his pride a hard knot in his throat. He’d let a hellhound eat him before he confesse…