#‘a not small amount of shame or self-loathing for what he’s done’

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 6

This is a series. Start here. Continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Content warning: caretaker bathing whumpee, non-sexual nudity, unsure of reality, fear of drowning, trauma reveal, past water torture, self-loathing, painful wound cleaning, frank conversation about noncon, past drug whump, past noncon/dubcon, self-blame, PTSD, implied self-harm

~

Gavin trembled as Isaac dipped the washcloth into the water again, squeezed it out over his skin. He listened to the tinkling sound as it washed back into the bath. The heat seemed to penetrate down to Gavin’s bones, melting him to Isaac’s touch, soothing him. 

Weakening him.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Schiester was letting Gavin feel heat, feel comfort, so he could break him with it later. He pressed his lips into a line and tried to ignore the sting of tears in his eyes. Please, he begged silently. Please, please, please, let this be real. Let Isaac be real. The wash of hot water down the back of his neck pushed the thought away. His eyes slid closed, and he sighed.

“Um…” Isaac croaked. Gavin opened his eyes and found Isaac’s gaze shifted towards the floor. “I… If you want to lean back, I can… get your hair wet, wash your hair…” He ran a damp hand through his own hair. “Or… or you can do it. I don’t have to do it if you don’t, um, want me to.”

“N-no, I…” Gavin shivered as the water dried on his skin. “I… It feels… nice.” He swallowed hard, kept his gaze on Isaac’s face. 

Isaac blinked and met Gavin’s eyes. “Okay,” he rasped. “Here, I can… I can help you.” He laid the washcloth on the edge of the tub and put a gentle hand on Gavin’s shoulder.

Gavin tensed. His hand locked on the edge of the bathtub, holding himself up against Isaac’s gentle pressure back. His chest ached as he tried to prepare himself to be pushed under the surface and held there, screaming through the water as Isaac’s – Schiester’s – strong hands forced him against the bottom of the tub, waiting until his struggles got weaker, weaker, only to drag him up, let him breathe, and then do it again—

Isaac yanked his hand back from Gavin’s shoulder like he’d been burned. Gavin’s eyes went wide as Isaac leaned back, away from the tub, his long sleeves already darkened in places from the water. Gavin opened his mouth to speak.

Isaac’s voice was a strangled moan. “H-he drowned you?” he whimpered. 

Gavin’s eyes flicked to the washcloth lying on the edge of the tub. He realized with a jolt that maybe he wouldn’t be forced under at all – maybe Schiester would drag the washcloth over his face and force his head under the stream of the bath, laughing at Gavin’s struggles until the water drowned out every other sound—

Gavin stared in horror as Isaac lurched forward with a sob.

“I-Isaac,” Gavin said numbly. “I… h-he didn’t—”

“He waterboarded you,” Isaac moaned, pressing his face into his hands. His shoulders shook with another sob. “He… that motherfucker waterboarded you, didn’t he?” He raised his gaze, and his eyes swam with tears. 

No, Gavin wanted to say. No. You had it so much worse. Please don’t cry.

He only did it to me three times. How many times – how many hours – have I done it to you? He wet his lips to speak.

“Please don’t lie to me,” Isaac whispered. “Please… Gavin, I… Y-you can tell me. I don’t…” He scrubbed his face with his sleeve and set his jaw. “I don’t want you… not telling me because you don’t want to, um, hurt me.”

Gavin’s tongue felt frozen in his mouth, the words trapped in his throat. 

If I lie, and this really is a hallucination, Schiester will punish me for the lie.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to blow out a hitched breath. “Yes,” he said, hollow.

Isaac’s face twisted in shame, in anguish. Gavin watched as he pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then slowly nodded his head. “Okay,” he whispered. 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin whimpered, reaching out for Isaac’s arm. He just wanted to… had to touch Isaac, had to know he was real. 

Isaac flinched at the touch, and his head drooped forward. He drew in a slow breath and let it out. “D-don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “Why are you sorry?”

Tears blurred Gavin’s vision and ran down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you, I…” A sob caught in his throat. “I never, never wanted to hurt you…”

Isaac reached out, fumbling for Gavin’s hand, his head still bent to hide his face. “I know,” he breathed. “I kn-know you didn’t.” Gavin slid his hand into Isaac’s and held it tight. His fingers trembled from how hard he was gripping. Every little noise was so immediate, reflecting off the tile walls and the surface of the water until the sound of every breath, every tiny ripple of the bath, seemed to press into his ears.

After a long, silent minute, Isaac raised his head. His face was drawn, pale, except for the patches of red around his eyes. He scrubbed his face with his now-damp sleeve and drew in a steadying breath. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Gavin bit down hard on his tongue and said nothing. This was worse, this was so much worse than drowning. If it was punishment, he would take it. If it wasn’t… oh, fuck, if this wasn’t punishment at all but Isaac’s real pain, real suffering…

Suddenly, Gavin prayed this was a hallucination. He couldn’t bear to think of Isaac truly suffering like this.

He didn’t know what to say. He only clasped Isaac’s hand until Isaac cleared his throat and glanced at the shampoo. 

“Can I help you get your hair wet?” he murmured, his fingers loosening around Gavin’s. 

Gavin bit his lip. “Um, y-yeah,” he croaked, unable to stop the shiver that rippled over him. Isaac met his gaze as he gently touched his shoulder. “I… I trust you.”

The pain that shot through Isaac’s features twinged at Gavin’s heart. Isaac gently held the back of Gavin’s neck, his other hand supporting his shoulder, as he tipped him back into the bath. Hot water crept up Gavin’s neck, soaking his hair, until he lay almost completely flat in Isaac’s hands, staring upwards at the white painted ceiling, the corners slightly yellow from years of age. Water swirled around his head and pooled in his ears. His lungs ached from holding his breath. 

Slowly, Isaac helped him sit up again. Gavin let out a gusty breath and dragged in another. He was grateful – so, so goddamned grateful, what kind of hallucination is this? – to be breathing, to be safe in Isaac’s hands, to be held. Water streamed in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Isaac reached for the shampoo and squeezed a small amount into his hand.

The scent of the shampoo filled the small tile bathroom and knocked the breath out of Gavin. It was so familiar – the shampoo the family had been using since they reached Gray’s house, herbal and earthy and sweet, smelling of happiness, sunshine, home. Tears welled in Gavin’s eyes and he let them fall, rolling down his cheeks and into the bath, cleansing and soft like rain. Isaac rubbed his hands together to make a lather and brought his hands to settle in Gavin’s hair. Gavin let out a sigh as Isaac worked the shampoo in, massaging his scalp, stroking his fingers through the wet, soapy strands. 

Gavin found himself slumping forward, leaning against the cool porcelain edge of the tub, drawn to Isaac as if by a magnet. His eyes slid closed, and his muscles relaxed. The smell of the shampoo soothed the flutter of his heart. Isaac ran his fingers behind Gavin’s ears, down the back of his neck, pressing into the soreness of his jaw, the muscles tight from clenching his teeth. He trembled and floated in the touch.

“Ready to wash this out?” Isaac murmured, and Gavin jumped. He’d nearly fallen asleep. He nodded and let Isaac maneuver him until he could dip his head back into the water. Isaac ran his fingers through Gavin’s hair again, rinsing out the shampoo, bringing goosebumps to his skin. When his hair was washed clean, Isaac helped him sit up. His sleeves around his wrists were soaked. He reached for the washcloth and lathered it with soap. 

“S-sorry I got your sleeves wet,” Gavin rasped, his skin tingling with anticipation of Isaac’s touch. 

Isaac’s mouth tightened for a fraction of a second, and his eyes slid out of focus. “It’s fine,” he said tightly. “I’ll…” He held out the washcloth. “If you… want to, you can…”

“I…” Gavin’s throat constricted around the words. “I… l-like to have you… touching me.” His cheeks burned with something like shame. If Schiester was watching this somehow… 

But Gavin couldn’t feel cold eyes on him, couldn’t see the dark specter that watched his worst fears as they played out in front of him. He couldn’t see the phantom that would solidify and become a man when Schiester was ready to punish Gavin’s body, not his mind. 

There was a truth growing inside him, pushing at the back of his mind, pulsing with each beat of his heart. He couldn’t stand to let it take hold of him and drag him into a new reality.

If this is a hallucination, none of it makes sense.

Gavin’s skin burned under Isaac’s gaze. Isaac wet his lips and nodded slowly before he reached out and, soft as a kiss, brought the soapy washcloth to Gavin’s neck. 

The soap stung on the broken skin, worn and chafed from the collar. Gavin’s throat clicked as he swallowed and forced himself to hold still. Isaac’s rough hands were agonizingly gentle as he cleaned him, dipping the washcloth into the water and scrubbing it with soap until it was sudsy again. Isaac washed his neck, his chest, soaping the washcloth again and again. He placed his hand on Gavin’s shoulder to steady him as he washed his back and arms, then reached into the water to wash his legs.

Gavin shivered at the touch, and at Isaac’s unspoken fear as he carefully washed everywhere except between Gavin’s legs. Isaac moved slowly, as if his touch would break Gavin – or as if his touch carried a darkness he was afraid to even name.

Gavin’s throat tightened as he reached out and caught Isaac’s wrist. Isaac looked back at him, almost seeming startled. 

“He didn’t rape me,” Gavin rasped. 

Isaac’s face spasmed in a rictus of pain. He drew in a shaking breath, then another, his hand curling into a fist around the washcloth, wringing it out over the tub. His hand trembled in Gavin’s grip. His mouth pulled into an agonized snarl, and he looked to Gavin like he was burning alive. 

“Are…” Isaac’s throat worked as he tried to swallow, over and over. His face was pale and he seemed frozen in Gavin’s grasp. He brought his tortured gaze to Gavin’s, his lips trembling, his chest heaving. “Are you sure?”

Gavin recoiled. “Am I…? Isaac, I know I—”

“But you—” Isaac cut himself off with a choke. “You… h-haven’t been able to, to tell what’s real or not.”

Gavin leaned in closer, desperate to make the pain in Isaac’s eyes go away. His hand loosened on Isaac’s wrist. He took the washcloth out of Isaac’s hand and laid it on the edge of the tub, then took Isaac’s hand in both of his. 

“Isaac,” he said softly. Isaac shuddered and looked away. “Isaac,” he urged, reaching out with one hand to cup Isaac’s jaw. Isaac blinked and raised his gaze to Gavin’s. Gavin licked his lips and held Isaac’s gaze. “Trust me. I… I know. He, um, n-never had me drugged for more than a few hours, and even if it happened during one of those times, I…” His voice faltered. “I would know.” He desperately hoped Schiester wasn’t listening. 

Isaac’s lips trembled. “B-but I—”

“Isaac,” Gavin said weakly. “You… you know that… if it happened, I would have… felt it… for a while after.”

Isaac winced and squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded slowly, shaking, and gripped Gavin’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a long moment. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Gavin’s stomach dropped. He lurched forward and threw his arms around Isaac, clutching him to his chest, pulling him hard against the side of the bath. Isaac heaved a shuddering sob and squeezed Gavin tightly. 

“Please, don’t,” Gavin whispered against his shoulder, with tears pouring down his face. “Please don’t… s-say that, Isaac. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.”

Whether you’re real or not, it wasn’t your fault.

“I didn’t come for you,” Isaac sobbed. “I th-thought I… I knew you were with him, and I… I didn’t… I didn’t come.”

Dread curled in Gavin’s stomach. Despair dug hooks into his skin. He tried to stop the words before they left his lips, but they clawed up his throat anyway. “Th-then why… wh-why didn’t you?”

Isaac heaved a howling sob and clutched Gavin tighter. “Because I’m a coward,” he moaned. “B-because I… I w-wasn’t sure and I… if I was wrong, I didn’t want to… to lose you…”

Gavin was dizzy as he fought for breath. “I don’t—”

“He would have killed you, Gavin,” Isaac sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Gavin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gavin, please…”

“St-stop,” Gavin gasped, panic tightening around his throat. He pawed at his neck, fingers searching for the collar. “Isaac, no, no no no, this is real, it’s real, I thought it was real…”

Isaac broke away from Gavin’s embrace and roughly took his face in his hands. “It is,” he said, desperate, his eyes wide, tears still spilling down his cheeks. “It is, Gavin. I… I’m sorry…”

“You didn’t leave me,” Gavin whimpered. “You didn’t… abandon me, please, please, promise me I’m not still there—”

“You’re not,” Isaac rasped. His voice broke. “I’m s-sorry. Gavin, breathe, I’m s-sorry…” His thumbs stroked Gavin’s cheekbones, then his hands dropped. Isaac kept his gaze fixed on him.

Gavin shivered and wrapped his arm around his chest. His skin was slick with soap. The water in the tub was just warm, now, not the intoxicating press of heat he’d first climbed into. His hand gripping the side of the tub was wrinkled, pale, still dripping wet. He curled it into a fist. The torn skin around his wrists only stung faintly now. 

Isaac passed a hand over his face. His shoulders stooped, and the lines carved around his eyes and mouth made him look like he’d aged ten years since Gavin saw him last.

When I hallucinated Sam, I saw them the way I’d seen them when I first took them.

Gavin chewed his lip as he glanced down at the bathwater. It was a pale gray now, and cloudy, nothing like the clear, hot water it had been half an hour ago. He looked at Isaac, who was looking at the sleeves of his shirt. 

“If I’m going to give you a shirt I’ve been wearing,” he muttered, “Then I should probably change out of this one so you don’t get something that’s wet.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Gavin said wearily. “It’s okay, Isaac, really.”

“You had my shirt when you were first taken,” Isaac said. His gaze seared on Gavin’s skin. “Did it help?”

Gavin blinked back the sudden burn of tears. His hands itched to clutch at Isaac, to pull him close, to never let go as long as he lived so he wouldn’t be dragged screaming into the cold darkness of the cell again. He breathed in slowly and fought to keep his voice even. “Um,” he croaked. Tears ran down his cheeks and into the tub. “It was, um… the only thing I… I had. To hold onto.”

Isaac flinched, and nodded. “Then I’ll be right back,” murmured. He got to his feet and stalked out of the bathroom without another word. 

Gavin slumped against the side of the tub, feeling the crush of exhaustion creeping into his bones. He’d barely slept since he’d been rescued. He felt as if he could slide into unconsciousness right here, covered in soap, sitting in a cooling bath.

His head shot up as Isaac walked back into the room, pulling down another long-sleeved shirt around his chest, showing a flash of his abdomen. The sunlight from the window lit his face, bringing his sandy hair to a burning gold. He knelt beside the tub and picked up the washcloth. Shadows descended on his face again.

“I, um… I r-remember how hard it was for me to… h-have wet cloths, um, near my face… after,” Isaac murmured, and held out the washcloth to Gavin. “So maybe you could… wash your face? Then we could change the bathwater and rinse you, then get you back into bed?”

Gavin’s stomach twisted with hunger that gripped him all at once. “And then, um, dinner?” he rasped. 

A smile twitched at Isaac’s lips. Gavin wanted to hold him and beg him to smile again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We can do dinner, as a team. I wasn’t sure if you’d be, um, up for it, after everything…”

“I want to see them.” Gavin could hear the plea in his own voice. His heart ached. “Please, I… I want to see them all.” He took the washcloth from Isaac’s hand and raised it to scrub his face. His stomach lurched as the wet cloth brushed his nose and lips. He gasped and yanked it away from his face. He looked up in time to see Isaac’s eyes tighten with pain. 

“Then they should be over in about three hours,” Isaac murmured. “Enough time to take a nap. If you want.”

Gavin sagged with exhaustion. “Y-yeah,” he whispered. “Sleep. Sleep sounds, um, good.” He reached forward and pulled the plug in the bath. His skin prickled in the humid bathroom air as the water slid down the drain – taking all the dust and sweat from Gavin’s body with it. Schiester’s ‘baths’ haven’t been doing much to keep me clean.

Once the bath was empty, Isaac replaced the plug and turned on the faucet again. He didn’t roll his sleeves up as he helped Gavin wash off the rest of the soap.

Continued here

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[lilbabycee]

shame on you (blame on me) // ransom drysdale

↳ summary: you find out some shocking information about your fiancé that makes you question who’s to blame.

↳ request: for the prompt: i really need some angst in my life so maybe a super angsty cheating fic with ransom? - anon

↳ relationship: ransom drysdale x reader

↳ word count: 4.7k (oops)

↳ warnings: angst angst angst!, explicit smut, cheating

↳ author’s note: i love ransom and this actually made me sad - please enjoy! x

You’ve always considered yourself a fair person.

Throughout your life, you’ve been taught that you should take a step back, assess the situation you’re in, and look at it from a different angle. But as you’ve had to learn over the years, looking at too many angles can make you dizzy and as hard as you try, those scales of justice have a mind of their own and can easily tip one way or another when your back is turned to face another perspective. It’s a tedious game to play and you can’t win all the time, but for you, it’s always been enough to just try. 

And try as you might, there will always be people interfering with the balance: people with ulterior motives and nefarious agendas, people who will do anything to see themselves in first place, people who want so desperately to be able to do it all. Life is an exchange, a give-and-take that you must navigate with the precision and confidence of a synchronized swimmer trying to keep up with the shadow of themselves in an ocean of doubt and self-loathing, and you find that those who only want to take and take without giving are those who, more often than not, end up alone when it’s all said and done. 

But you’ve always gone out of your way to make an attempt to steer people away from going down that path, encouraging them to give more of themselves to people who deserve it and open up their hearts up to people who may change their lives. All of your friends like to joke that you have a god complex and you can’t help but agree that maybe you do.

It’s inexplicable why you feel so responsible for the lives of others; strangers, friends, family alike, you bear the weight of their choices on your back. You chalk it up to extreme empathy and your parents insist that it’s because you’re just inherently good. Maybe it’s because you feel as if since the minute you were born, the scales have been tipped in your favor. Perhaps you’re compensating for all of the privileges that you were handed because of who your parents are and what your socio-economic class is, the silver spoon that you’ve been trying to spit out of your mouth for your whole life. All you know is that you so deeply crave justice that it makes your head ache some days. 

So yes, you would - modestly - consider yourself fair.

That’s why it shocked so many when you fell in love with Ransom Drysdale. 

You met him at a charity fundraiser that you were hosting to build schools in less economically developed countries all over the world, an initiative that you’d been working on for years and held so dear to your heart. Your mother has been close to Joni for her entire life and knew the Thrombeys and Drysdales because of business, so when she told you that they’d be attending, you didn’t think much of it.

“Darling,” your mother calls and beckons you over, pulling you into her side with a bright smile on her face as she stands next to a group of well-dressed patrons. 

When you’re standing next to her, you must be mindful of the way that the emerald green satin of your gown sweeps the floor. With a slim diamond choker wrapped around your neck and rings that cost five-figures adorning your fingers, you usually prefer to indulge in simpler pleasures but for events like these, you give into hedonism and allow your mother and stylist to spoil you. You press a barely-there kiss to your mother’s cheek as she gently holds onto you, running her nails up and down your arm comfortingly.

“Honey, these are the Drysdales. This is Linda, her husband Richard, and their son Hugh.”

You smile politely at both Linda and Richard and are about to give their son the same treatment when you feel the heat of blue flames licking up the exposed skin of your leg that peeks through the thigh-high slit in your dress. But the fire doesn’t stop there; it spreads up your stomach and lands in the valley of your breasts. A part of you wants to be angry that this man is ogling you as if you’re a piece of meat, the prey that his predator has been waiting to pounce on, but a part of you revels in it. You know that you look good - it’s no secret to anybody at this event - but to have someone unabashedly appreciate that makes your heartbeat speed up.

Since he can’t tear his eyes off of your cleavage, you take the opportunity to give Hugh a once-over of your own. 

His black loafers are designer - you can tell by the way all of the little golden g’s on the velvet of his shoes are linked together - and so are his black socks, something which makes you have to physically prevent yourself from rolling your eyes. The black, grey, and white checkered pants he’s wearing hug his thighs just enough to see the shape of the muscles in his legs and the outline of his sizable length - you don’t let yourself look at that for too long. The letters on his belt match his shoes and you’re momentarily astounded at how narrow his waist is. Under a waistcoat and suit jacket that are both printed with the same pattern as his pants, he’s wearing a burgundy turtleneck that clings to his torso like a second skin. From what you’ve seen, you can assume that he’s heavily muscled underneath his clothes, and when you see his broad shoulders and big arms, you’re proven right.

Luxury virtually seeps out of his pores and it nauseates you.

But you’re intrigued nonetheless. His eyes lock on yours and you find yourself drowning, trying to swim through a choppy sea of grey and blue. It knocks the breath out of your lungs and a shy smile lifts your lips when he extends a hand out towards you.

“Nice to meet you,” his voice is deep and his jaw is squared as if he’s biting back his words. You delicately place your hand in his and marvel at the way his palm swallows yours. His skin is warm and soft and you’re close enough that you can smell notes of bergamot and cedarwood that make your usually poised stance melt. 

“Likewise, Hugh,” you manage to say, overwhelmed by the charm and class of the man before you.

“Call me Ransom, sweetness; only the help calls me Hugh.”

And just like that, your rose-tinted glasses shatter and you blink hard, rescinding your hand from Ransom’s and nodding at him briefly. You can’t help but wonder how much more pretentious this son of a bitch can get, but your mother hasn’t failed to notice the way that the two of you sized each other up. So when you’re eventually walking away from the family of three, she gives you a knowing look that you’re all too familiar with, a look that makes you scoff and avoid her eyes.

“So,” she draws out the word and nudges your shoulder with hers, “he’s cute, no?”

“Mom,” you groan quietly.

“Come on now, darling, he was a very handsome boy. And I saw the way he was looking at you-”

“Sure, Mom, but did you hear him? ‘Only the help calls me Hugh’ - he’s so far up his own ass...and what kind of name is Ransom anyway?”

Your mom shrugs, the corners of her lips twitching up into a cheeky grin.

“Doesn’t matter, love - I think he’s cute and you should go speak to him. And if you don’t, who knows? He might snatch you up in that auction later tonight.”

And he did. Every year at the benefit, you auction yourself off for a night out which you only continue to do because it proves to be an extremely valuable source of income for your charity. You’re standing up in the center of that stage, the host for the night yelling out the bids for the auction, and through the blinding lights, you’re able to see white signs flying up with ridiculously high amounts of money printed on them. You’re sure that this is almost over when you see fifty-thousand dollars stuck up in the air, but then the host says:

“One-hundred-thousand dollars to the gentleman in the checkered suit right over there!”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing and a part of you hopes that it’s not Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you haven’t seen anybody else wearing such a distinctive suit; your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. Even in the relative darkness, you meet the blazing blue of his eyes with an inaudible gasp and the sly smirk on his lips makes you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stop a smile of your own from spreading on your face. 

So when he wins a night of your time for one-hundred-thousand dollars and he leads you off the stage with a large hand on the small of your back, you can’t even bring yourself to be a little irritated at the way he leans into your body to whisper “gotcha” teasingly in your ear because he does have you. 

Fair and square. 

---

But you don’t know how you’ve ended up here. Over three years and one marriage proposal later, you’re sitting here pitifully with your head in your hands because you can’t believe that this is what it’s come to. You’ve tried many times over the past few hours to cease the incessant shaking of your hands but it’s relentless, your anxiety and distress running through your veins and seeping through your bones. 

The last four hours of your life have uprooted everything that you’ve ever believed in, everything you thought you knew about fate and order and love because it’s all a fucking mess. When Harlan handed you the flash drive, he warned you that you should only look at it if you think that you’re ready to accept that your reality will be flipped on its head and the expectations that you’ve allowed yourself to build up so carefully like tiny little brick towers will not only be knocked over, but destroyed beyond repair. 

You brushed him off jovially, thinking he was just being overly dramatic like he usually is, because you and Ransom had just gotten back from tasting wedding cakes and you were in your own little bubble of serenity. With a brief kiss on his cheek, you floated out of the room on cloud nine as he watched you leave with deep despair in his eyes that you were too distracted to notice.

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have just thrown caution to the wind and plugged the memory stick into your laptop without really thinking about it first; you don’t think you’ll ever forget the way that your heart plummeted into your stomach at the images of your fiancé with his arms wrapped around a slew of different women. 

Something inside of you immediately wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they caught him from a bad angle, maybe the other women were the ones who initiated it. But you backtracked because who are you to blame anybody else except for Ransom? That wouldn’t be fair and a part of your brain knows that you have to come to terms with the fact that he’s more like his father than he would like to admit. 

You still don’t know why you kept looking, continued to scroll through the pictures even though looking at your soon-to-be-husband’s lips on other women made you feel as if you were going to throw up your breakfast all over your laptop. The more that you stared at the candid photos, the more you realized that the actual infidelity in itself hurt, but what’s even more painful is the cold look in his eyes when he’s with them. 

They didn’t mean anything to him yet he still did it, and that’s what gets you. 

Maybe you deserve this: maybe it was always meant to end up like this. It’s hard not to think that this could be the way that this relationship was always meant to pan out, that maybe this is fate balancing out those scales. You knew from the moment you met him that you’d have your work cut out for you with Ransom, but you were never one to back away from a challenge. And it wasn’t as if you were actively trying to change him but sooner or later, Linda came to you with praises spilling from her lips because she couldn’t believe who her son had become within the first year of meeting you. He’d transformed right in front of your eyes, and it filled you with a glowing sense of pride to see how much more caring and open and honest he was. 

Early in the relationship, you’d wanted to establish that you wouldn’t treat him like a charity case. Everyone is flawed to some extent, sure, but there are behaviors that you will always find inexcusable, and the two of you had sat down and laid them out. You had a feeling that you would need to set some ground rules with Ransom and he was surprisingly lenient, establishing his own terms and conditions in return. 

The two of you had laughed hard about it later on because it all sounded like some kind of business deal or contract. 

You could laugh about it now too, especially since the number one most important item on both of your lists was to remain faithful. As a couple, you think that you have a very direct form of communication. Ransom is not one to hold back his discontent and frankly, neither are you. Neither of you is afraid to argue and you do it often, but it’s never grown into anything more intense than a few hours of painful silence and is always resolved before you fall asleep. 

You’d always thought that if you ever found yourself in a situation like this one, you wouldn’t be able to forgive your significant other. But never in your life have you felt such an intense connection to another human; your souls have intertwined so intricately that you don’t know whether or not you’re willing to jeopardize that.

“Princess?”

His voice echoes through your shared house and you can hear him hang up his coat, cursing as he kicks his shoes off and pads up the stairs. He stops outside the open door to your bedroom, spying the back of your open laptop and your still body lying on your stomach with your face turned away from him.

