#anyway seam is not a man and they’ll have nothing to do with men either

[buckactuallys]

i’ll make the moon shine just for your view

this is not a 5+1 fic, but it IS a fic about 5 times buck and eddie find comfort in each other. but mainly, it’s a birthday gift for @seacoloredeyes, happy birthday manon!!! i love you and i hope you love this 🥰❤️

Some calls are harder than others, and this one was particularly gutting - a car crash with multiple fatalities, some DOA but some not yet. Eddie will never get used to losing someone on a call, to doing everything you can and it still not being enough. They’re silent on the ride back to the station, the mood in the Engine subdued. Eddie stares out of the window and wishes the end of the shift was closer, so he could go home and hug Christopher. It’s the only thing that helps him feel better after a call like this, he thinks - but then Buck’s knee nudges against his and Eddie exhales. He nudges back until their legs are pressed together from hip to ankle and gives Buck a half smile. Buck’s gonna suggest they call Chris when they’re back at the station, and they’ll do it together, letting Christopher’s laugh push away the images in their minds for a while. It’ll be enough to tide Eddie over until morning, and he feels gratitude for Buck wash over him, gratitude to be understood, to be known like that. He leans over until their shoulders press together too, and feels a little lighter.

~

Buck winces when he goes to dry his face and the towel rubs against the swollen skin around his eye. That’s gonna bruise like hell, and it’ll look like he got into a fistfight. He finishes drying off and dresses in his uniform pants and t-shirt, then pulls the zip-up hoodie on on top because it’s warm and soft and doesn’t hurt when he puts it on, so it at least doesn’t make him feel worse, though it doesn’t do much to improve his mood either.

When he gets upstairs to the loft, it’s dim and quiet, so everyone must be in the bunk room. Buck doesn’t feel like lying down, not with the way the skin around his eye is throbbing, so he heads for the kitchen instead, planning to look for something to cool the bruise with.

“How’s your face?” a familiar voice asks behind him, and Buck only just manages not to jump.

“Jesus, man, you can’t sneak up on me like that, especially not on Halloween.”

Eddie laughs. “Were you hit in the face or the ear? I wasn’t quiet on the stairs.”

Buck rolls his eyes at him but even that hurts, so he winces again. Eddie’s face immediately flashes with concern.

“Did you put ice on it?”

“I was just gonna get that,” Buck says, but Eddie’s already rummaging through the freezer for an ice pack.

He pulls one out, wraps a clean towel around it and steps up to Buck, pressing the cool package to his face gently. “Hold that and sit down,” he says, “I’m gonna get the pain relief cream.”

Buck bites down on his smile and takes a seat at the table, sighing at the relief the ice pack brings. Eddie returns with a tube of pain cream and sits down next to him, eyes intense on Buck’s face in a way that makes him equal parts want to squirm away and lean in closer.

“I’m fine, Eddie. It’s just a little bruise.”

Eddie hums. “Let’s put this on it anyway, it looks like it hurts.”

It does hurt, and Buck can’t refuse Eddie anything, so he lowers the ice pack and sets it down on the table.

The legs of the chair Eddie was sitting on scrape across the floor as he pulls it out of the way and steps in between Buck’s legs. Buck stops breathing for a second and then forces himself to continue so Eddie won’t notice. He’s just doing this to put cream on Buck’s bruise. He cares, but he cares as a best friend. Buck can’t make this weird just because he recently discovered he may want to kiss said best friend.

Eddie cups his good cheek with one hand to tilt Buck’s head slightly, and starts applying the cream with the other hand, fingers soft and careful.

He’s close, and he’s so gentle that Buck’s heart squeezes painfully. Shit. When he looks up, their eyes meet and catch, neither of them looking away. Eddie’s hands are still on Buck’s face and Buck aches to touch him too, to reach out and pull him all the way in, to hold him.

But Eddie drops his hands and steps back, reaching for the ice pack next to Buck and handing it back to him.

“You should keep cooling it for a while,” he says. “Take this while I get you a new one.”

Buck nods mutely and swallows. He’s not sure what just happened.

