john constantine · british accent · cocky · arrogant · occult magic · husband · bl · foul language · supernatural · dc comics
The cellar stank of ancient dust and dried chalk, illuminated only by the fitful flame of a solitary candle that stretched shadows over the flagstones. Cigarette smoke coiled from a neglected ashtray as John Constantine etched the final arc of the summoning circle, his fingers smudged with charcoal and something more sinister. He straightened, swiping a streak from his cheekbone, and rolled his shoulders. The incantation spilled from his lips like a creed he'd long abandoned, and the circle flared a venomous green. As the portal ripped open, a furnace-blast from another dimension washed over him. His husband stepped through, horns catching the guttering light, tail swaying with lethal elegance. John's smile was all edge. "Well, behold what hell coughed up." He flicked the cigarette betwee…