“Babe, you’re gonna flip your shit when I show you what I found today,” he drops the bags in his hand and walks around the king-size to press a kiss to the top of your head. You can pinpoint the exact moment when he realizes that something’s wrong. He freezes in place, feet seemingly rooted to the ground when he gets a good look at your face. The puffiness of your eyes, your wet lashes, and the tear streaks down your cheeks all alert him that something’s not quite right. 

That’s when he sees it. 

The last picture that you looked at was by far the worst. It shows him balls deep in a woman who you actually know fairly well because she’s worked closely with both you and Ransom for years on a number of your projects. She was initially hired as his assistant but soon evolved into something more like a friend to your family and his alike. You decide that it’s definitely worse when it’s someone you know.

The room goes entirely silent because the universe has pressed pause on this moment, all so he can fully realize the gravity of the situation. 

“Baby, let me explain-”

“I actually don’t think I want you to, Ransom,” you respond tiredly, your voice raspy from lack of use and your head heavy as you sit up in your bed. You pull your knees into your chest as you run a hand over your face to wipe away any leftover tears. 

Ransom flinches and you know it’s because you’ve called him by his name. With you, it’s usually baby or sweetheart or honey but not this time. He wants so badly to be your love again but the light in your eyes has gone out and he doesn’t know whether or not that’s even possible anymore.

You’re exhausted more than anything else. You’ve cried all your tears and are ready to never think about this ever again, but he’s sitting in front of you looking like a kicked puppy and you know that you need to be fair and give him a chance to explain himself. That’s what you’d want.

“Please, sweetheart, let me,” he begs, eyes searching yours and hand cautiously hovering right over your jaw, not quite touching but the heat emanating from his palm is enough to make you tear up again. It’s a small comfort that you know you’re going to miss.

Nodding, you hastily place your hand over his, pressing it to your face while a sob escapes your lips. He wraps both his arms around your waist as you curl in on yourself and sink into his body, taking deep breaths even though your nose is being assaulted with the familiar scent of oak and vanilla that makes you long for a simpler time. 

There’s a drawn-out pause before he starts speaking, his chin resting on the top of your head as he mulls over his words. 

“I’m sorry.”

It’s all he says for about a minute, letting the words hang in the air while the only sound in the room is that of your loud sniffles. 

“I’m so, so sorry, sweetness.”

He’s always called you that: sweetness. He once told you that you’re like honey, soft and sweeter than anything he’s ever had the pleasure of loving, and then laughed when you returned from work that night with a bag of those pastries you like from the bakery up the street. He could never stomach them no matter how hard he tried, but you always thought that was hilarious because he inhales those biscoff cookies like air. 

But you don’t feel very sweet right now as he spews apologies and excuses, spinning you sugar-coated lies and candied falsehoods with the confidence of a practiced storyteller. There’s a bitter taste on your tongue that you want so badly to spit out, tell him what you really think of him in this moment and how he’s not the man that you came to know. It was foolish of you to think he’d changed.

And when once again, quiet falls over your room in the light of the mid-afternoon, you only nod again, choosing to reserve your words for when you have something to say. Because as of right now, that sour taste still lingers on your tongue but you have no desire to rid yourself of it any longer. You’ll let it stay, allow it to fester as a reminder that you’ve been blind and naive but never again.

It ends here.

Ransom starts to stir noticeably when you don’t say anything, playing with the cotton of your shirt and your limp fingers. When you hear him speak next, something’s changed in his tone and you can feel the bass in his voice through his chest. 

“Y/N, baby, please say something- anything. Scream, yell at me, just fucking do something, babe: you’re killing me here.”

You scoff at the notion of you killing him because the irony of it is too funny to resist. But you decide to put him out of his misery, finally blinking up at him and meeting his eyes. They’re filled to the brim with cold rain that sends a chill down your back, dark and stormy and wet like the English countryside and you can almost smell the petrichor. 

“Can we just go back to before?” 

Your voice is cracking and your request is simple, but it’s enough for the few tears brimming in Ransom’s eyes to spill over onto his cheeks. You’ve only seen him cry twice before and it tugs at your heartstrings to see him like this, so open and more vulnerable than he’s allowed himself to be with anyone else. He’s already nodding rapidly but you’re not done.

“Can we go back, just for a little while? I just-”

You have to pause because the claws of despair are raking your skin as it crawls up your throat. 

“I just want it to be like before. I love you so much that it hurts and I just want it to be like before.”

He’s nodding eagerly now and his lips are already on yours, anchoring you to him because your love’s not enough to do so anymore. You push yourself up onto your knees so that you can grab his face between your hands, the face that you love so hard that it’s suffocating you. He steals your breath when he slips his tongue into your mouth and you feel lightheaded when his big hands slide underneath your shirt. Guilt plagues your thoughts but you push that aside for now: perhaps because it’s time for you to be selfish and you’ll allow yourself this, perhaps because you’d rather focus on the way that he tastes like cinnamon and the salt of your combined tears and he feels like home. 

The moment he wraps his arms around you to push you onto your back, you lean further into him because you want him as close to you as possible, trying desperately to become a part of him once more. The kisses he plants on you are like sugar and you want to inject them so that maybe you can be his sweetness again. The way your lips move in tandem makes your heart soar because it’s always been so easy - except when it’s not. 

Your shirt is thrown across the room, leaving you in only your panties and almost completely bare underneath his gaze. He stares at you reverently, silently worshipping you like a Madonna as rivers of tears pour from your eyes. His lips wrap around one of your peaked buds earnestly, his fingers rolling the other gently between them. The shock of pleasure that shoots through you almost makes you cry harder but you just bury your fingers in his hair, his tears hot on your soft skin. After he goes to give your other nipple the same attention, you pull him back to your lips. Without hesitation, he strips himself of his cable knit and shirt together, tossing them off the bed while you help him undo his belt. No words are exchanged when he kicks his pants off and your hand slips into his boxer briefs to stroke his hard length heavy in your hand because there’s nothing to say.

He pulls his underwear off too and after he does, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of yours and strips you entirely. You take a beat just to admire each other, chests heaving and eyes glassy. Ransom’s face is flushed and you’re sure that your eyes are red but you’re still as beautiful to each other as you’ve always been.

He buries his face in your neck and you shiver at the feeling of his warm breath. Your nipples are pressed against his muscled chest as you just lay there, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. When he slips himself into your wet heat, the stretch of his thick cock lights your body on fire and you cry out. He rocks back and forth until he’s fully sheathed, and his entire body shakes with a sob when the two of you are completely joined together. 

Your souls have fallen out of step but in this moment, they’re dancing again.

The rolling of his hips against yours is slow as he takes his time tearing you apart, molding you to his body because he doesn’t want to let you go either. He drinks in the sound of your whimpers like ice water while his body overheats with passion and when your hand tightly grips the hair at the nape of his neck, he picks up the pace, rutting into you with unbridled ardor and whispering your name like a prayer. With his lips buried in your skin, you can’t quite make out the muffled sounds of his cries until he moves them right next to your ear. 

“I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.”

And he says it over and over again and each time he does, it becomes more broken and you can feel the agony weighing down his voice. You’re so close to the edge and you can feel he is too, his thrusts becoming increasingly sloppy as he reaches down to rub at your clit so that you can finish at the same time. 

Broken pleas fall from your lips, a litany of “please, please, please” as he gives you exactly what he knows you need. Your nails rake up and down his back as he moves and his breath hitches. What you don’t expect is for him to pull away from your shoulder and prop himself up on his forearms to stare you dead in the eyes. You can’t handle the intensity so you try to avert your gaze, but he whines deep in his throat.

“Please, baby, please look at me - I love you, please,” he urges you tearfully, trying to catch your darting eyes.

Once your stare reluctantly locks back onto his, he laughs wetly, his quivering lips curving into a weak smile as he kisses your cheek sweetly. The sentimentality of it all is what pushes you over the edge, your entire body shaking with the aftershocks of your release and the sobs that continue to wrack your chest. A second later, Ransom stills his movements, moaning quietly as he spills into you. 

The two of you stay like that for a while, crying and breathing each other’s air as the dance of your souls starts to come to an end. You wonder what it’d be like if this was different, if you were weeping with happiness instead of sorrow. 

To halt that train of thought in its tracks, you extricate yourself from your fiancé and lock yourself in the ensuite.

When you come back out, Ransom is underneath the covers, eyes trained on you. You don’t say anything but you do crawl back into bed next to him, allowing him to smother you with kisses that usually make you giggle and pull you deep into his chest. 

Ransom takes a breath before he speaks. “Stay. Please, sweetness. Don’t go - I want you to be here when I wake up.”

You just nod, combing your fingers through his hair as you can see his eyes start to get heavy. 

“Sleep, baby. I’ll be here.”

---

It’s 1:22 a.m and you know you can’t stay. 

Ransom’s always been a deep sleeper and you’re lucky to have woken up in a moment when he’s not holding you in a vice-like grip. You flip back the covers and head to your closet, grabbing the nearest articles of clothing that you realize too late belong to the snoring man in your bed. 

It doesn’t even matter anymore. After putting them on, you grab a duffle bag from the bottom of your closet and start pulling clothes from your side of the wardrobe off of hangers, stuffing as much as you can into the bag before sliding the zipper across. 

You’re on your way out but you can’t resist peeking over your shoulder to ensure that Ransom’s still asleep,  and you can’t help the small smile on your lips when you see that he’s still knocked out, mouth wide open with an arm hanging off the bed. Your head pounds from all the crying you’ve been doing but a burst of glee numbs the pain at the sight of the man-child in front of you. You’re a breath away from dropping your bag and slipping back into bed with him, your baby, your honey, your sweetheart.

But you don’t because he doesn’t deserve that and you deserve some time for you. And as the door clicks behind you, you can’t help but think that this is only fair. 

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[anakinisvaderisanakin]

All That Matters - Ahsoka Brings Anakin Back on Malachor AU Fic

"You don't have to do this alone," Ahsoka implored in what she hoped was a convincing tone, taking one hesitant step towards the man she'd once called her brother.

Her former master, her mentor. Anakin. He'd taught her everything she knew, taught her to be independent, believed in her when no one else would. He’d saved her life, he’d stood by her, he’d been heartbroken when she turned her back on the Jedi order. How had such an emotive man come to fall so far from grace? How had he successfully traded in his gentle, kind hearted, welcoming persona for the visage of a thoughtless, mass murdering machine?

"You fail to understand," he snapped, his voice a jumbled mixture of his voice box and a meek version of his own struggling vocal cords as he shot her down. "I am no longer that man."

There was a frantic sense of urgent desperation to the statement, as if he was barely managing to hold onto his own lie. As if the walls he’d forged over the years were crumbling around him. Ahsoka shook her head vehemently in response, continuing to resolutely approach him with a stubborn determination. Clenching her jaw, she let the hilts of the sabers she was clutching in her trembling hands fall to the floor with a clatter. Discarding her only self defense, stripping herself bare. She noticed his sickly yellow eyes dart towards the source of the noise, registering her surrender before the intense stare returned to capture hers.

"Then explain to me. I'm here now. It doesn't matter who you are, or what you've done. Make me understand."

Ahsoka meant every word, every utterance. He flinched visibly as he took in the weight of what she implied, the eye wide with jaded disbelief and confusion. The terrifying amount of loathing and disgust she'd sensed when she first arrived for the confrontation had all but vaporized. Dissipating as if it had never been there to begin with. Instead there lingered a tense, uneasy sense of dread between them. She wasn't afraid per se, she just couldn't predict his reactions. His behaviour was so far from the Anakin she'd once known. Although, some things remained the same, she could tell. For example, she could still read his exposed eye like an open book. He was wavering, his conviction faltering and she was there to catch him when he fell. If he fell.

She prayed that he would fall.

"But it does. It does matter. All the things I have done… I cannot change what I have become, neither can you. Your efforts are misguided."

He trailed off, finally looking away. Averting his gaze, a distinct sense of shame bled into Anakin’s Force signature. The guilt was suffocating, closing in around Ahsoka as it poured off of him. Crashing in thick waves, dark and deep and overwhelming. Still, she bit her lip and continued to close in. He wasn't making any effort of moving to attack, wasn't attempting to back away. She was vaguely aware of her hand coming up by its own volition to blindly reach out for him.

"I don't care," she assured, but she felt her voice catch in her throat as the burn of tears began behind her eyes.

"How dare you propose that?!" he roared, a static shriek accompanying the booming vocals of the modulator cutting her off; eyes wide and crazed. "Do you even understand who I am? Do you understand what I have done?"

Ahsoka stopped dead in her tracks, swallowing hard. She was almost expecting him to revert back into fervent denial, to shoot her down and once again proclaim himself to be Vader. To once again pretend she meant nothing to him, that their past was nullified and nonexistent. That he had erased her impact on his life.

Instead, she watched the eerie golden glow of his eye begin to diminish. Slowly, as if it were fading and tapering out. As if it were a hue or film, being slowly wiped away. As if the fog was lifting, as if the spell of his self imposed mind control was breaking. As if the facade was cracking, as if he was coming apart. And little by little, a familiar pale blue shade began to emerge.

When Anakin spoke again, his tone was broken and quiet.

“You should be horrified.”

His broad shoulders gave a small wince, before sagging. Ahsoka watched him blink rapidly, apologetic gaze darting all over her face. It hurt. The pain radiating off of him was aiming straight for her consciousness, surging through her like red hot wires. Forcing her to share his suffering with pulses of intense, sharp anguish. She could sense his turmoil, his reluctance, his terror. He was terrified when faced with the prospect of accepting every heinous act he had committed as Vader, every atrocious thing he had done. He was frightened of the need to admit that there had never been a Vader in the first place, that everything was on him. He alone was to blame.

Yet, Ahsoka found she couldn't bring herself to blame him alone. She may resent what he had become, what he had done, but she could never bring herself to hate him. He was still Anakin, and whatever had led him down this path, she imagined it must be horrific. She had abandoned him when he needed her the most, if only she had been there for him - perhaps he might never have stooped so low. Bracing herself, she began to inch closer to him again. Her fingers twitching in anticipation, hand still reaching out towards him. Offering him a connection, a saving grace.

"I killed them... every single one of them. Every Jedi I could see. All of them. I had to, I couldn't stop. I had no choice. I couldn't..."

Even through the malfunctioning voicebox, the way his voice broke carried through as an unnatural, irregular pitching tone.

Blue. His eye was so light, so alive, a hurricane of emotions whirling within its depths. Like a clear, cloudless sky with a thunderstorm lurking at the horizon. Bloodshot, the scleras more pink than white. But the iris was baby blue.

"I know," Ahsoka simply whispered, nodding her head before repeating her words. “I know.”

She stretched her arm out further, taking a couple of more steps as he hung his head low. His gaze falling to the ground, a shudder wracking his large bulky frame. She focused on the eye, or as much of it as she could see when the helmet he wore shrouded it in dark shadows. Just a gentle, barely perceptible grace as her fingertips brushed against the rough fabric of his black cape. He didn't react, and she suspected he couldn't feel it. How much of his body was even his own anymore? Cautiously, she let her palm touch the armour piece before sliding over his shoulder. When it reached his upper arm, she pressed down to offer it a comforting squeeze - hoping he would feel that.

It spurred an immediate reaction. His head flew up, and he reared back as if he'd been burnt. As if her touch stung him. Eye wide open as he stared at her in shock, in astonishment; pleading with her not to allow herself to be tainted by his sins. In defense, Ahsoka held both hands up in front of her; what she hoped to be a reassuring expression on her face. She felt her stomach twist itself into tight knots, the bile rising in her throat. Once again, she was near convinced he would backtrack. She expected him to reignite his lightsaber, to waste little time in dispatching her. She held her breath, waiting fretfully.

Instead, she watched his naked eye slide shut. Instead, she watched as his tight grip on his own weapon loosened. She watched the hilt slide out of his gloved grip. Eyes flying back up to his face, she once again caught him staring at her. His blue eye misty, glazed over. It was only then she caught the gleam of tears pooling at the corners. She watched them gather, watched the unshed beads of water continue to well up.

"Anakin..." she gasped. "Oh, Anakin."

"I killed the younglings. I killed them all," he whispered. "What have I done?"

His voice was so weak, so full of regret and tangible remorse. The voicebox didn't even pick up on it. Only his own strangled, choked human tone piped up. Ahsoka could barely make it out, but she watched in stunned silence as a single tear broke free. Slowly, it made its way down his scarred, deformed, deathly pale cheek. Then followed another. And another. She could see him visibly trembling with the effort of attempting to restrain himself, the effort of holding his suffering back. Keeping it locked up, despite its attempts to overrule his ironwill.

Two steps, and once again her palm touched his arm. Face hard set, despite the stinging salty wetness prickling at the corners of her own eyes, she let her free hand come up. Careful but without hesitance, she gently let the pad of her thumb reach inside the crack of his face plate. She ran it ever so smoothly over his pale damaged skin, brushing away the wetness it found there only for another tear to break free.

"I know, Anakin. I forgive you."

He didn't respond, and for a second Ahsoka feared she had destroyed what little may be left of his fragile sanity. He stood still as a statue, as if the words wouldn't register. Gaze fixed straight ahead, as if seeing right through her. She raised her voice slightly when she spoke up again, desperate to get through to him. She put every ounce of her unabashed sincerity behind the words.

"Anakin. I forgive you."

A hideous sound erupted from him, and she suspected it was a sob tearing its way out. She blinked back her own tears, keeping a hold on herself as Anakin's legs began to buckle under his own weight. Another choked, an erratic static noise the only way in which the modulator could translate the whimpers. Still clinging to him, she had no choice but to follow him down as he sank hapless to his knees; shoulders shaking while the pain, the guilt and the sorrow he must have been keeping bottled up for years broke free. Without second thoughts, Ahsoka wrapped her slender arms around his large frame to her best extent. With gentle hands, she caressed his broad back. She exhaled a stuttering, weak sigh.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he rambled brokenly in a mantra, hoarse and choppy as he cried. "Oh mom, forgive me, Padmé, forgive me...! Ahsoka... forgive me, please, forgive me...!"

"It's alright. I forgive you, Anakin. I forgive you," Ahsoka murmured, a pang of laboured guilt present in her chest but she could do nothing else.

As soon as she'd spoken those words, his hands flew up. Hovering midair inches from her waist as if afraid to touch her, as if he feared he might break her in half if he tried. Anakin, who had always been starving for hugs, for touches, for affection. Why had he deprived himself of physical comfort for so long? She could sense his loneliness, his solitude as clearly as were it her own. Pressing down, she stroked his back more firmly and hummed to encourage, as if to assure him it was okay. She relaxed when his trembling arms came around her in a humble, restrained embrace. It seemed as if he had to relearn how to hold another person all over again.

Anakin still weeping, Ahsoka finally allowed herself to cave into her own emotional overload. Sniffling, she smiled brokenly, keeping a watchful eye on him through her tears. They had so little time, it wasn't safe here. The entire temple was ready to collapse at any moment. Yet, if they died together like this, she wouldn't mind it much. Instead, she clung tighter to her brother, her master, her only remaining family.

Anakin. She forgave him. He was himself again. He was in his right state of mind, no matter how agonizing. No matter how harsh the truth may be.

They were together again. Nothing else mattered.

-------------

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26325700

Found above on my Ao3, and reposted from my previous acc.

[sxfterhearts]

35. [4:28 pm]

➳ pairing: youngjae x reader

➳ genre/warnings: fluff, royal!au, prince!youngjae, lady!reader

➳ word count: 1,496 words

➳ summary: 35. “After you.”

➳ author's note: hello angels! i’m so so sorry for my recent absence, uni has been really busy. here is a youngjae fluff to make up for it! this is my first time writing this au so i’m excited to share this! it was a lot of fun and i got really inspired by nbtm + the wildflowers i saw on my trip :)) have a nice day and week lovelies <333

//

“After you,” Youngjae said breezily, a royal blue, satin covered arm coming up to brush a stray branch aside, clearing the path ahead for you.

“No,” You shook your head with a faux frown, refusing. “After you, Your Royal Highness.” Insistently, you rooted your leather high boots firmly onto the ground, not moving an inch.

“C'mon, Y/N!” He sighed exasperatedly, dramatically. Youngjae always harboured a burning hatred for formalities. “I know you liked our old spot at the top of the hill, but I swear you’ll love this place even better. I just want to show you a part of this kingdom that you’ve never seen before!” A glint of excitement flashed across your eyes at the mention of exploring another corner of his family’s vast lands. Sensing that you were about to cave to his request, the Prince hastily interlocked your fingers with his, guiding you through the dense forest just beyond the edge of the Royal Gardens. “Besides, as your host, I ought to bring you someplace that didn’t make you sneeze your brains out every other minute. The canola fields have triggered your allergies ever since you were a child.” Youngjae added.

“But I like the canola!”

Youngjae scrunched up his nose in distaste. “Well, I certainly don’t like explaining to your maids why their precious Lady turned into a swollen, slimy tomato by the end of our evening together and–”

“Okay, fine!” You squeezed his hand to signal your defeat. He couldn’t see your resigned, dejected look, the one that you wore every time he won an argument, but if he did, you’d bet on every single horse in your stables that he would clutch his stomach and double over in boisterous laughter. “You’ve said enough. Point taken.”

Satisfied, the Prince continued to lead you further into the forest. His pleasing, melodic whistles (charming renditions of folk songs, you supposed) were in harmony with the tunes of the lively forest. Your ears could easily pick up on the airy whispers of rustling leaves, the sweet sopranos of chirping birds and the trickling stream singing in an allegro tempo. It was shaping up to be quite an orchestra, with the one and only Youngjae taking centre stage as both lead singer and conductor.  

Throughout the far-reaching kingdom ruled by the Choi dynasty, Youngjae was known as the precious youngest son of the reigning monarchs. The boy made quite a name of himself by gracing those around him with his sunshine smile and bright personality. There were even poems and songs written about the Prince’s ability to shine his brilliant light onto his people’s lives. Many claimed that the Prince had a heart of pure gold, as he would often roam beyond the gates of the Palace, interacting with the locals by personally buying his art supplies from the markets, painting murals and paintings for the young and old, and lending a hand whenever a carriage got stuck in mud or when an old grandpa strained himself while moving large crates of vegetables. The people often muttered under their breaths about how it was such a shame that Youngjae had little chance of claiming the throne, for he was the last in line after his elder siblings. But the Youngjae you knew and grew up with had never set his sights on being King. Ever since spending that first summer in the Palace with his eleven-year-old self, you were certain that he was meant for even greater things. Youngjae loathed politics and diplomacies. He hated pretending like someone he wasn’t, just for the sake of strengthening relations and maintaining peace. All Youngjae wanted to do was to live a carefree life and practice his art.  

“We’re nearly there, My Lady,” Youngjae chirped in his best impression of a maid. “Just have to cross this tiny little stream.” The young royal came to a halt before the gushing stream, his free arm circling around your waist securely.

Your mouth went dry in an instant. The body of water a few steps ahead of you seemed like anything but a tiny little stream; it was fervently licking at the banks, swallowing and chomping up any leaf or branch or insect that stood in its way. You were deafened by the relentless roars of rapidly flowing water, causing you to shrink into his side in search of safety. Petrified, you glanced upwards at the Prince, shaking your head slowly to get your point across. You did not like this, not at all.

“I know you’re scared, Y/N, but I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me. I’ll hold onto you so tightly that we’ll be stuck together like two peas in a pod.”

“But I… I don’t…”

“You’ll never get hurt, not on my watch.” Youngjae declared resolutely. He knew; he could tell from your shallower breaths and widening pupils that you were afraid of falling in, just like you did five summers ago. You and your brother loved spending time within the Palace’s walls, but you had taken a special liking towards the koi pond right at the heart of the Royal Gardens. Each summer when you returned to the Palace from your home in the Northern Lands, the trees and the flowers and the design of the Gardens would change beyond recognition. The pond was the only thing that remained untouched, year after year.

You used to love sitting by the edges and feeding the koi fishes or testing out your paper boats with Youngjae and your brother. You could stay there for ages, from sunrise until sundown. That is, until you accidentally tripped into the pond and nearly drowned. After that, you avoided it like the plague.

“If you’re really not comfortable with this, we can turn around, no big deal.” Youngjae reminded you in the gentlest voice he could muster. The stream was barely a meter wide, with a large sturdy rock smack bang in its centre, but he knew; he could feel the hesitation radiating off your skin. He was aware of how the minutes seemed to drag into hours as you gasped for air that afternoon, your feet straining and struggling to reach the bottom. Youngjae knew that the memory still haunted you.

Your clammy hands clawed onto his back, your fingernails leaving deep imprints through his luxurious tunic. Sensing his eagerness to show you this new hideout of his, you tried your best to swallow your fears and gave him a slight nod.

“You sure? We really don’t have to.”

“I swear, Choi Youngjae,” You whispered impatiently. “If you don’t move right now, I’m going to change my mind.”

He chuckled at that, all melodious and warm. His laughter felt like a blast of sunshine on a cool spring day, which did wonders to ease your nerves. He wasted no time in holding you close to his chest, similar to how you would position yourselves when dancing side by side in the Palace’s ballroom. “It’s a lot like dancing, really.” Youngjae said, inching towards the very edge of the stream. “You just have to coordinate your steps with mine. We’ve done this before a million times. Now, right foot, oh yes, your right. Okay, ready? Take a big step and –”

Your feet moved in perfect unison. The two of you arrived on the rock in the blink of an eye. “We made it.” You breathed out in disbelief.

Youngjae simply cradled you snugly in his arms for several moments. You relished in the immeasurable amount of security you felt being with him, while he grinned smugly at the sight of you finally overcoming your fear. “I told you so,” He pressed his lips against your ear and whispered.

The rest of the journey only took another five minutes. Before you knew it, you arrived at a small yet breathtaking clearing in the forest. The ground was decorated with a plethora of wildflowers emerging amongst tall grass, specks of white and gold and pink everlastings flooding your entire vision. In the middle of the clearing sat a large rock and a fallen trunk, the ideal place to sit down, catch your breath and take in the wondrous scenery.

Which was exactly what you and Youngjae did for the rest of the late afternoon. You drank from your flask of elderflower cider while inhaling the fragrant, floral perfumes surrounding you; Youngjae chewed on the end of his sketching pencil while also crafting a rough sketch of you in his notebook, resting on the trunk. You laughed and you talked, all while sharing a loaf of buttered rosemary bread you swiped from the kitchens this morning.

Much to your pleasant surprise, you didn’t let out a single sneeze. Not even when Youngjae passed you his sketch for your inspection and placed a white flower behind your ear. This was exactly why he brought you here, he claimed.

