#fucking alcoholic hypocritical prick

[chillllii]

i dont think i have room to still be upset at old friend

sometimes i don't really care either?

like i've acknowledged that i was an asshole and could've been better but also i never allowed myself to get mad or upset back at them

#feel free to ignore the tags there's a lot.... and i'm just frustrated for the rest of my life i guess #vent #fucking alcoholic hypocritical prick #yes no you're the only victim and we should all pity you you poor poor pathetic selfish piece of shit #idk what mood i'm in today tbh #i wish i could message him one last time though and call him out for his own behavior #talking to multiple fucking woman. being possessive as fuck to some of them. self pitying yourself the whole time #no i dont have proof of you doing it but i swear I'm convinced you were emotionally manipulative as fuck to them #not just partners but friends too #and i hate it so fucking much #why am i the only one who got hurt #dont you fucking dare act like you're a fucking victim either ok? #why couldnt i ever allow myself to yell at you to call you out to call you an asshole #god..... #most of all i wish to fucking god i wish i could forget you existed but you fucking plagued me with memories and mutual friends #thanks btw for effectivly excommunicating me from everyone by the way. very ''caring and thoughtful'' of you #what did you fucking expect me to do when you did that? to stay where i'm not welcomed by the leader #i dont know why you stream you're shit at it too #stop fucking streaming when you're depressed and processing trauma you fucking moron #yknow what i hope you do see this #and i hope you message me about vaguing about you *again* cause at this point i don't give a shit #fuck you you're an asshole and i hope everyone sees you for who you really are #anyways #my commissions are open please commission me so i can go meet my friends and boyfriend for the first time

[maraudersftw]

Sparks

Did you just kiss me?

And /or

There was never an us.

@constancezin​ thank you for these lovely prompts. Love you! I’m gonna go with the happier one because, have you met me? 

Read on: Ao3, FFnet

It’s the damned Slytherins that finally crack her.

Lily supposes it had to happen at some point—the bastards getting to her, that is—in all her seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, quickly morphing into Hogwarts School of Prejudice and Bigotry now.

She’s on her final round of patrol for the night, strolling through the dungeons beside James Potter, ex-toerag, present Head Boy, constant subject of her musings. He’s trying and failing to recount some prank he’s played on Sirius over the summer break; tears gathering at the corners of hazel eyes, wheezes of laughter breaking through every other phrase.

“And then—fuck, and then the Firewhiskey pours out—his nose, Evans, and I’m howling, of course, but—he’s just going on about how it’s—a waste of good alcohol!”

It’s a ridiculous story. It’s more ridiculous still that she’s doubling over in laughter right alongside him, finding hilarity in something she would’ve undoubtedly labeled obnoxious in her ‘James Potter The Arrogant Prat’ series just over a year ago.

Now, though—well, now Lily’s rather pathetic about how much she fancies the bloke.

When an accidental snort breaks through her laughter a second later, James loses himself in delight, eyes crinkling, body halting in the middle of the corridor to rest his hands against his knees, shoulders shaking with mirth.

Lily thinks she should be embarrassed. Instead, something sickeningly sweet is blossoming near her chest. Pathetic.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” A disgusted voice floats down from behind them. “The Mudblood finally spread her legs for you, Potter?”

The comment shouldn’t surprise her; hurled insults have long since traveled beyond just the muggle-borns in the castle, targeting anyone who so much as dares raise their voice against all this pure-blood mania. And James—well, he’s never been very low-key about anything in his entire life, strong views on inclusion and support for both magic and non-magic people included.

But even as she knows this, when her eyes travel to find the small group of Slytherins—Mulciber, Avery, Rosier, and Snape—the words still sting. Lily generally manages to brush it away, but with James beside her, with the insinuation somehow debasing her feelings for him and her character in one fell swoop, nonchalance does not come as easily as it usually does.

“Why don’t you lot fuck off? It’s past curfew, and you’ll be losing more than just the forty house points I’m deducting right now.”

“Is she saying something?” Mulciber tilts his head, “I don’t speak Mudblood.”

The other boys titter around him like trolls, and she feels anger pricking her skin. Snape resolutely looks anywhere but at her.

That’s fine, too. She doesn’t speak Death Eater either.

When James finally turns around, his face is a mask of frozen fury. “Leave.”

Lily watches as momentary hesitation flashes over their faces and feels, for some idiotic reason, really proud. It’s not like James is hers, but satisfaction and pride hum happily through every nerve, seemingly unaware of the fact.

“Or what, Potter? Gonna write to Mummy and Daddy to complain? A load of help that’ll do you since they’re dead.”

Surprisingly, she’s the one who fires the first spell, which inevitably leads to a colorful volley of shooting sparks from both sides. Lily’s certain most of what comes from the Slytherins is dark magic, knows that Snape’s definitely are, and it angers her even more that his wand is unfalteringly directed at James and James only.

She shoots a Stupefy right into Mulciber’s gut, but doesn’t take the second to bask in satisfaction as he drops to the floor before she’s shoving James aside, taking over the duel with Snape.

Across from her, the sallow-faced boy—Death Eater, now—freezes.

“What’s the matter?” she can’t help but seethe, firing spell after spell as he pulls up a shield charm, “I know you’ve got a litany of dark magic to use on Mudbloods like me, Severus. Surely, I’m a better target than James—he’s just a measly old blood traitor. I’m the real problem, the real pollutant.”

But he’s nothing if not a hypocrite, so he simply lets out a rage-filled cry that doesn’t even compare to all the anger Lily harbors. “He’s a fucking bastard! You need to fucking open your eyes—”

“Petrificus Totalus!” She yells, finding the right window in between the mad spouting to knock Snape to the floor.

“Fucking brilliant, Evans,” James gapes, moving to stand in front of her. Her heart flutters something horrid when he touches the side of her face gently. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Lily nods, doing her own assessment of his health, “you?”

“Better than alright!” James grins, “you took down three of them!”

But she didn’t. She only took down two—Mulciber and Snape.

Ice claws over her insides, and she peeks her head around James to find only three prone bodies on the floor. Avery’s missing.

The very next second, she spots him stepping out of an alcove, wand raised. There’s no time to think; Lily slams her body against James’s side, clearing the path so that Avery’s spell misses its target—James’s back—by a wide berth.

It’s a green fucking flash of light.

He was about to fucking kill James.

Lily doesn’t even recognize the feeling that pulses and overflows at the recognition. Anger like she’s never known mixes with an astonishing amount of fear until she’s hurling every ounce of magic inside her at Avery. From hexes to jinxes to advanced curses, she rains hell down on him until he’s just a mangle of green robes on the dungeon floor, skin discolored and dotted with boils and pus and Merlin knows what else.

A cold draft sends shivers running through her in the aftermath.

“Well, now his looks match his personality, at least.”

And that’s when it happens—the cracking of her. James standing there, making light of what happened, making light of the fact that he was almost killed, trying to bring her back into herself, is what does it.

Lily doesn’t even register the slap of her shoes against the stone floors as she strides forward, grabs both sides of his head, and promptly drags James’s face down to hers to kiss him. Her lips slant over his forcefully, desperately, feeling the warm softness of his skin, the way his hands scramble forward to plant themselves on her waist, pull her closer, right against his person. Her mind is abuzz with fear still—a second later, and she would have lost him. She would have lost him.

She kisses him harder, tries to push back the wetness in her eyes.

James is the first one to pull back, breathing harshly. His eyes are wide, bright, lips swollen and hair mussed deliciously. The sight makes her ache.

“Hang on. Wait,” he huffs, hands squeezing her waist. “Is this really happening?”

“What?” she smiles, palm brushing over his cheek.

“Did you just kiss me?” He asks. She laughs. “Lily. Am I dreaming?”

“I’d hope your dreams do not feature a bunch of immobile Slytherins lying on the floor while we make out, James.”

He pulls a face. “I’d forgotten about them.”

Honestly, she had as well. Her lips tingle, and she steps on her tiptoes to leave another lingering kiss on his lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

“And just leave them like this?”

There’s no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

#claudia writes #claudiawrites #hodgepodge #sparks #jily #james potter #lily evans #james x lily #jily fic #jily drabble #jily flash fic #romance #slight angst #prompts #constance source of happiness #submission

[lokidiabolus]

Last Resort - Chapter 2

Fandom: The Maze Runner

Pairing: Thomas x Newt

Warnings: ex boyfriends, AU

Summary: Three years after breaking up with Thomas, Newt finally thought the past of hating each other was behind them, until Thomas asked him for a favour - pretend they got back together for a week while staying at his parents’ home. Because it was an absolutely dumb idea, Newt was inclined to refuse, but then found himself in the house he used to visit when he was in love and happy and the bitter reality of only pretending for people he always liked made him miserable. But it was nothing against dealing with Thomas himself for a week straight and trying not to fall back in love that hurt them both.

Or: Prompt ch. 192 with added spice. Or something. I just needed to write for a while :’)

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I think I never did so much rewriting like I did with this chapter. I'm still not satisfied with it, but I swear my brain just can't come up with anything else. Scrapped like 6 pages asdfjslfjslfjsdl. Now it's short :c

Anyway, guess I just wanted a bit of Thomas' insight for it. He's complicated lol. Or maybe not really, just trying to keep up. Don't we all though lol.

Oh and @izzymultifan (actually remembered)

Unbetad!

EDIT: (17. 5. 2021) I edited the ending with a lil continuation of the scene I previously deleted, because I thought it was unnecessary, but then I returned to it after few days and thought it should stay. It's not very long but I guess it's kinda important.

***

Thomas woke up disoriented, thirsty and definitely not rested enough, like when his alarm goes off on a workday and he only slept for four hours. But here was no alarm, no work, just him waking up with a flinch and realizing he wasn’t in his flat, and he wasn’t alone either.

The blond hair right in his face immediately pushed him into realization he was holding onto Newt like he was his lifeline, one hand under the shirt on his belly, other on his chest clutching the fabric, and an unmistakable morning hello tenting his pants, digging right into Newt’s backside. In retrospect there wasn’t much worse Thomas could have done to him, except maybe having a hand down his pants (which admittedly he used to do sometimes when they were together, but then again, that situation definitely didn’t scream murder like it would now).

In a sleepy confusion that hazed his just-woken-up-brain he searched the foggy memory on how this situation came to be, no matter how familiar it felt to him. Newt made himself pretty clear about sleeping together, so the sudden closeness – well, more like an absolute merge, unless he’d slip in – no, no dirty thoughts, bad Thomas, bad – didn’t make much sense.

The night came back to him embarrassingly slow – he got drunk because for some reason his dad decided to decimate his super precious whiskey, even though normally he hoarded it like a dragon his gold. He could only think of Newt being the incentive, drinking the whiskey so fast in his dad’s eyes, while Thomas downed it all to save him from barfing (Newt’s alcohol tolerance never existed in the first place, he disliked about any kind of it, and as far as Thomas remembered he got drunk only once with vodka mixed with orange juice on Aris’ wedding, because he could barely taste the vodka in it until it was too late). Then the world started spinning, Newt dragged him to his room somehow… which sounded farfetched, so maybe dad helped, he drew blank around that area honestly, probably because he stood up and all the alcohol began circulating faster. Then they talked… probably, and then Thomas fell asleep, since that’s all he could recall.

And now his hard-on was trying to get some, and he held Newt against himself with sheer ferocity of an obsessive hugger off his meds and the realization dawned on him like tons of bricks. Was he going to wake him up if he let go? Newt always woke up at the slightest noise before, there was no way of going to pee at night without getting back to the blond blinking owlishly at him, asking what happened. Was this Newt he barely knew anymore still the same? Still twitchy and light sleeper and grumpy and slow to rise when getting up?

Thomas didn’t have much choice anyway, did he. He just had to let go either way, and preferably remove his hips from Newt’s back and act like it was no biggie to be hard when in bed with his ex. He slowly untangled his hand from the front of Newt’s shirt and retreated from under the shirt as well with the other hand and managed to roll onto his back without Newt visibly stirring, which was a success. Unless he pretended to be asleep to avoid talking to Thomas about pushing into him like a horny teenager, which also worked.

Not like he hadn’t been doing that in the last month of their relationship anyway, just... ignoring the problem until it went away (a problem named Thomas) and well, ultimately it succeeded. It would work now too, and Thomas refused to poke the wasp nest this early in the morning – judging from the clock at 8:04 – and just went with the flow.

Need coffee, he thought unhappily when the headache set in. And water. Maybe some alone time in a bathroom first.

Newt didn’t stir until Thomas slinked out of the bedroom, which was a complete lie.

***

“Dad, just drop it,” Thomas repeated for fourth time when his dad couldn’t stop haggling him about his childlike alcohol tolerance the moment he appeared in the kitchen, asking for black coffee. He couldn’t tell him he drank Newt’s portions and without that argument nothing would sound plausible anyway, so he just dodged it with an increasing headache. Newt got up about half an hour later and didn’t speak a word to him – Thomas would even say he avoided his eyes several times, which meant he was absolutely awake in the morning to witness all of Thomas’ struggle to even exist around him peacefully. Which he couldn’t for years, really, so this only proved it.

It was fine. Thomas learned how to deal with it, despite taking him two years to come in terms of being hated by a person he loved since he was 17. Well, everything around the breakup took a lot from him, but he dealt with all eventually, right? He could finally look Newt in the eye without having all the incoherent anger and frustration pile up and he could talk to him fine as well unless they breached one of the thousand forbidden topics. Like them. Like family. Like love. Like sleeping. Like breathing, existing and fucking just trying to live.

Anyway. All dealt with, of course. No hard feelings.

(Lots of them.)

“You dealt with the drunkard just fine, right Newt?” his dad chattered towards the blond, patting him on his back and Newt forced a smile and a nod. Thomas saw this particular expression too often to not recognize it and huffed while sitting down at the counter with his own coffee.

He was used to being a bad guy anyway, no matter how much of the blame he genuinely deserved. They both knew he didn’t get drunk because he wanted to get wasted enough to drop unconscious on a spot and Newt would be a hypocrite to badmouth him when he was pouring all his whiskey to Thomas’ glass with thankful expression yesterday. But then again, not even he could tell Thomas’ dad about it, so they just had to have this unspoken oh yes, Thomas is a real piece of work as always.

