Posted in Headcanon

The Quiet

Weakness is not a word anybody would ever associate with Elsa Bloodstone. It is a well know secret that the Nextwave’s leader is the most put-together and coldly capable authority figure in the whole Britain.

But sometimes, in the darkest hour at the safe confinement of her mansion, even her could be eaten alive by uncertainties.

About a certain good for nothing compulsive liar who happened to also be a cocky, but cowardly, git.

And she’s getting tired of letting her mind wander, of working her brain overtime to understand why he did what he did. She can’t ask him about it, considering how he’s bloody shutting her up by refusing to talk to her and is stringing her up instead.


And she’s driven to the point of almost-insanity thanks to this uncertainty.


She’s wondering now, for the umpteenth time in the last few days, whether or not she had made the mistake of giving her heart out. It’s a mistake she had never thought she’d made.


But here she is, with her heart in his hands for him to do as he please.


And at times like this, she can only wish he’d break it as quickly and painlessly as possible, with proper reasons that he’d have the courtesy – but mostly balls – to confront her with in person.


Because she’d rather be broken and spent for stupidly falling too deep for him, for naively believing in his pretty words and cling to a wishful thinking about the two of them against the world.

 She’d rather be damaged because she was the wanker who got too attached and eventually was left alone by the con-man she gave her heart and soul to.


She’d prefer that, truly, over this silent hell where she have no idea whether she should hold on or let go.



Because deep down, she knows full well how desperately she still want to hold on.





À la mort,

Prompt: Troye Sivan’s The Quiet.
“Anything hurts less than the quiet.”



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

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