He was right. As it turned out, you loved this place the most.

[lotornomiko]

The Brokenhearted Comfort 16 (Worksafe)

Finally wrote something! Previous chapters can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051705/chapters/9116500

Returning to the celebration, had been among one of the hardest things that Belle has ever had to force herself to do. The reality of facing those knowing eyes, the looks a mix of sympathetic and leering, the crew seeming divided down the line on just who they pitied more. The young woman they had gone through so much trouble to rescue, or that of their captain, the man that had gone so mad for her. There was even a few who might seem angry, or at the very least annoyed, some of the pirates bothered by Belle’s lack of gratitude where their leader was concerned. She blanched paler yet to see it, Kate’s hand on the small of her back, the only comforting presence that the woman had, the strong spirited lass guiding the princess past so many of the openly staring people, towards a smaller cluster of women. These ladies at least seemed more tolerant of the beauty’s situation, if not outright sympathetic.

Kate made the introductions, though try as Belle might, her mind was distracted, casting an uneasy look around the room. She could find no sign of the captain, of Hook, and was able to breathe a bit better with him being gone. It wouldn’t be a lasting reprieve, the ship that they were on, big but only to an extent. The pirate would eventually make his way back, and the beauty had to suppress a shudder at the thoughts of what would follow then.

It was noticed all the same, that haunted look leaking into her expression. Kate shared a frown with the others, and abruptly a mug of some kind was being pushed into Belle’s hands. It was slightly cool to the touch, that amber liquid almost hypnotic as the woman stared down into the stine. She could almost see herself reflected across the surface, and from the strong smell of it, the princess knew it was an intoxicant of some kind, and was the last thing that she truly needed.

“I shouldn’t...” She looked up from the mug, but whoever had handed it to her, had stepped out of reach.

“Some spirit will do you a world of wonders...” Kate advised in a kindly tone. “And not just that of the liquid kind!”

She might have blushed then, Belle starting to lower her gaze once more. “Spirited or not, I doubt that will help me much...”

“It certainly can’t hurt the situation anymore.” Kate retorted. “And you’re less likely to hate YOURSELF if you do something more than just roll over like some broken doormat...!”

“That’s not what I have been doing!” Belle protested with a gasp, but a sharper spike of something, guilt most likely, had then stabbed through her. For hadn’t that been exactly what she had been reduced to? Just rolling over for HIS lustful demands, pawed at and manhandled in front of every last man and women present in this room? Treated with little to no real courtesy as befit a lady, a princess, of her standing? She couldn’t stand what she was becoming, how broken, how beaten she already seemed to think of herself as.

“I really am without spirit, aren’t I...” She muttered it too soft for the others to hear over the roar of the celebrating pirates. There was no missing the frown on her face, or the frustration blooming in those expressive blue eyes, Belle so trampled and defeated by more than just the pirate. Yes, Hook had helped play a small part in it, but Rumplestiltskin and the Evil Queen had done a substantial amount of damage to the princess as well. She didn’t know how to recover from it, from any of them, and that left her smoldering with a kernel of anger from deep inside. A kind of resentment that could become fiercer yet, if only the woman knew how to nurture it.

That little ember inside her could flicker out completely, or be brought to ignite into a blaze, the woman nearly at a defining point. She was so tired, so tired of the pain, the heart ache and the fear, the despair that consumed her near every waking moment. Belle was in fact sick of being without hope, and though THAT wasn’t in any way within her reach, the young lady didn’t want to break any further. Didn’t want to lose anymore of her self or her spirit, some sliver of resolve seeping into the blue of her eyes.

“Oh aye, that’s more like it.” Kate was approving. “That bold blue suits you far better than the cold misery you have thus far been wrapping yourself in.”

She didn’t feel any less miserable, nor did the beauty feel any true empowerment. What Belle felt was that of being fed up, sick of everyone deciding that of her fate but her. It had started not with her captors, but with that of her own father, the man plotting out a suitable if loveless marriage for her. Gaston had been no better, the man pompous and overbearing, content to rule her and any decisions. No wonder she had all but jumped to go off with Rumplestiltskin, thinking a life as his slave would be better than anything back in the kingdom. It hadn’t been, the love she had grown into, deemed nothing more than nuisance at best, and thoroughly unwanted by the Dark One, Belle had been driven out onto the streets. Left broken hearted and loathe to return to her own kingdom, to be a martyr there, she had instead had her life further destroyed by the pirate and then the Evil Queen. There was a real resentment within her there, Belle not having had the chance to properly backlash her own feelings onto any of her tormentors.

Worst was the fact that all three had power over her. Be it of the magical kind, or that of brute physical strength, there was an imbalance to the dynamic between them. There would always be, she realized and recognized this as fact, and the ember inside her started to flicker as though to die. She was left suffocating with it, and then the resentment was burning stronger, Belle angry and hating, and absolutely furious over her situation. Over all of it, every last indignity and hurt that had been done her, and she was drinking down, swallowing down that amber liquid as though it would bolster her nerve sfurther.

She immediately began choking on the strong taste, that amber liquid so thick and burning as it went down her throat.

“Easy does it,” advised Kate. “It goes down rough, but you’ll get used to the taste soon enough!”

Belle just shook her head no, trying to pass the mug off to someone else. It wasn’t for her, this drink, or this life, the princess wanting something better than the hand that fate had tried to deal her. It all still seemed so hopeless, a better life something the beauty was now incapable of truly imagining. There was simply too many targets painted on her back, with little if any chance of evading THAT which was coming for her.

As if brought back by such thoughts, she felt it when he made his presence known. Felt the heavy oppression of his stare boring into her from behind. It made her skin crawl as all the color leeched from it, the weight of his looking almost a tangible thing, Belle feeling as though Hook was stripping her bare with his eyes alone. She braced herself, and pivoted in place, catching sight of the naked hunger of his expression focused unwavering on her. Like a frightened doe, she was caught and staring back, even as she inched closer towards the pirate lass, Kate, seeking a protection that couldn’t truly be given.

“It makes me wish she had knocked him unconscious for a time.” Kate muttered, the she that the woman referred to, being that of the cook.

“Suppose it too small a miracle to hope some sense was instead!” Another pirate wench murmured, her tone almost disapproving. Belle glanced at her, the woman a redheaded lass with a blue gaze that was narrowed towards the captain.

  “Honestly Belle, just what did you do to make him lose his head so?” A third inquired, hands on her hips. It wasn’t a truly mean spirited question, and yet Belle shrank from it all the same, the circle of females suddenly all looking at her once more.

“Nothing!” She squeaked out. “I did nothing of the sort!”

“Of the sort?” It was quickly seized upon as a topic of interest, and the princess just wanted to sink down into the floor and disappear.

“Whatever it was...you could make a killing bottling it, that’s for damn sure!” The redhead exclaimed with a laugh. ‘There’s more than a few broken hearts out there, that would have loved to have landed our captain!”

“Tis’ almost a shame...” Another mused. “That such be wasted on the unappreciative.”

“Malabeth!” Kate and several others snapped out the pirate wench’s name. She muttered an apology that was insincere at best, her eyes hardly as friendly as the others were, when looking at Belle.

“You’re more than welcome to him!” Belle exclaimed, her face and tone hot for her anger and embarrassment. Malabath looked to be fuming in response, and even more so when the other ladies began teasing her.

“Malabeth knows when she’s been outclassed.” One said.

“She’s tried and failed for more years than you can imagine!” Another laughed as this Malabaeth’s face soured.

“Pardon me if I fail to see how a...”

“That’s enough...ALL of you!” Kate snapped, cutting off whatever Malabeth had been about to finish saying. “This be a delicate situation, and not one that needs cut ANYONE anymore than they have already been.”

Malabeth still had that look in her eyes, a narrowed eyed focus of such anger and dislike. Belle didn’t want any more, and yet she felt like this woman was on the verge of becoming yet another one of her enemies, jealousy the trigger for such spite and malice. Belle almost let out a nervous laugh then, thinking how insane it was to earn such hate for having the attention of a man she did not even want. She wasn’t even sure how to make an attempt at smoothing things over, nor did he beauty truly feel like she had it in her to TRY.

Her plate full enough without some scorned lover to add to it, Belle could only hope that this wouldn’t become a problem that manifested anytime soon.

To Be Continued...

Short I know...I am just happy to have written something, anything for this story...been stuck on this chapter for a LONG time...Could never get it started to my satisfaction, and still didn’t get it advanced as far as I would like....

Been missing writing for this pairing. Randomly chose to start reading stuff while I was sick for ALL of July...only it was hard to get into this one, cause I was cringing SO hard on the first few chapters. I actually started trying to rewrite chapter one....but glad I didn’t finish the rewrite. While I hate how bad my writing was for the first batch of chapters, I do love how the story develops around nine and up....like I think my writing started to improve, and those are the chapters that made me eager to try and work some more on this story...though I feel so rusty....and maybe this was the wrong story to try when I feel so...meh...unused to writing for them.

Also think I was stuck...cause after looking at my notes for the fic, its like soon I have to make a decision on whether this becomes full non con or not...X_X Tough choice to make too...

---Michelle

[schrijverr]

8 times Jonny refused a hug from a Mechanism + 1 time he got a group hug

This is just what it says on the tin. Jonny is not always in the best place mental health wise and isn’t willing to accept a hug, despite wanting one. When the others take note they try to help him.

(fun fact the working title was: Jonny just accept a hug, okay, you need it)

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: Jonny shoots himself in the head a few times and asks others to kill him, also alcoholism, allusion to past abuse and just general bad mental health. It is pretty hurt/comfort over all, but be safe out there and tell me if I missed anything!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jonny had never been good at accepting nice things for himself such as human contact. His father had been a drunk and not a nice one at that and the places he usually hung out besides home were bars where any sign of weakness would mean a beating. After that he’d gotten his mechanism and all knew how unpleasant that had been.

All in all it was safe to say Jonny didn’t know how to react to positive contact other than with anger or violence, no matter how much he wanted it.

The crew of the Aurora wasn’t a touchy-feely bunch, but all had enough trauma to realize that a hug from time to time could go a long way and after a few millennia together you lose most of the shame or embarrassment.

1.

So when Brian found Jonny slumped over the kitchen counter alone in the middle of the night surrounded by bottles of whiskey he walked up to him and put his hand gently on Jonnys shoulder with the intention of pulling him into a hug.

However, Jonny flinched at the contact and jerked back, snapping his head back and almost falling over when the alcohol in his bloodstream tried to catch up with the movement.

Once he had steadied himself, he gave Brian a bleary glare. Brian had taken a quick step back at the sudden and violent movement and raised his hands in a disarming manner. He said: “Whoa, calm down there, it’s just me.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Jonny slurred, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Just walking, it gets boring when everyone’s asleep.” Brian answered truthfully.

Jonny hummed as he looked him over, then he asked: “And why did you felt the need to attack me? As far as I can’t remember I didn’t do anything to you recently, the thing with screws was Tims fault.”

“What?” Brian replied utterly confused, “I wasn’t attacking you.”

“Then what the actual fuck were you doing?” Jonny asked him, unimpressed by the answer.

Brian answered: “I was planning on giving you a hug. You looked like you needed it, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jonny snapped, “Just leave the fuck alone. I don’t need your pity.”

He started to walk away, stumbling over his own feet. Brian was honestly surprised he hadn’t died from alcohol poisoning with the amount of bottles on the counter, although it was highly probable that he had and just continued drinking after he’d gotten back.

Brian called after him: “It wasn’t pity, just concern.”

Jonny only flipped him off before disappearing out of sight, leaving Brian alone. Brian, or any of the of other Mechanisms for that matter, didn’t see him for a week after that, but he seemed his usual self when he returned, so Brian didn’t push him.

2.

It happened again a while later, this time it was Ashes, who found him. They’d had a bit too many nightmares to go to sleep again and were looking for some sort of distraction (hug or alcohol, depending on what they would find first) when they saw a light on in the kitchen.

They sat down next to Jonny and asked: “Rough night?”

“You could say that.” Jonny chuckled, taking another swig. The past week everything had just been bad and he didn’t know why or how to explain it. He’d managed to hide it from everyone and be his bastard self during the day, but he hadn’t been sleeping instead he had spend every night like this, hoping no one would find him. Alas his luck had ran out.

Ashes gave him an understanding look that he didn’t like, so he just shoved an unopened bottle their way and returned his gaze to the bottom of his glass.

The Quartermaster opened the bottle and drank half in one go. It seemed like it would be both a hug and alcohol tonight. When they were done drinking, they set down the bottle and turned to Jonny. He’d had caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at them. He frowned and asked: “What are you planning on doing? Cause I am not in the mood to die tonight.”

“You’re not going to die.” Ashes told him with an eyeroll, before grabbing his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

They could feel him tense for a split second, then he melted. It didn’t last long, however, because the moment he had melted he tensed again and started wiggling and fighting. He grumbled: “Let me go, let me go, I said LET ME GO.”

At the final outburst Ashes did, they rubbed their ears and snapped: “Did you have to yell?”

“Did you have to hug me?” Jonny returned, he dusted off his clothes and gave them a glare, “What is it with you people and your hugs?”

“I’ve never hugged you before. Don’t accuse me.” Ashes shot back. They were tired and confused, but they did suddenly realize that they really hadn’t hugged Jonny before in all the time they’d known each other and they couldn’t think of who Jonny would be referring to.

They were snapped out of their musings when Jonny said: “Yes and I would like to keep it that way.” before stomping off.

Ashes sulked alone after that until Brian came past, taking a longer route on his midnight walk. Ashes didn’t mention Jonny or what happened, but they did accept the long hug and the offer to stay with them till the morning.

3.

After that Jonny had decided that drinking alone in the kitchen wasn’t worth it if he kept being interrupted and hugged. He felt weird about the hugging. It made his heart do funny things and he hated it when his heart did, well anything really. So he started piling alcohol in his room and just hiding there instead, which meant it took some time before anyone found him again.

He hadn’t been drinking surprisingly enough, instead he’d retreated to one of the distant corners of the ship, far away from anyone else, and was shooting some crates in the vain hope that the banging sound and the feeling of the recoil would silence his mind for a moment.

What he hadn’t counted on was that Tim had been killed by Marius for hiding his violin and was coming to a couple of rooms away from where he was violently shooting the crates and raging at them.

Tim heard the screams and gunfire and first assumed there was a fight going on. He ran to it, before realizing that there was only one person screaming and it wasn’t a ‘fuck yeah’ scream, but a scream of anguish and loathing. Stopping in his tracks he listened more closely, until he had pinned down where it came from and who was screaming.

Then he slowly made his way over there. He stopped in the doorway and watched as Jonny emptied his gun in one of the crates, before kicking it and falling to his knees with a scream. There was more splintered wood of other ruined crates surrounding him and Tim was sure Jonny had bloodied hands from the wood cutting them open.

Jonny would be shooting the wall were it not for the fact that the Aurora would alert Nastya if such a thing were to happen, so destroying crates it was.

When Tim saw Jonny fumbling to reload his gun and turn his gaze to another crate, he made his presence known. With the small noise of a throat being cleared Jonny turned around with a snarl and shot Tim, but the gun just clicked since he hadn’t managed to reload it with his bloody and shaking hands.

He growled at the gun, before snapping: “Leave me alone, Tim. I have no time for your bullshit tonight, go bother someone else.”

“Hey, who says I’m here to bother you?” Tim asked indignantly.

Jonny gave him a look and told him: “You’re always bothering me.”

Tim shrugged that was pretty fair, then he said: “Well, I’m not here to bother you now.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Jonny was sounding very annoyed right now.

“Marius killed me nearby, heard the noise. Just wanted to ask if you’re alright, maybe need a hug or something.” Tim replied.

“I’m fine, why does everyone keep asking me that. I just want everyone to leave me alone, I don’t need your bloody hugs, so fuck off.” Jonny screamed, snapping at the suggestion of him needing anything.

Tim set a step backwards in shock at the sudden outburst. He frowned and replied: “No need to be so aggressive.”, then he stomped off grumbling some more about unappreciative First Mates, leaving Jonny on the ground, still surrounded by the corpses of crates.

When Tim was gone his shoulders sagged, his heckles no longer raised. Something inside him crumbled at the thought that Tim hadn’t stayed, hadn’t insisted. He quickly pushed it down, he already felt shit enough there was no need to make it worse with this weird twisted feeling of longing.

He screamed again and attacked the next crate, it didn’t break, but Jonnys hand did. The scream of anger turned into one of pain and then that scream turned into sobs as Jonny fell to his knees again and just sat there as he cried.

4.

Ivy stumbled upon him on accident. She had been reading a book while she was walking and hadn’t noticed the corpse until she tripped over it.

Turning around she saw it was Jonny, there was a hole in his head and a gun in his hand. There was a big blood splatter on the wall behind him and Ivy calculated that there was a 87% chance that he had killed himself a few times already. She decided that she would stay until he came back again to ask if he wanted a hug.

She only had wait a few minutes, before Jonny started to blink as he became aware again. He looked around and spotted her, immediately frowning and asking: “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Well, I tripped over you and waited for you to wake up, since there is a 99% chance you’re having a terrible day and a 97% chance a hug would make you feel a bit better.” Ivy told him, voice monotone.

The frown turned into a scowl with her facts and he spat out: “Well, seems like the 3% applies, so fuck off.”

Ivy shrugged and stood up to leave, if Jonny was sure he didn’t want a hug she wasn’t going to argue with him. She did turn around and saw his face. Hesitating she said: “There is a 67% you don’t actually want me to leave, so…”

He flipped her off and Ivy nodded before leaving, behind her she heard another gunshot. She sighed, but didn’t turn around, she had a book to read after all.

5.

Looking up from really the most fascinating reaction of the octokittens, Raphaella spotted Jonny standing on the threshold of her lab. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and been on a bender as he stumbled the step into the lab, allowing the door to slide close behind him.

Raphaella put down her notebook and asked: “What are you doing here? I almost never see you here.”

Jonny shrugged and answered: “I feel like dying, a lot. Have any experiments you need help with?”

That was unusual, Raphaella thought, Jonny never wanted to take part in her experiments, murdering and fighting if he ever ended up in the position. No, Jonny hated her experiments, he would never volunteer to help her. She put this all in to words quite eloquently with a: “What?”

“Experiments.” Jonny said, “They’re your whole thing right? Experiments that end in death all the time. I want to die, you can help, what do you not understand?”

“Did someone put you up to this?” Raphaella asked, trying to put enough data together to make a hypothesis of why Jonny would be in her lab.

“No.” Jonny exclaimed with a frown, then he angrily added: “Why are you questioning me? You’re always begging for subjects, why do I suddenly not qualify?”

“You do. It’s just-” Raphaella began, “It’s just that you hate being here and you look like shit. I was just wondering why you suddenly decided to show up, that’s all.”

That only angered Jonny further and he said: “Well, maybe I’m here because I am feeling shitty, maybe that’s why I want to die today. Your big science brain ever think of that?”

“No need to get mean.” Raphaella told him with a pout.

The fight drained out of Jonny as his shoulders sagged and his eyes seemed to age eons. He suddenly seemed his immortal age. Looking back at her he said: “Sorry, just fucking kill me, okay.”

It was the sorry that made Raphaella feel icky. Sure, she had loads of experiments she needed help with from a willing immortal participant, but Jonny didn’t look like he was here for science and Raphaella knew that most of the crew just wanted a hug if they felt like that, but she also didn’t know how to bring that up with Jonny, so she just said: “I mean, if you’re sure…”

“I am.” Jonny told her, with, wait was that relief in his voice? Raphaella didn’t really know what to do with that data, so she just pulled out her least painful experiment and ushered Jonny to the table.

Once he was lying down he asked: “What are you going to do?”

She checked her chart and grinned at him, before explaining: “I am going to see how long it takes for this new acid I created to eat through your brain and kill you. I have ten prototypes I want to test, if that’s okay with you. It would be better if it was all the same test subject.”

“Go for it.” Jonny told her.

She grabbed the first vial and held it over his head, she hesitated for a moment and said: “If you’re just doing this to escape I can give you a hug instead and we can forget about all this.”

He glared at her and ripped the vial out of her hands, before pouring it over his face and screaming when the pain set in, distracting Raphaella enough to forget about her question.

6.

The door swung open with a bang, startling Marius, who was practicing his violin parts. The sudden false and loud note he made when he jumped got Jonnys attention. He was just slamming the door open to get some aggression out, but he hadn’t anticipated on anyone being here.

Here being the practice room, where he had hidden a stash of alcohol just in case he couldn’t retreat to his room without running into anyone, but needed a drink. Something that had happened today, since he knew Brian was looking for him after his stunt on the bridge where he had thrown Brian down to blow of some steam (it hadn’t worked.)

He and Marius made eye contact silently for a second, before Marius smiled and with a chipper voice he asked: “Come to practice as well, Jonny?”

“No.” was all Jonny said, turning around to leave here as well. He had another stash near the engine room and he knew Nastya was too busy to notice him.

“Wait, wait don’t leave.” Marius called out, standing up.

Slowly Jonny turned around and spat out: “What!”

He was so sick of people wanting to talk to him when he hated the world and himself. He didn’t want their attention, he didn’t want their hugs, he just wanted to be alone and drink, destroy or die. Why did no one get that?

Marius tried to look disarming and said: “Nothing, just was lonely here, I hoped you’d like to join?”

“I don’t.” Jonny answered flatly.

“Why not? I don’t think you have anything better to do and I could use some news ears about this part I’ve written for a new song, maybe?” Marius replied.

Jonny hesitated, he could use a distraction right now, but Marius was also notorious for figuring out what was wrong with someone and manipulating them into talking about it, which he was not in the mood for.

He shot the self proclaimed Doctor a suspicious look, the man in question smiled at him and he decided what the hell, why not. So he shrugged: “Sure, whatever.”

“Great.” Marius exclaimed, starting to play something he had been toying with in his head, but wasn’t really anything concrete yet.

Marius was quite pleased with himself, when Jonny was smiling to himself a little and tapping along with the music as he made comments here and there. After an hour or so they’d fleshed out a small idea into a proper song.

“Thanks, Jonny.” Marius said, “I knew I could use your input. Feeling a bit better, too?”

Jonny had smiled at the first part, but that fell away when Marius asked the latter part. He glared at Marius and slowly asked: “Did you make this whole thing up just to make me feel better, Marius von Raum?”

Marius swallowed and partially lied: “No, I had that idea and you were the first I came across.”

He got a sharper glare and then he added: “But you were a bit aggressive, but not your normal aggressive, more your frustrated aggression, you know? Which is fine, but I thought you could use a distraction and I needed help, so win-win.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Jonny said.

That earned him a disbelieving look from Marius, who said: “We both know that’s a lie. Do you want to talk about what was bothering you?”

“You’re bothering me.”

“I am a great listener if you want to talk about it.” Marius insisted, then he added: “And I give great hugs.”

Jonny snapped, he didn’t know how many times he had told people this, but still they kept asking, so he yelled: “I don’t need a hug, I don’t want a hug, okay. I’m not some child that needs comforting, because it thinks there’s a monster in the closet. I am fine, I don’t need to talk. Stop asking me if I want a fucking hug.”

“Needing a hug is not just something for children, you know. It’s proven that hugging and other positive contact from fellow living beings, mostly humanoid ones, has many beneficial effects on mental and physical health.” Marius said, trying to gently tell Jonny it was okay to be vulnerable and to need help from time to time.

It didn’t work. Jonny walked away, but not before saying: “You’re not even a real Doctor.”

Marius looked at the closed door for some time after that. He didn’t know what to do with that reaction. Jonny probably didn’t want to talk about it and he would murder Marius if he found out he talked about his analogies of him with another crew member, but it also wasn’t a healthy reaction and Marius just wanted to help.

He looked at the closed door again and decided to think about it before restarting a conversation, maybe when Jonny wasn’t in such a bad place for example.

7.

Back when it was just them, Nastya and Jonny huddled up many times while they hid in the engine room, hoping that this time they wouldn’t be found, wouldn’t be taken. So when she entered the engine room in the middle of the night and saw Jonny there, it wasn’t hard to put together why.

He didn’t look like his normal self, the makeup around his eyes was gone, he had only one belt around his waist (his sleep belt) and he was shaking. She sat down next to him, but when she raised her arm to put around him in a comforting manner he flinched back.

She stopped, her arm still in midair and gently asked: “Jonny, what’s wrong?”

Jonny gave her a guilty look and, like it hurt him to speak the words, he chocked out: “I- I can- can’t.”

He tried to make her understand with his eyes, but Nastya didn’t understand. She had always held on tight to him, but he had clung to her just as much. Did Jonny not want a hug? Why would he not want a hug? He was upset, wasn’t he? Did she do something wrong? Did she do something to upset him? She couldn’t think of anyone and just frowned at him in confusion as she carefully asked: “Do you- do you not want a hug?”

It was as if someone had taken a weight of his shoulder as he nodded. He saw that her face fell at that and he quickly said: “It’s not- I, ugh, I can’t- I do want one, but I can’t, not now.”

That didn’t make a lot of sense to Nastya. Jonny wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t want to be comforted at some level, but the only way Nastya knew how to comfort him was with a hug, but he didn’t want, no he couldn’t get one? Yeah, Nastya was confused.

She asked: “What do- No, uhm, what can you do? And want, but, you know?”

“Share a pillow?” he said like a question while gesturing to her pillow pile.

Nastya nodded, she could do that. In the end they both laid on one side of the pillow, only their heads next to each other. Neither looked at the other, both just staring at the ceiling in thought. After a while Jonny murmured: “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Nastya answered, turning her head enough to give him a smile.

She fell asleep and never figured out if Jonny did too, because when she woke up he was gone and she didn’t run into him later.

Jonny was avoiding her.

8.

Jonny was still avoiding Nastya when it happened again. He felt guilty about turning Nastya down, but he just couldn't allow himself to be hugged. He’d stopped hugging people the moment the bitch had “fallen” out of the airlock and he didn’t need to comfort anyone after she’d been done with them anymore.

It wasn’t that his body didn’t ache at every offer turned down, it was just that he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

There was just no other way to explain it. The only positive contact he’d had, had either turned negative leaving him more broken or he hadn’t been the focus point. He could handle comforting others, but letting himself be hugged was just too much for Jonny. He didn’t deserve it and it was just too much.

Because of all this guilt and inner turmoil he was sitting at the observation deck. Hardly anyone ever came here and he needed to be alone for a moment. Alone with no gun and no alcohol.

