Posted in Headcanon


With a loud bang, Elsa shut the entrance and throw her shotgun to god-knows-where. She could see Cullen standing on the stairs, watching her with a permanent worried look on his face. She hates it, hates how she’s being just another distressing matter for her baby brother and so she take a detour, rushing instead to the dungeon. She needs the safety and comfort of her private training room, the one she designed for those specific bad days when not even decapitating the Hel-Wolf to shreds could calm her down.

She needs to scream and curse at the world, seething about the malfeasance of her current life.

And no, she’s not just talking about how she no longer have one-bloody-useless-Hellblazer-who-arguably-were-a-more-than-decent-company by her side (because it is inexcusable, baiting her until she jumped head first into one ice-hole in a frozen lake, and then abandoning her to be trapped alone in the water underneath all those ice). But also about how fucked up the story of her life is.

Because this new-found revolution of the underworld, helmed by none other than Queen Hela herself, was so organized the rising undead would overwhelmed her should she ever let her guard down. And Hela was cunning enough to use ghosts from her past to haunt her. Far too many.

But even her could not arranged the reappearance of one figurative ghost from a still fresh figurative wound.


Isn’t it ironic then, how this one unplanned phantom managed to upset her balance far more than any other tricks Hela threw?


Turns out one succinct exchange was all it took to unhinged her carefully crafted balance and threw her back into this unconditional mess.

She’s back to bending over backwards, slashing swords with the animation of her dead father because she needs to lash out. To let the scary thought out of her head.

Because her fear wasn’t unfounded. She still wants him. She hasn’t actually moved on from that bloody git like what she believes.

How can her, though? Theirs was never a relationship bound by sex and passion like he feared. She can assured him that it never was, for she had been in the arms of the others. But even if their embraces comforted her and gave her solaces, although the stolen kisses felt quite good… none of them feels like home the way he did. Still probably does.

It was never about the physical comfort, after all. It was about his presence. Which means she knows now, with clarity, that should he ever come back, he wouldn’t need to do much to win her over and pinned her heart back on his sleeve.


She wonder then, what’s the use of her even trying to move on?


Since despite how hard her try, regardless of how well she’s faring, one simple message would throw her back to square one. And even if she somehow wound up with somebody else, all he had to do is show up and in no time she’ll back to being his again.

For he is the one person who would still matter to her decades for now, no matter what happens in those span of time.


And as the animation of her father knocked the sword out of her hand, signaling her defeat in this sparring, she closes her eyes and admit the bitter truth.



She’s still waiting for him, and she would fight until the last essence of her Bloodstone for John Constantine if there’s even a slightest chance they might work out.




À la mort,

Prompt: Winner’s I’m Young.
“I know with my head but my heart won’t let you go. Even though everything collapses, I like you. Even though I want to throw away, even though I want to forget. I like you.”



An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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