Posted in Headcanon


She’s not one for sentiments, and she would threaten to cut the heads off of anyone who dares say otherwise. She’d make good of that threat, too, without hesitation.


But there are times like today.

She’s only human, after all, and loneliness is a monster that she can’t kill with gatling guns and hail of bullets.

On days like this, she miss being able to hide in his dingy London flat, away from the world and the endless horrors it spews. She miss feeling the calmness that only come from knowing that she’s safe in his company. She miss, most of all, feeling like she belonged.


But those are mere sentiments in her weakest moments, and those aren’t enough to sent her to crawl back to his arms. It used to be an urge so strong she had to physically fight it sometimes, but now those has faded. It still is a temptation that’s hard to resist, even more so now that he made his move – she shouldn’t have been surprised. John Constantine, after all, survive purely on shameless guts and mad gambit. He failed this time around though, even if it’s the bloody git’s own fault for never getting his timing right.

And a little bit of her wishes he would try again, over and over again until he get it right. A tiny part of her misses the excitement he would surely bring. A tiny part of her refused to admit the fact that she had called it quits months ago – not because she doesn’t love him anymore, but because he no longer worth fighting for.


In due time, though, even the strongest love ceased to exist. And theirs, madly consuming as it was, still is no match against time.



You’re welcomed to try again with all your might, Johnny Boy, but we both know you’ve let me down one too many times already and that’s quite a score to make up for, isn’t it?







Prompt: Ed Sheeran’s Don’t.
“It’s a bit too much too late if I’m honest.”



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

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