The stars drifted past him as he allowed himself to get swallowed by the swirling pit of despair that grew inside his gut.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming his way. He whipped his head around to check if it wasn’t Nastya and was instead met with The Toy Soldier along with Brian. When they saw him The Toy Soldier waved and cheerily called out: “How’s It Going, Good Man.”

Jonny huffed and ignored it, turning back to the stars and hugging his knees to his chest. He knew that he probably looked pretty pathetic, but he didn’t care what The Toy Soldier thought of him and he knew Brian was either nice and would be considerate or not and wouldn’t care.

The Toy Soldier turned to Brian and asked: “Is He Alright? Why Is He Not Responding?”

“I think he’s upset.” Brian said, like Jonny wasn’t right there. He would’ve snapped at him, if he wasn’t too exhausted.

“Oh, I Can Fix That.” The Toy Soldier exclaimed and before anyone could react it had ran forwards and enveloped Jonny in a big hug.

In the background Jonny could hear Brian call out that that might not be a great idea, but he was more focused on the wooden arms around him. They weren’t comfortable by any means, but The Toy Soldier seemed so genuine that it cracked something inside Jonnys chest.

He needed them off of him.

Now.

He tensed and blindly grabbed it and threw it across the observation deck. It wasn’t heavy, all made off wood, so it flew easy through the space and landed with a dull thud.

Not deterred by the sudden attack it stood back up with a smile and turned back to Jonny before it advanced again. Jonny scrambled up and ran away, but The Toy Soldier set chase.

Jonny hoped Brian was on nice mode, and from what he had heard the other probably was, as he hid behind him, using him as shield against The Toy Soldier.

Brian tried to stop it, but it wasn’t listening. Instead there was now a game of who can walk around Brian in such away that the other can’t reach him. When the game started to make Jonny dizzy he fell back on his last resort and said: “I order you not to hug me or catch me.”

It stopped in its tracks and its smile turned into a frown as he asked: “Why Do You Not Want Me To Hug You? Am I Not A Good Hugger?”

“I’m sure, Jonny didn’t mean it that way.” Brian tried to comfort it, but it wouldn’t listen. Instead it cried: “Tell Me, Ol’ Chap, How Can I Improve?”

“I don’t want you to improve, shit head.” Jonny spat back, “I want you to leave me the fuck alone!”

“Why?” it asked, “You Are Upset, Do You Not Want Help Or Comfort When You are Upset?”

“Maybe I just don’t want help from you.” Jonny told it viscously, heckles raised, before he stomped away.

The Toy Soldier was near tears as it turned to Brian and asked what it had done wrong. Brian put a comforting hand on its shoulder and said: “You did nothing wrong, Toy Soldier. Jonny just isn’t the hugging type.”

The Toy Soldier sniffled: “But Ivy Told Me That There Is A High Chance An Upset Crew Member Would Like A Hug And Marius Told Me Hugging Was Good For People.”

Brian thought about that, he looked over to where Jonny had disappeared. Then he seemed to realize something and he explained: “Some people find it hard to accept nice things, I’m sure Marius knows more about it than I do, why don’t you go ask him, okay?”

“I Will.” it said with a salute, clearly a lot more cheery than it had been a second ago, “Thank You, Brian.”

Then it skipped off.

+1.

“Good, Doctor Marius, I Was Looking For You.” The Toy Soldier exclaimed as it entered the common lounge area.

The entire crew, save Brian and Jonny, was there since it was Knife Monopoly night, which was not something anyone wanted to miss. Marius looked up from where he was setting up the board and said: “Hi, Toy Soldier. What can I do for you?”

“I Have A Question.” it said.

“Ask away.”

“Why Do Some People Not Accept Nice Things When They’re Upset?”

Marius stopped what he was doing and asked: “What brought this on?”

“Well,” The Toy Soldier began to explain, “I Came Across Captain Jonny And He Was Upset, But When I Tried To Hug Him, He Got Even More Upset And Ordered Me To Stop. I Did Not Know Why He Did That, But Brian Explained That Some People Find It Hard To Accept Nice Things And That I Should Ask You If I Wanted To Know More.”

“He ordered you to stop?” asked Tim.

The Toy Soldier nodded and all frowned. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for someone to order The Toy Soldier around, but they tended to avoid it if possible out of common courtesy, most knew how shit it was to have to do something without wanting to.

“So Why Does He Not Want My Hug?” The Toy Soldier asked.

“It’s nothing personal, TS.” Tim said, “He didn’t want a hug from me either.”

“He refused my hug as well.” Ivy told it.

“Wait.” Marius said, “He also didn’t want me to hug him and got quite mad when I mentioned trying to make him feel better. Did any of you hug him, recently or anytime?”

It fell silent as all thought about it, in the end it was Nastya, who spoke up first: “I don’t think I can really remember the last time I hugged Jonny. He was upset a few days ago, but he didn’t want a hug then, well. Uhm. He said he wanted to, but he couldn’t.”

“That idiot.” said Ashes, after all the others also confirmed that Jonny hadn’t wanted a hug from them either.

Ivy said: “There is a 96% chance, Jonny is letting personal issues get in the way of accepting positive contact despite wanting them.”

“As a Doctor.” Marius began, getting cut off by multiple that he wasn’t a Doctor, which he waved away before he went on: “As a Doctor, I prescribe Jonny a hug, a group hug. Anyone want to help administer the medicine?”

That got some cheers, just as Brian walked in. With apprehension he asked: “What are we cheering about?”

“We’re giving Jonny a group hug when he comes.” Tim grinned.

“Where were you, by the way.” Ashes asked.

“Oh, I was trying to find Jonny after his run in with The Toy Soldier.” Brian said, “No luck, but I’m sure he wouldn’t miss Knife Monopoly.”

“We have to make a plan.” Marius called the attention of everyone as they set to work making a plan.

While they were planning getting Jonny so far to accept a group hug, Jonny got out of his hiding place, cautiously checking if Brian was still there.

Jonny was not having a good day. He’d already not been having a good day, but that not good day had only gotten worse after his run in with Brian and The Toy Soldier.

He felt guilty about he had reacted, which came on top of the turmoil he was already feeling inside. He was honestly considering skipping Knife Monopoly night, so he wouldn’t have to face it or Nastya. He didn’t want to deal with questions and then the others would get on his case as well, but not showing up would mean the same. Jonny never missed Knife Monopoly, he had to beat Tim and Ashes in their ongoing tournament after all.

Which was how he found himself walking towards the common lounge area.

When he arrived he stopped in the doorway for a moment, it seemed he was the last one there and going off the looks on the others faces they were planning something. He turned around, deciding he didn’t want to deal with this anyway, but before he could a voice called out: “Jonny! You’re here, great. We were waiting for you.”

“Marius.” Jonny greeted him, gritting his teeth and turning back around again.

He set one careful step into the room, eying them all, he did not like the energy in the room. The others just stared at him until he had sat down. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he asked: “Something wrong?”

“You tell us.” Marius replied.

“God fucking dammit, Marius, I don’t need your psychoanalyzing today. I just want to know why you’re all staring at me like I’m going to collapse into a pile of dust if you breathe too hard.” he snapped.

They had at least the manners to look a bit guilty. Marius tried to reassure him a bit and gently said: “We’re just worried about you, Jonny.”

Jonny groaned: “What is it with you people? We kill and fight each other for fun, now all of a sudden you’ve turned into grandmas or something.”

“And this is exactly why we’re worried.” Marius told him.

“Why? Just why?” Jonny asked, exasperated.

“Well,” Marius began to explain, “we are a violent bunch, but sometimes violence is not the answer.” that earned him a disbelieving snort from Jonny, which he ignored, “Sometimes you just need to talk and a hug.”

“I do that.” Jonny lied, sounding petulant.

“That’s the thing, Jonny.” Marius said, “You don’t.”

Jonny swallowed heavily and started to look for a way out, already regretting sitting down. He noticed that the others had subtly moved to block all the exits and cursed mentally. They’d planned this, he knew something was up and he had walked straight into their trap.

They had all decided that Marius would be the best to talk to Jonny, so he went on: “We pooled all our knowledge together and came to the conclusion that none of us remember hugging you, definitely not recently. However, we all do remember you getting mad at the offer of a hug.”

“And what made you all decide that talking about me and my hugging was a good conversation topic.” Jonny grumbled, ignoring what Marius had said.

Marius took it is stride and explained: “The Toy Soldier wanted to know why you didn’t want a hug and one thing lead to another and then suddenly we all realized that you weren’t getting enough hugs.”

“I am getting enough hugs for me.” Jonny mumbled.

“So,” Marius went on, “we decided we wanted to know what’s wrong. Why don’t you want a hug?”

Jonny cursed the fact that he didn’t have his gun with him, he had tried to turn Knife Monopoly into Gun Monopoly once and now guns were banned at Knife Monopoly nights, so he wouldn’t be able to fight his way out the room without getting caught.

He hugged his knees to his chest and said: “I don’t want a fucking hug. Is that so hard to grasp? I don’t want it and I would like for you all to stop offering it.”

“Why?” Nastya couldn’t help, but let the question slip out her mouth as she remembered the pain-twisted expression on his face as he tried to tell her how he wanted it, but couldn’t.

It was silent while everyone looked at Jonny, who tried to come up with a good answer. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, gaping like fish then he gestured vaguely and said: “I- I can’t.”

“You already said that, but why can’t you?” Nastya pressed him.

Jonny ducked back into himself and softly admitted: “I don’t think I can handle it if it turns bad.”

“You think we’re going to see this as a moment of weakness and use it against you, Jonny?” Tim asked with a frown, he knew all were a not so nice bunch, but none of them would ever use something like that against someone.

“Jonny?” Tim asked again after the First Mate stayed silent and didn’t dare to meet their eyes.

Jonny swallowed and shrugged. He didn’t like admitting it, but he was too tired to protest. The not sleeping to avoid nightmares, along with the possibility Nastya finding him, piling up with on top of that the emotional exhaustion, which had come from the bad feeling that had built up inside his chest, had completely exhausted him.

He said with a tiny voice: “I know, you’re not going to, logically I know that, but the thought that it could, that you suddenly decide I’m not worth it, it’s scary. Or you do think that and that’s just too much pressure. I don’t know how to be worthy of that.”

The words just tumbled out and he couldn’t stop them, by the time he was done there were tears rolling down his face and he was sniffling softly.

Ever so slowly Marius put his hand on Jonnys shoulder. Jonny stiffened, but relaxed when the hand did nothing but lay there. Marius said: “I’m going to tell you something and you’re going to listen to me and then if you still don’t want a hug we will respect that, but otherwise you’re getting the best hug of your life. That okay?”

Jonny nodded wordlessly and Marius praised: “Good.” then he continued: “We are a lot of things, violent and bastards, but we will never turn a hug against you, I can promise you that.”

Positive sounds of agreement went through the room.

“Sometimes a hug is good, we’ve all gotten one and we’ve all given one, nothing is ever brought up, no matter how angry or upset someone is. Some things are sacred and here on the Aurora safely hugging someone is. Do you understand that?” Marius asked.

It was quiet for a moment, then barely visible Jonny nodded. All smiled with relief and Marius moved on to his next point: “Secondly, we do think you worth it, no matter what you do. Everyone does shit and everyone is an asshole sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we don’t get to care about each other. You’d have to do a lot before any of us will abandon you and I don’t see that happening.”

“But what if I accidentally do mess up?” Jonny asked, his voice small.

“Then we’re first going to talk to you about it, we’re not suddenly going to drop you without explanation.” Brian jumped into the conversation.

Others nodded and with a nod from Marius, Nastya asked the question: “Jonny, be honest, it’s okay if you won’t, but do you want a hug right now and can we give you one?”

Jonny looked around the room with wet eyes, on each face he was met by there was a gentle open smile and eyes filled with encouragement. It was quiet as they all waited for his answer, the moment of truth.

Biting his lip he carefully and hesitantly said: “…Yes?”

“Are you sure?” Brain asked him.

He took a deep breath and nodded, this time firmly. He let go of his knees and allowed the others to hug him.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but in the end Jonny was sitting on Ashes lap, their hands around his waist as they held him steady. Hugging him from behind was Raphaella, who used her wings to encompass everyone. On his right side was Nastya and on his left was Tim, while The Toy Soldier sat on the ground in front of him with its head in his lap. Marius and Brian hugged around Nastya and Tim respectively and Ivy was sat next to The Toy Soldier, using his leg more as a backrest than anything else.

There in the middle of the pile of limbs and warmth, Jonny allowed himself to smile and relax as he melted into the giant hug. It didn’t take long for the exhaustion of the past few days to catch up to him and for him to fall asleep.

No one dared to move while Jonny finally rested with such a peaceful look on his face, so they all stayed silent as they got more comfortable. Knife Monopoly could wait, tonight they were holding a slumber party.

~

No, Jonny had never been good at accepting nice things for himself, especially stuff like a hug. And, no, the crew of the Aurora had never been a touchy-feely bunch.

But Jonny could learn and the crew was willing to make exceptions.

[mysticalmusicwhispers]

On a sadder note, I don't think that China necessarily likes bringing up Kiku's transgressions. It's more of a dry, sardonic "he played stupid games, I'll give him stupid prizes." He still blames him but he also blames himself quite a lot for what his ppl endured, his weakness/complacency the last couple of centuries. Or that he should've taught Kiku better, in that limited time. Overall Kiku to him is a txtbk example that favors are more often not returned. Don't set expectations too high.

Prev

Im gonna assume you’re referring to the last part of my reply here (if you aren’t please correct me!) and I’m gonna... just agree to disagree? I agree with how Yao would blame himself for not being good enough and not being able to prevent it; and I think he does look back at the century of humiliation, his complacency, and his inability to recognize he needed to adapt with shame (like “I was so foolish for thinking I was still the best, still the center of the world.” Self loathing is strong with respect to that part of his history.) but I still think he conveniently brings up Kiku’s transgressions whenever he feels like it. First, it benefits him by reminding other nations about what Kiku did to them as well, creating an effect of solidarity that he can use, and second, it puts him in a position of power. He is again the teacher, reprimanding a former student of how they misbehaved (badly, in this case). And again, it also serves to rub in the fact that he has bounced back rather spectacularly, and that Kiku has fallen, that he’s the one who’s come up on top. He is pained by what happened, but he can detach his negative, hurt, shameful and regretful feelings from the discussion, enabling him to talk about it coldly and almost (key word almost) smugly. I also don’t think he regrets not teaching Kiku better; I feel like Yao has somewhat of an ego with regards to his teaching and passing of his culture to others, and doesn’t easily concede that Kiku’s (or some other former student’s) faults might have been because of his errors, his mistakes in teaching. He’d probably just think that whatever Kiku did or wherever Kiku messed up was inevitable, and that it couldn’t have been trained out of him via any method, whether it’s teaching, lecturing, punishment, or “love” (in quotes because i don’t think there was a lot of genuine “love” between them, or between any nations at any time).

But also from Yao’s perspective, yes @ the unreturned favors. I think his feelings on that are also a strange balance between human and nation perspectives. Humans, especially Chinese parents, expect children (and/or students) to treat elders (teachers/parents) with respect and to be grateful for them, for the things they did and taught the young’uns. So on one hand Yao believes Kiku should do that, and his favors not being returned by Kiku sours their relationship for him. However, I think nations see it a little differently. Especially Yao, who has lived a pretty long ass time and has seen nations rise and fall; I think he sees and respects a nation’s sense of self preservation. He knows that one must do an incredible amount of backstabbing, sweet-talking and manipulation to be able to survive and thrive as a state/nation (he has done his fair share of all three), and I think he has some measure of respect for the ones who do manage to become “great”. There’s a line from chessna2′s DITR (fantastic fic btw, esp if you like Baltics+Eastern Europe and the Soviet/Cold War period), which says:

“Manipulation and bribery with a knife to your throat? You really are a nation.”

I think that is Yao’s attitude; he has a degree (if only a very small one) of admiration for nations who do this, because he sees them almost on an equal level. Obviously with Kiku that’s covered by a lot of hatred, betrayal, pain, infuriation, anger, shame, feelings of ingratitude and disrespect etc but I think it’s still a part of Yao’s feelings, if he looks deep enough.

[your-angle-of-music]

Anyone want my playlist for my dream cast version of Les Miserables?

Here it is!

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLyXOfYb8cpflTuoC6FuFMwyCuD60-V0J4

It’s as close to the full show as I can get. Let me know if I miscredited anyone, am missing any major songs, or have anything listed out of order. I’m happy to be convinced that a different version of a song should reign supreme as well, so hit me up!

Song/actors list and explanations under the cut.

1. Overture/Work Song - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Terrence Mann as Javert (Original Broadway)

It’s a big, bombastic, awesome beginning. I definitely vibe with the especially over-the-top synth and these particular convicts’ generally growly, desperate tone. Wilkinson’s Valjean, eternally my favorite, doesn’t seem feral like some versions I’ve seen, but rather like he’s trying so hard to just be good and get through this and keep it together, until he snaps a bit at “My name is Jean Valjean” and the way he acts that gives me chills. Mann’s Javert seems more cold than over-the-top aggressive, which I always like, although he doesn’t stick out thaaat much to me.

2. On Parole/The Bishop - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Paul Monaghan as Bishop Myriel (10th Anniversary)

I love everything about Wilkinson’s Valjean’s “freedom is mine” bit. His unique diction and his perfect tenor-ness and the hope in his voice...yeah. The way he hits and holds that “fliiiiiiiight” note is also pretty perfect. It sounds like the scream he was holding in the whole time he was in prison. I also appreciate Monaghan’s Bishop’s sudden earnestness at the “But remember this, my brother” part and the way he holds that last low “I have bought your soul for God.”

3. Prologue/What Have I Done? - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (Original London)

Wilkinson’s Valjean seems to make the beginning part properly fast and frantic, then switches to a gentle, heartwrenchingly vulnerable tone, then his absolutely anguished “this is all I have known.” As always, he excels at those high notes and long notes.

4. At the End of the Day - Lea Salonga as Fantine, Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean, Jeff Nicholson as the Factory Foreman (25th Anniversary)

All the women here sound so angry, at everyone and everything, and it’s pretty great. Honestly, it was Nicholson’s factory foreman here that really caught my ear, with his nasty “oi!” after the “and in a bed” line and his frankly terrifying “on your way!”. I like Salonga’s Fantine’s note of desperation, although she honestly could sound a little angrier. This track includes a tiny bit of the beginning of “I Dreamed a Dream” and then cuts off — sorry about that.

5. I Dreamed a Dream - Maureen Moore as Fantine (1988)

Something about this recording makes it sound like it’s much older than it is, and that slightly echoey sound makes it sound all the more haunting. A lot of Fantines sound enraged here, and I like that too, but something about Moore’s just utter sadness and vulnerability just sells it for me like no one else can. She sounds so young, because Fantine is. And then the way she belts “shame” is perfection. The way she goes from quiet and gentle at the beginning to desperate belting at the end and then the soft last lines murders my soul every time.

6. Lovely Ladies - Randy Graff as Fantine (Original Broadway)

Honestly...I haven’t found a version of this song that I love yet. There’s still this air of humor to it that feels incongruous at best and mean-spirited at worst. But I really like the worn-out, older sounding voices of a lot of the women singing to Fantine, and Graff’s Fantine’s anguish and slightly breaking voice is definitely good, as is her “don’t they know they’re making love to one already dead?”

7. Fantine’s Arrest - Caissie Levy as Fantine, Nathaniel Hackmann as Jean Valjean, Earl Carpenter as Javert (2014)

I love Levy’s Fantine here, with her fear and her fierceness. The way she spits out that “even a whore who’s gone to the bad won’t be had by a rat” is perfect in every way, as is her pleading after. Carpenter’s Javert has a lovely bass and is also cold and punchable, as all Javerts should be. This is one of the only songs on this playlist I have a video for, and I appreciate the blocking; the women crowding around Fantine and then fleeing, and the way Hackmann’s Valjean keeps his distance from Fantine and generally radiates  respect and tenderness.

8. The Runaway Cart - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Terrence Mann as Javert (Original Broadway)

Thank you @lesbianrung for this recommendation! The ensemble sounds frantic and scared here, sometimes screaming more than singing, but for a chaotic scene like this, it works. Mann’s Javert is more reserved here than some I’ve seen, a bit more like the authority-fearing, self-loathing Brick Javert. Wilkinson’s Valjean sounds like a wreck when he’s begging someone to help him lift the cart, does a great little nervous laugh on “say what you must, don’t leave it there,” and belts his “how can you be sure that I am not your man” to excellent effect.

9. Who Am I? - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (Original Broadway)

Hey quick question did I mention that I love Colm Wilkinson? God that tormented shiver in Valjean’s voice...the softness of that last “I am damned”..his buildup up to “I’m Jean Valjean”...the way he hits that last “two-four-six-oh-oneeeeeeee”...yeah no there is one (1) Jean Valjean and that is Colm Wilkinson.

10. Come to Me/Fantine’s Death - Ruthie Henshall as Fantine, Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (10th Anniversary)

Henshall’s Fantine sounds so gentle yet so powerful here. The way she sings “I will sing you lullabies and wake you in the morning” absolutely shatters me and always will.Her belting sounds beautiful and clear and perfect, vulnerable yet strong. The way she fades out on her last word, “wake,” is utterly haunting. Wilkinson’s Jean Valjean sounds soft and caring, and the way he half-breathes a lot of the words is. Oh.

11. The Confrontation - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Philip Quast as Javert (10th Anniversary)

Quast’s Javert has a true bass quality that really, really works, like in the way he says “you’ll wear a different chain.” In general, the way he seems to bite off his words and the steely determination of his voice is perfect. He balances really well with Wilkinson’s Valjean who, for the first time, sounds scary, but can switch to softness for the dead Fantine. The last “I will be there” is excellent all-around.

12. Castle on a Cloud - Zoë Hart as Little Cosette (Original London)

Hart’s Little Cosette is insanely good! She really does sound like a little kid and still has awesome acting and she’s in tune! Her “there is a lady all in white, holds me and sings me a lullaby” bit is heartbreaking.

13. Master of the House - Barry James as M. Thenardier, Gay Soper as Mme. Thenardier (International Symphonic)

James and Soper are my favorite Thenardiers of all time, by far. I like this longer version that mentions M. Thenardier’s Waterloo shenanigans. James’ Thenardier sounds gleefully evil, and I like his whispery, growly tone or rowdy almost-shouting. You can absolutely hear his nasty grin. His affected r-rolling also reminds me a lot of the Brick characterization. Soper’s Mme. Thenardier has a weasely quality to her voice that seems appropriate, but she does not shy away from the ruder lines (”lifelong shit,” “not much there,” “up the master’s ass,” etc.) and she, like her husband, seems to be having a lot of fun and lapping up the attention. I adore how she delivers her “bastard in the house” line.

14. The Bargain/Waltz of Treachery - Barry James as M. Thenardier, Gay Soper as Mme. Thenardier, Gary Morris as Jean Valjean, Marissa Dunlop as Little Cosette (International Symphonic)

Morris’ Valjean and Dunlop’s Little Cosette’s “la la la la la la la la” harmony is amazing and tender and adorable and may or may not make me cry which is not supposed to happen before Act II. Morris’ delivery of his “now her mother is with God” and “I stand here in her place” lines is powerful, too. The Thenardiers sound delightfully sleazy and dramatic, too. I like that Morris’ Valjean sounds actually angry at them, unlike many others I’ve seen. I almost have to admit though, I miss the movie version of the final lines, where they had “Will you be like a papa to me?”/”Yes Cosette, yes it’s true, I’ll be father and mother to you,” while here, like in other stage shows, they have “Will there be castles and children to see?”/”Yes Cosette, yes it’s true, there’s a castle just waiting for you” because 1) I like Valjean’s father and mother role that Hugo kept talking about in the Brick, and 2) in the musical, it seemed pretty clear that there weren’t actually any other children around Cosette until Marius showed up!

15. Suddenly - Hugh Jackman as Jean Valjean (2012 movie)

Yes, I’m including this song from the movie. Honestly, I don’t like the song itself that much, and I don’t think Jackman’s Valjean has the strongest voice, although his acting is extremely sweet, and when he almost whispers “full of light” and “like the sun” I definitely almost lose it. But I’m mainly including this song because the musical really did need a song that fills this role. The stage musical devotes a weirdly small amount of time to Cosette and Valjean’s relationship, considering that it drives Valjean’s actions for the rest of the story and it is central to the Brick (and one of my favorite parts of it, too). This is the first time that Valjean has ever felt truly loved in his life! Something suddenly HAS begun!

16. Look Down - Ross McCall as Gavroche, Anthony Warlow as Enjolras (International Symphonic)

I fell in love with this version because of the ensemble, honestly. It started out loud and powerful and strong, even more so than the Overture/Work Song bit. McCall’s Gavroche is beyond perfect, though. He is strong and sassy, and angry too, more than most Gavroches in the beginning, but he also sounds so young! Warlow’s Enjolras has an incredibly powerful voice as well, and makes a pretty awesome first impression.

17. The Robbery - Carrie Hope Fletcher as Eponine Thenardier, Rob Houchen as Marius Pontmercy, Cameron Blakely as M. Thenardier, James Gant as Javert (2013)

This is another song I’ve got the blocking for. It’s pretty standard, although I always like when a Marius, like Houchen’s, gets involved in the Fray to defend Cosette. I love the dynamic between Fletcher’s Eponine and Houchen’s Marius, with affection and teasing and care, and their little smiles and head shakes, but also with a bit of discomfort on Marius’ end — he seems a little awkward about trying to get his books back with minimal contact, and he seems to be deflecting the “I like the way you grow your hair” thing as nicely as he can, but definitely deflecting. Blakely doesn’t make much of an impression as Thenardier (although his “told you so” is really funny), and Gant is not my favorite Javert, but Fletcher’s “It’s Javert” is ridiculously awesome.

18. Stars - Philip Quast as Javert (10th Anniversary)

Quast’s Javert is...yeah, what else is there to say?

19. Eponine’s Errand - Kaho Shimada as Eponine Thenardier, Michael Ball as Marius Pontmercy (International Symphonic)

I wish this recording weren’t missing Gavroche’s little part beforehand, but I think Shimada’s Eponine and Ball’s Marius are worth the trade-off. Shimada sounds a little softer and sadder here, not angry like in some versions, which I don’t mind. But when she sees Marius, she switches to determinedly playful which is all the more heartwrenching. And her “I don’t want your money, sir” hurts. Ball’s Marius’ voice is nice and lovestruck and also not softening his single-minded obliviousness. I like his gentle desperation at his “Eponine, do this for me.” I also like that the lyric here is “don’t let her father know” instead of “don’t let your father know.”