Which sort of sucked. But Thomas couldn’t care less what his dad thought about his alcohol tolerance, it wasn’t like he threw up everywhere or broke mum’s precious bowls set (again). Not that he expected Newt to defend him anyhow, but he could at least say nooo, he was fine, he just fell asleep or something. Not that it surprised him he didn’t, but…

“He used to drink majority of guys from my work under the table and now look at him,” his dad delivered his fifth Thomas can’t drink for shit jab. He sure loved to milk that. “At least he has you to look after him, huh.”

Thomas stared at Newt’s back with mild annoyance the more the blond refused to elaborate on anything, just smiling at his dad while making himself a cup of coffee, and then Thomas’s eyes suddenly fell on the nape of Newt’s neck with a vicious, red mark near the hairline, and his whole body seized up like he got paralyzed.

A hickey? Since when? From who? What? Wait, was Newt already dating somebody else?

Saying already like three years were short amount of time… Thomas mentally scolded himself and his body raised up on its own volition, like being pulled in by some invisible force towards the blond. He had no clue if it were a twisted need for revenge or vindication or just him being unable to come in terms of not being told or warned, or maybe all of it together, he just couldn’t stop and plastered himself all over Newt’s back, trapping him between his body and the counter, circling his thin waist like a vine (he got thinner for sure).

“Of course I have you, don’t I,” he purred into Newt’s ear, loud enough for his dad to hear perfectly, and felt how Newt’s whole body froze, his hand mid-stir of the coffee. Thomas could see how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped. “Looking after me when I get hammered into unconsciousness.”

“Yeah.” Newt’s voice sounded small, and Thomas wanted to bite down at that red, angry place on his nape like an animal. His dad probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but his ego sure would. He let his hands slide lower, to Newt’s hips, grabbing a handful, and the habitual movement made him restless. He did it zillion times during the time they were together. He did less, he did more, naked, clothed, lying, standing up, in whatever situation, touching Newt was his privilege.

And some fucking horny prick just took it?

Just marked his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, Thomas, ex-boyfriend for three years, pull yourself together, you’re not 17 anymore – like a property and he didn’t even fucking notice?

Newt’s breath hitched and the spoon he was holding dropped into the coffee, splashing the black liquid around it, dribbling down the drawers under, making the blond curse under his breath.

“Sorry,” he immediately said towards Thomas’ dad who was handing him a cloth to wipe it with, and started squirming. “Thomas, leggo. Can’t reach.”

“Don’t wanna,” Thomas refused, squeezing Newt even tighter. “I’m hangover and miserable and you’re supposed to take care of me.”

Thomas’ dad snorted but took the hint and retreated while calling at his wife the boys are being rowdy again, Anna! And the kitchen fell back into silence, except of their breathing, with Thomas plastered against Newt’s back like he wanted to topple him over (he sort of did).

“Do you enjoy being a bloody prick?” Newt finally broke the spell, pawing at Thomas’ hands to get them off, his voice an angry whisper. “What’s your deal, for fuck’s sake!”

“Hangover,” Thomas huffed, not letting go and to be completely honest, Newt wasn’t really trying as much, just slapping his hands half-heartedly. “Could’ve at least said I didn’t give you any trouble, I covered for you the whole night.”

“You gave me loads of it!” Newt started wiggling, and Thomas had to fight the urge to just bite down, mark any piece of skin available, to make the restlessness go away. “You were heavy as fuck, I had to carry you all the way to your room!”

“Yeah, and?” Thomas grabbed him lower, and Newt pinched his hand in revenge, which finally made him let go with sharp breath.

“Fuck you,” the blond barked at him with fiery eyes. “I don’t know what you are trying to prove but groping me is not on the bloody table, get it?!”

“Mhm,” Thomas rubbed the place Newt pinched him at. “Sure. No fun allowed, got it.”

“Fuck off!”

Thomas hated how Newt turned away and the hickey was so visible it made his insides churn. He used to talk about his problems a lot these past few years, so he could finally let go of whatever was holding him in place, unable to forget, and he thought he reached that point, that he was free.

Looking at Newt marked by another man… no. He was not. Still stuck, still the same.

Still angry and miserable.

Still… there.

***

The fact Newt refused to talk to him completely was an understatement. Thomas blamed his unsteady approach on the alcohol, because what else he could blame it on – his own feelings? He sodealt with those already, there was nothing that would make him see red.

Except of a hickey on his ex-boyfriend’s neck, that would do it. Apparently.

But still – it was the hangover that made him stupid, right. If he’d be completely sober and not aching anywhere and his mind clear, he would just… shrug at it. It was Newt’s business who he slept with or not, or who he let bite his nape like a dog (some young fucking idiot who thought hickeys are still sexy? Stupid shit).

Not Thomas’. Not anymore.

The more he tried to push it away from his mind, the more his mind pushed back, just pointing it out loudly every time he glanced towards the blond sitting on the couch in the living room, bundled in a fluffy blanket, fiddling with his phone.

He was fiddling with his phone a lot actually. Texting somebody?

The guy who left the mark?

Thomas felt the irrational anger seep into his consciousness again and he forced it back down with a frown. He knew asking Newt to help him to get his parents off his back wasn’t exactly a great idea (asking ex to be your bf again for a show just screamed trouble), but at the same time asking anybody else just felt… wrong.

Thomas had to admit he’d be able to go along with this only with Minho, probably. Because Minho was a born actor, he’d be able to breeze though this with ease and Thomas’ parents would like him for sure, because, well, everybody liked Minho, honestly.

Asking Teresa or Brenda was just… desperate. Because other than them it would be Newt and getting back together with Newt… well. Thomas could tell from the moment he saw him getting into his car in front of Newt’s workplace it was going to be tough for both of them.

Not much of a surprise so far climbing Mt. Everest would be easier than keeping his chaotic feelings under control.

“You need some fresh air,” his vision of Newt got obstructed by his mum in a frilly apron she wore unironically and he looked up to her with half-lidded eyes.

“I think I need chicken soup, actually,” he offered in response, because dragging himself through the snow outside now sounded like a death penalty.

“Air first,” she insisted, adamant, and turned towards Newt like an executioner. “Right, Newt? A walk would do him good.”

Newt looked at Thomas and Thomas just knew. He was doomed. Newt was going to betray him like Scar did with Mufasa and he’d enjoy it, he could see the glint in his eyes, just shining there, spelling revenge in big, neon letters.

Please, he mouthed at the blond in desperation and Newt tilted his head to the side and then his mouth curled up.

“Sure, that’s a great idea, Anna,” he signed the death certificate without an ounce of shame and relished in it.

Fuck you, Thomas mouthed again, and Newt sent him a condescending smile. Fuck him especially.

***

“You’re unusually quiet,” his mum casually pointed out like she didn’t just drag him out to cold ass weather while holding a knife (butter one, but that’s what made it scarier), despite his very vocal (or vocal sort of, too loud and his brain wanted out of his skull) protests.

“Hungover,” he reminded her bitterly. The snow under their feet crunched sharply and the noise was tearing his brain to pieces, like walking on a broken glass and he had no idea how much longer he’d be able to act like it wasn’t killing him.

“Well, it was nice of you to cover for him,” Anna shrugged like she didn’t just blew their cover with a killer one liner and Thomas probably shouldn’t have been as surprised. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink.”

“That’s cuz he can’t drink for shit,” he mumbled with a frown. “Did dad notice?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He was too busy boasting about the partnership. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him so happy, you know how he hoards the whiskey otherwise.”

“Yeah, cheapskate,” Thomas snorted, and the noise sliced his brain painfully, like an instant karma.

“Think he was happy about Newt being back too,” she hit the nail on the head a bit too close to home and Thomas hated how his stomach lurched at it. “Well, you know him.”

“Sure is happy for not getting any grandkids,” he just grumbled and Anna patted him on his back.

“We still have Hannah,” she reminded him sweetly. “Maybe one day she’ll feel like having kids and force you to babysit for her two times a week.”

“Me? You’re going to be the grandparents, it’s your obligation to babysit!” The idea of taking care of Hannah’s kids made him scared for life, and they didn’t even exist yet.

“Pretty sure Newt wouldn’t mind,” she chirped happily, and Thomas loathed how right she probably was. Newt never really showed any kind of real interest in having kids or anything, but he never minded babysit for his own sister, and generally all the kids liked him.

Not that thinking about that had any merit anyway, since they split up with a point of no return. Maybe Newt already planned kids with the new person who left the distasteful hickey on his nape, or the person who he kept texting, and the more Thomas thought about it, the more his chest burned.

“Cherish him a bit more, would you,” she poked his arm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you have some beef between you. Had an argument before coming here?”

Why the fuck is she so perceptive?

“A bit,” he answered quietly. “No biggie.”

“Set things right,” she plainly ordered him like he was ten again and had do her bidding. “I don’t want another sad Christmas.”

There isn’t going to be any Christmas for us, he wanted to tell her, but kept his mouth shut. At this rate, there wasn’t going to be anything for them, at all.

I really need some sleep.

***

Not very often did the morning come so peacefully, like a gentle spring washing over tired soul, leaving it invigorated. Thomas basked in the pleasantness of it, a quiet, warm and relaxed moment where he slowly woke up from a dream into reality still welcoming and soft like he never left the fantasy realm.

He took a deep breath, stretching, slowly coming to realize of contours of another body pressed into him, and under his hands and around his legs and under his chin. The soft blond hair came to view when he opened his eyes, with Newt draped around him needily, and his heart melted.

The first night in their flat. Their home. A place that only belonged to them, these walls and floors, and small kitchen and big windows, for them together. It came true, finally, inevitably, for Thomas to have Newt all for himself, to share his mornings, his evenings, his life with him. Nothing else could make him happier.

“You already up?” came a sleepy rumble from Newt’s chest, the hands holding Thomas’ waist slowly moved up, to his back, pushing them even closer together.

“Just woke up,” Thomas kissed the top of the blond strands, his own hands traveling over Newt’s back, right onto his butt, kneading it.

“Mmmm.” Approving sound doubled his endeavour and then Newt was slowly grinding to him, lazily, his lips stretched in a smile, reaching to pamper Thomas’ neck with small kisses. “This sure is nice, huh.”

“Love it,” Thomas agreed with the sentiment while grabbing Newt’s thigh and hiking it up over his hip. The blond softly moaned at the contact and Thomas pushed more into it, completely awake and needy and allowed. There was nobody that could hear them, scold them or gasp in shock like a puritan at them making out – just them, two lovers in their home, free to make love any time they wanted.

And Thomas wanted too much.

***

He never stopped wanting.

He woke to his room bathing in shadows, with the blanket twisted between his legs, his headache still present, even though in weaker state than in the morning, and his body wasn’t any less sluggish. The walk with his mum didn’t help him much, just added to his misery with freezing cold and nagging reality he couldn’t play this game any longer, which made him feel empty and unhappy.

He didn’t feel this unhappy in a while, it usually only came back when he heard of Newt about a year after the breakup. Every time his ex came back to his life, even when somebody only mentioned him in a passing conversation, Thomas’ chest set off that painful pang in it, like a trigger just waiting to be pressed, and he fell back into hollow kind of depression.

He got rid of it, somehow. He built walls around himself, he locked all of his twisted personality traits and pushiness and hateful behaviour away, he spent years searching for more he could fix, for all that made Newt unhappy with him, what made him leave Thomas after seven years without really talking about it.

He thought he managed to become a better person. He believed he could change the way he acted. He hoped if he ever talked to Newt again, at any point of their lives, he would be at least able to show him he wasn’t that ungrateful, lousy boyfriend anymore, that they could at least be friends. Somehow. Just talk normally. Just… exist in the same room without… Newt making that anguished face, like it hurt him still.

Thomas tried. But failed. Maybe it was just recurring theme of his life – to touch something wonderful, to taste true happiness, just to fuck it all up and lose it.

Maybe he was just obsessive. Suffocating.

Maybe making mistakes were rooted too deep in him to get rid of.

Maybe… it was simply impossible.

***

Newt was playing games with Hannah in the living room when Thomas came back down. Hannah made fun of him for sleeping all day like an old guy and his mum said something about hoping he didn’t catch a cold and gave him a bowl of chicken soup.

The strange, unattached feeling stayed with him since he woke up, and only doubled when he saw Newt’s neck marked by some fucker on display. His stomach churned at the implication there was this unknown guy waiting for Newt to come back home, who kept impatiently sending him texts that made Newt frown and smile in turns, like he just slowly sunk back into the problem they never resolved. Thomas felt disgusted with himself, and angry, and, when it came to it, immensely tired.

“Oh, you have the whole week free?” his mum asked suddenly, breaking Thomas’ bubble of trying to eat the soup like a mental case of lobotomy, and he realized there had been a conversation going in meantime and he didn’t catch any of it. Newt wasn’t playing the game anymore, though Hannah still furiously pressed buttons on her controller, and instead of it sat on the couch, turned towards Thomas’ mum at the table.

“Yeah, thought getting out of the city might do me good,” he answered her with a soft smile and the idea of another week like this sent Thomas into desperate mode. Even though it was him who forced Newt to take whole week off, because… he only had bad ideas, obviously.

“But there’s bit of a rush now, right?” he entered the conversation impulsively and Newt glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “At work. Christmas and all that being close.”

“Yeah, it’s… a bit hectic,” the blond admitted, making Thomas’ mum go aww. “There’s lots of people taking vacations they didn’t spend yet, so we usually work crunch time.”

“Yeah, kind of same,” Thomas added. It wasn’t really a lie. But not the truth either. “And I know I said a week, but I’ve got some texts from work already, thought of going back tomorrow instead.”

Newt stared at him with an evident confusion, but Thomas knew at this rate they were going to crash and burn again if they stayed, and he didn’t want that. He couldn’t even trust himself to keep it civil when his blood boiled like in a bull taunted with red flag.

Except the red flag was an unknown nobody on the other side of the line of Newt’s phone.

And bed.

“Uh,” came from the blond. “No, wait. What? You…”

“We can visit again during Christmas,” Thomas offered a big fat lie, he almost bit his tongue at it. Christmas were a taboo, he knew mentioning it were already risky, but it gave him an out with his mum, so that worked at least. “When it’s calmer.”

“When is what calmer?” Newt still stared, Thomas said almost disbelieving, and he just prayed for him to play along and not act like he knew nothing about it.

“Work,” he answered stiffly. Too stiffly, he realized, since Newt’s eyes narrowed.