~

Eddie hates funerals. Granted, so does everyone else, probably, but...they’re hard, for him. This is nothing like Shannon’s funeral, obviously, but Eddie’s been tense all day. Firefighter Sullivan from the 124 died in a structure fire a few days ago, and the A-shift from the 118 have collectively decided to pay their respects. Eddie didn’t know him well, they’ve only spoken a couple of times, but it’s always horrible to lose one of their own. And to see his wife and two teenage kids in the front row, knowing exactly what they feel like - it sucks.

He can’t focus on what any of the speakers are saying, just keeps staring at the coffin covered by the American flag. Eddie pulls on the collar of his shirt, feeling too hot in his dress uniform. His mind flits from Shannon, to the Army, to the very real possibility that something like this might happen to someone close to him one day, never settling on anything for long, a carousel of dread.

From next to him, Buck shoots him a worried glance and Eddie stops fidgeting, trying to pull himself together. He breathes slow and deep, counting to five with each in- and exhale. He hasn’t had a panic attack in a while, and he’s not even sure that’s what’s happening here, but he can’t risk it.

“You okay?” Buck whispers. He’s intimately familiar with Eddie’s panic attacks, and his elbow nudges Eddie’s lightly as he shifts closer. “Or do you need to get out of here?”

Eddie knows that Buck’s not just asking that, that he’d come with him, no questions asked, and the knowledge of that alone eases some of the tension in his body.

He’s known that he’s in love with Buck for a while now, but Buck still keeps finding ways to make Eddie’s heart beat faster and double down on his feelings. It’d be great under different circumstances, but Eddie still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell him, too scared he’s misreading the signs. So it’s hard, feeling like he’s bursting at the seams with love for Buck.

“No, I’m okay,” he tells Buck, eyes catching on Sullivan’s grieving family again and making his stomach feel lead-heavy. But it’s more sympathy now, and a little less dread. “I think.”

When the bagpipes start to play and Eddie has to swallow thickly, Buck reaches for his hand and entangles their fingers, squeezing tightly. Eddie doesn’t look over, but he squeezes back. And holds on.

~

Nothing is different the night it finally happens. They’re at Eddie’s house, like countless nights before, they watch a movie with Chris and read him a story at bedtime, then head to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers.

Buck’s standing with his head in the fridge, telling Eddie about an article he read earlier on what space smells like (hot metal, apparently), when Eddie says, apropos of nothing: “I love you.”

And Buck hits his head on a shelf in the fridge, making everything on it rattle loudly, a jar of pickles falling over and nearly rolling off the shelf. His instincts take over and he somehow catches it in time and closes the fridge before he turns around, finding Eddie right up in his space, a worried expression on his face and already reaching out to cup the back of Buck’s head where he hit it.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and his face is adorably flushed. Buck still can’t do anything but stare. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m good,” Buck manages to get out, blinking a few times. “I- Eddie, what?”

Eddie closes his eyes and drops his hand, but stays close for now. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you like that.”

“But you meant to tell me?” Buck asks. He lifts a careful hand and grabs a handful of Eddie’s t-shirt to stop him from going anywhere. Something flashes in Eddie’s eyes and Buck smiles, heart beating in his throat.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and there’s that smile he gives Buck so often, soft and private. “I did. I’m...I don’t have a speech prepared-”

“Eddie,” Buck interrupts, tugging on Eddie’s t-shirt until Eddie takes a stumbling step closer, bracing himself with a hand on Buck’s chest. He can probably feel Buck’s heartbeat like that, and it only beats faster at the thought. They look at each other for a long moment, then Buck tips forward until his forehead rests against Eddie’s. He watches as Eddie’s eyelids flutter closed and closes his own eyes too before he continues. “I don’t need a speech. I just...need you.”

Eddie’s nose brushes against Buck’s, and there’s a smile in his voice when he asks, “You need me?”

“You and Christopher,” Buck says, lifting his free hand to the side of Eddie’s neck. When he strokes his thumb along Eddie’s jawline, Eddie shivers. His hand is warm on Buck’s chest, the other one now holding him by the waist. “If you’ll have me.”

Eddie leans back just enough to look Buck in the eye. “You know Christopher thinks the world of you. And I kind of just told you how in love with you I am, so…”

“Well, you didn’t say it in so many words,” Buck teases, and Eddie shoves at his chest but doesn’t move away. “I love you too, though.”