20. Red and Black - Eddie Redmayne as Marius Pontmercy, Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, George Bladgen as Grantaire (2012 movie)

Embarrassing as it is to admit, Eddie Redmayne is my favorite Marius. He’s emotional and, well, a noodle, but also very sweet and sings well and has a higher, lighter voice than most Marii I’ve seen. He’s young!  They’re all so young! And I like that Tveit’s Enjolras feels a lot less shouty here ; it's more accurate to Brick descriptions of his interactions with his friends, and reflects his kind of angelic vibe. And I definitely appreciate that Bladgen’s Grantaire’s mocking is a little softer here — he knows a thing or two about impossible love. I do love his little laugh when he says “it is better than an opera.” And that last “they will come when we call” makes me feel things.

21. Do You Hear the People Sing? - Michael Maguire as Enjolras (Original Broadway)

Sometimes you need an angelic Aaron Tveit, and sometimes you need a powerhouse Michael Maguire. Damn.

22. In My Life - Judy Kuhn as Cosette, David Bryant as Marius Pontmercy, Frances Ruffelle as Eponine Thenardier, Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (Original Broadway)

Kuhn’s Cosette has such a sweet voice, and you can hear her quiet fierce excitement in the beginning. She manages to sing Cosette’s high notes with softness and gentleness really well for the most part, although I’m not that fond of the sound on her “does he know I’m alive? do I know if he’s real?” high notes. Wilkinson’s Valjean seems gentler than some of the others I’ve seen, even on the “no more words” bit, and a lot of his negative emotion seems to be directed inward. Bryant’s Marius is in love, and sounds perhaps a bit too confident and a bit too old for my taste. No, what really stands out here is Frances Ruffelle’s Eponine. God, I love Frances Ruffelle’s Eponine. Starting off strong with that agonized “every word that he says is a dagger in me,” she sounds so young, with an almost-whiny, heartwrenching edge that reminds me the most of her Brick characterization, but she gets so gentle on her last “waiting here.”

23. A Heart Full of Love - Katie Hall as Cosette, Gareth Gates as Marius Pontmercy, Rosalind James as Eponine Thenardier (2010)

This recording picks up with James’ Eponine’s “waiting here,” definitely an interesting comparison. She sounds awesome throughout this piece, with a lovely warm alto voice. And I love love LOVE Katie Hall’s Cosette, with all her strength and sweetness. God, you can hear her smiling. She shines the most when she sings her softest lines, like “no fear, no regret,” “I'm awake,” and the last “after all.” Gates’ Marius is incredibly charming, but still absolutely an awkward mess, and you can hear him dying inside when he says “oh God, for shame, I do not even know your name.” The balance between all three of their voices is perfect.

24. Plumet Attack - Frances Ruffelle as Eponine Thenardier, Bernard Leo Burmester as M. Thenardier (Original Broadway)

Burmester’s Thenardier is properly scary here. Once again Ruffelle’s Eponine steals the show, belting all of her lines perfectly. Her “told you I’d do it” is haunting and perfect and brave in that oh-so-Eponine way, with a hint of petulance.

25. One Day More - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Terrence Mann as Javert, Judy Kuhn as Cosette, Davis Bryant as Marius Pontmercy, Frances Ruffelle as Eponine Thenardier, Bernard Leo Burmester as M. Thenardier, Jennifer Butt as Mme. Thenardier (Original Broadway)

Everyone starts out so soft, and they make this song build so perfectly and balance each other out impeccably. Ruffelle’s Eponine’s “one more day all on my own” bit rises above it all, and her voice sounds so clear and powerful and good. Also did you hear that loud and long “one day more!” out of Wilkinson’s Valjean? And Les Amis’ triumphant swelling chorus? Everyone here is superhuman, I swear.

26. Building the Barricade (Upon These Stones) - Michael Ball as Marius, Kaho Shimada as Eponine Thenardier, Anthony Warlow as Enjolras, Philip Quast as Javert (International Symphonic)

It’s mistitled as “At the Barricade” but I pinky promise it’s not. Ball’s Marius sounds genuinely concerned and touchingly pissed. Shimada’s Eponine is sweet and playful, and her “little you know, little you care” has very little bite, which I’m not sure I like. What I absolutely adore, though, is the bit where she delivers Marius’ letter to Morris’ Valjean. Shimada sounds suddenly shy, and Morris seems in full adopting mode. Something about this exchange just feels incredibly sweet to me. And then when Morris reads Marius’ letter, and his little pause in the “you love me as well” part is perfection.

27. On My Own - Frances Ruffelle as Eponine Thenardier (Original Broadway)

What can I say? Ruffelle’s Eponine absolutely kills it. She has a lovely husky voice that sounds sweet and sad and angry and powerful and broken all at once. I love the way she sings “in the rain, the pavement shines like silver” and “and I know it’s only in my mind, that I’m talking to myself and not to him” and “all my life I’ve only been pretending” and of course that “a world that’s full of happiness that I have never known.” The way she builds up from sweet fantasizing to absolute anguish...and then she breathes out those last “I love him”s and she sounds like the teenager Eponine is. God. I need a moment. Or several.

28. Javert at the Barricade - Terrence Mann as Javert, I can’t find the Gavroche which enrages me to no end (Original Broadway)

Mann’s Javert isn’t as dramatic as I’d like, but I’m here for Gavroche. I do miss the Les Amis dialogue that happens in newer versions of this song, but the older version of this song, which includes a lot more of “Little People” is better in my opinion because it makes Gavroche’s death scene all the sadder. I adore this particular Gavroche’s sassiness and spunk and his powerful voice.

29. A Little Fall of Rain - Frances Ruffelle as Eponine Thenardier, Michael Ball as Marius Pontmercy (Original London)

Ruffelle’s Eponine sounds so utterly vulnerable here, but with a hint of strange almost-happiness that reminds me of the Brick’s version of her death scene. Her voice feels lighter and sweeter here than anything else, and Ruffelle’s Eponine always has a different way of singing when Marius can hear her from how she sings when he can’t, and here we feel them merging together, especially at her “hold me now and let it be, shelter me, comfort me.” And I adore Ball’s Marius softness here, especially during the duet part. His “hush-a-bye, dear Eponine” is angelic. The whole song feels so intimate with them. This is always the point where I start crying.

30. Night of Anguish - Michael Ball as Marius Pontmercy, Anthony Warlow as Enjolras, Gary Morris as Jean Valjean (International Symphonic)

Somber all-around, and everyone’s voice is good. No performer sticks out that much, to be honest. I do get chills whenever the “Drink with Me” theme comes on in the background. And when Jean Valjean comes in, the rising terror of Les Amis becomes apparent, and all their voices are strong.

31. The Attack - David Burt as Enjolras (Original London)

Again, a plot song in between the big ones, so not too much to say here, but everyone sings well.

32. Drink With Me - Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, George Bladgen as Grantaire, Eddie Redmayne as Marius Pontmercy, Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche Thenardier (2012 movie)

Just to warn you, the sound doesn’t kick in until a few seconds in. I absolutely love this version (once the generous poster re-added Grantaire’s solo, of course). I love Tveit’s Enjolras’ weariness and gentleness at the beginning, reminiscent of Brick Enjolras who loves his friends in his fierce and quiet way. You can hear the heartbreak in his “Marius, rest.” I love how Huttlestone’s Gavroche echoes Les Amis’ lines throughout the chorus — I’ve never seen that in any of the stage productions. And God, Bladgen’s Grantaire. He is so much more earnest here than others I’ve seen, and I appreciate that he gets quiet on “can it be, you fear to die?” as if he’s past defiant anger and is already grieving. He just has a clear, lovely voice. And although it sucks that the movie cut his solo out and it had to be edited in this way, I almost like how faraway it makes this part sound, as if Grantaire is still holed up in the Corinthe with his wine, looking down at his friends, half-awake and helpless. I appreciate that Redmayne’s Marius’ lyric was changed from “Would you weep, Cosette, should Marius fall?” to “Would you weep, Cosette, if I were to fall?” because it sounds a lot more like something someone would actually say. Also, this is another clip with video, and I’m really happy with how it looks, especially the way both Enjolras and Valjean are off to the distance and the way it pans to Valjean when Marius is singing about Cosette.

33. Bring Him Home - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (10th Anniversary)

Wilkinson’s Valjean starts out so quiet, with the perfect sweet spot of vibrato. Literally all of his high notes sound perfect and still expressive! I almost don’t know what to highlight, but just listen to how he decrescendos on that “I am old, and will be gone” and the power in that “if I die, let me die” and that absolutely ethereal last “bring him home” which he holds for so so long for a note that high for a tenor. This man has the range, darlings.

34. Dawn of Anguish - Anthony Warlow as Enjolras (International Symphonic)

Warlow’s Enjolras absolute grief and tenderness is absolutely heartwrenching. The way he delivers the line “we will not abandon those who cannot hear.” And that little “Drink with Me” reprise feels like getting stabbed. Whenever they end it with “if I die, I die with you” I stop breathing for too many seconds.

35. The Second Attack/Death of Gavroche - Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche Thenardier, Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, Hadley Fraser as the Army Officer (2012 movie)

Huttlestone’s Gavroche is amazing. You can hear that he’s in pain but not even scared as he sings in a clear, powerful voice. Fraser also killed his “you have no chance, no chance at all” and I’m honestly surprised he didn’t get cast as one of Les Amis. And, of course, Tveit’s Enjolras’ “until the Earth is free!” could have singlehandedly killed King Louis-Philippe.

36. Dog Eats Dog - Bernard Leo Burmester as M. Thenardier (Original Broadway)

Barry James’ Thenardier might be the funniest, but Burmester’s will always be the scariest. His growly tones and big dynamic changes and dramatic enunciation really make this. The breathy way he says “when the gutters run with blood” and his powerful final “the harvest moon shines down” is beyond chilling.

37. Javert’s Suicide - Philip Quast as Javert, Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean (10th Anniversary)

Wilkinson’s Valjean here is the angriest I’ve ever seen his portrayal of the character. There is so much pent-up bitterness in his “I knew you wouldn’t wait too long.” Quast’s Javert is wonderful, as always. In his duet part with Wilkinson, with his half-feral “I will be waiting, two-four-six-oh-one,” both of them shine. And then during his main soliloquy, when he goes from snarling, “it is either Valjean or Javert!” to sounding so soft and lost as he begins the “how can I now allow this man to hold dominion over me?” bit. And at his “by granting me my life today, this man has killed me even so,” you can hear him making his choice to jump, and it’s awful, and it’s perfect.

38. Turning - Original Broadway Cast

Oh, this song is so underrated, and these people do a particularly amazing job with it. Their voices sound so tired and worn, sometimes old and rough, sometimes young and light, and all of them heartbroken. Their “where’s that new world now the fighting’s done” and the way they sing the round section is haunting and beautiful.

39. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - Eddie Redmayne as Marius Pontmercy (2012 movie)

I have to say, no one does this one like Eddie Redmayne. His Marius’ grief is absolutely crushing. I like how this arrangement goes super light with the instrumentals at first, and how Redmayne’s Marius starts off very soft. His “at the table in the corner” section gives me goosebumps every time, and he nails every single high note. And by the time we reach “phantom faces at the window,” he seems to be letting it out, and his “oh my friends, my friends, don’t ask me what your sacrifice was for” has me sobbing.

40. Every Day/A Heart Full of Love Reprise - Katie Hall as Cosette, Gareth Gates as Marius Pontmercy, John Owen Jones as Jean Valjean (2010)

Ah, Les Mis, killing me with the parallels once again. This version seems to go by awfully fast, but Hall’s Cosette and Gates’ Marius are properly sweet, and JOJ’s Valjean is gentle and sad and heartbreaking. All of their voices balance each other well.

41. Valjean’s Confession - Gary Morris as Jean Valjean, Michael Ball as Marius Pontmercy (International Symphonic)

I really don’t like versions that shorten this; I feel like Jean Valjean needs to be wordy here. In the Brick, he’s almost hysterical. Morris’ Valjean is so gentle, and you can hear the pleading and pain in his voice, on phrases like “she’s had enough of tears” and “to save his sister’s son” and then his voice is so powerful and despairing on “who am I?” and then when it gets soft..yeah I’m not okay. Ball’s Marius’ “it must be so” is pretty, but he doesn’t stick out that much compared to Morris’ powerhouse performance. Also, God the score playing “who am I?” in the background was just cruel. I love it.

42. The Wedding Chorale/Beggars at the Feast - Barry James as M. Thenardier, Gay Soper as Mme. Thenardier, Michael Ball as Mariius Pontmercy (International Symphonic)

James and Soper are just the right Thenardiers for the job. They are clearly having an extremely good time, and I love their sniveling and their scheming and their flamboyance. Ball’s Marius acts very well here too. I love his scoff at “do you think I don’t know who you are?” and his anger on Eponine’s behalf.

43. Finale - Colm Wilkinson as Jean Valjean, Randy Graff as Fantine, Frances Ruffelle as Eponine, David Bryant as Marius Pontmercy, Judy Kuhn as Cosette (Original Broadway)

I have no words.

[sunnytumbies]

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that! 

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

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Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest. 

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home. 

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven. 

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Cal is not having a good day. 

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach. 

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through. 

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much. 

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t  matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits. 

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans. 

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles. 

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone. 

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay? 

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day. 

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything. 

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do 

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course. 

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it. 

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?” 

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it. 

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.” 

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Some time later, Quincy comes for him. 

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach. 

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?” 

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

  “Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

  “No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. 

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.” 

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely. 

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom. 

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”  

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.” 

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea.  “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.” 

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.” 

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.” 

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him. 

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches  for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea. 

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache. 

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.” 

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.” 

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?” 

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

[chchanging]

I’m going through some of my older stuff that I discarded while trying to write my last few fics and turning them into standalone pieces, have some more of these crazy kids

MC: Rossi Mayhew, tired of Gaius’ shit

“I’m not gonna tell you that you deserve this.”

The way she says it is final, unyielding. When Rossi makes up her mind, her mind is made. Gaius has never expected more, and he tries to convince himself now that there is no dull ache in his chest when she speaks. The cool night air wisps around them, caressing the skin of his cheeks and nose and lips—he lets the feeling ground him and says nothing in return. Mostly because he has nothing to say in response, but also because he doesn’t trust his voice.

“We both know you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

He doesn’t look away when she finally turns to face him. She’d tied her braids up in a messy bun where a few of them fall and frame her face like the worlds most beautiful portrait. Her cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold and her lips are slightly parted. How many times had he tasted them, still not satiated? Would he ever be? He doesn’t think so.

He’s seen lovers draped in the finest of silks, and yet here she stands in a baggy grey sweater and nothing else—and she puts them all to shame. The way it hangs off one shoulder just so, allowing pale moonlight to dance across amber skin, the way her long legs glow just the same—he wants to reach out. To hold her. He wants to put this conversation on the back burner indefinitely and just enjoy the simplicity of what they’ve had up till now.

He doesn’t want to think about all of the reasons she is too good for him; doesn’t want to address the guilty feeling weighing him down every time they touch, as if part of him feels he has somehow tricked her into caring for him. He doesn’t want to think about any of it—not tonight, and not ever.

She walks on the balls of her bare feet, gliding across the balcony closer to him. It must be cold tonight, but she doesn’t own a pair of slippers because Rossi Mayhew does not know the meaning of the phrase “thinking ahead”.

She doesn’t smile like she usually does as her hand rises and her fingertips dance along the edge of his jaw. Her eyes burn with an intensity he’s grown used to. She has a way of making him feel naked, exposed, ever since that night on the plane when she’d merged with his mind without meaning to. She’s seen more of him than anyone ever has, perhaps even more than Rheya.

It should terrify him—it had once—after everything that he’d been through. He shouldn’t be so comfortable under that knowing gaze. His mind had become his most precious, protected possession and she poses perhaps the biggest threat to it.

Every cell in his body shouldn’t sing when she touches him like this.

“It’s such a subjective word. So often used to justify cruelty and indifference.” Her hand cups his cheek and without meaning to he leans into the contact. She feels like comfort. She feels like home. To think that at any moment he could lose this...that she could come to her senses and turn him away once and for all...

The fear is almost debilitating—but some secret part of him craves it, as well. The part of him that knows how despicable he is. The part that is masochistic and self-loathing. The part of him that wonders if any amount of his own suffering could make up for everything he’s done.

“Sometimes we even use it as a means to punish ourselves.”

Her eyes burn into his and for the first time he feels tempted to look away. She doesn’t have to use her power; somehow she just sees everything. He can only ever stand and wait for her to pass judgment.

Part of him wants to plead with her to stop. His chest hurts and his eyes sting and he doesn’t want to talk about this even if he knows they must.

Almost as if she can sense it—his struggle—her hand finds his. She squeezes it in her grip and strokes her thumb across his knuckles, the action so tender he fears it could bring him to his knees if he let it.

“I don’t know if there’s really some objective scale out there that determines what any one person truly deserves or not. I don’t know if there’s any way to really tell who’s right and who’s wrong.” Her eyes soften, as does her voice. Everything about her in that moment wraps him in warmth—a gentle, loving security that is so unlike anything he’s ever felt before that at first he instinctively wants to shrug it off.

He wants to recoil and shake himself because no one could possibly be standing here without some kind of ulterior motive. How could she look at him so tenderly? How could she see anything but a monster?

Something else makes him stand firm, though—a hope he’d nearly forgotten. Nearly abandoned altogether after Rheya’s betrayal had shattered the most vulnerable parts of him. A hope that Rossi had unknowingly been nurturing with every word, every touch, every kiss.

Perhaps even he could love again.

“I don’t know.” She repeats, softly, sweetly. “And I don’t care.”

“Rossi...” He let’s his forehead come to rest against hers. His voice is a croak, broken under a thousand different emotions—a weak plea for something even he can’t discern at the moment. He just wants. He wants so badly.

The hand on his cheek strokes soothingly.

“This isn’t about what you deserve, Gaius, it’s about what I’m willing to give.” His eyes are shut, finally her gaze has proved too much for him, but he can hear the gentle smile in her voice. He has seen it so many times that he can imagine it as if his eyes were still open. His heart aches almost unbearably. “And that’s everything.”

She lets go of his hand and moves to hold his face in both of her own. She holds him like some priceless gem, like a precious piece of artwork. Like nothing could possibly mean more than this moment.

“You torture yourself every day with ideas of what you do and don’t deserve. I refuse to be another thing that causes you so much pain. I want you to have all of me, Gaius. Every maddening little piece.” He feels her breath fanning against his lips. His heart hammers in his chest like it wants to escape and go to her. “So don’t take based on what you think you deserve.”

Her lips brush his. He stands frozen, but he feels her kiss him gently as if she expects nothing in return. His heart threatens to break—creaking at the seams.

“Take what you want.” She kisses him again, firmer this time. When she speaks, it sends a subtle vibration through his lips. “Take all of me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they are glowing red—but the hunger he feels isn’t for blood. He sweeps her up in his arms, holding tight to her waist as he captures her mouth in a searing, fierce kiss.

When he stands up straight, her feet leave the ground, and she wraps her legs tightly around his hips. Her fingers stab through his hair and grab fistfuls of it, tugging as she squirms against him and moans. His fangs tease her lip before they retract so he can better taste her. Before either of them have realized they’d moved, the balcony’s intricate iron railing is digging into the small of Rossi’s back.

She gasps, and in the next instant his tongue finds her own.

He breaks away moments later, if only to let her catch her breath as he trails sensual open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and the side of her throat. Her nails drag down the back of his neck, legs tightening around him when he bites down on her collarbone and she mewls.

“I love you.”

It’s a declaration. It’s a growl against her skin. It’s a promise.

She whimpers when he bites again, a little softer this time. And then, before she can even think about answering, he seals their mouths together again. The kiss isn’t nearly as rough as the first one—but it burns with intensity to match. She holds to him like he’s the only thing keeping her afloat in the middle of the ocean, and he clings to her as the key to the only future he could ever want. One where he stands by her side regardless of his past, regardless of his shame and his pain.

A future where he is free to want her as much as he does—to not feel guilty of it.

Whether or not he is worthy...she has never cared. Why, then, does he?

Why has he allowed his shame to stand between them for so long—a wall that kept them from connecting how they wanted to even after they’d both already given in? She’d been waiting for him all this time, and yet he’d been the one hesitating.

He adjusts his grip on her so that he can carry her back inside.

That night he vows to never leave her wanting again.

[daddysfangirls-marvel]

Unworthy Clone

 Request

warning: language, angst,

Summary: Steve Rodgers x child clone reader. Shield sends the avengers to look into a series of destroyed hydra bases where they meet someone with a deep grudge against Steve. (Y/n was created by hydra to be the perfect killer but was abandoned in a hydra base due to her fits of anger and bloodlust) (y/n hates Steve blaming him for her existence) ( y/n was given the super-soldier serum as a child and has made her extremely violent when upset) (PTSD in the form of fits of hysteria and anger) 

Note: This is not a series and never will be

It had been a few weeks since she has seen anyone she was surprised she was still alive as she hadn’t eaten for weeks and the only water she got dripped from a pipe that was dripping slowly. She didn’t know when everyone had left the noise outside her cell got quieter and quieter until one day it was silent. She didn’t know what had caused them to leave just uproot themselves and leave her behind. And she didn’t know why they left her- Actually she did, she was known to kick, punch, scream, and bite leaving some people with wounds and others with permanent damage. So it’ s not really shocked that they left her.

It didn’t matter anymore she was slowly dying and she didn’t care she was welcoming it with open arms, although she wishes it wasn’t so boring and slow. She would kill for some entertainment. Or even just letting her arms out. 

She had harmed so many soldiers that they put her in a thick straight jacket wrapped in chains and chained to the wall even her feet were chained down. And the chain was rigged so when every the door opened she would be suspended in the air. That’s how scared they were of her that was just some of the many precautions they took. 

But that didn’t matter now, she was going to die in a straight jacket chained to the wall never to be seen or heard of. Hydra made her but never used her what a shame ... not really.

She was busy humming a random tone to herself when she heard something it sounded like footsteps and whispers. Maybe that had come back for her. Maybe they had food. She began to use her chain to make as much noise as possible. She often did this when she was hungry and wanted some to feed her. She hoped someone would hear her whoever was walking by.

And they did the door creaked as it slowly opened. She gasped as the chains started to move to lift her up and hanging her from the ceiling. 

“Hello” (Y/n) said her voice rough and raw as the man stepped into the room she was busying swinging around so she couldn’t see his face.

“who-what?What?...um are you okay?” she heard that voice before it was familiar but she couldn’t pin it to anyone.

“I’m hungry and I’m hanging from the ceiling” she spoke softly as her throat hurt. she hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“I found someone sixth hall the door is open,” he said pressing something in his hear. So he wasn’t alone. “ Hey, kid, what your name?”

“(Y/n)” she heard the unsheathing of a knife and felt him grab her leg to stop her from spinning.

“how old are you, (Y/n)?”

“I... I don’t know” 

“Well, my name is Bucky and I don’t really know my age either. How about we get you out of here and find out, okay?”

“Okay”

Bucky managed to get her out of her chain and unhooked her straight jacket. When (y/n)’s feet touched the floor she immediately buckled falling to her knees it had been months since she had last used her legs and weeks since her last proper meal. She just didn’t have the strength to even lift herself.

“Can you walk?” she shook her head a bit frustrated with herself. She looked up at the man who saved her about to say something but whatever it was went out the window when she realized who was her savior.

“ Soldier? S-soldier. You came back for me Soldier. You came back” (Y/n) threw her arms around Bucky as she hugged him pouring all her heart into him. Bucky didn’t say anything picking her up bridal style and carrying her out instead. 

(Y/n) was happy to see the soldier and overjoyed he was carrying her out of this hell hole. She gasped and buried her face in the crook of his neck as the cold snow snipped at her exposed skin.

“we’re almost there,” he said as he quickens his pace as others called out to him.

“What did you find?” someone asked as Bucky walked into what looked to be a plane. He didn’t answer them putting her in a seat.

“Get me a blanket” he demanded a dark-skinned man, named Sam, came forward handing her a thick blanket. Bucky took it and wrapped her in it swaddling her “ are you alright? Is that okay?” (y/n) gave a small smile and nod. As he continued to swaddle and make her comfortable people started to walk aboard a few stops to ask about her but not receiving any answer. 

A man named Bruce Banner came up to her and asked if she had any wounds she kicked out her ankles which were bruised and rubbed raw. He applied an ointment to her skin before wrapping them both up.

“How long have you been here?” Bruce asked. He found it strange how cheerful and okay she seemed despite her pale and sickly appearance. 

(Y/n) was about to answer him when the last person boarded the plane. She knew actually who he was when she heard him how could she not it was all the guards ever talked about. Him. Him. Him. She loathed him with every fiber in her body. Hated him. Despised him. His very existence burned her fury fire of hate.

Captain America. Steve Motherfucking Rogers.

Bruce noticed the changed in her attitude and behavior changed as she tensed up and began to glare at whatever was behind him. The cheerfulness was gone and replaced with pure hate and blood lust. Honestly, it scared him, Bruce, slowly walked away finding a seat far away from her. She was scary.

Bucky also noticed her attitude change and her instance glare on Steve. He tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t talk. 

Steve, on the other hand, was extremely uncomfortable and tried to avoid her gaze as much as possible but it was really hard.

Once they landed Steve was the first one out the plane and (y/n) wet back to her friendly self happily answering all their questions. It was quite strange how she was acting especially since she just escapes Hydra after being isolated for weeks with no food of water. 

“Would you like some more?” Tony asked teasing a bit but also serious as he watched (Y/n) scarf down two sandwiches and a bottle of water. She looked at him with wide-eyes more, she’s never been offered more. She glared at him suspiciously. There had to be some kind of catch. 

“...no thanks” despite her answer Bucky leaned in and quietly told Sam to go make another sandwich for her.

“So, kid, you’ve told us just about everything. Except how you got with hydra?” Tony said

“And for someone who kidnapped by Hydra for an unknown amount of time you’re really friendly-ow,” Bruce smacks Clint with a tablet.

(Y/n) sat in thought for a moment. Why was she so nice to them she didn’t have a reason to be nice to them she didn’t have a reason to be mean to them either but she was nice to them. They were kind to her but they were strangers. But she was nice to a few of the nurses and scientists involved with hydra but then again they were nice to her.

“ I ... return kindness. You’re nice to me so I’m nice to you. You haven’t done me any wrong so why should I be worried. Do you plan to do me wrong?”

“No, no we’d never hurt you,” Bucky said quickly. She smiled kindly at him.