“Uh oh,” he heard Hannah interject, which meant he already failed in the mission to make this believable. Fuck.

“I need a smoke,” the blond announced instead of reacting and stood up sharply. Then shot Thomas a badly masked glare. “Keep me company?”

He wanted to say no but couldn’t when his whole family watched them like during tennis match. So he just nodded and followed Newt outside of the house while feeling like slapping himself.

***

“Care to explain or am I supposed to guess.”

The cigarette was lit, its fiery tip shone bright in the darkness of the porch once the automatic light shut itself because they weren’t moving like they rooted in the wooden floor. Newt was wearing his coat and Thomas only stood there in the long-sleeved shirt, which in retrospect was probably a mistake.

“I did explain,” Thomas said. “Just thought about work-,”

“No, you didn’t,” Newt stopped him immediately while crossing one of his arms on his chest while other held the cigarette like a weapon. “You said a week, so I took a week off. I’m not bloody leaving now. It’s my vacation.”

“I also said three days would probably be enough,” Thomas asserted. “And they are. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Why?” the blond demanded. “It’s not like I suffer here. I like this place. What’s your problem?”

That kind of question had no easy answer and Thomas held Newt’s eyes only for few seconds, before looking away.

“Am I the problem?” came another question, even sharper. “You just can’t stand me anymore, so you want to leave?”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Thomas scoffed. “Since when did I ever-,”

“No, I don’t know!” Newt interrupted him with raised voice and Thomas flinched. “I don’t bloody know anything about you anymore! You brought me here and expected what? War? Did you want us to fail?”

“Why would I want us to fail?” Thomas’ eyes widened in a shock. “What kind of fucked up logic would that be?!”

“I don’t know!” Newt barked. The cigarette he was holding was slowly fading away, the ash falling everywhere how he moved his hand. “But something’s up since this morning, so obviously you’re lying about work and I want to know why!”

Well, finding out his ex-boyfriend had a lover, or a sex friend or whatever the other person was definitely served as a wake-up call. Thomas couldn’t overlook it – he thought he’d be fine with anything, it had been years, but one fucking hickey and some fleeting texts and he just had the rising urge to tear the walls he built down and get angry and make Newt inevitably miserable, which he despised.

He fucking loathed it. And himself. And everything around him.

“Why did you even agree to come here?” he couldn’t help but demand. “Why did you even bother playing this stupid game when you have somebody home? You trying to make him jealous or it’s just your thing?”

Accusing – stupid Thomas, fucking idiot, just talk normally, what’s wrong with you – as always.

“What?” Newt’s eyes shot up, wide in honest surprise. His cheeks were red from the cold, or maybe embarrassment, Thomas didn’t know. “What are you talking about?”

“About that hickey on your neck?” Thomas pointed towards the incriminated spot and Newt’s whole body went rigid.

“A hickey…?” Newt’s free hand was touching the place now, his voice shocked. “You… ugh.”

“Look, it’s not my business, clearly,” Thomas rubbed his eyes tiredly, desperately trying to make an excuse for his own consciousness why he couldn’t look at Newt. “But obviously it’s causing you trouble with him, so. As I said. Three days are fine, we can leave now. Go back home. Forget about this.”

And forget about me trying to corner you, and me getting hard in the bed with you this morning, and me sounding jealous and lame, and me… just for being me.

“Are you fucking with me?” Newt’s voice sounded disbelieving. “Are you bloody serious right now? A hickey from some random guy appeared over night here? That’s what you’re saying?”

Overnight…?

“Overnight?” he asked a little dumbly, which forced him to look Newt in the eyes, where he saw hell unleashed. It made his throat squeeze almost hard enough to suffocate him.

“You think I just popped back home for a quickie, then back to your bed in the morning like a bloody Cinderella?” the blond seethed, the cigarette in his hand morphing into a protentional weapon of choice. “Where did that even came for, for fuck’s sake? You’d been seeing me for two days, never noticed anything, and then suddenly your Esmeralda syndrome got cured or what?”

“But-,”

“You bloody drunk fucker,” Newt took a step towards him and Thomas found himself hitting the entrance door with his back, when he automatically tried to back out. “Should have known your bird brain won’t remember anything.”

The realization hit Thomas like tons of bricks right in his face, able to cause heavy concussion if it were real.

“I did this?!”

“No, the bloody sucker behind you, who the fuck do you think?!” Newt’s voice was harsh, but Thomas could only hear the bare fact he made a hickey of size of Texas on his ex-boyfriend’s nape while spending the next day being jealous… of himself.

“What the fuck,” he breathed out with an ugly relief flooding his veins, which was all sorts of wrong. Being relieved over attacking his ex at night definitely did not count as a good point in anybody’s book. “What the fuck.”

“Calmer now?” Newt sighed in exasperation and Thomas couldn’t say he was. It just opened door to another set of bad he had to deal with.

“I attacked you when drunk?” he asked quietly, and Newt blinked in surprise.

“Attacked?” he repeated and then barked out a laugh. “No, you really didn’t. You were drunk out of your mind, for fuck’s sake.”

“I see.”

“Didn’t think it left anything,” the blond sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if in memory, which was kind of hot – no Thomas, it was not hot, but embarrassing, shut up -. “I mean you just munched on me a little, then fell back asleep. No harm done.”

“You made a fuss about us sleeping in one bed but it’s no biggie when I leave a hickey?” Thomas couldn’t help but laugh a little and Newt’s face showed signs of hesitation.

“Look…” he tried after a moment, the cigarette in his hand nearly gone. “I… don’t know, you were just sleeping while holding me, it doesn’t mean anything-,”

“And that’s fine with you?” It was Thomas’ turn to interrupt him, and Newt looked a little lost for a moment.

“I suppose that’s fine with me, yeah,” he admitted slowly.

Thomas looked at his shoes, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t deny the knot forming in his belly over the day already started easing off, for purely selfish reasons he had, but at the same time his head became even a bigger mess than before.

“So what does it mean?” he asked after a while. “I’m trying to do the right thing here, I thought… you’d rather leave than stay with me longer, after today, but…”

“I want to stay,” Newt answered immediately. “Unless you really don’t want me here. Then no, of course. I had the same problem the first day, feeling all kinds of weird and jumpy. I guess I just sort of dealt with it. Stepped out of my comfort zone and all that.”

“Sorry you had to.”

It wasn’t like Thomas wanted Newt to change anyhow by doing this favour for him. But he’d also be a hypocrite if he didn’t admit he wished Newt to feel good here. With him. Selfishly, hopelessly. Like before, like they were okay. Like they still… liked each other. At least a little.

He knew that kind of hope was self-destructive and harmful, but he didn’t stop loving this man three years ago, after going through an immensely rough patch, so he wouldn’t stop loving him now for no reason either.

“No need to be sorry,” Newt interrupted his thoughts with much softer tone than Thomas expected. “I mean even despite it’s you, you didn’t really do anything bad yet.”

“Wow,” Thomas snorted. “Way to ruin the mood, boyfriend.”

“I try,” Newt grinned, and it seemed like the tense mood dissipated and they both relaxed enough to breathe easier. Thomas possibly wouldn’t even notice he had been so strung up until now, if the huge boulder of irrational fear of fucking up didn’t fall off his shoulders with a bang.

“And just for the record,” Newt added while finally inhaling the last puff from the already burned-out cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “I noticed you digging into me in the morning.”

“Of course you did…” Thomas banged the back of his head against door in utter shame. “Because universe hates me, and you had to fucking wake up.”

“Yeah, well,” Newt let out a small shrug. “I got hard at night, if it makes you feel any better. Let’s call it even.”

“What.”

“Had a real nice dream,” the blond casually announced like he was ordering pie with no filling and Thomas was a stupefied cashier at Costa Cafe. “Woke up with you being handsy with me. Tried to scramble away, cue for you to make the hickey and fall back asleep.”

“Uh.”

“1:1, right?” The sly smile Newt’s mouth produced did things to Thomas’ underbelly and before he even caught himself, he automatically reached out and grabbed Newt’s side.

Fuck.

“Pretty lousy score,” he just said – bad Thomas, stop making a pass at your ex -, “That’s no match whatsoever.”

Newt glanced at his hand resting on his waist and then back to Thomas with a thoughtful hum.

“I’m not that good at sports,” he just said, looking back into Thomas’ eyes. “But you might be onto something.”

Thomas took a deep breath and risked the second hand grabbing other side of Newt’s waist, pulling him closer. The layers of clothing made him dissatisfied, no matter how cold it was and how his skin already felt like ice, he just wanted to get under the coat and the sweater and the shirt and make Newt react somehow. The blond just silently watched him, let him do whatever he wanted, and somehow it felt like a test and Thomas was scared of failing it.

“That’s it?” Newt broke the tense silence around them when Thomas just stood there, holding him.

“Thinking,” the brunet mumbled with a frown.

“About?”

“How to touch you without it being classified as groping,” he moved his hands a little lower as an experiment, getting no reaction. “Since it’s off the table.”

“Pfff.”

He hesitated, then gingerly let go of one side and reached for the zipper lodged under Newt’s chin, keeping the coat closed like a fortress. His hand barely cooperated with how frozen it was, but Newt still didn’t stop him and that encouraged him unfairly.

“Newt.”

“Yeah?” the blond’s voice was quiet and close to his face.

“What’s with all the texting?” He kept holding the zippier between his fingers like he couldn’t decide, and Newt made a soft huh? noise in the back of his throat.

“You were on your phone the whole day,” Thomas lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Is there somebody…?”

A sigh. Thomas let go of the zipper.

“That’s Alby,” came a reply and if Thomas wasn’t already propped against the door, he’d take a step back. There was nowhere to run now, so he just let go of the blond completely, nodding.

“He’s my partner,” another string of words Thomas comprehended but wished he didn’t. “A bit demanding one.”

“Sounds like it,” he just commented, staring at his feet until Newt’s shoes came into view as well when he stepped closer.

Seriously testing me. That’s-

“A bit cruel,” he breathed out with a puff of white smoke and Newt pushed further and pressed his mouth against Thomas’. His cold lips lingered for a moment before parting, their breaths mingling, and Thomas’ heart fought really hard to get out of his chest and run away. The proximity was non-existent, Newt stood so close their chests were touching, and his eyes were so dark, and pupils blown wide Thomas got easily lost in them.

He always did. Nothing had changed.

“You look cold,” Newt whispered to his lips, hovering so close their mouths gently touched when they took a breath.

“Freezing,” Thomas answered in daze, holding back only by a miracle. He wanted to reach out and pull the blond man flush against him, to grind into him, to kiss him so deep his toes would curl, and he’d buck up, he just wanted so much it made him suffer.

“Alby’s my colleague,” Newt dropped quietly. “Funnily… you weren’t wrong about work being in a rush now. He’s struggling a little. Wanted to know my opinion.”

A colleague. And nothing else?

“Nothing else,” Newt answered like he could read his mind and then sagged against Thomas’ body like the energy just left him, resting his head on Thomas’ shoulder.

“I thought I can handle being this close to you,” he heard him mumbling into his shirt. “But the more I am, the less I can fight it.”

“I thought I can handle you dating somebody else,” Thomas added to it while letting his head fall back against the door with a dull thud. “But obviously not. It’s scary. I don’t want to fuck it up again.”

“Yeah,” Newt agreed with him. “Me neither.”

He wasn’t sure if this had been some sort of consensus they reached, or just a fling that happened because they were both lonely, but Thomas didn’t want to let go – even though he should have, logically, to protect them both. The pain they caused to each other three years ago was still there and festering under their skins, but the more Newt was pressed into him, breathing softly, the more Thomas noticed his reason slowly creeped away, like a thief in the night disappearing with loot.

But he wanted. For fuck’s sake how he wanted to just hold him close and promise him love and eternal happiness, and the scary part was he couldn’t promise shit. His love was real, but not unconditional, happiness was fleeting and simply relying on both of them and the rest of the world deciding whatever to fuck them up or not.

But…

“I give up,” he mumbled, weary to the bone. At Newt’s soft hm? he just sighed. “It’s fucking cold.”

The blond barked out a laugh, but nodded and let go of him, immediately taking all the warmth away.

“Then shall we assure them we’re not breaking up again?” he nodded towards the door and without waiting for Thomas’ reply he already reached for the handle. “Or not leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” the brunet conceded. “Hannah’s going to be milking this for the rest of the week…”

“Serves you right,” Newt laughed quietly while opening the door and Thomas kept the answer to himself.

We’re not breaking up again rang in his head like a bell, deafening his reason even further. Newt didn’t protest when he reached for his hand on their way inside, and he wondered if his heart was ready for another trial.

He ignored the uncertainty and took a leap of faith.

#newtmas #tmr #the last resort series #the maze runner #izzymultifan #edit 17. 5. 2021

[nat-20s]

PROMPT! the first time the s1 archive gang hangs out outside of work (any variation of the group, doesn’t have to be All of them)

This is only the Archive Assistant sqaud, bc I’m sorry Jon, but no bosses allowed. Also it’s VERY silly and soft bc sometimes u just wanna write nice things u know

(also also fuck I lovecompletely missed that this said “first time” they hang out but uhh. I hope u like it anyway.)

Tim Stoker like to think that, sometimes, not to toot his own horn, but he can be something of a genius. When a cousin’s cousin had offered to let him use their cozy little cabin for a night or two in exchange for help with moving, he had been struck with what could only be humbly described as “inspiration of the most divine nature”. For, as nice as a Friday evening away from it all by himself sounds, it’s so much nicer for a Friday evening away from it all to serve as Archival Assistants Bonding Time™. Or well, more like Tim and Sasha, Who Are Already Best Friends Forever, Figure Out What Martin’s Deal Is, Because For A Guy So Chatty, He Sure Is Mysterious Time™, but that’s not nearly as catchy. Truly, his plan was brilliant, bringing two compatriots and an excessive amount of food and drink to a spot away from the prying eyes of the world and bosses, and feast in the openness and silliness that comes from having a great fucking time.

His plan, and his genius, were tragically derailed. While he knew on their drive up that the air was rapidly getting cooler, Tim couldn’t have even pretended to predict that an hour into their stay would bring a freak blizzard that means they’re snowed in for the next three days, which was 3 times longer than he had accounted on spending with his coworkers/friends. There was more than enough food to last them, and almost enough alcohol, but as Sasha so kindly put it:

“First you make us reenact the first scene of every bad teen slasher movie, now there’s a fucking white out. If we lose power, I’m telling you, there is absolutely going to be a murder.”