~

Not much later, they’re on Eddie’s couch. It’s too small for two grown men, but they’re making it work, Eddie thinks. Buck’s sprawled out, half sitting up against the armrest with Eddie between his legs, lying half on top of him, and he’s finally, finally kissing his best friend. Has been for the past hour or ten, and he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

Buck smiles against his lips and Eddie pulls back.

“What?” he asks.

Buck shrugs, lifting a hand to cup Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie leans into it. “Just happy.”

“Me too,” Eddie smiles. He takes Buck’s other hand and laces their fingers together, marveling at how well they fit. Buck watches him with a smile. “We should do this more often.”

“What, hold hands?”

“We fit, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” Buck says with a gleeful smile, “you’re secretly a romantic, aren’t you?”

“Says you! Did you forget you told me how you once rented a hot air balloon for a date?”

“Well, it’s not a secret that I’m a romantic, I’ve just never seen that side of you. Will I get to see it a lot?”

Eddie lifts his hand to Buck’s face, running a careful thumb over his birthmark. “Maybe. But it’s also not just about being romantic, you know? I like holding your hand, or when you hug me, I like being close to you, because…you make me feel safe. Like I’ll never be alone, like you’ll always be there to have my back.”

“And you’ll have mine,” Buck says, pressing their foreheads together again. Eddie’s pretty sure there are tears in his eyes. “You say that as if it’s not the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Eddie chuckles and shifts a little until he can rest his head on Buck’s shoulder, his ear right above Buck’s heart. “Can we just…stay like this for a while?”

Buck kisses Eddie’s forehead and squeezes his fingers where their hands lie entangled on his chest, his other hand sweeping warmly up and down Eddie’s back.

“For however long you want, Eds.”

#buddie #911fic #911 #pia writes

[drxwsyni]

Petrified (pt. 7)

Yandere Erasermic x f!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

a/n: this part is a lil short, but to make up for it the next one will be spicy. thanks for reading <3

*Sidenote*: Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist!

4.4k words

Warnings: panic attacks, anxiety, mild gaslighting and light non-consensual touching

A certain ringing sounded inside your head as your heartbeat picked up its pace. Progress made towards calming frayed nerves crumbled in an instant. Even more so when whoever was on the other side of the door knocked in the same succession once more.

On dangerously shaky legs, you rose from your spot on the wooden seat at the kitchen table. You took slow and hesitant steps towards the entrance, not really knowing what you should do. The plethora of ideas as to what could happen based on how you react came as no surprise, countless scenarios racing through your mind at light speed.

Should you answer it?

Maybe if you ignore it they’ll leave.

But what if they don’t?

They have no reason to stay if you’re not home.

...

...Who’s on the other side?

By now you had carried yourself to be positioned just a couple of feet in front of the door. The next logical step would be to look through the peephole, if anything to simply satiate your curiosity that was eating you alive.

A voice permeated through the atmosphere before you could make any moves to do so.

Low and gruff, but most importantly―irritated.

“You in there, (y/n)?”

Realistically, you also shouldn’t be surprised that Shouta was here. Of course he couldn’t simply leave you alone. He was nothing if not persistent, and painfully unaware of how his presence could sometimes stir up more anxieties inside of you than he calmed.

Luckily for him, having been put through the wringer was greatly dulcifying your inhibitions. For the most part.

You were weak, and in no state to put up much of a fight. But you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try to, even in the slightest.

If he already could tell over the phone of just how worn out you were, hearing your broken and hoarse voice in person would likely only solidify his incessant concerns.

“Y-yeah, I’m here...You don’t, um...You didn’t need to come and check up on me, Shouta. Everything’s f―”

“Open the door.”

...

There was no use in arguing with him. He wouldn’t hear you out anyways.

Hands trembling as they fumbled with the lock, a few fresh tears rolling down your cheeks, you slowly opened the front door. The gap only made it about two feet apart before Shouta took over and pushed the rest of it all the way open.

Warily, you took a few steps out of the way. Without asking, although it wasn’t like he ever really asked for your permission, Shouta entered your apartment. He shut the door behind him, a resounding click as it closed, sealing you in with him.

Another thing you disliked about the erasure hero was that he only saw what he wanted to see. Things like what he thought was wrong with you, and subsequently what he wanted to fix.