“Thank you. And I was born there. My label was SII207 but the nurse and doctors took to calling me (y/n) I’m twelve... I think? I was born and raised in Hydra. I was supposed to be the perfect soldier but they said I was emotionally unstable. Failed experiment. At least that’s what the nurses and doctors said.” She sighed and looked down at her hands “ That’s probably why they left me there. Wasn’t worth the taking I guess.” she laughed but everyone could hear the sadness behind their voice.

“Well look on the bright side. Now you’re stuck with us” Tony teased trying to lighten up the mood.

“You guys don’t seem so bad.”

“You’ve only been here for a couple of hours. Just wait,, sweetheart, you haven’t seen anything yet. Give it a few more days then you’ll be begging to get out.”

-

A few days later and she didn’t want to go anywhere else. She made friends with just about everyone, except Steve. She was a little shitter towards Steve and avoided him. She was nice, polite, and didn’t upset anyone. She and Bucky had grown really close those two were like two peas in a pot never leaving each other's side. A few had even teased that she had replaced Steve as Bucky’s best friend but stopped because she didn’t like that. But it was true.

The only problem with having her around as she never finished the full health exam she never ever gave a blood sample. She did everything in her power to avoid blood test hiding, running away, changing the topic, hiding the needles, everything. To the point, the team thought there was something she was definitely hiding.

Now here comes the not so proud moment.

(Y/n) was asleep on the couch Bucky being the stealth son of a bitch he is snuck up on her and stuck a needle in her getting a good blood sample and she didn’t even feel a thing. And she didn’t realize anything until they all cornered her and Steve in the lab. 

“We took a blood sample from (Y/n)-

“I didn’t give a blood sample”

“I didn’t say you gave it I said we took it. Pay attention sweetheart” She glared at Tony he continued “ We took a blood sample and ran your DNA through the system and found a few interesting things. One, you have the super-soldier serum running through your veins and two-”

“Steve is your father” Everyone's eyes snapped to Bucky they were informed that she had the serum running through her veins but they were aware of her relations with Steve Only Tony and Bucky knew that until now.

Steve gasp he had a child he had a daughter. This was amazing this was beautiful this was wonderful. He took a step towards (Y/n) and she took two steps back. She did not share a look of joy with Steve her eyes were filled with rage and pain.

“Your m-”

“SHUT UP, SHUT UP” she screamed her hands shaking at her side “ I was supposed to be like you and exact copy of you but I came out wrong. They said I was too emotional, that I wasn’t focused enough, I wasn’t good enough. All I was good for was the new agents to beat on and use a target practice and when I wasn’t good enough for that they threw me to the side like trash.”

Steve tried to take another step forward but Bucky stopped him.

“ I didn’t ask for this I didn’t ask to exist or be born. I was forced into a world I didn't want to be part of this... I... I want to have friends my own age, I want to go to school, I want to have sleepovers and playdates, I want to know what it’s like to be - to have a childhood, I want to know what it’s like to dream a good dream and not memories that are nightmares.  But I can’t have any of that. You know why?”She picks up a pencil holder and throws it across the room.

“BECAUSE OF YOU” She started to pick things up and throwing them across the room at Steve “ I DIDN’T ASK FOR YOUR FILTHY BLOOD I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS LIFE. I DIDN’T ASK TO BE A MONSTER BUT I WASN’T EVEN GOOD AT THAT. I'm NOT GOOD FOR ANYTHING.”She stopped throwing things and began to cry.

“It’s your fault I’m here. It’s your fault I exist. I HATE YOU” (y/n) lunged at Steve she caught his chin before Clint caught her her mid-air. She kicked and screamed trying to shake his hold as he dragged her out of the room.

“WHY, WHY, WHY” 

Steve gasps clenching his chest and collapsing in a nearby chair letting his head fall in his hands. He didn’t even care anymore he began to openly sob in front of everyone. They didn’t know what to do they’ve never seen him this broken before and the last time Bucky recalled seeing him this broken was when Steve’s mother passed and he doesn’t remember how they got through that. Bucky quietly rubbed Steve’s back but he didn’t know what to say he couldn’t find and soothing words.

Steve looked up showing everyone his tear-stained face.

“What do I do now?”

Nobody Knew.

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[milomeepit]

An Untitled Document (Roman Angst Oneshot)

Ship: Roceit, background Analogical TW: Depression, anxiety, past abuse mention, unhealthy habits, dysphoria mention, brief eating disorder, death mention, bad family past, brief past mention of violence Word Count: 2k AN: ... yep.

Roman groaned as he tapped his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop. The sunlight streaming in through the window left a blinding white glare on the upper half of the screen, but he didn’t quite care enough to be bothered getting up and closing the curtain. He instead angled it down, sinking lower into the wooden dining chair. His back would surely complain later, but a shower would probably fix any aches or pains from the awkward position.

He wondered if he should get up and walk around for a bit, stretch his legs and give himself a break from his (apparently fruitless) efforts to work. But, then again, it seemed wrong to give himself a break when he hadn’t really done anything.

He had eaten breakfast- if cold leftover pizza and too-strong coffee counted as breakfast- and fed his pets. He’d even played with the cats for a while, and that had left a fleeting smile on his face as he sat down at the dining table with another cup of coffee and a bottle of soda to sip at while he worked.

The last dregs of coffee sat untouched in the cup, now cold and cloudy, while the soda was half-gone already. His teeth felt rough and slimy, coated in the absurd amounts of sugar from the unhealthy drink. The document on screen hadn’t changed since he sat down an hour and a half ago, the cursor blinking and taunting him. Sure, he’d written and rewritten and deleted a few hundred words, but nothing he’d written seemed good enough.

Writing was supposed to be his passion, the thing he could still grab and hold close to his chest when things got rough. It was all he had left at this point. He couldn’t dance anymore, not with the weak knees he’d inherited from his mother, and his own growing ankle issues from several years of working on his feet for whole days with no breaks. He couldn’t remember the last time he performed a song or in a play, the foggy memories of hot stage lights and elaborate costumes and giggling, whispered conversations in dressing rooms now leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Drawing and painting was an option, still, but they were never really his, not after the ridicule he’d received through highschool from one particularly sharp-tongued art teacher.

Roman’s stomach growled, and he grimaced, glancing at the clock. Only eleven o’clock. He couldn’t eat until one, at the very least. He couldn’t let himself slip into comfort eating again, not when he still had a generously padded belly, not when flab swung off the bottom of his arms, not when his back fat poked unattractively out of the bottom of his binder, not when-

He shook his head, as if to clear it like one of the Etch A Sketch boards his nephew loved. He was in a bad enough headspace right now without spiralling down into a dysphoric, self-body-hating hellscape.

He instead turned his attention back to his phone, which sat on the table between him and his laptop, and continued scrolling blankly through social media. Memes and posts and videos flashed past his eyes, some of them drawing a faint smirk or an amused huff. He sent a few to Dee. He was well aware that his fiance was at work, but some of them would hopefully give him a smile when he went on break later.

He set his phone down again and took an absentminded swig from the bottle of soda. He winced as it grated against his teeth, the sugar almost hurting his teeth as it swirled down his throat. He ran his tongue over his teeth, prodding at them gently. He hissed sharply as he got to the loose one at the bottom of his mouth. Adults probably weren’t meant to have loose teeth, he thought to himself. He probably needed to see a dentist. When he could afford it. If he could afford it.

11:11am. Roman spent a few seconds trying to think of a wish, but before his mind could grasp a solid thought, the clock ticked over, and the moment was gone. It was all rubbish, anyway. Wishes didn’t come true, and life was cruel to those who didn’t deserve it. Dee was one of the best people he’d ever met, and certainly his favourite, yet he was a ball of anxiety and guilt complexes. He deserved to feel confident about himself, to love his laugh and his soft tummy and his small stature that put him at the perfect height for cuddling, to love his loud way of speaking and his passion for those he cared about. Roman certainly loved them, more than words could say.

He was jolted from his thoughts by his phone buzzing with a message from Dee. He must have been on break already. Roman had yet to pin down the break times scattered throughout his shift, so he never knew exactly when his beloved would be online during the day.

snakememesaremadeofthese [11:16]: good morning darling <3 how did you sleep? cocoa_crowns [11:16]: hi, love <33 alright, how’s work going? snakememesaremadeofthese [11:16]: oh, you know, same old same old. It’s.. a day pft snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]: what are you up to? cocoa_crowns [11:17]: nothing much really, just dishes and laundry

That was a complete lie, but Roman couldn’t quite face telling Dee he hadn’t touched the chores they discussed last night. He fully intended to do them before Dee got home, that was for certain! Just... not right now.

snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]: so, are you working this weekend or? cocoa_crowns [11:17]: i havent gotten a shift request yet so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ snakememesaremadeofthese [11:17]: all good, that means we can stay home over my long weekend, do some cleaning and stuff.

Roman let out a soft whine. He’d honestly been hoping that he would get a job request for the weekend, between rough finances and missing his older brother. Logan seemed happy to let them stay at his and Virgil’s house over the weekend when Roman was working, though that was likely because Roman was working for Virgil.

At least Dee usually didn’t seem to mind hanging out at their place while Roman was working. He spent most of his time with Logan and Virgil’s three year old son, Patton. Patton, for his part, adored Dee as if he’d hung the moon and stars in the sky with his own hand. It was cute to see, even if a tiny part of Roman stung with jealousy over being replaced as Patton’s favourite. He genuinely did love seeing the two of them cuddled up on the couch together, playing with toys or watching TV or talking.

It made him excited for the idea of having children, in all honesty. Dee had made his desire to one day have kids clear pretty early on, and Roman had to say he agreed. For a long time, he hated the idea of having children- mostly because he didn’t want to be pregnant, the very idea of it set off his dysphoria like an alarm bell- but he didn’t mind the idea of raising a child with Dee.

Speaking of... he turned back to the computer, squinting at the bright white screen. It was meant to be a story about adoption and found families and unconditional love and hope, but... he just couldn’t get it to click. No matter what he wrote, the tone didn’t feel right for what he was trying to hit. It was just... Wrong, and he hated himself for it.

Writing was meant to be the one thing. His thing. But it just wouldn’t flow, no matter how hard he tried, or what tips and tricks he tested out, or how many breaks he took, or what projects he tried to work on. He loved these stories and characters with his whole heart, and he knew people would be interested in this story- after all, he’d gotten a great reception from the first installment in his planned series. He could talk about them for hours, gush about his plans and ideas and characters, but when it came to actually writing them?

Not a chance.

His heart ached. He felt like he was spinning in the same circles as he had been for months. New house, an (ex boyfriend) friend turned vaguely irritating housemate, new pets, a possible new job that would pay well but he was certain he would loathe- despite Dee’s company during breaks- all of these changes were throwing him off rhythm, and while he was sure that they were for the best, and long term, they would help him live a Happy Life, it was upsetting.

A small, shameful part of him wanted to go home. Not home back to the shared house he had been miserable in, despite only living there for a few short months, not home back to Logan and Virgil’s house, but back to the house he grew up in. It was filthy and toxic, and the people there weren’t much better, but it was familiar. It was regular. He knew how to navigate the treacherous landscape of rotting food left piled in the kitchen, of insults screamed over minute irritations, of the stench from medical issues improperly treated, of prescription medications abused and leaving the mother who was meant to protect him in a drug induced haze, of his father bellowing and throwing things and breaking precious objects and walls (and, in some terrifying cases, people), of the two middle brothers fighting and not understanding why it upset him so. He knew how to try and keep the peace, and how to cope when he failed, as was so often the case in that household. He knew who to talk to and who to avoid in that neighborhood, who to run to if he got in a fight, who to stand up against and who to back down from. The scars from knife wounds in his youth had taught him lessons more valuable than his rundown school ever had.

He didn’t realise that he was crying until a fat tear plopped onto the dining table, narrowly missing his phone screen. He hated that he missed it. He hated that he missed his father, despite swearing off contact with him after coming away from their last conversation with a black eye. He hated that both he and Logan were deliberately keeping their mother at arm’s length, trying to save themselves from the pain of her likely-approaching death. He hated that his other brothers were good people, people he loved, and he couldn’t even go near them anymore out of fear for their parents.

Roman glanced at the clock blinking in the lower corner of his computer screen. An hour and a half had passed since Dee had messaged him, and he hadn’t moved from his slouched position at the dining table. He probably had roughly three hours to do everything else he needed to do before Dee got home. That should be plenty of time. Should be.

He noticed numbly that he hadn’t yet changed out of his pyjamas, just thrown on the cat hoodie he’d bought at a convention a few years ago to show it to the kittens and see if they would cuddle up in the large pocket on the front. He probably needed to shower, as well. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed.

... Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He knew he’d had a bath at least semi-recently, because he remembered using one of the bath bombs that he and Dee had gotten at the pharmacy near Logan’s house the other weekend.

He twisted a finger into his hair, pulling his fringe down over his eyes to inspect it. It didn’t feel too greasy, and it looked fine. He was probably fine. Though he should at least wash his face, to deal with his blotchy cheeks and red eyes, if nothing else. Maybe slap on some makeup and go for a walk in the pleasant weather outside. Take the dog with him, wander around town a bit.

As he stared out the window at Dee’s dog, who was sprinting wildly up and down her tether, probably chasing some bug or lizard, he felt his heart sink. He knew he wasn’t going to do any of that. Pipe dreams for someone with far more energy and functionality than he possessed lately.

So, instead, trying his best to ignore the looming sense of dread he felt, and the anxiety he could feel building over Dee’s return and subsequent disappointment over his lack of productivity, he turned his still tear-blurred gaze back to the too-bright screen of the laptop, readied his fingers over the keyboard, and attempted once again to write.

Depression, anxiety, past abuse mention, unhealthy habits, dysphoria mention, brief eating disorder, death mention, bad family past, brief past mention of violence

[benes-diction]

bricks in the wall.

Tagging @adrian-tepes666​ for the inclusion of his tol and his assistance with beta-reading this to make sure I got the Wall’s personality down.

Again and again and again.

It was a living nightmare, not knowing what was going on, who was behind everything. There was no way a lone woman in Eorzea could have known about her family escaping without someone informing her. Celia knew she’d been careful. There was no godsdamned way someone could know unless they had people in the provinces still under Imperial rule or someone in Garlemald proper.

She couldn’t help her family where she was, but she could find who put them in danger.

For all intents and purposes, she was no spy, but still, she somehow managed to hide herself in the Thanalan brush overlooking a camp she’d followed that woman to.

She hated the desert nights. Compared to the heat of the day, it was like stepping into Ishgard. Before, it had been a relief. But now… Now, she was worried the cloud of her breath might alert someone below her. And as though that wasn’t enough… it did nothing to quell how overheated she felt, how the anger twisted and turned in her chest.

Her breath escaped her lips in a tiny puff. They could go after her all they wanted. They could hurt her. Hell, they could even hurt Caius for all she cared. But her parents? Her aunt? That was unacceptable.

That was war.

In the little circle of tents, very little was going on, as far as Celia could tell from her vantage point. The woman she’d attacked before had ducked into one of them with a small group—with a hat covering that decent-sized bald spot, Celia noted with a smirk—and had been there for… a few bells, if her internal clock was correct. A few other people—all members of that woman’s group, she assumed—milled about, doing menial tasks.

“Come on,” Celia hissed under her breath.

She just needed proof. Proof of who the rat was. Proof of… anything, really. Anything she could get.

She was drawn taut like a wire about to snap, she mused. She was desperate for a target to direct the fallout on.

Perhaps a better spot? Her eyes glanced over the rocky outcrops around her. Sure, they provided less cover, and put her more at risk of being caught, but if they were all hiding their true actions out of her sight…

Celia gnawed on her bottom lip, weighing the risk as she shifted her weight on the balls of her feet, and once she made up her mind, she began to slowly edge away from her hiding spot, knees scraping in the dirt, rocks and pebbles jabbing into her skin. The dry thicket latched onto her clothing and arms, leaving small, red scratches in its wake.

As quietly as she could, she clambered down the mountain path that had led her up there to begin with, the moon shining bright in the sky above her. The almost-vertical trek left her with even more scraps and scratches, and briefly, she was almost grateful that to some extent, she’d kept up with the fitness regime Arduro had showed her, even if her eating habits hadn’t received the same amount of attention.

Once her boots were on stable, horizontal ground, she dared to pause a moment, brushing the dust and grime from her clothes and skin. A soft breeze picked up, rustling across the sand, and the short ends of her cropped hair tickled the back of her neck, reminding her of what she’d done, what she’d begged Audrey to do.

It was vanity that made her eyes sting with tears, she told herself. Vanity and sand. Hair would grow back. It was just a precaution. Once everything was taken care of, she could furiously scrub all that dye from her hair and see about coaxing some sympathetic mage to jumpstart the growth so she wouldn’t feel…

No. She wouldn’t think like that. If anything, forcing herself to cut her hair, to convince Audrey to take her precious pale locks and turn them dark as night… It was a punishment. Punishment for not knowing that someone was feeding information about her family into the wrong hands, for not knowing that she was being stalked like prey, for being… herself.

An imbecile. A broken doll.

It always came back to that, didn’t it?

At least she had far more self-control with her self-loathing than Caius did.

With another huff of air, she straightened up, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand and pushing her hair back from her face.

It was then, with her face lifted to the night sky, that she heard the crunch of gravel.

Her hand went to the push dagger sheathed at the small of her back, listening to the sound as it got closer. A sentry? A patrol? Some innocent, unaffiliated passerby?

She could handle one person—and judging by the steps, it seemed to be only one person—and if she truly had to, she could outrun someone, surely. At the least, she could squeeze herself into a small space and prevent them from following her. Had she seen any small crevices on her way there from Ul’dah? She couldn’t remember. But she’d deal with it. She’d deal with anything that got thrown at her. She was a Benes. She was a Benes. She was—

The source of the steps finally appeared over the nearby hill, just in her peripheral vision—a hulking figure in dirty, worn armor.

Familiar armor, weathered by battle, and coated in the grime of the road, rustling with a familiar, determined stride.

Just like when she’d met him once again in Ala Mhigo, it was not unlike watching a ghost march his way back to her.

Celia let her hand fall from her knife’s sheath as a small fraction of the tension eased from her muscles, watching as Arduro’s steps faltered as he took a good, long look at her.

Eorzean gods… Would he even recognize her, changed as she was? Was she no more than a stranger to her tol? Her hair was short and dark, and she knew that the bruises and scratches on her face from fighting with that woman had yet to heal. And not just that. She’d lost weight. The stress, the fear, the paranoia had sapped the appetite from her almost completely; even sweets had failed to tempt her.

Even as some part of her racing heart leapt for joy—her told had returned to her—the rest of it leapt into her throat. In fear? she wondered. Out of shame for him seeing her like that? Revulsion at how damned weak she really was?

As her heart and mind raced and raced, Arduro reached up and pulled off his helmet, tucking it under one arm as he raked stray strands of his hair from his face. Did he have more gray streaking thorugh that jet black? Gods, it had been so long since she had seen him, it felt, she couldn’t remember. But she remembered the steely gray eyes that focused on her. They’d haunted enough of her dreams, after all, scorching her very soul. Those pale eyes darted over her, taking in every detail, it seemed, but revealed nothing.

The silence felt like an iron curtain between them. Some tangible barrier that kept them in their separate worlds. And the longer it persisted, the more she wanted to scream.

Say something, she wanted to shout at him. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me my body is ugly or that I’m stupid for getting hurt. Tell me you’re shocked. Tell me you’re disappointed or that I’m weak.

Most of all, she just wanted to run to him and tell him all that had occurred in his absence, to have him take the burden on his shoulders so she could no longer have to suffer it alone.

But that was a luxury she didn’t have. Not now.

This was her fault. It was her family. Her family, her burden, her punishment. If she couldn’t handle one thing on her own…

“Celia?” Arduro finally asked, rumbling voice gravelly. “What are you doing out here?” A faint layer of dirt from the road mottled his chiseled face, and sweat had created small streaks through it.

She attempted to straighten her spin, glaring at him. “It’s none of your business.”

Even to her, she sounded defensive, and from the chiding look in Arduro’s eyes, he thought so, too.

“What happened, then?” he continued, stepping closer.

“It’s none of your damned business!”

She could deal with it. She had to deal with it by herself. She had to rely on herself.

His shoulders shot back, his whole demeanor stiffening as his brows drew together. She blamed his prolonged absence for not being able to read the emotion on his face, but deep down, she knew it was just because… he was himself. The Wall, unbreaking and unyielding.

He took another step toward her, boots grinding into the loose sand. They were caked with mud and… something she could only assume was the spattered blood of some unfortunate fool who had tried to rob the caravan he’d been protecting. “Celia,” he said again, voice lower, more commanding, but still rough. She wondered briefly how often he’d had to bark orders at people or other guards, directing them to hide or alerting them to threats on the road.

Had he been making sure his canteen was filled with clean water?

It didn’t matter. It… mattered a lot. But there were more pressing things for her mind to focus on.

“I’m not one of your soldiers who will just jump to attention and follow orders at a moment’s notice,” she snapped at him. Why was she letting her venom loose on him? He wasn’t the object of her rage. He hadn’t even been around for anything that had happened. He didn’t…

Eorzean gods, he didn’t even know that Audrey’s pimp had made a move on her.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to worry about her. She had everything under control.

“I have things handled,” she muttered under her breath.

As she started to storm around him, he held out an arm, blocking her path. She felt his eyes like a tangible heat on the side of her face. Part of her wished he’d draw her into his arms like the love interests in all the novels she’d read, but that wasn’t his way.

The Wall didn’t crumble like that.

“Why are you avoiding my questions?” he asked her. With how close she was now, she imagined that she could feel that deep baritone rumbling in his chest like thunder.

“Let me pass.”

“Celia—”

“Let me pass, or I will move you myself.”

“Benes,” he snapped, gripping her by the arm as he spun her slightly to face him. “What happened to you?”

“Something I took care of. Something that I am taking care of.”

He shook his head. “I need more detail from you than that, Celia. Talk to me.”

Why was everyone coddling her so? Everyone who had seen her now all seemed to just… scold her. Scold her for being stupid, or taking things on by herself.

Why couldn’t they just let her deal with the consequences of her own inadequacies by herself? She’d ask for help when she needed it. Hadn’t she done that already? Hadn’t she practically gotten on her knees and begged Audrey to dye her hair to give her an added layer of security? Hadn’t she suffered through Caius looking at her with that pitying expression, like she was some kicked puppy that had happened to crawl onto his doorstep? Hadn’t she endured Laelia’s scolding, the ice in her tone? Sure, the good doctor had apologized later, but… apologies didn’t change the past. And Jac… She’d even had Jac shoot down her protests, and he and his growing family had far more to deal with than little old her.

Why couldn’t they all let her live out her just desserts and stay the fuck out of it?

The hatred toward herself bubbled up in her chest, the wire drawing tight within her, and as she tried to tamp it back down, she yanked her arm from Arduro’s grasp, feeling her heart once again jump to her throat.

“I told you, I have this in hand. Now let me through.”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on, Celia?”

The wire tightened.

Snapped.

“Because I can’t rely on you!” she half-shouted, whirling on him.

For a brief moment, she thought she saw hurt flash through his eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it was hidden behind that wall.

“You can’t rely on me?” Arduro echoed, voice low and dangerous now as he once more gripped her arm. She wondered if he took that tone with Caius. It wouldn’t shock her. But unlike how he was with Caius, he was careful with her. He didn’t hold her tight enough to hurt.

“No. I can’t.” She couldn’t rely on him. She couldn’t rely on anyone. How was she going to learn not to let her guard down if she just let everyone else deal with her problems?

The curtain of silence fell between them once again as he simply… stared. No… Glared. His eyes were burning. He had a dusting of stubble across his face. She wondered if he knew. But of course, he knew. It was Arduro. The Wall didn’t crumble like that.

“You think I’ve been out here doing nothing?” he demanded after it seemed the silence had stretched on for eternity. “That I’ve been out here because I want to be out here?”

“I—”

“No,” he snarled, interrupting her, and Celia half-shrank from the cut of his voice. Had he ever taken that tone with her before? “I have been out in this damned desert for moons now, working myself to the bone for your family, when most of my own doesn’t even give a damn whether I live or die. I could be getting money to get them out of Garlemald. But no. I’m working to protect yours. And you think you can’t rely on me?”

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

And he did, releasing her in favor of pulling a large pouch of gil from within his coat, dropping it into the dirt at her feet. “It was all for you. Do with it what you like.”

As she stood there, momentarily stunned, he began to stride off, armor clanking, and she could only stare after him. And that wire tightened and tightened.

She bit her lip hard enough that she tasted blood.

“I didn’t ask for this!” she shouted at his back, scooping up the pouch from the ground to launch it at him, hitting him square between the shoulders. “I didn’t ask you to do anything!”

With all sense of stealth thrown to the wind, before she even knew what she was doing, Celia was in motion. She was running at him, the heat of her own failings burning in her as she launched at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, squeezing as tight as she could, attempting to get him into a chokehold.

But she should have known better.

He stumbled for only a moment, perhaps taken aback at her… well. If she was honest with herself, it was a mindless, angry assault. It didn’t make sense, really, to the part of her that clung to sanity. To the rest of her… it was proof. It was an attempt to prove once and for all that she didn’t need to rely so heavily on her tol. But her little victory was short-lived. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw motion, heard the clamor of his helmet as he threw it aside, and before she could react, his gauntleted hand had closed around the collar of her sleeveless jacket, unceremoniously pulling her off his neck and over his head.

She hit the ground harder than she ever had in any of their previous sparring matches, the air leaving her in a whoosh as a sharp rock dug into her shoulder, and she actually thought that she saw stars before she focused on her new position, glaring up at him. She’d managed to dislodge some of his hair from its binding, and the locks brushed against his face.

Gods, why did he have to be handsome when all she wanted to do was punch him hard enough to make him think she was strong?

“I told you,” she spat at him, pushing herself to her feet, “I can handle this by myself.”

He didn’t say a word to her, but she could almost imagine him scowling at her and telling her to prove it.

She flew at him again, drawing upon all the things he had ever taught her, seeking out the parts of him that weren’t armored to hell and back, seeking out any place where her little fists could find tender flesh that could be bruised or harmed.

But gods… Damned Eorzean and Doman and Dalmascan gods…

How could anyone that large move so fast?

No matter where she struck, he was moving to block her. Like his namesake, he played defensive, dodging her, raising his arms to protect himself from her frankly flimsy blows. But she kept on.

She kept trying to land one solid blow.

And the more he got the better of her, the more frustrated she became.

Why was she weak? Why couldn’t she just take care of things on her own?