“Pfft, no way. The guy who owns this place is one of those weird ass prepper types, there’s a back up generator for the back up generator. And even if we did lose power, we’re all much more the “huddle for warmth under a shared blanket in front of the roaring fire” types than the “get panicked and stab someone in darkness” types, right? Back me up here, Marto.”

Martin, who at three shots in is both hilarious and mean, directs his response to Sasha. “in the event of a black-out I vote we kill Tim. I can take him down and you can finish the job.”

Sasha tips her cup at him, saying, “I like the way you think,” at the same time that Tim yells out, “Hey! Why am I the one dying?!”

Sasha tells him, “Duh. This whole thing was your idea, which makes you the Dr. Black* of this situation. Any good mansion murder mystery dictates the the host dies first. Then, in a moment of entirely unplanned synchronization, her and Martin start chanting, “Host dies first! Host dies first!”

“Okay, you know what? Fuck both of y’all, it’s not my fault that you’re both thoroughbred city slickers that can’t handle being in a cabin with plumbing and running water and electricity. Didn’t either of you go camping as kids?”

Sasha replies “No I’m far too pretty for that,” while Martin bursts out laughing. It takes about 20 seconds for him to settle down. Wiping away a tear, he elaborates, “Sorry, sorry, just. Can not imagine my mother on a camping trip.  I mean, sure, she probably hoped at one point or another that I’d be lost in the woods as a child, or maybe even now, but I think that’s a bit different.”

Tim leans over the kitchen counter, placing his chin in his hands as he says, “Oh shit, Martin lore. Spill the deets.”

Sasha, who’s loyalties tend to sway towards whatever’s most interesting in the moment, piles on with, “You called her your mother, not your mum. That’s means she’s pretty much a right bastard, or a member of the aristocracy, which is just another term for right bastard but you got to grow up as a rich kid. Am I right?”

It’s clear the the two of them have made a grave mistake. All joviality flees Martin’s expression, and he shrinks down both his physical presence and his voice to something that could easily be overlooked if someone wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, um, well, I definitely didn’t grow up as a rich kid. And, it terms of the ‘right bastard’ thing, she’s not- er. That’s to say, she’s- she’s sick and. She’s doing the best she can, given, given everything.”

Martin pointedly looks at his hands while Tim and Sasha panickedly look at each other. They go to either side of him, and when he doesn’t flinch away, they each place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tim immediately feels the itch to fill the heavy quiet, and he happens to know he has quite the talent for blazing on ahead after these kinds of moments. It’s how he’s survived basically party for the past decade. “Ooookay, I’m gonna go ahead and say that all depressing familial reveals shall be held off until at least the second night of being trapped. While Sasha may have irritatingly few skeletons in her closet in that regard-”

“I have Tory grandparents?”

“We all have Tory grandparents Sash, that’s absolutely nothing. As I was saying, while Sash’s family is boring and semi functional, you and me are gonna do some fuckin’ commiserating on our journey from work friends to friend friends. However, I’m going to have to be 40% drunker, go through a decently strong hangover, and then once again get hair of the dog drunk before I can even start to consider heading down that path. And in that spirit, I think it’s time to start up the drinking games. Truth or dare might end up a bit too heavy for our needs, but Never Have I Ever should suit us just fine. I know I’m gonna regret saying this considering Sasha is 100% going to target my ass, but I think we should establish that whoever puts all ten fingers down first has to chug the rest of the box wine.”

Sasha pipes up with, “Ugh, no, not drinking games, that’s such twenty-something bullshit. I expected better from you.”

“Hey, Martin is a twenty-something, so that still works fine actually-”

“Tim!”

“What?”

Martin’s directing wide, bordering on frantic, eyes at him, and Tim is almost certainly missing something, though he can’t for the life of him figure it out. Sasha’s head is bobbing slightly between the two of them, and shes apparently able to parse what Tim has not. “Oh! Martin, uh, I already know that you’re 2, and it’s cool.”

“Did..did Tim tell you or?”

Tim scoffs out an “I wouldn’t!” even though there’s a distinct possibility that, entirely on accident, he would, and Sasha makes a reassuring coo. “No, no, babe, nothing like that. It’s just that, uh, the Magnus Institute is kind of notorious for not doing any background checks pretty much ever, so when I get a new coworker, I..do it myself.”

Martin’s face blanches, and his eyes somehow get even wider. “Oh god, please don’t tell Jon or Elias, I know I don’t have the credentials, but I really need-”

“Woah, woah, I’m not gonna do that. First of all, archival assistant squad, we ride together we die together in a snowed in god forsaken log cabin, secondly, it’d be hypocritical as fuck if I got up your ass about qualifications. Not a single one of us is qualified for our jobs, not even Jon. Maybe especially not Jon. It’s like, raise your hand if you have a degree in library sciences. No one? Okay, cool, that’s not weird at all for an archive. Actually, maybe bring that up next time he gives you shit. He’ll be all like ‘bluh bluh, you didn’t document this spooky bullshit well enough, it’s not up to the High Standards here at Spooky Bullshit Emporium’ and you can be like ‘whatever buddy, you’re an English major, what do you fuckin’ know?’. It’ll be devastating. He’ll be devastated.”

Martin laughs in the manner of someone who knows that they shouldn’t be, and his shoulders relax into  a lower position. “Why would you want me to devastate him? I thought you guys were friends?”

“We are, which is why we all collectively need to get back at Jon for acting like such a prick. He’s always been a bit temperamental, but I honestly don’t get what his deal is, especially with you. I mean, c’mon, you’re great, being mean to you is like kicking a puppy.”

“Thanks? I think?”

Tim pipes up with, “Oooo, since drinking games are apparently too childish for Sasha, what if instead we play ‘What’s Jon’s Deal Anyway, Featuring, Seriously, Why Target Martin, The Baby of The Archives’-”

“-That feels a bit reductive of who I am and I also I think I’m technically older than Jon?-”

“-Whoever comes up with the best explanation, and by best obviously I mean most entertaining, gets an all expense paid trip from the other two to one of the charity shops I know we all frequent.”

Sasha snorts, “Wow, a whole twenty quid, who could resist such temptation. But also, I’m in, I think I have a winner and I have a violent need to out-cardigan Jon.”

Martin’s relaxation is gone again, which Tim thinks need to be fixed through aggressively passing a glass of wine towards him. He takes it without protest, takes a long drink, and says, “This seems more like 3 am conversation than a 9 pm one.”

Sasha gives an encouraging nudge, prompting another drink, and replies, “Yeah, well, I am not gonna make it to 3 am. I’ve got about an hour until the Alcohol Sleepiness sets in, and I know Tim will be right behind me.”

“Sashaaaaaa, you’re ruining my reputation as a young-at-heart, party-all-night kind of guy.”

“Babe, you’ve complained about your bones aching often enough that you’ve never had that reputation.”

“Surrounded by mean drunks, that’s what I am. I should be pitied.”

Martin shoots a glance towards Sasha, then replies, “You’d be more pitiable if this entire thing wasn’t, you know, entirely your own fault.”

Sasha nods sagely, “It’s true. If you were pitiable then maybe you wouldn’t have to die first.”

“You know what? I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room, how about we divert some of that towards complaining about our bosses, as coworkers who are hanging out and having a good time and not bullying me are supposed to do.”

Sasha giggles slightly as she leans down and presses a kiss to Tim’s cheek. “Aw, sorry, Tim. I promise to double cross Martin when if becomes killing time.”

Tim melts a little, even as he’s replying, “Wait, when?” Martin takes another sip and says, “Whatever. I could take you both.”

How the hell are you supposed to resist a set up like that? With an over the top wink and cheesy grin, Tim says, “I bet you could, big guy.”

He’s expecting a slightly flustered reaction, maybe a higher pitched voice and a blush, if he’s lucky. He gets all of those things, but it’s Sasha saying, “Oh my god.” Martin only gives him a raised eyebrow and level stare, and Tim makes a mental note to reevaluate his dedication to only considering Martin in a strictly platonic fashion. Sasha continues talking, cutting through the..tension? with, “Okay, now I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room. Tim, tell the studio audience what you think is up with Jon.”

Tim blinks, hard, gives a shake of his head, and says, “Oh, obviously the Jon we know is dead. His ‘promotion’ to Head Archivist was actually Elias killing him off and replacing him with a robot that has the command If: see Martin Then: be dick. Don’t worry Marto, now that Sasha is aware of the issue, she’ll surely be able to reprogram him.”

Sasha hums a bit, then says, “I buy it. I think my explanation’s better, but Elias does seem the “kill a dude and replace him” type. Like if I was gonna suspect any particular person of murder he’s in the top five.”

“Seriously? Elias? Somehow has middle manager vibes even though he’s the head honcho Elias? Mr. ‘I probably wore boat shoes and khaki shorts for the entirety of university’ Bouchard? Voted most likely to put a thin layer of mayo in between two pieces of white bread and claim it’s a sandwich Elias? The area man that’s almost certainly gone on record as saying that golf and networking are his favorite hobbies Elias? He’s far too boring to have committed a murder.”

Tim’s looking at Martin with shock and delight, and he knows Sasha is wearing the exact same expression. “More of this. Please describe more of the things that Elias is.”

“I mean, sure? Uhh, guy that would pay $80 for a dime bag because you told him it’s a premium strain. Person that ironically says things like “kids these days” and “the youths” and you know he’s talking about people well into their 30s. Genuinely believes that if you can afford a cell phone then you shouldn’t be complaining about being  poor, because apparently a one time purchase of around a hundred bucks is the same as trying to pay monthly rent. Tells people to haul themselves up by their bootstraps. Thinks he got to where he was ‘without anybody’s handouts’ even though he’s had a trust fund since he was 15. Writes weekly editorials to the local newspaper complaining about the liberalization of media, and they’re like ‘sir, please stop submitting to us, we’re just trying to talk about Lisa’s gardening club’ because they can’t professionally tell him to fuck off. Thinks salt and pepper are the only spices one could ever possibly need, everything else is simply excessive. Somehow gay and homophobic. Like, yes, he’s taken a male lover, but he’s also seconds away from calling you a slur at any one time. Actually, no, that’s too interesting, and I refuse to believe he’s had a lover. Legally, he cannot have a lover, I’ve decided, so just gay and homophobic, both in theory alone. Has said that Boris Johnson is “a bit much, but really not so bad, and much better than any of the alternatives, really.” All of the cousins in his family banded together and officially got him banned from any sort of major holiday dinners. Basically every shitty boss you’ve ever had, especially if you’ve worked retail, rolled into one.”

Tim lets out a low whistle. “Damn, all right. Get fucked Elias.”

Sasha emphatically agrees, “Get fucked Elias.”

They all clink their glasses together, and then there’s a beat of silence before Martin says, “I’m pretty sure robots can’t get eye bags.”

Tim and Sasha let out a “huh” and “hmm?” respectively, so Martin elaborates. “You posited that Jon had been replaced with a robot. Pretty sure robots aren’t able to look that tired.”

Tim snaps. “Drat, you’ve pointed out the one flaw in my impeccable logic. So what d’you think is up with him? I know you don’t have the Before The Archives comparison, but I think you could provide a fresh perspective.”

“Oh, fuck, I don’t know. Two months ago, I might have had some choice words, but first off, you all genuinely got on, so it didn’t really make sense for him to be awful all the time, and secondly ever since the, um, worm thing, he’s actually been pretty nice? I haven’t heard any snide comments, and whenever I mess something up he’s a lot more, um, gentle about explaining what wrong. He actually complimented my work the other day so. I guess I think Jon’s deal was that he was stressed out and I was very nervous and not very good at my job and he picked up on that?”

“So you think he’s like a horse.”

“Explain.”

“He sensed your fear and he became skittish and irritable in kind.”

“Horses can sense fear?”

“Horses can sense everything.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Right?”

“Guys, we’ve gone on like four different tangents in one conversation. Martin, I’m very glad to hear that Jon’s changed his behavior towards, because it means I don’t have to yell at him on your behalf, you’re getting to see the person that me and Tim both know who is actually pretty cool, and also mostly because it feeds perfectly into my winning theory.”

“What, you’ve got something better than Martin’s ‘accurate but boring’ reasoning or my ‘super cool but now that I think about it for .5 seconds actually kind of a bummer robot’ knowledge?”

Sasha’s incredibly self-assured when she says, “I sure fuckin’ do. Jon’s secretly been in love with Martin the whole time, and he’s been previously overcompensating by acting like he hates him.” which makes Tim choke on air and Martin emphatically reply, “Fuck off, he is not.”

“No, no, hear me out, I have, I have receipts, as the kids say. First point of evidence: Martin’s stupid hot, and there’s no way that Jon is straight, so obviously he’s not gonna be impervious to that.”

“What?”

“Oh come off it Martin, it’s just a fact. Like, me personally? I don’t even do the whole romance thing, but the first time I ever saw you I blacked out slightly and thought ‘Now there’s a man I could raise some ferrets with.’.”

“I, um, I, well. Is that...supposed to be a euphemism for something?”

“What? No, I’ve just always wanted ferrets, and asking someone to raise pets with you is like the height of romance, I’m pretty sure. Back me up here Tim.”

“On the ferret thing or the Martin hot thing?”

“Either? Both.”

“Aight. Yes, asking someone to raise ferrets with you is basically a marriage proposal if that someone is Sasha, and I hate to break it to you Martin, but you’re incredibly good-looking. We’re all incredibly good-looking, to the point where I think the only qualification for the archives staff is being a straight up hottie. OH! We should name the group chat “straight up hottie squad”. Anyway, yep, point for Sasha.”

“Not a point for Sasha, even if I believe you about about my, em, physical attractiveness,-”

“-Don’t have to put belief in a fact, Marto-”

“-that doesn’t mean anything. By that logic, he’s equally as likely to be in love with either of you, and my money would be on Sasha if it was anyone, because you’re clearly his favorite.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly why it isn’t me, but thank you for the transition into my second point which is: Jon is the kind of person that sees anything that might make him vulnerable and starts aggressively defending himself against it, and what’s more vulnerable than a crush? He’s not crushing on Tim, because Tim’s fucking great, but sometimes he’s also the walking, talking embodiment of sensory overload, and while I myself I love that, Jon clearly gets a bit overwhelmed by it at times. He’s not into me, because he knows better than that, and overall I’m pretty non-threatening to his whole thing, so of course he’s going to be the most relaxed around me. You, on the other hand, are single, hot, kind to animals and people alike, and make a great cup of tea. Incredibly crush worthy, thus incredibly threatening, thus Jon acting like That.”