You cursed yourself for growing so complacent with him. Because now, not only did you not have the energy to put up any more resistance, but even if you did, you weren’t entirely sure if you would do so anyways.

Right now, Shouta was seeing you beaten and bruised, both mentally and physically. That’s what he wanted to fix, and you had no choice but to let him have his way.

Accepting your fate, you remained in one place as the man approached you. Your body was shaking as you feebly attempted to contain more sobs from escaping you. But Shouta was smart―he knew very well that the moment he comforted you, there would be no way you could keep those walls up.

And so when he pulled you into a warm embrace, gently cradling the back of your head while whispering reassurances that “It’s okay,” and “You don’t need to hold back,” your body simply couldn’t stay resilient under that weight.

Your form crumpled against him, any apprehension for Shouta falling away into nothingness as your being sought the comfort he was providing. Like a damn breaking at the seams, preconceptions of the man faded while you tiredly submitted to his consoling. You hated yourself for finding solace in his arms, the headspace you resided in betraying as it desperately needed relief from everything that had been unfolding. Events not just from today, but from weeks of growing weaker and weaker.

The fact was that you couldn’t keep up with the changes in your life. On the inside, the stresses of having to repeatedly acquaint yourself with the hero and his partner was wreaking havoc on your mental state. On top of that was trying to balance living your normal life while maintaining a dishonest front to keep them satisfied. So on the outside, your body was diminishing in strength from having to spend its resources keeping your sanity afloat. Naturally, wanting to keep using your quirk at work didn’t do a single thing for you.

It all boiled down to you being completely and utterly wrecked in every sense imaginable. You couldn’t keep this up even if you wanted to. That fact hadn’t gone unnoticed, but as you succumbed to all the pent up strains, Shouta gladly helping you ride out the tremors of those ailments, it wasn’t something you could care about.

Did you really think you’d get away with this?

…

Shouta’s words, quiet so as not to frighten you in any manner, brought you out of the cloudy haze you felt yourself drowning in. “Why don’t I make you some tea―help you calm down a little, alright?”

Face still buried in his jacket, you weakly nodded. You didn’t even want to fight against the offer. Not now, at least.

Slowly, Shouta pulled you away from him, a light grip on your shoulders steadying you. It felt distant, the hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the kitchen. A chair already pulled out, you plopped down at the table. In the back of your mind you registered a hand on your head, briefly smoothing down your hair reassuringly.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened yet. Just take a few moments to relax.”

The hand disappeared, and you were left feeling empty and alone as Shouta went to turn on the kettle. You went back to aimlessly staring at the grooves in the wood of the table. With how muddled everything felt, it didn’t seem like anymore than a few seconds had gone by before a steaming mug was placed in front of you.

You could hear the sound of a chair quietly scraping against the floor as Shouta pulled it up next to you, taking a seat. A few seconds of silence went by.

Shouta waited for you to start explaining yourself. But judging by the still greatly anguished expression on your face, he noted that it wasn’t likely to happen just yet. The best course of action would be to continue to wait until you were ready, your mental state probably not capable of handling any insistence from him. So that’s what he did.

“You just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?”

Another half-hearted, barely noticeable nod from you, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

The small sounds of your sniffling filled the otherwise quiet expanse of your apartment. It felt like a herculean task to simply think. Of what you were going to tell Shouta, how you would portray either the truth, or keep lying to him and yourself. You tried focusing on any one thought, but it simply broke off halfway through, excuses unfinished, outcomes unexplorable. It was easier not to think, when nothing could really form a comprehensive conclusion anyways.

The intrusive noise of a knocking at the door caught both yours and Shouta’s attention. Nervously, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes remaining downcasted in worry. The erasure hero offered a quiet “Stay here,” as he went to greet whoever was outside of your apartment on your behalf.

The distant commotion of voices exchanging drifted into the kitchen. You didn’t need to look up to know who Shouta had let into your apartment. Not when that more high pitched, concerned lilt in a certain blond’s voice could be heard from where you were seated. It sounded like they were arguing, but the details of their dispute was beyond you. They seemed to be trying to spare your feelings, keeping quiet so as not to startle you any more. Especially when Hizashi’s voice raised even in the slightest, only to be followed by his partner coldly shushing him, it became clear that they didn’t really want you hearing whatever they were talking about.