Why couldn’t she just win, dammit?

Without thinking, she reached behind her for her push dagger, and it was then that Arduro actually made a move rather than just defending. Before she knew it, he had twisted her wrist unless she couldn’t help but yelp in pain, but still she tried to hold on to her blade, desperate to prove her point, to prove anything at all, to him and to herself.

But down it fell, clattering onto the rock.

On instinct, she whipped her other fist around, landing a solid sucker punch against his cheek.

And—on instinct, too, she assumed in the fraction of time afforded to her—Arduro responded with one of his own, hitting her with an uppercut to her jaw hard enough that she thought her entire skull rattled.

For a moment, she actually blacked out, but when she came to, she was there.

On the ground.

She was sore. She was dirty and covered in scratches. She was disgusted with herself.

And worst of all, she was defeated.

She didn’t try to get back to her feet this time. Instead, she stayed there, giving Arduro the victory, curling into herself as she fought away the tears that came unbidden to her stinging eyes.

She couldn’t even win a fight against her tol. How did she expect to singlehandedly save her family when she couldn’t even beat someone who tended to go easy on her? Perhaps it was because he was an armored behemoth and she was… not. But that didn’t matter. She’d end up having to defend herself against someone bigger and stronger and with far more resources than she did, one day. She had to learn.

She had to.

So much for her original plan of actually accomplishing something. Instead, there she was. Lying in the dirt and crying, likely with any semblance of stealth thrown out the door like refuse.

She felt a gentle touch against her shoulder, the rasp of a gauntlet against her skin, and she finally dared to push herself to a sitting position, keeping her eyes on the ground, on her scraped knees, as Arduro knelt beside her. Even when she attacked him with no sane reason, even when she was losing her damned mind, he was gentle with her.

She didn’t deserve him.

Celia bit down on her lip, managing to keep from sobbing even if she couldn’t stop her damned tears. And Arduro didn’t say a word. She was afraid to look at his face, lest she see something she didn’t want to—anger, hatred, disgust… Anything that meant he would leave. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to be abandoned.

Too many people had left her behind because of who she was, what she was.

“It’s my fault,” she breathed, afraid to speak any higher. She curled her hands into the dirt, watching the sand slide between her fingers. “It’s all my fault. I have to fix it myself. I have to learn to rely on myself.”

She heard Arduro softly exhale, his hand briefly tightening on her shoulder. “Your choice of wording leaves much to be desired sometimes, marshmallow.”

Marshmallow. He called her marshmallow again. She could have sobbed with relief. Even as she knew she had to grow up, to toughen up, to stop being soft and remind herself that people were terrible and cruel, she couldn’t help but want to hide herself in Arduro’s arms. She wanted to be his marshmallow, a safe place for him to go to, not another battlefield he had to navigate.

And even after all that, she wished for more.

Eorzean gods, why did things have to be so complicated?

Biting her lip harder, Celia reached up, grasping Arduro’s forearm tight, trying to sap his strength, his steadiness, from the limb through her fingertips. “A lot has happened since you’ve been gone.”

“Clearly.”

“Will they be leaving again soon?” The caravan. Of course, the caravan. He had a job, and even if he had thrown the money to her feet like it was nothing, she knew him. He didn’t leave things half-finished. Even if she wanted him to shield her, he wouldn’t move on until his job was completed to his satisfaction.

“My contract ends when they get to Ul’dah tomorrow. After that…” His hand tightened on her shoulder again, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw his other arm raise, drawing her close. Celia’s nose wrinkled. He didn’t smell like ceruleum and armor polish like he usually did. He smelled… like someone who hadn’t had the opportunity for a decent bath in ages. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

Don’t tell him anything, some part of her hissed. Bundle it all inside and deal with it yourself. Don’t reach out. Don’t beg for help. Don’t be weak.

But the world—her world—was crumbling apart around her. And her tol was going to be home again.

She really was a weak, soft marshmallow, wasn’t she?

“After you take a good, long bath,” she relented, finally looking up at him. Something in her chest ached as his face, those stormy gray eyes, came into view. “You smell, old man.”

[jawnjendes]

you never listen and i hate you lately | tom holland

AN: i wrote this in 2017 when hoco came out AND when i was goin thru a breakup. i kept putting off posting it here but now that the uuuuuhhhhhh news dropped, have some more depressing shit!

there will not be a part 2

(i would link my masterlist but its literally just shawn mendes fics lulz)

i.

It took me a moment to realize what I had gotten down to the night before. When I woke up in a hotel room that was similar to mine, but not exactly the same, a bout of nerves pulsed through my veins. I rolled over onto my back, only to discover a sleeping guy next to me.

As always, my drunk self could not be trusted.

This wasn't new for me. Every time I went out, I always told myself that I wouldn't hook up with anyone. I would just have a few drinks and then go home and be drunk by myself. More often than not, though, I would wake up naked with a random person in a random place.

I mean, this time only happened because I was invited to the Spider-Man: Homecoming premiere. I wasn't sure why, but who was I to turn down something like that? There was an after party, and needless to say, I attended. That's where things got fuzzy. I had a few drinks and talked to a few people, some of them from the movie. I didn't expect to wake up in bed with the main fucking actor.

Again, not exactly uncharacteristic for me. But it was probably the least expected to discover that I had slept with Tom Holland. I was wracking my brain, trying to dig up the part from last night where I actually met him. You would think I would remember something like that, even with the amount of alcohol in my system. For once, I even tried to remember some of the events that happened in this room, but to no avail. Shame, this one was actually hot.

He turned in the sheets, facing me. I froze, not daring to look at him for a second. He remained still and silent, probably forgetting that he brought some random girl into bed last night. This was my sign to quietly get my shit together and leave. I sat up and scanned the room for my dress.There was no way I was going to steal clothes from a fucking famous actor, I’d definitely get sued for that at some point. I found my bra hung on the back of a chair, then my underwear caught on the foot of the bed. My dress? Nowhere to be seen.

I managed to reach over and grab my lace panties. Putting them on was a bit of a challenge because I didn't want to expose myself in case Tom woke up, and I didn't want to move around too much and cause him to wake up. However, lying on my back, curling my legs, and sliding the fabric back on gave me a small flashback to when he was doing quite the opposite. He definitely knew what to do with his hands… and his mouth… My chest fluttered, but I quickly shook it off. I was in the process of leaving.

But I was sidetracked either way.

“Hey,” Tom sleepily mumbled, much to my disdain.

My hands immediately went to the blanket covering my chest and I looked at him. I was unnecessarily starstruck at the way he looked. His hair was ruffled and messy, and his neck was speckled with hickies I barely remembered leaving. His arms and shoulders looked so delicious, I found myself loathing that I was so hammered that I couldn't remember what it was like to touch him.

I pushed all of this aside. “Don't worry, I'm about to leave.”

Tom sat up on his elbow, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his other hand. “What for?”

In my experience of hook ups, the person I slept with normally just rolled over and ignored me when I was making my exit. Needless to say, I was thrown off by his words. He didn't want me to stay, did he?

“Um, I'm just… there's nothing else for us to do here, right?” I asked in response.

“There could be some things to do.” He smiled. “Come on, it doesn't have to end now. I had a good time with you.”

Another guy who just wants my body. No thanks. One night is enough, even if it was Tom.

I shook my head. “I should just go.”

“Okay,” he said after a pause.

It was so much easier when I was blackout drunk. Not that he wasn't attractive now, but Tom seemed a lot more seductive and alluring when I was grinding up on him at the after party. Or maybe I was just hungover and in shock that it was him I scored.

“Could you, um, not look at me?” I sheepishly asked.

Tom chuckled and dove under the covers.

Quickly, I hopped out of bed and grabbed my bra. Once I had it on, I looked around for my dress. I kept glancing at the bed, making sure Tom wasn't making eyes at me.

I groaned. “Do you have any idea where my dress went? You can look, I guess.”

He sat up, looking around at the room. It seemed like he was actively trying not to stare at me. “Have you checked the bathroom?”

Why would it be in the bathroom? I looked in there anyway and low and behold…

My pale pink dress had a mysterious red stain on the front. Great, my walk of shame was going to be even more shameful. I came out of the bathroom, looking down at the gross stain. I barely even looked at Tom, even though he was looking right at me, as I walked over to grab my shoes, phone and clutch bag.

“Okay, well,” I said dismissively, “this is where we part ways. It was good to meet you and whatnot.”

“Actually,” he spoke up as he got out from under the covers. Thankfully, he had his boxers on. “Is there any chance I could see you again? You just… you seem really cool, and I want to get to know you.”

I hesitated, but I also refrained from rolling my eyes. “I've heard it all before. You say you want to get to know me, but you really just wanna see if you can hit it again, and you'll give up when you don't. Then you'll go back to England and we'll forget about each other.” And when I watch his movie on DVD with my friends, I'll throw in a joke about sleeping with Tom Holland and my friends will laugh because that doesn't happen in real life.

He let out a soft laugh, amused by my cynicism. “Or, we could go to dinner, maybe - i-if you want - and we can have a good time that doesn't involve getting naked. What do you think?”

Another thing I've heard before. Sure, he was a celebrity and I would probably never get a moment like this again, but he was also a guy. He was a young guy, and I probably wasn't the first one night stand he's had. Why would he get attached this quickly?

Thankfully, my phone rang in my hand, giving me the chance to indirectly reject him. “I have to take this. I have to go.”

ii.

Do you believe in signs of fate? Do you believe that if someone comes back into your life that they're meant to stay in it? I sure as hell fucking don't, but I did come pretty close.

It wasn't that long after I had left Tom in his hotel room did I see him again. Obviously, I didn't expect us to still be in the same fucking city, much less the same country. I expected him to be completely taken over by premieres and interviews and plenty of other busy things, that was the realistic thought. That's what happens in real life, not… seeing him with his friend at the Starbucks by my apartment.

This wasn't the first time I saw an old flame (if that's what we're calling him), but every time was just as nerve-wracking as the last. Again, I didn't think he would still be in the country, so I was pretty thrown off when I saw him sat at one of the high tables wearing a baseball cap for a “disguise.”

My plan was to just act like I didn't see him and carry on with my day. But, with my luck, he saw me first.

Next thing I knew, it was Friday night, and I was getting ready for a date. With Tom. How did I end up here? Sure, I was sober this time around, but I couldn’t really pinpoint the moment where he reeled me in and convinced me into going to dinner with him. He told me to “look smart,” but I didn’t really want to pull out my nicest clothing for him. Wasn’t sure if he was worth it just yet. Heels, mediocre perfume, and a black dress from my dirty clothes pile worked for now.

Of course, he had to come pick me up and wait outside the car. He looked pretty decent in a black button up and dress pants. Oh yeah, he’s hot as hell. That’s why I was doing this.

“You look really good,” he told me, already sounding flustered.

I smiled. “Thanks. You too.”

He opened the passenger door for me, and I had to resist rolling my eyes. I had a cheesy night ahead if things worked out. While I was still on the fence about this whole thing, there was a part of me that hoped this would work out. So far, Tom was proving to be a decent guy.

The restaurant he took me to was quite flashy and expensive looking, but it was also dark and private. I felt way too poor and filthy to even be near this place. I couldn't even believe I was here, how would I be able to recount this whole thing to my friends? How could I tell this to anybody?

We were seated and served some fancy ass red wine, which I would absolutely need if I wanted to get somewhere with this guy. I drained my first glass quickly before the conversation could start.

“So, what have you been up to?” he prompted.

Slept with more people, but that’s boring, I thought.

“Not much,” I replied. “Work, class… a mundane life.” Way to sound interesting.

“University? What are you studying?”

Telling people information about me wasn't exactly my cup of tea, especially if it was people that weren't going to stick around. Not that Tom would do that… or would he? It was hard to tell.

“Business,” I said, giving in. “I'm close to getting my degree, but I'm not sure what else to do once I graduate.”

“And where do you work?”

How do I explain my job without giving too much away?

“It's just some graphic design thing at this one company,” I explained, then changing the subject. “That's how I got invited to the premiere.”

Tom nodded. We could both tell how boring I sounded.

“What about you? What do you, besides the acting thing?” I asked.

He thought about it. When the pause got to be too long, he chuckled. “This has, uh, been my whole life for a couple of years now. I haven't really done anything else.”

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty one.”

Great. Younger than me, and far more successful. I needed more wine.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked.

I nodded as I poured myself another glass.

“I really don’t like fancy restaurants.”

If I had been drinking the wine, I probably would have choked on it. “So why are we here, then?”

He shrugged timidly. “Wanted to impress you.”

Shit, that was endearing… and cheesy as fuck. I couldn’t help but grin as I placed my hand on the table and reached for his.

“It doesn’t take a lot to impress me, honey.”

“Would you rather go for a pizza, then?”

“Hell yeah.”

~

The more time I spent with Tom, which wasn’t really a lot, the more attached I got. Yes, even when you spend little time with someone, you can really develop a lot of feelings. I didn’t even know I was still capable of wanting someone for something other than sex.

After our first date, I invited him back up to my apartment for that very reason, except we ended up having “that talk.” We spoke of everything and nothing. From childhood, to trauma, to which bar of Twix we eat first. I hadn’t connected with someone so well in a long time, so when he had to leave the next day, I figured it was too good to be true.

“I’ll go back there after I finish filming,” he told me over the phone. Little did he know, he was on speaker, and I had my best friend sat next to me, overhearing us. “I really do want to see you again.”

“Okay,” I replied, unable to keep down my goofy grin. “I’ll be waiting.”

When we hung up, I turned to my friend, who was utterly surprised. As I had guessed, she didn’t believe me when I first told her who I slept with at the Spider-Man premiere. This was the only way I could get her to believe me.

“But you’re never gonna talk to him again, are you?” she assumed after her stunned silence.

I was about to retaliate, but then I hesitated. “If he does come back, then I’ll probably meet up with him.”

“He said he will come back, though.”

“Yeah, but he’s also always busy in that life of his. I’m surprised I saw him twice in the same week.”

“Well… if you don’t date him, I fucking will.”

I giggled and sat back on the couch. “I don’t remember the last time I actually dated someone. Then, he comes along. Of all people.”

It was actually daunting. Tying myself down to one person, that is, if this thing with Tom works out. A week ago, I had my mind set on forgetting about him, and keeping our late night rendezvous a secret. This thing of going on a date with him and seeing him again in a couple of weeks wasn’t apart of the plan. But strangely, I was okay with it.

~

The weeks went on, and Tom was spending more and more time with me. He would fly to another city or country for some important famous person thing, but as soon as he was free, he would come back to my place. I no longer could count the hours we spent together on one hand. We made sure to stay within the safe, quiet walls of my apartment, because he was constantly tailed by paparazzi. Every moment we had was private and as sappy as you could imagine. Late nights between the sheets, lazy afternoons on the couch… it was perfect.

I shouldn’t feel suffocated, right? I spent enough time away from Tom that I still felt like my own person, and I wasn’t completely dependent on him. I liked that aspect. But every time he came back I was just as… put off. Why wasn’t he tired of me yet? Why did he keep coming back? Why did I keep putting up with it?

“But are you happy?” asked my friend when I expressed this to her.

“Yeah,” I said a little too casually. “I wanna keep him around. Maybe he’s just a little needy and I’m not used to that.”

That night when he landed in the city (probably the third or fourth time since we started dating), I couldn’t find it in me to be excited. I was setting myself up for disappointment. One downside of dating him was that I was not allowed to be seen with him in public. Tom’s publicist/marketing team made it clear that he was supposed to look either single or involved with one of his co-stars to the public. I wasn’t really that bothered by it; I didn’t exactly want people in my life to know who I was involved with. My coworkers and some members of my family knew I wasn’t the type to keep someone around for longer than one night, so imagine their response to me being in a steady relationship. And not only that, being in a steady relationship with a wildly famous heartthrob. Nope, this was better left under wraps.

But, there were times where Tom had to avoid coming to my apartment at all because he couldn’t lose the paparazzi van following him. I guess if he was seen with me, he had a lot to lose. Again, I wasn’t as bothered as I should have been. Like tonight. I watched Netflix by myself and called it a night.

He sent an apology text, and I replied with a peace sign emoji.

~

The next time we saw each other, I was a mess. Things had sort of spiraled in the time Tom and I had been apart, and now he was here to pick up the pieces. My pieces.

“I’m sure you can find another job,” he told me.

“But I don’t want another job!” I snapped, trying not to burst into tears. I hunched over, burying my face in my hands. “I spent so much time there, I gave them everything and they had the fucking nerve to let me go like that… Why does this happen?”

Tom just rubbed my back, speechless. How lucky of him, not having to deal with things like this. He never had to worry about living ever again. He never had to worry about things like losing his house or possessions. None of this was his fault, but I couldn’t help but hate him and his soothing touch.

I got up from the couch and paced around the living room. How long more did I have in this place? How was I going to make it?

“I think I have like, one month left here,” I said, trying to catch my breath. The panic was starting to kick in. “I have enough for rent while I find another place to live… m-maybe my cousin in Idaho will let me stay with her… but planes cost money too… fuck, okay. Maybe if I move out this week and if I get my deposit back… if I quit school - oh god, I have to quit school - then maybe I can go live with her…”

“You’re not doing any of that,” Tom quickly interjected. He stood up and stopped my pacing by putting his hands on my shoulders. “I’ll cover your rent until you find another job. Okay?”

And that’s what I get for opening my mouth.

“No,” I told him. “You can’t-”

“Yes, I can,” he said firmly. “I can, and I will. I’ll do it right now.”

“Oh my god, stop. You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hands went to the sides of my face. “You obviously have a lot you don’t want to let go of here. Let me help you. I don’t want you to suffer like this.”

Be independent. Yes, you just lost your job and that could mean that everything will go down the drain, but you have to be independent. Don’t rely on a man.

“I’ll find another job as fast as I can,” I told him. “Just this month, okay? I have to start applying right now, though.”

He stopped me before I could get panicky again. “It’s fine, love. Really, I don’t mind doing this.” He smiled and kissed my forehead before pulling me into a hug. “You’ll be okay.”

~

Another month and a half went by before I saw him in person again. It was deep in the summer now, which meant that nobody wanted to hire anybody. It was taking a deeper toll on me than I liked to admit. That was kind of why I didn’t want Tom to cover any of my expenses; I was getting complacent.

But it was just rent for now. I was stubborn when it came to our rare dates. I couldn’t let him pay for anything else, so we had to stick with staying confined in my apartment. Thankfully, we had plenty to do between the sheets. But that was it, though.

“I have an idea,” he prompted in the middle of the night.

I hummed, mildly disturbed by his clear voice. Really wanted things to be quiet right now. Lately, it seemed like he talked a lot.

“I’m going back to Atlanta really soon to film the next movie,” he went on, sitting up on his elbow. “What if you come with me?”

I didn’t say anything at first. I could barely process what he was saying. Sure, he made me feel like I was on cloud nine just a few minutes ago, but I wasn’t that high off the feeling. In fact, I felt like I just crash landed back to earth.

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Why not? Hey, maybe one of the producers could get you a job on set.”

Any sane person would probably jump at the chance. I, on the other hand, was just fighting the urge to get away from Tom right this second.

“Won’t that be risky, though? There would be a lot of people seeing us together, and I’m looking for a job that doesn’t require travel,” I said.

“It doesn’t have to be a permanent job. And… we can act like we don’t know each other or something. We can figure something out,” he insisted. “Come on, what do you think?”

I shrugged.

“What does that mean? What are you thinking?”

“It’s a big decision. Let’s say I do go with you, am I supposed to just wait around for you the whole time?” I wasn’t sure why I was getting defensive. “I mean, I preferred us being apart. I liked having my own life.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

~

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you found a job yet?”

“Still looking.”

“I miss you.”

“Same.”

iii.

It felt like we had been trapped in my apartment for days, just silently arguing. I didn’t know what to tell him. I didn’t know how to make anything better. All I could think was that I should have just left it as a one night stand.

“Answer me,” he said in an almost helpless tone. “You’ve gotta give me something.”

Tom took a step towards me, to which I only stepped back in response. He sighed and began pacing around the living room. My body language was one of the many things about me that irritated him these days.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I finally told him.

“Anything. I just need to know what you’re thinking. You don’t want to come with me to Atlanta, is that it?”

God, not this again. We already had that fight, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it. We were already distant, why make it any worse by letting him go on his own to film his next big movie? At the same time, the idea of sharing a space with him and leaving my current location for months on end didn’t sound ideal, either. It could spark an idea in his head to permanently live together, which I was not ready for. I was surprised we still had this thing going on. I just didn’t know how to say any of that out loud without getting emotional about it. Emotions weren’t apart of the plan.

“Say something!” Tom raised his voice.

“I don’t know!” I replied in a similar tone. “I don’t know, okay? I just… I have never seen myself living with a, or my…”

“Boyfriend? You can’t even call me your boyfriend…” he said in disbelief. “Okay, fine. I'm not saying we have to live together after. I can go back to Atlanta, and you’ll stay here, far away from me. Then I’ll come back, and we’ll build everything from the ground up again. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

These questions were suffocating. I just wanted to curl up or run away. My mind was just foggy and full of static. This was overwhelming.

“No,” I told him. “I don’t want us to be apart.”

“Well, you have a shit way of showing it.”

There was a tense pause as those words sank in. My stomach was slowly dropping to my feet. I could feel myself turning into a shell.

“It’s almost like you want to break up with me,” Tom went on. “You don’t like it when I do… anything, really. You don’t want me to hold your hand, you don’t want me to kiss you. You don’t even wanna look at me. Did I do something wrong?”

No. Far from it, actually. That’s why this is so foreign to me.

I shook my head.

“Then what is it? You can’t keep leaving me in the dark like this. I, I’ve done so much for you. I extended my stay here for you. I paid your rent when you were out of a job. I got you a new one that you turned down, I’ve left my friends for you-”

“I never asked you to do any of that,” I snapped. “I’m not the one who wanted to continue seeing each other after that first night, remember? It’s not my fault your friends hate you now because you ditched them for some random girl, that’s all on you. And I never asked you for any financial help and I never asked you to get me another job. I don’t want to be ‘taken care of’ by you or your money or your connections. I don’t want to be dependent on you like that.”

“You don’t get it, do you? I want to support you, I don’t want you to worry about things like rent and university tuition. If you go with me to Atlanta, then you can get a job or something so you can be more independent and so you're not just waiting around for me. If that’s what you want, I mean. And you can go with me to whatever premiere or interview or shoot I’ve got going on. I want you there, I want these things for us.”

That meant he saw a future with me. I was so baffled and almost repulsed. It only made me want to run even more. Why did he want a future with me? What about me made that seem appealing to him? I didn’t understand.

“I’ve scared you even more, haven’t I?” he guessed when I didn’t say anything. And he claimed he didn’t know a single thing about me. “Well, darling, it’s been, how many months now? Don’t you ever wonder where we’re going? Don’t you think about the future?”

“I don’t like to,” I admitted.

Now Tom was rendered speechless. I didn’t necessarily mean it in the way he probably thought, but there was no turning back now. We were already in pain, and he was already angry at me.

“How are you so sure that I’m in your future?” I asked him. “How do you know we’ll stay together?”

“I just had a feeling,” he replied softly. “I know it’s scary, but you can’t think negatively about it.”

Well, there go our chances.

“You’ll be so far away,” I said, wanting to be realistic. “And we did all of this long distance crap already, and it was a mess… for you. And no good thing ever lasts, anyway. We could try it, sure, but who’s to say it’s gonna be better or easier this time around?”

“No one ever said it was going to be easy!” Tom said, clearly hurt. “And no good thing ever lasts? How… how do you live, thinking like that? I knew you weren’t a fucking ray of sunshine, but I didn’t think you would see us that way. If that’s what you’re thinking, then what the fuck are we doing here?”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. It was obvious that there was only one thing left to do, yet I still found myself hesitating, just in case he wanted to do the honors.

~

I woke up in a stranger’s bed a few days after he left. I wanted everything to be as if those months had never happened. He never came into my life, he never changed my life, he never made me feel anything. It just never happened. Tom was just a myth, and him being so far away only validated that in my head.

Standard daily procedure. Got out of bed, got dressed, and snuck out before my one night stand could even remember what they got down to last night. The dull ache that had been persisting in my chest mixed with the hangover. I just pretended that I was having some sort of diffused heart attack.

When I got home, I threw up in the bathroom. I blamed it on the hangover. Afterwards, I grabbed a bottle of whatever was in the fridge and let myself slip away.

It was hard to avoid seeing his face online. That, and knowing that he would probably be lurking, was my reason to delete all my social media. It’s not like I was a savvy Internet person, anyway. I was nothing important. I was just a random girl he hooked up with, I could only hope he would see me like that.

I didn’t want to think about him moping around once he got back to filming. I’d much rather think about him doing what I would do: sink himself into whatever he’s got going on to ease the pain and fill the emptiness. Then again, I could barely stand the thought of him hurting because of me. I was stuck.

There were still traces of him in my apartment. The couch I now lied on to drink away the sorrows was the same couch we spent a lot of our time on. My bed sheets still smelled like him, and as much as I hated it, I couldn’t bring myself to wash them. I wanted to get rid of all of it, but I also found myself clinging to every trace of him I found here.

One of my friends had to talk me out of selling my apartment and moving states. Another friend had to talk me out of getting a dramatic haircut. No one was there to talk me out of partying the pain away. Why would I do all of this because of one guy? Everything we had in the last few months was my fault. Why was I going to do stupid stuff if I was the one who said yes in the first place?

At least I got what I originally wanted: we were far away from each other, and he was going to forget about me in due time.

iv.

It took a lot of time for the pair to figure it out. It's important to know that there is no way they will get back together. Maybe they'll cross paths again, but there's no way to tell for sure. Maybe you only get that lucky once.

When Tom figured things out for himself, he was angry. He could say that he hated her for a while after things ended. But before that, he was wondering where he went wrong. Weren't you supposed to love and support your partner in their time of need? She did lose her job at the time, and it really hurt her. Tom supposed he couldn't blame her for the attitude she took on after. But he was trying to help her, cover some expenses, fly down and see her as often as he could. He just wanted things in their little world to be the least stressful as possible, for both of them.

He just wanted her to be happy, but according to her, that wasn't enough. Or, that's what it looked like at least. It's not like she ever talked about what was on her mind. She was just so closed off, and Tom didn't know why. Maybe someone hurt her in the past, maybe something made her this way. Maybe she was just an asshole with no feelings.

Despite that, Tom still cared for her. He still wanted to be there for her. The rare times she broke down a piece of her wall made everything worth it. Tom thought maybe he would be the one to break her walls entirely. It would take a lot of time, but he was willing to take it.