“Hmm, this still seems like something that comes from watching one too many corny rom coms, and that’ s coming from someone who loves corny rom coms.”

“I also love corny rom coms, but that’s completely beside the point. Because, okay, sure, if Jon had just been a weird asshole to you, I wouldn’t be like ‘oh, yeah, that’s a classic case of covering for something’ but you’re right about him being nicer since the worm thing. So nice, in fact, I shall be bringing in Timothy as my star witness that’s going to blow this whole case wide open. Martin, you may not have heard how Jon has started to talk about you, but me and Tim sure have.”

“God, yeah. Like if we thought he wouldn’t shut up about you before-

“-which he wouldn’t-”

“it’s gotten way worse now.”

“I think the whole life threatening worm woman flipped a switch for him and now he’s all fuckin. ‘Oh, Martin should stay in the archives, let me give him the place that I sleep.”

“Oh, Martin, I don’t think he should go out on too many research trips anymore, I’d much prefer for him to be ~nice and close~”

“Oh, Martin, good lord, did you know that his tea is quite good? I’m think it might actually be the best I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, Martin, his work’s rather improved, don’t you think? It’s really quite impressive, especially considering all the stress he’s had to endure.”

“Oh, Martin, I just want him to take me into his big, strong arms and whisk me away from all of this.”

“He did not fucking say that last one.”

Sasha throws her arms up in the air. “He may as well have!”

Nodding sagely, Tim replies, “This whole thing holds water. I vote Sasha gets the shopping trip. Martin?”

Martin stares at his drink as if it has any ability to give him any sort of answers, then lets out a sigh with his entire body. “You know what? It’s probably nicer than whatever the fuck is the truth, so sure, why not? Let’s get Sasha her cardigans.”

Sasha lets out a whoop. “Hell yeah! Can’t wait for spree, assuming all three of us get out of this cabin alive.”

“Okay, nope, clearly Sasha needs another distraction. Got any suggestions, Martin?”

“Uh, wasn’t a karaoke machine part of the sales pitch for this place?”

“Martey babey, yes! I wouldn’t have thought you’d spring for that sort of thing!”

“If this were a public bar or something where I’d have to listen to drunk strangers and they’d have to listen to me, then no, I’d rather have my brain pulled through my nose a la mummification. But with only you guys and fourish drinks in? I’m down to clown.”

“Sash, you with us?”

“Dunno, what songs are there?”

Tim shrugs, and heads to the storage closet that contains all the various entertainment equipment. It takes a bit of searching, and a bit more digging, but he’s able to unearth the ancient portable karaoke machine. He also grabs some of the jigsaws, mostly on the thought that sometimes a bitch just wants to hang out with their friends and do a puzzle. Also because in light of the fact that they’re stuck inside with no sort of access to the outside world for two days longer than planned, there’s pretty much no way that they’re not going to reach a point where they all say fuck it let’s do a puzzle.

Plugging in the machine, it takes a solid several minutes to boot up, which is the perfect length of time to take it upon himself to take one for the team and chug the box wine himself, with Sasha and Martin chanting in the background. When he finishes, they cheer, and then Martin immediately shoves a glass of water for him to down as well, muttering something about how he wants him to be alive in the morning. Tim can tell he’s well inebriated by now, because the simple thoughtful gesture is enough to make him a little bit misty-eyed, and Sasha can attest to alcohol turning him into the world’s biggest sap. In order to avoid prevent himself from becoming the kind of person who says “I love you” in a gradually more sloppy repeat, he starts flipping through the discography of the now running machine. “Alright y’all, it looks like we got 80s songs or...80s songs. Ooo, they have the Grease 2 soundtrack.”

That gets him a well deserved “No!” from both parties, with Sasha adding on, “Not even if it was Grease 1. I’m putting an embargo on musical theater in general.”

“Oh come on, some musicals are better than other. Right, Marto?”

“I’m with Sasha on this one.”

“Boo. But fine, what do you want?”

Martin and Sasha glance at each other, and Tim’s amazed at how well the bonding night-turned-long-weekend has gone so far, considering they seem to have already mastered the art of silent communication. Martin speaks first, with, “They got Dolly Parton?”

The process of scrolling through individual letters to type is achingly slow, but luckily all he needs to get through is “DO” before she shows up. “They do.”

Sasha says, “Do they got 9 to 5, by Dolly Parton?”

Tim’s eyes light up with realization as he says, “They do,” and in a moment of spontaneous understanding, all three of them know that they’re not simply going to sing 9 to 5. No, they’re going to do a  full blown music video for the benefit for nobody but themselves, because why the fuck not.

The next hour is spent in a very silly fashion. They figure out how to use the cabin’s layout to their advantage, assign various parts of the song to each person, and practice their inexpert choreography a few times with the song tinnily blasting from Sasha’s phone. The final result is hardly of professional quality, but it is of making them all giggle quality. It starts off in a relay like manner, each of them in a different area to coordinate with “Tumble of out bed and stumble to the kitchen” (Sasha on the couch), “Pour myself a cup of ambition”, (Tim at the coffemaker), and “Yawn and stretch and try to come to life” (Martin at the fridge), with them finally crowding around the karaoke machine together to scream sing the chorus. Despite their practice, they quickly go off key, and while they might end up with low points for accuracy, they get full marks on enthusiasm.

When the song ends, it takes them a few minutes to settle down into something less giddy. As they do, Sasha, out of breath, says, “Fuck me, I’m sleepy now. What the hell?”

Tim hums in affirmation. “Goddammit, I’m tired too. Let me guess, Martin, you’re young enough that you could go all night?”

“No? I’ve never pulled an all-nighter in my life. Actually, I know that it was supposed to be in case the power went out, but huddling together under a blanket in front of a fire sounds really nice? I mean, um, if you guys were down.”

Sasha leans her head against Martin’s shoulder and takes on the expression of a deeply content cat. “Mmm, I call Martin, he’s warm.”

“Absolutely not, I also want to leech Martin’s warmth. You good with being in the middle?”

Martin’s practically beaming, but his voice manages to almost fake being put upon. “I suppose it’s a sacrifice I could make.”

With Sasha already half asleep, Martin brings her over to the couch, while Tim gets them all set up. He manages to find the kind of big, fluffy blanket that all cabins should contain and wraps it around their shoulders. Luckily for them, the fireplace is gas lit and can be put on a timer. He sets it for 30 minutes, even though all three of them are going to be long passed out before them. Sasha is already softly snoring away, and Martin’s head keeps drifting down and snapping back up. Tim curls up against Martin’s other side, and even though all three of them are going to wake up with aching backs and worse heads, he thinks he really just might be a genius after all.

*Why is Mr. Boddy’s name Dr. Black in the UK. I hate that. Why would you not have the dumb joke of  naming the victim “boddy”. Hey brits explain your crimes.

#anon #replies #nat fic #tma #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james

[booknerdproblems]

Hello lovely people! Chapter 8 of my rowaelin pining fic. This update is later than usual due to lack of inspiration and me drowning in work. It's slightly longer though so yay! You can also read it on Ao3 and the links to the rest of the chapters is here.

Now, this story is going to be updated even less now, although I might come back to it in a while. I have other stories and one shots in the works however so I'll post those soon. If I do update this in the future, the chapters will not have an ongoing plot unless I say otherwise.

This chapter was really hard to write so it doesn't flow all too well, but I hope you like it anyways! Comments are appreciated!

TW: smut!

Rowan Whitethorn, was, once again, fucked. He’d been chatting to Essar, perfectly innocently, and now he was here. After he’d informed Essar that he did, in fact, have a brilliant girlfriend, and she’d congratulated him, they’d got to talking.

It turned out he had ties with her company at work, and she had just given him her phone number so they could discuss business, when he turned to get back to his friends, to find Aelin blatantly grinding against a man on the dance floor. He had no objections to her dancing with other people, even if it did put his teeth on edge. So he gritted his teeth and got through it.

As the night went on, however, Rowan started to think she was making him uncomfortable on purpose. She either ignored him or gave him one word answers, all the while outright flirting with every man who crossed her path. After about two hours, it was late, and Rowan was tipsy, tired and pissed off.

Aelin was sitting at the bar, playing with a random ring on her hand. Rowan stormed up to her and grabbed her arm,

“We’re leaving. Now”

Aelin just shot him a glare, waved goodbye to Lys, and left him to follow her out of the building. Cool night air hit Rowan, and he took several deep breaths before turning to follow Aelin on the short walk back to her apartment, three streets away from the bar.

Once they were safely inside, riding the elevator to Aelin’s floor, Rowan turned on her.

“What was that?” He demanded, his accent thicker due to the alcohol he’d consumed.

“What was what?” Aelin spat at him.

“That. Back there. I leave to go to get drinks, and I come back to you flirting shamelessly with every male to cross your path.” His voice rose, not quite shouting.

“What, so now I’m with you I’m not allowed to talk to any other man? Am I allowed to talk to Aedion? My cousin? Are you paranoid I’m not allowed to talk to my own gods-damned cousin, you overbearing asshole.” She hissed the last insult, and stormed towards her door, fumbling with her keys.

“Stop putting words in my mouth, you know I didn’t mean it like that Aelin.”

She cursed, managing to insert the key into the lock and the door swung open.

“Then what are you saying Rowan, you think I’m so unfaithful that I would cheat on you? You think that little of me?”

“No Aelin, the point is you just went off, no explanation, and fucking ignored me for no bloody reason.” He was starting to get really angry, and that last whiskey was not helping things.

“What about you, Rowan? What about you? Huh? You go off to get drinks, and start flirting with all your ex hook ups? Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here. You are just as bad as me.”

Everything clicked in Rowan’s mind, and a small smile came over his face.

“Oh, is that it Aelin? You saw me talking to Essar? Oh, Fireheart, are you- are you jealous?”

A look of fury overtook Aelin’s face, and he realised how that must have sounded.

“You condescending asshole,” Aelin got right in his face, “you hypocrite, you absolute prick,” she hissed insult after insult at him, her arms flailing everywhere.

He grabbed her wrists, and drew her in close. She was so gorgeous, even whilst spitting mad.

“Aelin, stop.” He demanded.

To his surprise, she did, her body obeying the dominance in his voice.

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.

“I did not so much as hint to Essar that that was an option. She came up to me, I told her that I do, in fact, have an amazing girlfriend,” Rowan flicked Aelin’s nose, “she respected that, and we started chatting. Turns out, we have business together. She gave me her number, purely for professional purposes, I can assure you.”

Aelin bit her lip, looking uncertain. So Rowan continued,

“Aelin. Aelin, look at me,” he tilted her chin up, and she looked up at him through thick lashes, “why would I need to be with Essar? I have the cleverest, funniest, most gorgeous girlfriend in the whole wide world.”

It was a sweet moment, but she was breathing heavily, and so was he. It was then he realised how close they were standing. Then, despite his words, all the anger bubbled over and she pulled him in for a ferocious kiss. It was all teeth and tongue. It was filled with burning lust and an edge of possessiveness.

He pulled back, searching her eyes for any hurt still lingering.

-x-

Aelin tilted her head up, rising up on her toes as she started placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline. Running her fingers over his shoulders, she pulled at his shirt.

Once it was off, he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist and walking into her bedroom, making sure not to trip over the many things she left on the floor.

She kissed over his collarbones, then up his neck, then down his chest as far as she could go in this position. Nipping and biting, she worked colour into his skin, marking him.

Mine. The word echoed between them.

He dropped her roughly onto the bed, quickly crawling up the length of her body, removing her dress as he did so. He kissed his way up her stomach, and she reached around to remove her lacy black bra.

Aelin’s skin was on fire, everywhere Rowan touched sent a line of white-hot desire straight between her legs.

He grabbed her jaw with one hand, roughly pulling her lips to his as his other hand went to her breast, and she arched into his touch.

His fingers trailed down her body and slipped between her thighs, causing her to gasp into Rowan’s mouth.

He made quick work of it, impatient and not at all teasing as he slipped two fingers inside of her easily, his thumb rubbing her clit in small, fast circles.

His other hand pinned her wrists above her head, much too easily for her liking, and he laughed darkly as she whimpered, the pleasure from simply his fingers almost too much to handle.

Just as she was teetering on the edge, so close, he pulled his fingers out of her, and she cried out in frustration.

He pulled off his undershorts and flipped her over, tilting her hips up.

They both moaned as he entered her fast and hard, and quickly set a rough, demanding pace she could barely keep up with.

She was struggling to get breath down, he filled her so completely, and was utterly ravaging her.

He fucked her with all the anger and pent-up frustration they had built up throughout the night. He wrapped a hand around a handful of her hair, and pulled it back so her back was arched in front of him.

His moans of her name only helped her climax build, and he placed a gentle hand around her neck, hauling her up so her back was pressed against his abdomen. She clenched around him, and the hand around her neck tightened slightly, leaving her breathless as her head lolled back onto his shoulder. His hand went to her clit, fucking her hard and rough as she came, hard. Her vision went white, and she could only feel the intense pleasure washing through her and the man at her back as he came with her.

After a couple of minutes, she was tucked into his side while he stroked her hair soothingly.

“I really didn’t mean to make you jealous,” he whispered.

“It's okay. I shouldn't have assumed.” she murmured back.

“Don’t worry . I get it. You have no idea how jealous I got seeing you with those other men.” He groaned.

Aelin giggled softly, and he folded her into his arms, kissing her forehead and pulling the blankets over them.

#aelin and rowan #sarah j maas #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowan x aelin #aelin fireheart #rowan and aelin #aelin galythinius #aelin whitethorn #friends to lovers #chapter 8 #pining #rowaelin #smut #fluff #angst #jealousy

[camillemontespan]

us & other stories [AU. TRR] [part one: drake & camille]

This is the first part of this series that I plan to write more of in the New Year. This will be the only series I will focus on now, as opposed to the hundreds I had going. Nice and simple, back to basics. I do love an AU. 

                              *****************************************

The therapist sat settled against the plush velvet chair and crossed her legs. On her lap was a notebook and a dictaphone was set on the table in front of her. She studied her two subjects who looked anything but settled on the other side of the table.

