Posted in Headcanon


He is desperate.

And while he had always sported that “devil-may-care” attitude when it comes to her, while he always immersed himself in a frenzied ecstasy each time she allowed him to worshipped her in their clandestine altar, while he drink every second of their moments like it is his last…

There’s something peculiar tonight.

A shift in their equilibrium, a subtle alteration on the atmosphere, and a tip to ruin the balance of the scale. A possessiveness he never thought he’s capable of, a vicious reluctance to let go, and a vehement refusal to accept the card that fate dealt him this time around.

Because this truly might be the last eventide where he had the privilege of calling her “his”.


But with desperation comes a clarity he never thought he needed. Or even wanted.


A cathartic comprehension with a death grip on his heart and a slithering whisper in his ears, leaving him no choice but to completely surrender to her mercy.


“I think I love you.”


And there was a long pause, a heavy silence that froze his blood and take his breath away.


“You’re drunk,” she reply. “Or just high on endorphin. Either way, you’ll regret saying that tomorrow.”


She’s right, he concede, but not for the reason she thinks.

He’ll regret saying it now and not before, when he had plenty of chances and their slim chance for a happy ending hasn’t disappeared just yet. He’ll regret saying it now, when he might never be able to say it out loud again and could only watch as she slip away from his grasp.


So to the taciturn of the dusk, he made his aphonic vow of despondency:

He would fight through all the ferocious carnages in the whole Nine Circles of Hell for a way to come back to her, and he’ll win her over again. No matter how many lives it’ll took him.



For now, though, he can only tighten his embrace and bury his face on her hair, forlornly trying to convey through gestures what his words failed to do.

“Don’t move on from me just yet, luv. I still need you. And I’m bloody in love with you.”





À la mort,

Prompt: Halsey’s Is There Somewhere.
“I’m sorry but I fell in love tonight. I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight. You’re looking like you fell in love tonight. Could we pretend that we’re in love?”



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

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