But having resigned yourself, albeit not really willingly, to their whims, the notion that whatever they were discussing likely had to do with you didn’t really bother you. Something in the back of your mind reasoned that it was the aftershocks of having yet another meltdown, but you felt particularly docile. A subduing calmness, keeping you from caring about the two men in your home, or what they had planned for you. But you also knew that it was likely that even the smallest prompt of either of them poking at your emotions would have you relapsing.

Your mind went backwards onto its self doubt. You always knew that the chance of you succeeding in your scheme of lies and fake behaviour was low. But you didn’t want to believe it.

It was funny how the men that caused you so much distress were also so attentive to rid you of it. You were emotionally fragile. You didn’t have the energy to keep anything from them now.

You didn’t realize the two had entered the room until waves of loose blond hair caught in the corners of your vision. Turning your head, barely by even a few centimeters, you saw how Hizashi had slid into the chair once occupied by his partner, pulling it closer so he was right up next to you. Carefully, he placed a hand on your back, leaning down to try and get a glimpse of your drained expression.

Your tea was getting cold.

“Hey there, songbird. Ya wanna tell me what happened?”

Shakily, you brought up a hand to wipe the tears spilling down your face, noting the uncomfortable irritation in your eyes. You shrugged your shoulders, searching for the words to say. He waited patiently, and eventually you found them.

“I...um. T-there was this crowd, b-blocking my way. ‘Cause of the incident, a-and―” The admission caught in your throat, broken and incomplete for a few seconds as you involuntarily stopped to sob. Reminiscing on the event wasn’t as hard as going through it, but it did bring up many of the same emotions. Panic, being suffocatingly overwhelmed.

Helpless.

“...And I had to cut through them. T-there was the alleyway, b-but I couldn’t just…I c-couldn’t...”

You could feel your breath start to pick back up, nothing to stop it from losing control. Those painful memories made their comeback, filling your head with dreadful notions of what had happened, what could’ve happened.

“Hey,” a hand cupped the side of your face, turning it in the blond’s direction, “look at me.”

Your eyes, watery and unfocused, met his. The troubledness swimming in his look shifted. An expression of mild confusion took its place, studying your features intently. A thumb gingerly swiped the falling tears from under your puffy eyes. Hizashi’s focus shifted to the build up of wetness and makeup product on his skin, brows furrowing in the slightest. He regarded you once again.

“Sweetheart, we know you haven’t been holdin’ up your end of the deal. And...this is what happens when ya let yourself get so worn down. I mean...” He sounded hurt, like a disappointed parent trying to educate their child as he looked you up and down. But nothing could equate to the shattering feeling inside of you.

This whole time, you were unconsciously rubbing away at that artificial mask. Nothing was left to conceal your lies. No amount of excuses could hide your faults. Not with them there to witness the clear display of carelessness to keep such things hidden on your part.

It was over for you.

“...I-I’m sorry…”

A wave of fresh convulsing shuddered throughout you, your head still cradled in the blond’s hands, face leaning into his palm as you realized your mistakes.

The words were garbled, incomprehensible and panicked. “I couldn’t just...I mean, I t-tried to―”

Hizashi pulled you into his arms, an embrace somehow tighter than his partner’s. You didn’t even know where Shouta was actually, your eyes screwed shut as you were pulled into the voice hero’s lap. The noise of quiet and soothing hushes barely registered amongst this new bout of intense and taxing emotions.

It felt like everything was your fault. They had pushed you, sure, but you were the one to fight back so hard. You were losing yourself to self-deprecating ideas. But really, it didn’t come as a surprise. This was just how things always came to be in your subconscious. Against your better judgment, you decided that it was your fault that you were in this position.

Technically speaking, that was absolutely the case.

You could’ve very well put your foot down long ago. Stopped the two heroes the second they tried to pry into your personal life. It wasn’t right for them to guilt you into spending time with them, but that’s exactly what they did. And they did it until you were forced into an inescapable corner. If you fled, your faults would come back to haunt you. You would risk losing your job, and damage your chances of finding a career in the future.

If you had just been strong all that time ago, none of this would be happening. And now you were everything but strong. Reduced to a frail sobbing mess in Hizashi’s arms, emotions catching up with you faster than you were able to handle.