'So, Drake, Camille,' the therapist started, speaking in a calm voice that dripped like honey. 'Why are you both here today?'

Camille's jaw set and her eyes glistened. She quickly turned to look away, not wanting to embarrass herself.

Drake exhaled and raised his hands in defeat. 'We want to be happy again,' he replied, his voice weary. 'All we want is to get back to how we were. How we used to be.'

The therapist nodded and made a note in her notepad. 'How long have you been married?'

'Seven years,' Drake said. The therapist eyed Camille who was looking studiously at the floor. Clearly, she wasn't the talker in this relationship.

'And what made you both decide to come here today?'

Camille looked up quickly, her brown eyes flashing. 'He decided,' she said bluntly.

Drake closed his eyes. He was obviously counting to ten. 'Camille..'

'No Drake!' Camille interrupted. 'I'm all for saving our marriage but couldn't we at least do this in private? As in, no therapy? Just us, alone, over a bottle of wine, talking it out? I don't want to air our dirty laundry to this.. This person! Why can't we just talk in private -'

'Because I've tried that a hundred times!' Drake burst out, whipping his body round to face his wife. 'I've tried so hard to get you to just talk to me but you're never there! You're always on your laptop checking work emails, or you're taking important phone calls at 11pm-'

'I'm sorry that I'm trying to provide for our family!' Camille shouted. 'I'm sorry I have a job that demands a lot of me! But I need to keep this family afloat-'

'I do that too!' Drake cried. 'I'm the one who stays home all day looking after the kids, I'm the one who gets them ready for school! I've taken being a fucking house husband as a second job, which normally I'd be fine with, except I don't get any thanks!'

Camille stared at him. 'I do thank you!'

'Hardly,' Drake said dryly. 'We barely talk anymore. In fact, this is the most we've spoken all fucking week-'

'Enough!' the therapist called out sharply, pressing her fingers on either side of her nose. The warring couple looked at her and kept their mouths shut.

The therapist sighed and leaned forward, adopting a pose that encouraged support and confidence.

'Clearly, you both need to talk,' she said, 'which is convenient since you are here. But this is only going to work if both of you are ready to talk to each other in front of me. It can't be one sided. Camille, do you want to work on your marriage?'

Camille nodded, deflated. 'I do. I really do. I've just.. Never been to therapy before.'

Drake smirked. 'Usually she's the one who is always talking about feelings and being open. Oh how the tables have turned.'

'Stop being a prick, Drake,' Camille bit back, clenching the edge of the table.

Drake shook his head. 'Hypocrite,' he murmured. 'You're happy to help out our friends with their problems but as soon as its you under the microscope -'

'I don't want to be here because it means I've failed you!' Camille burst out, tears spilling down her cheeks, unable to hold back her true feelings anymore. 'The fact that we couldn't even talk to each other and end up here, seeking professional help..' her voice became low. 'I've let you down.'

Drake swallowed. His face had turned pale. 'You.. You haven't failed me,' he whispered, his eyes now boring into hers. 'I didn't take you here today to make you feel like a failure. That wasn't my intention. I just want to talk to you. That's all.'

The therapist studied them before making a prompt decision. 'Sit closer together,' she instructed.

'Why?' Drake asked, wrenching his eyes away from his wife.

'Because if you are going to talk about your marriage, you need to know this is a safe space. That means you can talk to me and talk to each other. Sit close together and support each other. Ignore your anger and hurt. Sit close, hold hands if you need to, and just talk. This is a safe space.'

They both reluctantly moved their chairs and sat closer together. Camille warily placed her hand on the table, closer to Drake's side- he rested his hand on hers. The therapist noticed that Drake discreetly squeezed Camille's hand.

That was a good sign. Often, the couples she saw refused to even sit closer. The therapist found that some couples didn't want to share more space than was necessary. The fact that Drake and Camille had followed her instructions and Drake squeezed her hand showed that there was still love there. They still wanted each other.

'You are both so busy keeping your family life together that you have forgotten that you are both each others family,' the therapist said. 'You have to make time for each other-'

'We're so busy,' Camille said, her voice cracking. 'We don't have time.'

'You do,' the therapist told her softly. 'If this marriage is worth saving, you will make the time.'

Camille fell silent. A tear slid down her cheek. 'I want to make the time,' she whispered. 'I do.'

Drake looked at her now. His eyes were filled with anguish. 'The world isn't going to end because you missed an email or work call,' he murmured. 'But..' He looked like he was about to say something else but decided against it. It didn't matter, the unspoken words were what Camille heard. Her eyes filled with more tears and she squeezed Drake's hand.

'Let's talk,' she whispered. 'Please.'

                                         **************************

The therapist learned that Drake and Camille Walker had been married for seven years and had two daughters. Lily was seven years old while Luna was two.

Camille worked as a partner at the prestigious law firm Pearl and Goldfinch, while Drake worked from home as a freelance graphic designer for a distillery company based in Brooklyn. He gave up working in the office as he wanted to be there to look after the kids while juggling his job. Their family situation was a modern and progressive one, but in the past six months it had become fractured and full of tension.

'I'm exhausted all the time,' Camille admitted. 'All I do is work and I barely see the girls as I get home late. I want to take reduced hours but I'm sorry, I don't mean to be arrogant Drake, but my paycheck is the one keeping us above water.'

Drake had understood and didn't argue. He knew the logistics. His job, as much as he loved it, didn't pay near enough to what he liked but it was flexible which was what mattered to him. It meant he could pick and choose his hours without sacrificing family life. Camille didn't have the same luxury.

'I feel like your job takes precedent over everything,' Drake told her. 'I get you want to support us and keep the family thriving, but I barely see you. We're like passing ships in the night.' His voice cracked. 'I miss you.'

The therapist noted the sadness on both their faces.

'When was the last time you had a date?' the therapist asked.

Camille and Drake blinked.

'Uh..' Drake mumbled. 'No idea.'

The therapist nodded. 'Thought so. Okay, this is going to be baby steps. But your homework after this session is to go on a date. A proper date. Don't talk about kids or work, just focus on each other and appreciate the moments. Reconnect.'

Camille nodded eagerly. 'Okay, Um, I'll block out a night -'

'What about right after this?' Drake asked Camille. 'The girls are being babysat by Bertrand. I'm sure he would understand.'

Camille smiled softly. 'Sure. Okay, let's do it.'

The therapist put down her notebook. 'Perfect but remember, baby steps here. Same time next week?'

                                              ***************************

Drake and Camille stepped out of the therapist's office building into the New York street. It was December and the air was biting cold, causing Camille to wrap her purple trench coat closer around herself. Drake studied her for a moment.  He could see that her entire demeanour had changed in the past seven years.

The old Camille had been carefree, confident and easy to talk to. But something had changed in her and she had gradually become serious, anxious and prone to an argument. Drake just wanted her old self back. He missed the woman he fell in love with.

Not that Drake was perfect. He knew he had changed too.

'So, where do you want to go?' Camille asked, breaking the silence.

Drake thought to himself. 'Drink? Think we need alcohol after that hour under the microscope, heh.'

'Which bar do you want to go to?' she asked, scuffing her boot on the sidewalk.

'I imagine you'd like a fancy wine bar,' Drake said, without sarcasm, 'though a dive bar would be more my scene. But hey, it's ladies choice. You pick the wine bar and we'll get the best bottle there is.'

Camille stared at him for a long moment. Crossing her arms, she slowly wandered towards him until she was close enough for him to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. He adored her eyes.

'Dive bar it is,' she whispered, taking his hand and leading him down the street.

Drake felt warm surprise. Surprise because she had chosen a dive bar, the type of date he used to take her on before they got married. Surprise because she was holding his hand. He couldn't remember the last time they had held hands but this felt nice.

                                            *************************

They found a bar down the street called Black Fox. Drake told Camille to take a seat and he'd get the drinks in.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'Whiskey,' she replied.

Drake smirked and went over to the bar to order. Camille shrugged her coat off and delicately sat down at a high table, tucking her dark hair behind her ears in that anxious way she did. It was an anxious habit of hers and she hated herself when she did it.

She watched Drake at the bar. He was so tall, so broad. He commanded attention just from his stature alone. But he was also handsome, with dark hair, kind brown eyes and big hands that made her feel safe when they took her own. He smiled at the bartender, that lazy smile Drake had that Camille loved. She felt a tug on her heart. 'Be normal,' she whispered to herself. 'Don't fuck this up.'

She was secretly glad Drake had taken her to therapy today. Sure, he had sprung it on her as a surprise this morning which she had been furious about, but in the end, she was glad. She had been feeling low about their relationship for some time but had been too scared to mention anything. Too scared in case Drake turned to her and said, 'You're right, we're failing, let's get a divorce.'

She could see now that she had been overthinking it. Camille did a lot of overthinking these days.

Drake came back to the table with two glasses and a bottle. 'Thought I'd push the boat out,' he joked, setting the glasses down. He sat on the high chair opposite her and gave her a wobbly smile. Camille suddenly reached out to rest her hand on his cheek, her heart wrenching at the wobbly smile.

Drake's breath caught as his eyes roamed her face. 'You.. You okay?' he asked.

Camille nodded. 'I will be.'

                                            ****************************

Dive bars had been their thing at the start of their relationship.

Drake hated fancy restaurants with starched white table cloths and hard to pronounce dishes. He preferred bars with low lighting, smoke and dark corners where he could sit and be alone.

He had taken Camille to bars at the beginning of their relationship which he could see now wasn't the most romantic. A woman like Camille deserved better, he thought in hindsight. But she had been so easy going and told him she wasn't keen on fancy places either. She just wanted to get to know him without frills.

They had shared many bottles of whiskey over the years. Drake felt it only appropriate to share a bottle now.

'I'm sorry things got heavy in there,' Camille told him, pouring a double measure for Drake then for herself. 'I let my emotions get carried away.'

Drake smiled. 'You've always been the emotional one. I'm used to it.'

'I just felt like a terrible wife,' Camille said. 'And mother actually. Have things gotten so bad that we need a professional to help us?' she broke off and looked down at the table.

Drake reached out to take her hand. 'It's not so bad that it can't be salvaged,' he whispered. 'I love you.'

Camille nodded mutely. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry.

'Let's have a drink,' Drake said, raising his glass. Camille mimicked him and they clinked their glasses together.

'I love you too,' Camille murmured. 'I really do.'

Drake squeezed her hand. 'Then we're halfway there.'

                                             ***********************

Words tumbled out over the next two hours. Words of hurt, of frustration, of love.

'I guess I stopped being me after we had Lily,' Camille admitted. 'I'm not blaming her of course not. But I became so wrapped up in being a mom and wanting to give her the best life possible. I thought to do that would mean extra hours at work so my boss would recognise me and I'd be rewarded with pay rises and promotions. A pay rise so I could send her to the best school and make sure she never went without. I didn't want to give her the same childhood I had. It only got more full on after we had Luna.'

Drake nodded. He knew that Camille loved fiercely. She didn't want to repeat her parents mistakes.

'But I lost sight of everything else,' Camille continued. 'I began to work too much, put pressure on myself. I let my marriage become grey and cracked.'

Drake swigged his whiskey before he interrupted her. 'Camille, don't take all the blame for this,' he said, his voice steady. 'I'm at fault too.'

'No, you're like the perfect dad and husband,' Camille muttered, sipping her drink.

'No,' Drake replied bluntly. 'I put added pressure on you. When you came home late, exhausted after a long day, I would get at you. I'd complain I never saw you. I wouldn't ask how your day was because you being away made me resentful. Not because I think you should be at home like a good little wife but because all your time was dedicated to other people. I wanted a slice of that. But you were trying to keep this family afloat, as you said to the therapist. You were working hard for us. I just was too selfish to see it.'

Camille nodded slowly. 'Neither of us have been so good, have we?' she joked half heartedly, giving Drake a wry smile.

'No. We're meant to be a team at the end of the day,' Drake agreed. 'We both let our sides down.'

Camille exhaled and tossed back her whiskey. 'Can we get back together? As we were?'

'I want to,' Drake said. 'We've just got to put the work in. Be ourselves again. Drake and Camille.'

Camille smiled. 'You've become so in tune with your emotions,' she said. 'When we met, you were so closed off. Now you're the one saying we need to talk, see therapists..'

Drake smirked. 'I learned from you.'

Camille giggled. 'When did we switch places?!'

Drake grinned and poured another two glasses of whiskey. 'I know right?'

Camille raised her glass and fixed her eyes on his. 'To moments in between.'

Drake blushed, remembering the old toasts they used to do. Moments in between. Those moments in life that were to be appreciated and remembered fondly. Moments like stolen kisses, declarations of love, freshly brewed coffee in the morning with the love of your life. Cuddles with Lily. Playing with Luna. Making love with Camille. Moments in between.

Drake smiled and clinked his glass against hers.

                                             **************************

They stumbled out of the door after finishing the whiskey. Their vision was blurred and minds were hazy but damn it, they were having a good time.

After their serious talk, they had found themselves gradually joking and flirting over the bottle of whiskey. The alcohol had loosened their inhibitions and made them more cosy, more social.

Now, stepping out of the bar, the cold air hit them and Camille shivered. Drake smiled and gently brought her into him, wrapping his arms around her. 'There, there,' he said, patting her head. 'There, there.'

Camille dissolved into giggles. 'Thanks DAD.'

Drake chucked and held her tightly. He inhaled the scent of her hair - always coconut - and appreciated this cosy moment.

'I'm kinda hungry..' Camille said, her voice muffled against Drake's coat.

'Same,' he replied. 'What do you want?'

Camille wrinkled her nose, deep in thought, and Drake was struck by how much she reminded him of Lily. Their oldest daughter adopted that expression when she concentrated too.

'I want.. a cronut,' Camille decided, swaying. 'All the cronuts.'

Drake took her hand. 'Let's search for cronuts!'

                                           **********************

They wandered to Central Park. The trees were decorated with fairylights that were starting to glow against the twilight sky. The ice rink that dominated Central Park at this time of year was full of people, all laughing and screaming as they either skated well or fell down. The smell of hot chocolate, cinnamon and cloves mixed together.

Camille pointed to a food stand. 'I see cronuts.'

Drake led her towards the food stand. 'Two cronuts please, good sir!' he said to the vendor.

