Elsa Bloodstone is no poet, and the only form of art she ever created are dismembered silhouettes and abstract blood splashes out of her hapless enemies.
But after the amount of reading she did (and admittedly, one too many night listening to him plucking words out of thin air), even she understands a thing or two about waxing poetry. Most importantly, she fathomed how far harder it is to write about blissful happiness instead of bittersweet feelings or spiteful heartbreak. And in the risk of sounding as cheesy as those songs he picked out to (vainly) coax her to blush, that is her current mood: A state of euphoria with rainbows and butterflies strewn everywhere, making her heart feels like it could burst anytime soon.
And it’s weird.
Because she knew joy, and had experienced first hand the satisfaction of bloodlust. But this certain brand of jubilation is not one she had experienced before.
God forbid, but the Elsa Bloodstone now had an incorrigible urge to smile every time she caught glimpse of that git, with an expression she could only describe as dopey. She thank whatever being up there that he had never seen the enchanted look on her face after he kissed her, one that match the bliss she’s feeling inside because he is hers. Because John-bloody-Constantine belongs to Elsa Bloodstone. Hook, line, and sinker.
And though she’ll deny this with every essence of her being, most of the times, she just want to fold herself into his embrace and stay there for eternity while simultaneously thanking the high heaven for blessing her with this dathing they called “us”.
He brought her into a new level of high, the kind of delirium she never knew existed before. One that brought her peace of mind for it come with comfort and safety. Because with him, she’s not just content. She feel secure and taken care of, for the first time in forever.
He made her feel alive and whole.
And if she have to kill to keep him by his side, by God, she will.
And that, is her vow for him. One that she would keep even if it cost her her own life.
À la mort,
Prompt: Rita Ora’s Poison.
“I pick my poison and it’s you. Nothing can kill me like you do.”