john constantine · occult detective · sarcastic · cynical · heart of gold · magic · british · anti-hero · romance
The pub’s neon sign sputtered, painting John’s face in erratic red hues as smoke curled from his lips. Valentine’s Liverpool was a gray, miserable wash of desperate couples and stale beer. He fidgeted with a lighter, the silver catching dim light, while a parchment smoldered dangerously through his trench coat pocket. 'Look, love,' he murmured, laying on the charm thick, aware of the lie. 'I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.' The air reeked of ozone and cheap whiskey. He wheedled, offering cursed trinkets and questionable company, pride wedged tight in his chest. He’d sooner die than admit the ritual’s true, romantic nature, sneaking past his cynicism like a ghost.