Camille snuggled into Drake as they waited for the cronuts. She looked up at him when he wasn't paying attention to her and she felt warm. How had she forgotten him? How had she neglected their relationship? He was a good man. He made her happy. Happiness was more important than money and targets.

Drake handed her a cronut. She took it gratefully and they found a bench to sit down on and watch the ice skaters.

'This is nice,' Camille said.

'Meh, smores are better,' Drake replied, shrugging.

Camille grinned. 'I meant this. Us. Cronuts are just a bonus.'

Their eyes met and stayed on each other for a long moment. Drake looked away first, taking a bite out of his cronut.

They ate in comfortable silence as they watched the ice skaters. When they finished, Drake took Camille's hand and guided her down the path to the ice rink.

'Uhh Drake..'

He gave her a wink. 'Ready to show them how it's done?'

Camille stared at him. 'But.. We've been drinking!' she hissed. 'This has disaster written all over it!'

Drake frowned. 'Like what?'

'Like we fall over! Or I fall and someone skates over my finger! Or we fall into people! Or things become all blurry! Or-'

Drake sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders. 'Camille,' he said firmly. 'Live a little. Come on, you would've done this years ago without overthinking. Why do you overthink so much?'

Camille bit her lip. 'I don't know.. I just worry more now, I guess. I worry about everything. Little and big things.'

Drake leaned down to press a kiss on her forehead. 'I got you.'

Camille looked out at the ice rink. Everyone looked happy. She wanted to be happy. She wanted Drake to be happy.

'Let's do it,' she decided. Drake grinned and they rushed to the booth to rent skates.

                                        ****************************

Drake held Camille's hand as they skated around the rink. They hadn't skated since they visited Vienna a few years ago with their friends. This was better. It was just the two of them.

Sure, their tipsyness from the whiskey wasn't helping their skating ability but who cared? Drake twirled Camille around and she threw back her head as she laughed, that throaty laugh she did that Drake loved.

'Ahh fuck Drake, I'm falling!' she squealed, losing balance as the twirling became too flamboyant.

Drake grabbed her and held her tightly to him. 'I got you, kid,' he said.

Camille flashed him a warm smile and they continued to skate in circles around, dodging kids that were skating fast.

They skated to the edge and rested for a while, looking up at the skyscrapers and fairylights that lit New York. Camille looked over at Drake who's cheeks were pink from the cold. His scarf was pulled up tightly around his neck.

Camille hesitantly moved closer. Drake looked down at her and smiled softly. Feeling brave, Camille leaned up and kissed him.

It was a deep kiss. A kiss that said so much that she had left unsaid. To Drake, it was familiar and cosy. They hadn't kissed like this in.. weeks. Weeks and weeks.

Drake's hands pulled her in closer before they raked through her hair. Camille moaned against his lips. He tasted of whiskey and cronut.

They slowly pulled apart, their cheeks flushed now from something else. Drake gently tucked a lock of Camille's hair behind her ear, his eyes locked on hers.

'I'm sorry I dragged you to therapy,' he murmured. 'I just wanted to talk.'

Camille smiled wobbly and wrapped her arms around his neck. 'Let's keep talking.'

                                               ******************

The following week, the therapist listened as Drake and Camille talked honestly about their feelings. They didn't raise their voices and they didn't interrupt each other. It was a good conversation, flowing easily. They held hands the whole time.

'Are you spending more time together?' the therapist asked.

Camille nodded. 'We have decided to have a date night every week. And I've blocked out three nights a week in my diary so I can leave work early. I want to see the kids for dinner and read bedtime stories. No work phone after 5.30pm.

The therapist made some more notes. 'Anything else?'

Drake leaned forward. 'I’m going to be more supportive and try and be there for us as a couple. But we want to continue therapy. There's still a lot to unpack but I think we can get there.'

The therapist looked up and smiled warmly.

'Mr and Mrs Walker, I have absolute faith in you. So, same time next week?'

#trr fanfic #drake walker #drake walker x mc

[the-quiet-winds]

Nothin’ But a Sinner (part one)

[A Six US based multichap? It’ll probably only be two parts but... we’ll see. TW for alcohol use]

[Part 1: Hypocrite]

“If I die, I’m haunting you first.”

“Alright, Mom,” Anne hums softly. “Come on, open up.”

Jane looks at her through half-lidded eyes. “What?”

“I have the soup now, remember? And I think you’re far too weak to feed yourself.”

“‘M’kay,” Jane mumbles, allowing the soup to be spooned into her mouth.

Through her exhausted, sickly delirium, Jane is blissfully ignorant to the flash of pain that crosses Anne’s eyes, specifically at the mention of death.

Death, frankly, is her least favorite topic. Ever.

Between the pale scar across her and her cousin’s necks, as well as the reminder of Jane’s premature death every night during the show, it’s always around her.

She knows Jane just means it as a joke. Just a joke. A sleepy, somewhat-delirious joke.

Still, Anne knows, it stings a bit.

She swallows this sadness in time with Jane’s swallowing of the soup.

“Can you eat some more?” Anne asks softly. “There’s still half the bowl left.”

Jane gives her a half-quirked smile that barely traces pale cheeks to sunken eyes, and nods just once.

Anne lifts the spoon again and offers it again and again until the bowl is empty and Jane looks like she may fall asleep at any moment.

“Do you want me to stay?” She asks softly.

Jane makes a very non-committal noise, and Anne can’t help the soft giggle that follows. She looks down and softly asks again, “do you want me to?”

This time she gets no response, so she looks up, and Jane is very much asleep.

Anne presses a soft kiss to her mom’s cheek and flicks off the bedside lamp on her way out, collecting the empty soup bowl and bringing it with her back to the kitchen. Jane’s Canada apartment is about the same size as the one in Boston, cozy but not cramped, and it feels just as much home as it did in Massachusetts.

She already know that Jane won’t be doing the show tonight. Even if she is awake, her fever has her delirious (Anne has to chuckle to herself at the thought of her mom, looking and acting like she was high out of her mind, trying to do her solo, let alone the whole show.)

The call time of the show creeps closer, and Anne slips into the room to check on Jane before she leaves. Of course, Jane is still passed out. 

Anne knows that Jane won’t know what to do when she wakes up, so she moves on silent feet to set up the medication she’d need to take, even leaving a little note with instructions.

And, as she logically would, she had to sign it as, ‘Anne, your favorite daughter.’

After, she heads to the theater. Alone.

She had called in Jane’s sickness-induced-absence hours ago, so by the time she arrives, Mallory is already prepping herself in one of the open chairs.

Anne sits down next to Katherine with a tiny, slightly forced grin.

“How is she?” Is the first question out of Katherine’s mouth.

“She’ll be okay,” Anne promises. “Just a little touch of flu or something.”

“And I bet you’re taking great care of her, of course,” Katherine teases.

“I’m doing my best.”

“Are you alright?” Katherine asks, turning her chair to face Anne more fully.

“Yeah,” Anne says, albeit half-heartedly.

“You’re lying to me,” Katherine says. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“She just…,” Anne sighs, closing her eyes and shaking her head slightly. “She said something about dying, and it just… I don’t know… stuck with me, I guess.”

Katherine puts a hand on Anne’s wrist, squeezing lightly. “She’s going to be fine,” she says, slow and sure. “You’ll go home after this and it’ll be just fine.”

Anne keeps Katherine’s words on a loop in her head. She’s going to be fine.

Logically, Anne knows this. It’s just a touch of the flu, or maybe just a bug. It’s not the sweat, or the plague, or whatever killed her in the first life.

With these thoughts in her head, she puts on the best face she can and goes to perform.

All throughout the show, Katherine, Mallory, and Anna send her reassuring glances. She returns them all with smiles she can’t help - at least, for the most part, she’s supposed to be happy on stage. 

Once the show ends, once they’re done dancing and have made a theatergoer’s night by taking their phone and recording themselves dancing, Anne is so genuinely happy the tiny, black, nagging cloud in the back of her mind seems nearly nonexistent.

“We’re going to get drinks,” Anna tells her once all of the fans have left and the cold Edmonton air is biting at her skin. “Wanna come?”

Anne nods. “Sounds great.”

In that moment, honestly, she forgets about her sickly mother at home. She goes with them, Mallory and Nicole included, and they drink, and dance, and drink, and dance. 

By the time she leaves, she’s a little tipsy, admittedly. Aragon, their designated driver, drops her off at her apartment, and she passes out as soon as she hits the bed.

She wakes up the next morning to a pretty decent headache that nearly keeps her from fishing her phone out of the jacket she had thrown on the floor.

But she pulls it out, and what’s waiting for her sobers her and shatters her heart.

“Where are you?” One of Jane’s texts from the previous night reads. “Come back, please,” another pleads, and Anne can practically hear Jane’s soft words through the screen.

There are a few more messages too, a voicemail or two, but an overwhelming sense of guilt settles in Anne’s chest like her own sickness.

Nope, that’s hangover.

As she digs through her medicine cabinet for something to take, she knows she has to fix this. 

Especially having seen Jane’s most recent message.

“I’m so sorry, lovebug.”

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

tag list: @spookabeth @kats-seymour @qualquercoisa945 @jane-fucking-seymour @a-slightly-cracked-egg @justqueentingz @annabanana2401 @wolfies-chew-toy @broad-way-13 @tvandmusicals @lailaliquorice @aimieallenatkinson @sweet-child-why03 @gaylinda-of-the-upper-uplands @funky-lesbians @thinkaboutitmaybe @haniawritesthings @messanaa @rigatoni-ravioli @prick-up-ur-ears @theartoflazy @justqueentwo @brother-orion @paleshadowofadragon @lafemmestars @beautifulashes17 @jarneiarichardnxel @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff @philopeanut @mixer1323 @boleynssixthfinger @aimieallen @elphiesdance @boleynthebunny @krystalhuntress @lupin-loves-chocolate @bellacardoza16 @bluify @katherines-choker @why-only-have-one-fandom @missmarvelmixer @le-mlp-nerd @0-hufflepuffle-0 @drawinglinesinarbitraryplaces @lesbabe6 @wicked-books-101 @insertmusicaltheatrepunhere @toomanyfamdom @zoalis @rainbowmoose01 @broadwayqueer

#six the musical #anne boleyn #jane seymour #katherine howard #sixcago writing #julie writes #nothin' but a sinner

[breakingtanaka]

Silence

summary: calum isn’t handling you leaving him well, and when you make a trip in the middle of the night to see him, the aftermath of his pain shocks you.

rating: pg-13

pairing: calum/y/n

word count: 1.7k

warnings/content: drinking, slight violence, angst

You tried to stop yourself from getting in your car at three in the morning.

You tried to tell yourself that it was your choice to leave him, that you needed to spare him the pain and let him be; that you may just fall in love again. It was time to forget him. It was time to realize that you didn’t love him the way you used to. It was time to let him go for good, but you didn’t want it to be time just yet.

You drove down the freeway, not paying attention to your speedometer, though you were well over the speed limit. You were relieved that the road was virtually empty, as getting pulled over was not something you needed or wanted in that moment. Your heart was racing almost as fast as your car, thoughts of him captivating your mind. His favorite Green Day album was playing quietly, just as you had left it the last time you two were in the car together.

You were in love with every aspect of him. The smell of his cologne, the comfort of his hoodies that were constantly being rotated, the way his soft lips pressed to your skin as the morning sun would wake you both. You loved everything about him, yet you fell out of love with him, and the promises that it wasn’t his fault weren’t enough.

It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and the moment you drove home from his apartment, you wanted to go right back. To hold him and mend the pieces you had knowingly broken, but you knew he didn’t want to see you, so you decided against it.

But as you always did, you thought about him. You worried. 

You and Calum were best friends for years before you began dating, and you couldn’t count on your hand how many times he’d been hurt. Every time you’d watch him break down, having to keep him from drinking himself away. And now you were doing the same thing: causing him pain. 

Once you reached his home, you sat in your car, losing track of how long it had been. After calming yourself down and wiping your tears, you began the walk up to his front door. Your heartbeat never stopped, and the lump in your throat never faded. You were afraid of what you’d find; would it be Calum on the couch writing yet another song, using his familiar coping mechanism? Or would it be a sobbing Calum, waiting for you at the door like he knew you would come?

The door was unlocked. He knew. Either that or he hoped that you’d come, hoped that you would glue the pieces you’d broken back together. He hoped you’d see that he could make this work even though both of you knew he couldn’t. He’d isolated himself, as he always did, yet he wanted the person who hurt him so deeply around. It was almost like he invited pain into his life, like he’d become so immune and so numb and so used to saying fuck love that he might as well make himself so numb that he wouldn’t have to feel at all. He felt love, adoration and so many other emotions for you and everyone else only to let himself get hurt time and time again. He trusted you, of course, but it took a while for him to trust you with his heart in that sort of way. He knew that you’d take care of it and take care of him - you always had - but he didn’t expect you to break it too. 

You hated yourself more than ever for what you had done. In fact you’d held a lot of anxiety about even beginning any sort of conversation, because after watching him fall in and out of love you didn’t want to be another person on the list of people he’s become numb to. You didn’t want to live your life knowing you did what quite possibly may have been the most hypocritical thing in your life. But the truth was that you were hurting him more that way; you were hiding your feelings so he wouldn’t have to experience his own. You thought that a Calum no longer with you was better than a Calum that was being lied to. A best friend that you’d have to mend your relationship with was better than a boyfriend who you no longer loved. A Calum that was hurting was better than no Calum at all. 

You weren’t even sure why you’d stopped loving him the same. You wondered if going from best friends to lovers was the wrong decision or if you just weren’t mentally stable enough for a relationship. You wracked your brain for an answer, but never found one that you could even put in words and explain to Calum, and even as you walked into his house you still didn’t have an answer. You weren’t sure if he would even want to hear one either. 

You made your way into the house, immediately met with a heavy silence. The place looked destroyed; glass from beer bottles and picture frames was all over the floor, his favorite guitar was broken in half. There was now a large hole in the gray wall. This was the aftermath; the storm you hated to even picture. You didn’t want to think about your best friend screaming and crying over you, over the pain you caused him. You didn’t want to think about the man you’d always known as strong and kindhearted being so weak. 

Cleaning up the destruction was even worse. You swept the shards off of the floor, picking up the old pictures that the frames once held. You folded up the pictures, slipping them into your pocket. You couldn’t let that part of him go just yet.