A certain sensation began to wash over you―one not entirely unfamiliar. A light feeling, enveloping you in a sedated stupor. And just like last time, Shouta and Hizashi were subjected to caring for you, knowing full well that you couldn’t cope with the weight of their words, a result of your actions, all by yourself.

Only this time, your panic and dread wasn’t brought on by mere lowly criminals that they sought to protect you from. They were at fault for alarming you further. What you didn’t know was that it wasn’t something they quite minded, when along with it came the notion that you would be forced to let them see you back to good health.

They were both troubled by your stubbornness. Yet, the anticipation for what your behaviour meant―that you would have no choice but to let them keep a closer eye on you―made the turn of events you were subjected to a welcome reality.

And so Hizashi comforted you as you cried, your breath fast paced and slowly bringing about unintended fatigue.

Shouta oversaw the ordeal, an irritation mixed with dangerous satisfaction brewing inside of him. Glad to know this would only make you closer to them, but frustratingly calculating how he’d beat this disobedience out of you.

You remained vulnerable. Tired, and unable to fend their ideals off. A state of complacency that seemed to grow with each passing second.

A state that you distantly feared would be your undoing.

_____

Hesitantly, you swung your legs over the edge of your bed, wincing at the coldness of the hardwood as your bare feet touched the floor. The haze of slumber just barely resided in your mind, fading more and more into the background as the noise of someone moving throughout the small kitchen of your apartment drifted down the hall and into your bedroom.

Clinking of utensils and cupboards opening and closing met your ears, the culprit remaining unknown.

Secondarily, your senses picked up on the wafting scent of cooking food. Whoever had taken up residence, they seemed to be making breakfast.

You padded towards the presence, silent as you finally laid eyes upon the intrusion.

Briefly, a wave of relief washed over you, seeing that it was just Hizashi who was enthusiastically cooking with various ingredients at the stove. There was a certain beauty to it―how the warm sunlight of the morning washed over his form, painting him in gold. His locks, loose and falling over his shoulders, seemed to glow ethereally, swaying gently as he moved from the stove to the counter next to it.

And then you remembered why he was here.

Your gaze unfocused, thoughts falling victim to the recollection of last night's mishaps.

The notion that you weren’t entirely in shock at the turn of events since making it home after work scared you more than the fear you once felt at the hands of those events not too long ago. A deep feeling of emptiness for your lack of control over the situation overrided those jarring emotions. It was troubling, not being able to pinpoint the where it came from, it instead seeming like an all encompassing numbness.

Wrapped up in your thoughts, you unconsciously shifted on your feet, still positioned at the entrance to the kitchen. The slight movement wasn’t much, but it did inconveniently put pressure on a particularly creaky floorboard.

Alerted at your presence, Hizashi looked over his shoulder expectedly. “Mornin’, sleepyhead!”

Your drifting gaze shot up at the characteristically enthusiastic greeting. Now met with the weight of responsibility, to own up for your behaviour, and the thanks he was most likely expecting for taking care of you last night, a small pit of trepidation formed inside you.

Finding that the action of meeting his glance directly only put more pressure on your already strained being, you settled for awkwardly avoiding it to look at any one thing that wasn’t him. “Hey, uh….I’m sorry for last night, by the way. And...everything else.”

Unsettlingly nonchalant, Hizashi waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. We know you were just a lil’ frazzled and tired. You feelin’ any better now?”

You gave an insincere, half-hearted smile. It probably looked a bit pained, that being how you felt. “Yeah, I guess…”

It was obvious he was avoiding the elephant in the room, being the admission of your deceitfulness from less than twelve hours ago. Hizashi’s behaviour only made you feel worse, but it was what you had to deal with until he took his leave.

The blond turned back to the stove, which was preoccupied with a couple of pans, counters lined with bowls and plates. “Why don’tcha take a seat, hun. Grubs almost ready―oh, and Shouta had to head into work, but he wanted to stay ‘til you woke up.”

Moving almost sluggish, exhaustion always lingering, you did as he said. “What about you?”

The voice hero’s tone took on more enthusiasm, if that was even possible, seemingly just by you engaging in the conversation. “Called in sick just for you! Couldn’t have our songbird all alone after what happened, right?” He moved about the kitchen, you unable to see what exactly he was cooking from your position at the table. “I slept on the couch after tuckin’ you in, ya passed right out not too long after, y’know.”

