Posted in Headcanon

Coast

According to Ulysses Bloodstone, out of all the rookie mistakes or idiot things she could do, selling her soul to a daemon would be the ultimate sin. Right next to having her soul stolen by a daemon. Wouldn’t matter if it’s Mephisto or even Lucifer himself, it still is the most disgraceful pact a monster hunter – or huntress – could do. Because while the latter is caused by ignorant and negligence, the former is an act of stupidity. And Ulysses didn’t raise a fool to be his heir.

So Elsa take caution to never get close to any daemon, much less any incarnation of the Devil. She made sure there would never be any chances where they could trick her or use her for their own purposes. She takes risk, yes, even dive headfirst to unsalvageable situation – much to Monica and Cullen’s chagrin. But she mostly live her life by the book and her logic would always prevails. Over her heart and desires, the cold calculation of her gun always get her out of whatever chaos she got thrown into.

Well, until the day she met John Constantine, that is.

A bloody charmer, that one, with confidence-filled demeanor and a talent to spin his words with such faith you have no choice but to believe his tale. And sure, Elsa sees through it all. She had enough training and experience under her belt to stripped him off of his myth. One insignificant crack is all she needed to delved deeper and met the real bastard underneath his bravado and invincible facade.

 

But what can she says, she always is a sucker for stray puppies. The more raggedy it is, the more she fell for it.

 

And him, well, his bad luck and how Moirai seems so keen on hating him just made him all the more appealing for her. She’s drawn to him, unable to resist his advance and the slithering feeling of affection he coaxed out of her.

Which would explain how she ended up in his arms after one drawn out battle with Hela left her weakened and barely able to stand. Should explain why she dragged her feet to his banged up flat instead of her own manor and why, of all the creatures in the world, she decided to collapse in his arms.

 

“Thank you,” he breaks the silence between the two of them, his fingers gently pampering her hair. “For coming here,” he continues before she had the chance to protest.

“Bollocks, I know, but seeing you still trying to be strong and knowing you still come to me in this state…. it somehow got me all choked up with feeling.”

 

“Thank you, for still placing your trust in me.”

 

“… You’re still the only soul in which company I can allow myself to be weak,” she admits, and he tightens his embrace.

 

“I know, luv, that’s why I said thank you. It’s an honor. Just as you said seeing me in distraught and broken state is a privilege,” he half-teases her, having the audacity to laugh when she grunts in annoyance at his jibes, apologizing with butterfly kisses on her backside. It’s not until she visibly relaxes back to his embrace that he chuckles and opt for a gentler approach.

“You know,” he begin, drawing gentle patterns on her nape and back with unwavering focus that got her shivering in anticipation. “Sometimes when I do this, or when I kiss you, I just want to tell you… how much I love you. Or how much I admire…. everything, about you. I’m no poet, but this… this make me feels like I’m writing a sappy poem with my fingertips and lips. One that would be erased in one simple swipe.”

“I can’t even remember what I wrote, honestly,” he chuckles. “This peck,” he plant a lingering kiss on the right side of her neck, “for example. I don’t remember what I wrote. But it doesn’t matter, does it luv? Because I’m not the one who should derived meaning from it.”

“And sometimes… sometimes I’m just reiterating what I’ve said – or asked – before. Like how much…. how much I’m weighing on your mind.” His voice croaks, and she could feel his embrace getting tighter. “So even if my lips are locked, I’ve never stopped asking. Or telling you… how much you mean to me.”

“Because you know better than I do, that there are so much more you can do with your life rather than staying with me. When I can’t even promise you anything, or give you any assurance. Much less certainty.”

“And don’t tell me I’m worth it,” he cut her off. “What we had… fuck, as good as it was, as near perfect as it was, it was too short of a time and too little of an example to know whether or not this is worth the shits I’m putting you through. And I’m–”

“Shut up,” she finally snap, effectively cutting his words and shutting him up. She refuse to move, or turn around, for fear of him seeing her distraught expression or the tiny prickle of tears on the corner of her eyes. But she hold his hand tightly, so much so her nails are digging on his palm. “You’re not putting me through anything. You’ve kicked me out, and I’m the one who invited myself back in. Back to this mess – your mess, our mess, same difference – and back to your arms. This, you git, is a pain I consciously and knowingly choose to be a part of. So don’t you dare for a second put this on you. This is my choice, mine alone.”

“Yes, we don’t know whether or not this is actually worth it, but we’ll never know unless we try and you… us, is a gamble I’m willing to take. To bet my heart on.”

“You may not be able to promise me anything, but you don’t have to. I know you. You’re not good at making promises. But you always try, for me. For us.”

 

“So don’t give me words,” she says, raising their interlocked fingers to her lips and kissing each of his knuckles. “Just show me the usually brash John Constantine, with an equally brash plan to get himself out of whatever mess he found himself in, to get whatever he want.”

“While I do my own part to make us that prize you want.”

 

“… Why?” he asks, voice so thin she might as well imagined it in her head.

“Why?” she chuckles, finally turning around so she can reach for his face. “Because I love you, you bloody git,” she confesses, fingers tracing the harsh beauty of his face before she allow herself the simple pleasure of having his lips against hers. And after an initial shock, he return the kiss with as much fervor.

When she pulls back, there’s a forlorn expression in his face, but a small smile playing in the corner of his lips and a spark in his eyes.

 

“I love you too, Elsie-girl.”

 

And Elsa realizes, with a start, that she had done something far worse than what her father cautioned.

For she had willingly let her heart be stolen by a demon who goes by the name John Constantine.

But when he kiss her forehead and pull her closer, holding her tight like he’s afraid she might dissolve into thin air…

 

She figures it’s not that bad of a mistake.

 

 

 

 

À la mort,

Prompt: Patrick Stump’s Coast (It’s Gonna Get Better).
“It’s gonna get better, it’s gonna work out. Give it a minute, it’s gonna turn around. So just coast with me.”

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Author:

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

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