The guitar was obviously impossible to fix. You set the broken one on the couch, making a note to yourself to buy him a new one later. It wouldn’t fix his emotional pain, but it was the least you could do. 

You looked in the fridge, seeing that he’d drank through almost a full case of beer. Sometimes you worried for his health; the way he smoked and drank was an unhealthy coping mechanism and habit that you many times tried to break him from. But only now, you were thee one causing him to indulge in the behaviors you disapproved. 

You began walking down the all too familiar hallway that lead to his bedroom, or the bedroom you once shared on occasion. Countless memories replayed in your head. Lying in bed all day accompanied by Duke and Netflix. Morning sex full of soft touches and whispers. Once again, tears pricked at your eyes.

The bedroom door was wide open; somehow you expected it to be. It was almost like he was inviting you into his home again, completely disregarding the fact that you’d torn his heart in two and left him to deal with his pain alone. You were preparing for whatever was to come; whether he begged you to stay or demanded you to leave. You’d promised him years ago that you’d be whatever he needed you to be whenever he needed you to be it.

You lead careful footsteps into the room.

He was laying face down on the bed, clearly out cold. His arm hung lazily off the edge of the bed, yet another beer bottle on the floor, the yellowish liquid a pool on the floor. You sighed, going to the bathroom to get a towel to clean up the mess. 

Once all was taken care of, you took a good long look at the state Calum was in. He was facing you, his face so peaceful yet so heartbreaking. There were visible tear stains on the rounded cheeks you used to kiss. The blond hair you used to un your fingers through is matted. The calloused hands you used to hold are cut from the shards of glass, the knuckles bruised from punching the wall.

You reached up to cup Calum’s cheek in your hand, running your thumb gently along his cheekbone. Your heart rate sped up again once the chocolate brown eyes fluttered, half-opening. 

He didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to. His eyes said more than his lips ever could.

You took it upon yourself to speak, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“I’m so sorry, bubba,” you whispered, your voice cracking and barely audible. “I was always the one helping you heal, but now I’ve hurt you. I love you so much, and if you want me to leave and never come back, I’ll understand. Just say the word.”

Except he didn’t say the word, but rather gagged. You quickly grabbed the nearby trashcan, holding it below him. He ridded himself of the excessive amount of alcohol he had consumed, and all the while you were rubbing the back of his head, comforting him like you used to.

There were many things you did with Calum that became ‘used to’s’ once you broke his heart. You used to go to parties to forget the day-to-day stress. You used to spend rainy days writing songs together. You used to make each other breakfast as celebrations (his always turning out better). You used to be in love.

But that was in the past, and yet you didn’t know if there was a future. And oh, how you wanted to take back the present.

After ensuring that his stomach was empty, you helped your best friend, your lover, your broken-hearted man clean up. You used a wet cloth to wipe the vomit from his mouth and iced his hand. You replaced his drink of choice with water, accompanied by medicine to heal everything but his emotional pain. You used to be his medicine, but now you were his poison.

You made sure he was comfortable, but you didn’t want to leave him alone in that state of mind, despite knowing that he most likely wanted you to leave. However, you were mistaken as you began walking towards his bedroom door. He broke the silence that felt like it would never end.

“Stay.” 

You slowly looked back at him, seeing how his eyes looked pained, pleading you to not walk out. You’d already done it once before. 

“Cal, I-”

“We can talk about it in the morning.”

And so, silently, you made your way towards what used to be your side of the bed, sitting down to take off your shoes. You then laid down, your head against his chest, like you used to.

#hey look its me finally posting writing #calum 5sos #calum imagine #5sos imagines #5sos preferences #skinnylukes #5sos blurbs #5sos blurb #calum blurb #cth #calum hood #ashton irwin #michael clifford #luke hemmings #5sos writing #5sos fanfic #5sos drabble #5sos one shot #calum hood imagine #calum one shot #calum hood x reader #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer fanfic #calum hood smut #5sos smut #5sos fic

[travisxsimmons]

old man

travis’s shitty moments turn even shitter after seeing his dad at the bar, gts all around!!

“You alright, darlin’?”

Travis glanced up from his fist to the bartender as she eyed him. She was an older lady with make-up way too heavy for her age, and she wore a sympathetic expression. He wasn’t exactly sober, but in compassion to the rest of the drunk idiots there, she seemed to have actually taken pity on him.

“Not so much, but that’s nothing another hit can’t fix,” he sighed, tapping against the glass and wincing.

“Sure thing, but...you might wanna think about cleaning up those hands, sweetie. Not that I suspect anything, it’s just a bit odd looking, that’s all,” she shrugged.

Travis’s eyes darted back down to his bloodied knuckles. So maybe beating the shit out of Whitney’s ex wasn’t the best thing to celebrate with a drink. In fact, celebrate wasn’t the right word. It was a kind of mourning, in a way. If anything were to bring death to their relationship, this was it. All the little things like Miami, the bathroom, Molly, the karaoke video, and nude’s being leaked all seemed to lead to this one particular downfall.

“Yeah, well...the prick deserved it. It’s kind of like a badge of honor at this point,” Travis shrugged, tossing back his refill as if it were water. And it was true. He’d gotten an incoming of texts: Molly, Dylan, Philip, Meredith. All of them asked a mix of if he’d seen the photos, what was going on, if was Whitney okay. He didn’t know, though, not until it was too late. He’d caught enough of the live-stream to send out a rare, angry tweet to Woody, one that he was sure his publicist would be on his ass for later. The moment that was brought up and laughed at over Instagram, something snapped. It was personal from that point on. He knew it may have been stupid or even hypocritical considering the countless times he’d hurt Whitney himself, but something about driving to his place and watching Woody wincing against each blow directed towards his face was worth it. Just because he’d fucked with her head didn’t mean anyone else should’ve had the right or gotten pleasure from it. Maybe that’s what felt so good about seeing Woody’s wrecked face and walking away with bloodied hands. It was an eye for an eye.

“Honey,” she sighed as he tapped it once more. “Are you sure you don’t wanna slow down? I don’t want you doing anything else too stupid.”

“Carla,” he said, catching sight of her name tag, “I trust you. Trust me back, yeah? There’ll be a good tip in it for ya.”

She hesitated briefly, but ended up filling his cup to the brim once more. “Just...be careful, hon. If not for you, for me.”

He opened his mouth to reply to her, maybe even thank her for being over the top nice when him of all people didn’t deserve it, but a roar of laughter from the other end of the bar caught his attention. It was familiar, and it actually made him tense up. It was enough to feel like every inch of hair on his body was standing up straight. He carefully turned his head to see the small group of men who appeared to be in their 60′s or 70′s, all seemingly piss-drunk. He wouldn’t have thought much of it if it weren’t for the one in the middle, arms flailing about as he seemed to tell some story with dramatic flair. Must’ve been where he got it from.

“Fuck,” he sighed, getting to his feet and digging into his pocket to slide a hundred dollar bill towards Carla.

“Baby, you didn’t even finish your refill. This is too much.”

He licked his lips before grabbing the glass and finishing it off, giving her a small nod as he placed it back on his napkin.

“S’for being a decent person. God knows we could use more of those in the world,” he responded, his voice gravelly. He needed to get the fuck out of there. He was all prepared to, reaching down to button up his coat, the pound of his boots echoing as he walked to the entrance.

“Travis?”

The voice had him skip to a stop, and he felt as if he were just grabbed by a creature in a haunted house.

“Travis! My boy! Fellas, that’s my fuckin’ son right there! In a bar of all places. The fucking irony, eh? Really taking after his old man,” he heard his father’s chatter, his eyes squeezing shut as they all roared with laughter again. He couldn’t leave now, not without saying something. He hesitantly turned around, feeling Carla’s protective stare on him as he walked towards the oldies gang and stopped about a foot away from.

“Well son, don’t you think it’s rude to not stop to say hello? Especially to your father, of all people.”

“Not sure if the alcohol has blurred your eyesight, but I was just leaving, dad,” he replied, his tone curt. It definitely caused a stir from the other older guys, an awkward hush falling among the group.

“Big mouth you’ve got there, boy. You certainly didn’t get it from your mother, that’s for sure. Another gift from old pops, huh?” he prodded once again with a chorus of snickers from his goons.

“How about you keep mum’s name out of your mouth?” Travis replied. If there was sore subject, it was that. His mom practically raised him and his siblings on her own, and even though she’d moved on, it still wasn’t fair. “Besides, you never stuck it out long enough to really know her, did you?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” his father drawled, eyes going from a unfocused blur to a narrow, faltering glare. Strangely enough, it was accompanied by a deep smirk, once that he wished he could just smack off of his face. He was sure the drinks were the cause of that. “You should be grateful I decided to stick it out with that bitch long enough for you to be alive. Count your lucky fucking stars.”

He didn’t want to let this rattle him, despite feeling the way his fists were starting to tremble at his sides. “Classy as ever, dad, but you’re not exactly hot shit yourself. She’s moved on, and you’re here in a random bar. If you think any of us should feel grateful towards you, then I guess it’s not just liver damage you’ve got going on. It’s starting to effect your brain, too.”

The comment promoted another loud round of laughter from his dad, although his friends didn’t have the same reaction. It was more awkwardness, unsure if they should be laughing along or leaving him be.

“Maybe you’re right, son, but from the looks of it, you’re following right behind me, huh? Almost exactly in my footsteps, and not surprisingly so. I’ve heard your brother’s already managed to fuck up his marriage, and you’re here looking like you just buried a dead body. Probably can’t keep a girl yourself, right?”

“Wrong. My girl, she...” Travis’s voice cut off when he suddenly remembered that, technically, Whitney wasn’t his girl. Not at the moment. His dad didn’t have to know that, though. He didn’t owe him any explanations. “She’s a country singer. A fucking fantastic one, and I care about her enough that you’ll never have the honor of ever getting to meet her in person. Not if I have any say.”

“Well that sounds like a nice, fake, fairytale girl you’ve made up there, son. Let me guess, that song, the ‘Travis’ one is by her and it’s about you, right?”

His silence and the look on his face was the only answer his dad needed, his moment of shock turning into an ugly, cruel cackle.

“It is! Well, fucking hell boy, I should’ve known. Robert can’t make it work, and you leave them high and dry enough to get a song written about you. You’re both your father’s sons. Not sure if I should be proud, I expected as much. Let’s hope your sister isn’t out there selling herself short or swinging around a pole and shoving money in her panties. I’d hate to see another waste of potential.”

In almost a second, Travis had lunged and had his dad’s shirt taken up in his fist. The others were quick to jump in, feeling a pair of arms attempting to tug him away from his dad.

“Hey! It’s fine, let him go,” his dad bellowed, and Travis felt himself being released from the hold that was on him. “You wanna punch me? Go right ahead, boy.” He got uncomfortably close to him, enough so that Travis took in the stench of whisky and cigarettes from his breath. “You better make it a fucking good one, too. You’re a lot of things, but hopefully not a pussy.”

Travis stared at him, heavily breathing before shaking his head.

“You’re not worth the time. You’re not worth shit.”

Despite deserving more, he settled for giving his dad a hefty shove. He didn’t relish in the way he stumbled backwards with a drunken grin. It was all just so stupid and sickening.

“Guess you’re a little bitch, too, huh? Isn’t that right, Travis? Go on, get the fuck out of here.”

He turned to walk away, to just block out the comments, leave everything in the dust and carry on. However, he was met by the presence of two police officers walking through the doors.

“Is there a Travis Simmons here?”

Fuck.

“I, uh, yeah...me. What’s the problem, officer?”

Instantly, he received the ‘you’re under arrest’ spiel and felt a pair of cuffs wrap around his wrists. It was actually pretty impressive how fast they swooped in. No, it wasn’t his first time having something like this happen, but it was the first time he’d actually felt the gut punch of shame. Not for what he did, but for who was observing it. He glanced to Carla, who was almost as horror struck as he was, then reluctantly over to his dad who raised a glass in his direction.

“My kin, ladies and gentleman. He’s getting more similar to me with every passing moment.”

Travis’s eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to watch as he tipped the drink back. He couldn’t help but think about how similar they looked doing it. If he was actually becoming anything like his dad, then that was just the biggest fuck you life could offer him. It was almost torturous when the song over the speakers changed and he recognized Whitney’s voice, singing about the shitty things he’d done. His dad’s chuckling in the background as it played was a punchline to the whole fucking joke. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe all of this was something he’d been asking for. Even so, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this low. He didn’t dare look back, eyes glued to the floor as he was lead to the cop car.

#one shot: old man

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☠ Myles

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{ @hhemeraa }

     “You know what? Just…Just shut up and listen for a second. Can you    do that?” Irritation and some form of ascendancy is heard in his voice. “I    get it: I’m not the most interesting person in the world. I don’t care if you     decide to be a condescending prick about it.     But if you want to do something, ANYTHING, together, just say it! Don’t     play these games like you couldn’t care less. You’re a fickle bitch to   begin with, anyway…” Henry’s face then softened and he leaned against     a wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck… That’s hypocritical of me.     I just don’t know, man.      How in the hell can I do anything fun or exciting when I have to balance   these….these emotions from not only you but the thousands of people in   this city… These fucking nightmares. This…thing.” He rubbed at his chest    where he could feel the slightest hum along his bones…or it could have     been the alcohol making its mark. Whichever is better.      “I’m lost.” He sounded defeated but that firmness remained in his eyes.   “I don’t like keeping you as a fucking pet but I’m wanting companionship.     I don’t like being myself, believe me. You bit the hell out of my leg and      guess what? This thing in me wanted so much to eat you. To rid you       off the face of the earth like so many things it did before…”      He shook his head and stared out the window with his arms crossed.   “…But I didn’t. You’re…special to me, believe it or not. You’re too much to       be part of the livestock.” 

#( damn son ) #hhemeraa #{ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵛᵒᶦᶜᵉˢ ᵃʳᵉ ʰᵉᵃʳᵈ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸʷʰᵉʳᵉ || ANONYMOUS } #{ ᶰᵒᵗᵉˢ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵇᵉʸᵒᶰᵈ || ASKS } #{ ᵃ ᵖᵃᶜᶦᶠᶦˢᵗ ʸᵉᵗ ᵘˢᵉˢ ᵉᵐᵖᵃᵗʰʸ ᵃˢ ᵃ ʷᵉᵃᵖᵒᶰ || V;VIRTUE; }