You were thankful for the brief avoidance of the subject, regrettably noting that you couldn’t ignore it forever. Soon enough, Hizashi finished up with putting together breakfast, bounding across the room to set the table. Fresh off the stove, the mouth watering smell of all your favorite morning foods were displayed in front of you. He portioned out his own meal next to you, a relaxed sigh escaping his lips as he sat down.

Politely, you thanked him for the food, disregarding how it was made with stuff you bought, some of the ingredients you weren’t even planning on using for a while. Moving past that, you weren’t surprised to find that it tasted perfect. For a second, part of you thought you wouldn’t quite mind his meals to be a recurring thing in your life. But of course, that would mean he would be a recurring thing as well. You settled to enjoy his hospitality for the moment, and then move on.

Hizashi always tended to break the silence first, and now was no different.

“So, Shou’ and I were thinking―s’probably a good idea for you to take some time off work for a bit. I know you might not see it, sweetheart, but ya really need a break. Whatcha think?”

You nodded in fake understanding, setting down your fork in the process. “I get last night was...a lot. But that kind of stuff doesn’t usually happen―the incident, and the crowd. I can’t let it hold me back.”

Everything in your being wished he would take your response and accept it for what it was. In your mind, it stood as clear denial, a request to drop the subject. But Hizashi, naturally, saw it as a challenge. You just needed more convincing.

“I got it, really...but ya still lied to us. I’m not tryin’ to make ya feel bad, hun. Neither of us are...but you need the rest. And you gettin’ hurt last night only proves that.”

Without realizing, you began spacing out, away from the conversation, which was more like a lecture at this point as he continued to go on. You picked up on a few parts, how “much worse it could’ve been,” and that they were worried sick “once ya gone and fainted” in his arms.

But one thing was true and lingering in your mind while he spoke, a fact that could very well get you through all of this. “I’ve been through worse.”

It came out during the small break in his speech, still reciting why him and his partner were so convinced that you needed to hold off on work for a while. At the confession he paused, enough time for you to realize that it likely wasn’t the best thing to admit.

“W-well not much worse, but I don’t think this whole thing is such a big deal.”

The look he gave you, like a disapproving parent―it didn’t make you want to side with him in the slightest. “It is a big deal. Shou’ and I are just tryin’ to help ya, sweetheart.”

“Okay, well...I just don’t think I need any help.”

That wasn’t entirely the truth.

Yes, you needed help. But not from them. The only thing they were good for was causing you stress, sometimes not even the few moments when you did enjoy their presence was enough to redeem that fact. You needed someone who wouldn’t weigh down your conscience, someone who would support you properly, who’d handle the parts of your life you couldn’t yourself.

And most importantly, someone who would respect your boundaries.

Hizashi let out a disappointed sounding sigh, leaning back in his chair. Having somehow managed to finish his meal amongst his talking, he pushed his plate away. You could tell by the way he clasped his hands together, giving you a pensive and serious look, that you weren’t going to get anywhere with him. Neither of the two men really cared about considering your side of the story, favouring the one they made to fit their ideals instead.

“Regardless, we need to work things out here. Something's gotta change, this whole lifestyle ya got goin’ on isn’t doing a thing for you.”

Always unable to meet his level of confidence, looking back at him too tasking given how much attention he was giving you, you stood up. Judging by the lack of food remaining on either of your plates, it was decidedly safe to start cleaning up.

“Okay then. Maybe just...give me some time to think of how to fix things? Just to gather my thoughts, since y’know, I’m still a little beat from yesterday.” You spoke through the motions of gathering both of your plates, bringing them to the sink. As you ran the water to wait for it to heat up, you heard Hizashi rise from his seat, the sound of the wooden chair lightly scraping against the floor meeting your ears.

“That’s fine and all...but ya gotta promise us you’ll actually do something. You can’t just say you will and then―”

“I get it, Hizashi. I won’t do that again, I promise.” You felt his looming presence join you near the sink. Fearing that he’d scold you further for interrupting him, your eyes remain downcasted, face slightly contorted in worry.

In a gesture that was likely meant to be reassuring, except it didn’t feel that way, Hizashi’s hand met the small of your back. “We just want what’s best for ya, songbird.”