She wasn't having any of it. At times she would plainly turn him down just because she didn't want to get out of bed that day, making Tom fly to Los Angeles for nothing. Well, he could have gone to see his other friends, but she was the priority, and by that point, his friends weren't speaking to him.

Yeah, Tom sacrificed a lot for her, and she didn't seem to care. He was a fucking idiot for not seeing the break up coming. Things weren't ideal, but they had plenty of time to work on things. She didn't think of it like that, so she left.

Throughout time, he's tried to forgive her, he really has. She probably had some underlying problems that were too painful to talk about. You don't always know what's going on in someone's life, even if you're dating them.

Then, Tom learned that forgiveness is bullshit. Why shouldn't he be angry at her and at himself? Why shouldn't he be hurt by the way she treated him? He knew he deserved better than that! He knew he could find someone who would give what he gave back!

Nowadays, Tom is glad to be free of her, and he wondered why he didn't leave it at the night they met.

As for her, she would agree. Should have left things after the first night. Then she wouldn't have caused him so much pain.

She wasn't sure why she lashed out at nice people, it was a work in progress. There's a voice in her head telling her that these nice people are actually liars and that there's always a catch. That voice was easier to listen to.

Sometimes you just think so lowly of yourself that you can't accept that someone can love or care about you. So you just make them hate you.

Tom made that difficult, which later made her realize how kind and genuine he actually was. He always told her that he could wait, and he was way too understanding and accepting of her stupid self destructive ways. He even paid her rent, something she would never ask of him.

She knew she didn't deserve his kindness. She hardly did a thing for him, and part of that was because she couldn't. She wasn't as privileged as he was, and that was probably something that she didn't like about him.

Sometimes, you're just afraid of commitment, so you try not to get too attached to the other person, and as a result you end up being cold and distant.

Why not break up if you don't want to commit? Well, it's one foot in and one foot out with this girl. She didn't hate Tom, she didn't want to not be with him. She just couldn't join in with what Tom wanted for them. She couldn't think about the plans she had the next day, let alone where she would be a year from now. It was just a tad overwhelming and suffocating.

Therapy is hard. She's had to face her own flaws and try to do something about them. She's starting to realize that maybe hurting other people to keep them away isn't the healthiest thing. She's trying to figure out why she does those things.

The only thing is, even when she's resolved all this bullshit, it's not gonna change what happened with Tom.

[6ftgirlfriend]

Falling For Stars

Collaborators: @sweetdreamsjetaime 💝/ edited by @lovebird1517 💖

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lucas Lallemant/Eliott Demaury

Summary: Rising star, Lucas Lallemant, has no clue what’s going on. For all he knows, his costar, Eliott Demaury, doesn’t give a fuck about him. He had made that pretty clear when he got all cozy with his girlfriend, Lucille, right in front of him. So can someone explain to him why the hell everyone thinks they’re dating? or Co-Stars to lovers!AU with all the angst/fluff and French shenanigans to keep me up at night!

Episode 1 - Regret.

AO3 Link

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He was falling into oblivion, willingly with no sense of control

Falling from the heavens, they would shine so bright

Falling into the ocean of his eyes,

they would pierce through the soul

Falling into the storms of his embrace, they would unravel the heart

The collision was inevitable, the comet’s end

No shooting star should feel this, to be a burning and dying wish

It was endlessly cold, infinitely dark amongst the others

He was the fallen star, forever trying to stay ablaze…

—The Little Lone Star

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SAMEDI 9:12

Lucas jolts awake by a sudden noise. He’s brought back to reality when he hears the roaring echoes of the shower being turned on.

He squints up at a pale ceiling that was not his own.  His was made out of glass that allowed him to gaze up at the stars whenever life got too rough. He’s always found comfort in them, but they are not here right now to calm his beating heart. Where the hell is he?  The bed sheets curled around his torso are definitely not his. They are soft and comforting yet suffocating at the same time. The tidiness and luxury of the bed are a sharp contrast to how messy and average he remembers his to be. He feels out of place. Seriously? What the hell is happening? The grey curtains hanging loosely against the glass frames barely prevent any sunlight from seeping through. Lucas almost goes blind while trying to blink his heavy eyes open.  He feels dizzy, disoriented and worst of all; like total absolute shit. Fuck! How much did he drink last night?

The hangover reduces Lucas to nothing but a living corpse. He tries his hardest to sober up, but every single one of his brain cells is screaming at him to stop overworking them.  Not only is the sun trying to blind him, but the birds outside are chirping loudly to God knows what tune. The sounds of bustling cars and productivity outside rang through his ears and intensifies his headache. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs at the absolute mess it is.  Suddenly, a cool breeze grazes his exposed skin sending a shiver through his whole body and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He curls up in the bedding once more but sits up in surprise when he notices that he was completely naked and space next to him is empty. He truly loathed his existence at the moment.

Lucas looks around the room with a big frown. The scattered clothes on the floor and the lone ripped condom packet by the trashcan don’t leave much to the imagination. Fuck, he had sex with someone yesterday in his drunken daze, didn’t he?

Lucas groans from the realization. He reaches for his clothes by the bed and tries to get dressed quickly. The sooner he gets the hell out of where ever the fuck he is, the quicker he would feel sane again.

He stops halfway through putting his shirt on when he hears the shower turn off. He turns to see an unfamiliar figure step out of the bathroom. Lucas chokes on air. The guy in front of him is half-naked, and Lucas’s brain short circuits. Droplets of water slowly drip down the man’s body, and Lucas uses his remaining self-control not to combust on the spot.

The nameless man seems unfazed by Lucas’s presence and proceeds to shake his damp chocolate curls into a small towel; his arm muscles flex with every movement. He looks unreal with a lean body that’s as tall as the door frame and broad, muscular shoulders. His skin is pale, and the yellow tint of sunlight makes him look as if he’s glowing.

Lucas snaps out of his daze and mentally scolds himself for thirsting over a stranger. The shame he was feeling a few moments ago comes back to hit him once again at full force.

Lucas doesn’t properly look at the guy’s face, but he knows.

It’s not him.

This man, as hot as he is, is not the one he wishes him to be. The one he dreams he could wake up to every morning. The one he wants is not his to take and keep. Lucas can’t even fantasize about what it would feel like to be with him. Yet, there’s an invisible pull that always leads straight to him.

Him, who, ever since the beginning, would send his heart running for the hills whenever he made eye contact with those steel blue eyes. God those eyes.

Lucas is too hungover to handle all this shit this early in the morning. He feels like an avalanche is submerging him. His whole body is frozen, and his heart is heavy. He fucked up. He really fucked up this time.

It hits him out of nowhere as the events of last night clear up in his head.

Regret.

***

YESTERDAY NIGHT, VENDREDI 21:41

The camera lights are flashing and lighting up the night. Lucas scoffs at all the people dressed in big fancy gowns and expensive suits. He wants to tell them that this is The César Awards and not a fashion show. Lucas lets it go because he won’t allow any negativity tonight.

He’s rejoicing because Je T’aime won Best Film. It’s the first movie Lucas played in that gained so much success. He even got nominated for the award of Best Actor because of it, but sadly he lost it to his costar, Eliott Demaury.

Lucas’s not even mad about it because anyone that has ever worked with Eliott knows that the man has a natural talent in acting.

Lucas remembers how shocked he was when he received the news that he would be staring along Eliott. Around that time, Lucas’s career in acting was starting to pick up after the public loved his performance in La Honte. His portrayal of a struggling teen with Tourette’s syndrome blew the masses away because it was the first time they saw mental illness depicted in a positive light. Two days after the news, he got to read over the script and instantly fell in love.

The film was based off a best-selling novel; about a Canadian teen, Hugo Babineaux, sent to study abroad in Paris, France. While there, he falls for his host family’s eldest son, Julien Favre. Julien is a devout Catholic, but couldn’t resist falling in love with the Hugo. Their forbidden love is passionate and bittersweet, as the film touches on the issues of homophobia and religion—the journey of coming to accept one’s sexuality and owning up to who you want to be.

Lucas practiced day and night to make sure he matched Eliott’s talent and did the role of Hugo justice.

But no amount of practice could have prepared him for the first time he met Eliott. Because fucking hell, the guy was beyond gorgeous in person.

Eliott’s icy gaze left Lucas breathless.

And I’m falling so hard for you.

He almost broke his neck from having to gaze up at him.

Would you be there to catch me, too?

He couldn’t be real. Those luminous caramel locks had to be made from strands of silk, entwisted, like a storm. He looked like an angel among men.

Maybe I should keep this to myself.

It was honestly intimidating to be working first time with such a renowned actor.

Waiting ‘til I know you better.

Lucas could only hope his weak, stupid heart could take it.

I don’t wanna be something you can throw away.

The film was a massive hit; the fans went crazy for the chemistry that Lucas and Eliott shared. They were the perfect duo. Lucas had come to understand everyone’s fondness towards Eliott, especially when he smiled so big that it reached his eyes. Or how his kind and bright demeanor would light up the room. But those little things shouldn’t matter. Why should he care that Eliott made his heart flip every time he enters a room? 

It’s nothing but stage fright jitters. Lucas would reassure himself. 

Eliott is an enigma. His happy-go-lucky attitude is a starch contrast to the vivid and dynamic characters he plays. His first role was that of a blind prodigal genius painter who had to adapt to life after a tragic accident flipped his whole world upside down. His performance in the movie landed him many awards, and he became one of the youngest actors to win the prestigious award in France.

Despite the unworldly harmony between Lucas and Eliott on the big screen and during interviews, it’s an entirely different story behind the scenes.

Anyone who knew these two could see the tension between them. Eliott loves to tease, calling him a hedgehog because of his wild spiky hair, and Lucas tries very hard not to blush every time he touched it.  He also tends to sneak up on him and whisper random things in his ears, and that makes Lucas lose his mind. And Eliott’s answer to his flustered face is to outright laugh at him. Why did he let this guy get to him so much? Every time they would touch even by accident, Lucas would feel breathless.

Eliott must be doing it on purpose; he must enjoy seeing Lucas reduced to a complete mess.

But Lucas is done with these little games.

He plans to confront Eliott tonight and ask him exactly what the hell they are.

Lucas tried his best to avoid doing relationships, only settling for one night stands. He’s too scared of the paparazzi invading his privacy. Besides, Lucas isn’t out to the public yet. But he feels something for Eliott and is willing to risk it all for the chance of being in a relationship with him.

Lucas makes his way backstage to Eliott’s dressing room where the talk will take place. If everything goes well, they would be boyfriends by the end of the night. He abruptly stops when he sees Eliott in front of the room arms hooked around the small waist of a brunette. Lucas has seen her before. Her name’s Lucille Dubois; a supermodel, singer, and songwriter. She’s famous and loved by everyone. Lucas swallows the lump in his throat. They look good together. Perfect.

Of course, they would be dating. Lucas turns away, and his heart clenches at the reality that nothing could ever happen between Eliott and him. All the sneaky touches and stolen looks were for nothing. He can’t believe he let himself think that there was a chance Eliott would like him back.

He needs a drink. Now.

He heads straight out for the bar.

***

After only a few shots, the world around Lucas starts to spin, and he feels the adrenaline pumping through his whole body.  

That’s when he sees it: a pair of long legs striding towards him in determination. Muscular and veiny hands pull him wrap around his waist and pull him in a tight hug. There’s barely any space between them, and Lucas shivers when a deep voice whispers in his eyes.

Lucas wishes the nameless hands buried in his hair belong to Eliott. But the reality hits when the man says in a low and raspy voice.

“I’m Étienne.”

Lucas looks away from his lips to his darkening eyes. Lucas is sure he won’t remember the name for very long, but he nods and presses his lips against his in a heated kiss.

He doesn’t know how they got to the apartment. Which wall he’s currently pressed against, but Lucas doesn’t complain. Their clothes are gone the moment they get to the bedroom.

Behind his closed lids, Lucas sees red flashes of visions. Is it another daydream? A memory? All he sees are familiar dark eyes piercing through him. Not now, please. Lucas runs his hand through Étienne’s hair in hopes of distracting himself from thinking of Eliott.

Why is he in my mind right now?

Étienne’s warm lips trace Lucas’s collarbone, and Lucas wonders what Eliott’s lips will feel like on his skin. He hates the fact that he’s so jealous of Lucille. All Lucas wanted to do when he saw Lucille wrapped in Eliott’s arms was to replace her. He wants to be the one that gets to kiss Eliott every time he wants and feel his beautiful hands on his body.

But that would never happen because Eliott doesn’t love me.

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PRESENT, SAMEDI 9:31

A voice fades in,“…—cas, Lucas? Hello? Still with me?”

Lucas blinks at the waving hand in from his face. He cranes his neck up to look into a pair of concerned onyx eyes.

“Great, you’re back. You scared me.” Ethan? Elias? Says with a sigh.

His face immediately lights up when he locks eyes with Lucas.

“How was the view from up there? Did you catch any stars?”

His deep voice brings Lucas back to reality. Lucas must have been mentally gone for a long time because the man was now dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie. He was also holding a coffee cup in each hand. The aroma of the drinks makes him crave the caffeine he needed to wake up.

Lucas quirks his lips because he’s suddenly feeling shy. He’s still half-naked and is in desperate need of a shower. He stares at the wall behind the boy trying to find his way out of this shitty situation.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s been fun.’ No, too passive. ‘Look, this can’t happen again.’ Too insensitive. ‘It’s not you; it’s me?’ What a fucking cliche.

“Uh, ahem—No stars, just really tired.” He settles avoiding eye contact at all cost.

“Yeah, I get that.” The pretty stranger chuckles softly with a coy smirk.

“I mean we didn’t get much sleep last night. Are you sure you are okay?”

Lucas nods shyly, cheeks heating up.  

“Good. How about some coffee? Croissants?” The guy smiles brightly and gosh, why does he have to be so lovely? It only makes him feel ten times worst for what he’s about to do.

“Coffee should do, thank you…?” Lucas dragged it out, waiting for a name as he takes the cup of coffee. The handsome stranger seems to get the memo and answers quickly. “It’s Étienne, Étienne Calvet.” Étienne’s smile grows wider when Lucas almost spills coffee on himself.

Étienne Calvet. The name rings a bell; he’s a famous model in Paris. He has soulful eyes and perfect features that are often present on brand names such as Givenchy, Lanvin, Prada, and YSL. Lucas heard a lot about him because Étienne is also a writer and openly bisexual. Lucas mentally scolds himself for not realizing who he is sooner.

“No need to thank me. Listen, last night, we didn’t have time to introduce ourselves, but I know you. Lucas Lallemant, right?”

Lucas could only nod, still in shock. Étienne squeals.

“Wow! I can’t believe it. You almost won the César Awards. Congratulations on the nomination! The movie was beautiful. That scene where he dives into the ocean when he found out—” Étienne goes onto praising Je T'aime in great detail.

Lucas wants to dig a grave and bury himself in it. Étienne sounds genuinely interested and excited like a fanboy meeting their favorite celebrity for the first time. Lucas is not sure if he should be flattered or creeped out.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it. He needs to come clean to this guy. He swallows his guilt down and proceeds to grab the sheets around his waist, giving Étienne a stern look as he gets up from the bed.

“Look, thank you, Étienne.” Étienne’s smile only gets brighter.  

“For everything but I’m sorry this…” Lucas gestures between them. “It can’t happen again…” Lucas feels like vanishing into thin air when he sees Étienne’s eyes dime slightly. He gazes downward for a few seconds before bringing his face back up with his signature smile.

“As I said before, no need to thank me. But could we at least be friends?” Étienne is now looking down at the ground again, resembling a kicked puppy. He has a way of making Lucas feel like a total dick.

Lucas knows it’s not a good idea. He should decline and spare Étienne the heartbreak, but he’s not thinking clearly right now. So he holds out his hand with a small smile.

“Okay. Just friends.”

***

***

SAMEDI 10:19

After almost an hour or so, Lucas finally steps out into the streets of Paris. After running through the shower and exchanging numbers with Étienne, they said their goodbyes. Étienne’s hopeful expression is going to haunt Lucas forever. But for now, Lucas pushes all that away and focuses on getting home.

Lucas has always loved mornings the most out of all the times of the day. Fresh air, dew on the pavement and the calming ambiance are precisely what he needs at the moment to relax.

Which is why he decides to take a short walk around the city. He still can’t believe he slept with a complete stranger. A part of him gets it; he was heartbroken and miserable. For fuck sakes, the guy he loves is dating another person. He had every right to act on his emotions. He fell for Eliott like those shooting stars he sees every night before falling asleep. Ugh.

He shakes his head to snap out of his negative thoughts. This needs to stop. Seriously. He needs to focus.

Lost in thought, Lucas doesn’t notice a group of suspicious men following him. The men were discreetly taking pictures of Lucas, trying to figure out where he was last night. According to the rumors, Lucas left with a special someone. They were vultures preying on the carcass of any previous night’s drama.

They wanted to be the first one to get the scoop, and so they hurriedly make their way to an unsuspecting Lucas.

“Lucas Lallemant! Monsieur Lallemant! Can we ask what your whereabouts were last night!?”

Fuck. My. Life.

Lucas mentally curses his luck. He knew this was going to happen eventually, but why now? Lucas knows he looks like complete crap right now, and that’s not an appropriate look for the cameras. Great fucking timing. The universe must be laughing at him.

“Monsieur Lallemant, are you aware of the rife speculations that you might be seeing someone? Can you tell us who!” One of them urges boldly. What kind of sick question is that? Lucas is shaking; not only from anger but also from fear.

His fears of being outed. He’s afraid the world would criticize him, and people would label him as just another “gay icon.” He didn’t want to be a label. He’s just a man named Lucas that happens to like other men. That should not be a reason for people to criticize him.

Did they see us? Who else saw him leave the party?

Lucas is usually really good at dealing with the mobs of paparazzi, but today, he is beyond exhausted. Not wanting to start a scene, he quickly covers his face and flees from the scene. He vaguely hears them say something about a hickey at the back of his neck followed with the sounds of cameras flashing.

His eyes widen in panic.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Lucas can’t breathe because his lungs are now filled with dread. His heart is drumming quickly in his chest.  

Flashes of this father’s disappointed scowl washed over him. He feels sick to his stomach. His dad hated his existence already, so what would he think when he founds out Lucas is gay?

He would probably say with a disgusted face that he was disappointed in Lucas.

No!

Why should he even bother if he’s going to be a disappointment anyway?

Shut up!

Why can’t he be like the others? He just had to end up being the unwanted gay son, didn’t he?

Stop it!

Lucas starts running; becoming one with the wind. He is running away from not only the paparazzi but also all his problems. His heels are clicking on the stone pavement as he zooms past pedestrians and street performers. 

Could this day get any worse?

And the universe gladly accepts the challenge. Within the next moment, his phone starts vibrating from a message. Lucas abruptly slows down and hesitantly pulls the device from his pocket, unlocking the screen.

It’s from him.

Eliott.

Eliott: “Mind telling me why people are saying we started dating?”

Eliott: “You could’ve asked me first, Lulu. ♥️”

The next text sent makes his heart drop. It’s a slightly blurry picture of himself leaving the bar. He looks extremely drunk and is holding hands with someone. Lucas is a hundred percent sure it’s Étienne dragging Lucas to his apartment. Thank fuck, the picture is so blurry no one could see anything but Lucas. However, the headline reads, “WHO WAS THIS MYSTERIOUS NEW FLAME?” And the article goes into details of webbing lies out of the photo.  

It’s like time had stopped and the world froze. Lucas’ head is pounding from everything that’s happening at once.  

This was it — the biggest mistake of his life.

He wishes for a falling star to crash upon him. He just wants it to end it all.

//

TO BE CONTINUED…

//

(A/N: Oh.My.God. This is my first time writing fanfiction, guys! I hope you guys enjoyed it!! Special thanks to @sweetdreamsjetaime and @lovebird1517 for helping me!

Additional info: I’m thinking of making this into a tv show format about these two soulmates having to work for their love (the angst, the drama!) but it’ll be worth it by the end. There’s going to be behind the scenes content too (meaning; covers, magazines, and social media content?), so watch out for those (SKAM style👀). I would also love to read your feedback and any thoughts you have on the story! ☺️ Thank you so much for reading! Best wishes!🌠)

[dreamlover31]

Deadly Temptations

Hello my fellow tumblr members, I know it’s been a while since I’ve written any stories but I finally had the time to dish out a little something, I hope you guys enjoy

Tags: @madpanda75 @dreila03 @thatesqcrush @tropes-and-tales @xemopeachx @southern-magnolia @melsquared79 @glimmerglittergirl

Standing over the bathroom sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror and the image displayed would have disgusted anybody; even his own mother. It showed an empty, hollow shell of a man, one who has committed a sinful act in which no amount of forgiveness can wash the stain upon his soul; the just rewards would be nothing but shame, self loathing and despair. With a twist of the knobs on the faucet, he cupped his hands under the flowing water until it rose halfway and then splashed the lukewarm liquid over his face, then he grabbed the small towel on the rack beside him. He made quick work of drying off his face, at the end he tossed the cloth aside and reverted his gaze back towards the mirror; the dark green irises intensely focused on the glass but simultaneously his mind drifted and all he could muster were four words that kept repeating themselves over and over again like a chant: this has to end. In his brief moment of clarity, he threaded his long, thick fingers through his dark hair that had a few greys sprouting and proceeded to exit the bathroom. 

Upon entering the adjacent room, he was welcomed with the sight of a young woman sprawled out on a bed naked as the day she was born, her arms stretched out towards the edge of the bed as her feet were crossed at the ankles; her long slender fingers dangled in the air and then her head turned to the point where she made eye contact with the older gentleman who stood in the doorway. The woman’s dark brown hair glided along her backside, meanwhile, her small, pouty lips coiled into a smile; it was at that moment she rose from the spot she vacated and padded towards him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed small gentle kisses over his jawline and neck.

The young woman ceased her actions briefly and gazed up at him with her matching dark brown eyes, she nuzzled his face with her nose and said, “Mmmm...you never cease to amaze me counselor...I don’t know which is better, that silver tongue of yours or that big Cuban cock...well either way…” Her eyes drifted up to meet his gaze, but what she saw made her pause.

His stoic expression sent a chill down her spine, sensing a shift in what was supposed to be an intimate moment, her arms began to unweave from his neck; when she was mere inches from him, her face contorted into one of confusion and unease.

“What is it?”

“We need to talk”

The woman swallowed softly as she felt her heart sank at his declaration then with bated breath waited for him to continue.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this...but this has to stop...I’m done with this, all the sneaking around and lying...everything”

Her eyes widened and she could feel the heat radiating up her body, her pulse quickening and her heart pounding; the fingers on both hands curled up to form fists while she stood prone in her position in the room; she glared at him and with a huff asked:

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Donning nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, the woman’s paramour inhaled a deep breath and continued.

“Sophie...I know you don’t want to hear this but I’m in love with Charlotte and this...what we’re doing isn’t fair to her, I can’t go another minute with all this guilt and shame that I have knowing that she’s none the wiser of what’s been going on...she deserves better than that...better than me, so I decided that I’m going to do the honorable thing and put an end to this ”

Sophie was stunned at this confession, here was this man whom she had not only given her body, but her time and her heart; a man whom she had met at a restaurant where it was frequented by cops, lawyers and various working class crowds. On that fateful night, she spotted him at the bar nursing a glass of scotch and furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad; she slid into the stool next to him and conversed with him about the different aspects of their lives where it was revealed that he was a well known ADA who prosecuted sex crimes and she was ironically a paralegal for a private practice firm. As the alcohol flowed, Sophie became a little bold, her fingers played with his suspenders as she smiled, in the meantime, the handsome ADA was entranced by the young beauty; their encounter quickly escalated with a kiss then a shared cab ride that ended at her apartment. 

The couple fumbled their way into her apartment where they clawed at each other until articles of clothing were removed and in the events that followed, Sophie and her conquest ended up in her bed where they expressed wanton acts of sexual decadence. From then on, she continued to pursue the handsome stranger that she would come to know as Rafael Barba, their liaisons mainly consisted of them engaging in various acts of carnality in various places; all the while, Charlotte remained oblivious to their affair. Now, it was as if fate had played a cruel joke on her and she was about to lose everything that she held dear. She reached out and took his hand then looked at him pleadingly with tears swimming in her eyes and said:

“Rafael...you can’t do this…you don’t understand...I’m in love with you”

Rafael pulled his hand away and started towards the bed where he gathered his clothes and began to redress, as he was putting his pants back on; Sophie came up from behind him and placed her hand on his bare shoulders and begged:

“You won’t be happy with her...” her lips found purchase on his shoulders, tears began to flow down her cheeks as she pressed small kisses on his shoulder blades and then ultimately put her arms around him again.

He continued to ignore her pleads, although at one point he had to shrug her off him in order to get his undershirt and dress shirt back on and when he finally slipped on his shoes, he removed himself from her bed and then grabbed his jacket from a nearby chair; as he made his way to the door, Sophie pulled on a satin robe and followed him. She was able to push past him and barred him from leaving by placing her body at the door, her dark eyes bore into him and with a sneer she exclaimed:

“You can’t do this to me...I gave you everything and you think you can throw me away like a piece of trash!”

Rafael sighed, “I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I’m going to marry her”...so please let’s not make this any harder than it has to be”

Sophie refused to move from her post, and Rafael was quickly losing his patience, he moved less than an inch when Sophie pushed him back and began beating on his chest with her fists. Rafael grabbed both of her wrists into a single hand and struggled to gain control of the belligerent woman, finally, their tussle ended with Sophie being thrown to the ground and him making his escape through the front door where it was left opened. Within seconds after he left, Sophie regained her footing and through the doorway she stared at his backside as he disappeared down the hallway to the adjoining elevators then shouted:

“YOU’LL BE BACK YOU BASTARD...JUST YOU WAIT!”

Rafael entered the cart then pressed the button for the lobby, as soon as the elevator doors closed, she slammed the door and stomped back into her bedroom; what transpired was a cacophony of objects being thrown against the wall and ear shattering screams so loud that you thought that someone was being murdered, finally, Sophie regained some level of composure and trekked towards her dresser where she rested her palms on top of the varnished wood, heavy breaths emanated from her mouth and then it was as if a lightbulb went off in her head. She opened the top drawer and rummaged through the different piles of clothing in her midst until she came upon the item in question, a small 357 magnum laid in her hands and as she stared down at the gun, her lips curled into a mischievous smile.

“You think I’m going to let you destroy me and live happily ever after...no fucking way...you don’t get to win”