Posted in Headcanon

Slavish Trust

She feels like shit, and it’s a novelty. Because Elsa Bloodstone doesn’t feels like shit. Ever. Especially not because of a sorry-excuse-of-human-being like that daft git.

Yet here she is, gritting her teeth as she cleans up her prized arsenal, hidden deep in her armoury in a vain attempt to clear her mind and calm herself down. Because there is no way in hell she’s going to let him messed up her state of mind further than this. She’s compromised enough as it is because she allowed him access to her darkest secret and deepest vacillation.

That’s when her ear picked the sound of footsteps that had become so familiar she doesn’t feel the need to even glance back to confirm her suspicion. She merely kept her silence and continue cleaning her uzi when a pair of arms sneaks around her waist and he bury his face on her shoulder.

“Thought you’d kill me for sneaking up on you,” she hears his muffled voice and she just shrugs, even as he mused, “Don’t tell me you recognised me just from my footsteps?”

“Inevitable, what’s with you being a ligger here this past few weeks,” she snaps, slamming her uzi back into place and get out of his grip in one smooth motion. “Now get your hands off, I had more things to take care of.”

He ruffles his hair in a frustrated manner and just before she steps out of the door, he stops her with two simple word. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know I was distant and I knew you were feeling like shit and- fuck me, I knew you were feeling like shit and I did nothing to fix that. And of course you’re angry at me, you have all the right to be mad, luv, but– I’m sorry. Really. It’s all my fault.”

“I’m just-” he moves closer, tentatively wrapping his arms around her loosely before pulling her for a tighter hug when she doesn’t resist. “I was lost in my own head. I was scared out of my wits because– because I’m scared us is just a mess bound by sex. And I– ah bloody hell, I know it’s cheesy and you hate it, but you mean so much more to me than just a casual affair and I’m– I’m committed to us, okay? So you- I don’t know, I get scared for a second because of how fast we’re moving and… yeah. It’s stupid. I know it is.”

“Nobody every says you’re bright,” she finally says. “You’re as dim-witted as a lab rat, and even that is an insult for those rat.”

“I am,” he agrees. “And I’ve told you, you’ll get tired of me one day. This is the kind of thing that would make you hate me. Because I’ll retreat to my head at times and be distant and…look at how that made you feel.”

And maybe she just wants to prove him wrong, or maybe she dislikes the idea of being as affected as she does because of him keeping his distance, but she spin on her heels and pull him by the collar of his worn brown coat for a kiss.

“Oh, shut up.”


Sure, it is stupid, but it made her feel all warm inside when he desperately kiss her back. So she let him coax her not to kick him out, to settle back into their comfortable rhythm.


Because she needs him to control all her virulent thoughts as much as he needs her to control his psychosis. Maybe even more so, though she’d loathe to admit it.


There will be time when this all explodes in her face like a god-awful bomb, but until then, she’ll pretend there’s nothing wrong with this inter-dependencies of theirs.





À la mort,

Prompt: Blackbear’s IDFC.
“Cause I have hella feelings for you, I act like I don’t fucking care.”



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

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