You snuffed the flicker of anxiety sparking in your chest.

“I know.”

A dreadful silence, only awkward on your end, hung in the air, you being grateful at the blond’s next statement.

“Well, why don’t I give ya some time to yourself for now―clear your thoughts, yeah?”

Trying to contain the relief and excitement you felt at his nearing absence from your apartment, you gave a small nod. “I think that’s a good idea, why don’t I see you out.” Plugging the drain for the basin to fill up, you dried your hands and led Hizashi to the front door.

“Remember to call us if ya need anything,” he said while putting on his shoes and coat. He continued, “And we still expect ya to take that time off, or at the least quit using that lil’ quirk of yours.”

“I’ll see what I can do, thanks for helping me out, and if you don’t mind―give Shouta my regards too, please.”

Sending you a beaming smile, likely at the fact of your semi-compliance, he finished shrugging his coat on. You expected him to finally make his departure, but by now you should really know that nothing was ever typical with the two. Before you could question his movements, Hizashi wrapped you in a tight bear hug, close enough that you could literally feel the warmth of his body seeping through his clothing.

“Shou’ and I, we worry so much about you. Try taking better care of yourself, for your own sake.”

Having your face practically buried in his chest was a saving grace, because he couldn’t see the look of a deep set uneasiness take over your expression. At the hand that was drifting just a little too low for comfort, and at the strange and oddly threatening sounding tone to his voice.

How very characteristic, but simultaneously uncharacteristic of him.

Hizashi held you for a couple more seconds than a natural embrace should be. When he relented, you forced yourself to appear unbothered, and more importantly, grateful.

“We’ll see you soon, ‘kay hun?”

Oh, you had no doubt that you would.

“Of course.”

(End of part 7)

_____

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[galadrieljones]

that he may hold me by the hand: chapter 1

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes, Violence, and Sexual Content) 

Summary: After saving Albert from falling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph 

Chapter 1: Well, we are untamed.

It was a quiet evening, that night he ran into Arthur Morgan again out near Caliban’s Seat, just south of Valentine. Albert had been photographing eagles, or trying to, spouting off a real big game as he tripped off the ledge up there like a fucking fool. He should have died, showing off like that. Truth be told. But the outlaw—he rustled him back up the ledge, put him back on his feet, and dusted off his vest like nothing had happened at all. He was never flustered, this man, Arthur Morgan. He seemed untamed and yet quietly sewn around the edges. The seams were messy, but there they were, seams.

Reduced to a wilting version of his former self, Albert glanced over the ledge after his near-death experience. As usual, he placed himself in Mr. Morgan’s debt, charming with his song and show energy that had become, to him, second nature. Arthur was unconcerned with anything like debts. He just smiled. Albert looked up at the sky now where the sun was on its last legs in the west. He felt strange about leaving. The randomness had begun to stack up and was beginning to trigger inside of him some odd anxiety in which he wondered if he was ever going to see him again. “I’m—I’m sorry for all the trouble,” said Albert, straightening his hat, picking up his leather valise with the fraying handle. The tripod and the camera all gathered into his arms. He freed one hand, held it out for a shake. “Mr. Morgan. Perhaps—”

“I’m going into Valentine,” said Arthur. He shook Albert's hand, held it firm, then released him and lit a cigarette. He tipped his hat back a little so Albert could see his whole face. “I got a thing going with a buddy of mine. Told me to meet him at the auction yard, but that ain’t till morning. You wanna come, have a drink with me?”

Albert blinked. Sometimes he got hot, around the rim of his collar for no reason.

“It’s just an offer,” said Arthur, confident. He smoked. “I mean, if you’re headed that way.”

“Oh, right,” said Albert, shaking out his head a little, as if he had only just realized what he was being asked. “Yes,” he said. “You know, I haven’t made many friends here. The untamed country, it can be unforgiving, to say the least. Dreadfully lonely. A drink would be—it would be nice.”

“Good,” said Arthur, that half-smile. He tossed the cigarette, took Albert’s valise in a gentlemanly fashion, lashed it up on Albert’s horse then hopped up to the saddle of his own. “Come on. Get the rest of that stuff on your horse, and follow me.”

“Okay.”

A molten, muddy town, Valentine welcomed them. Its name alone was sweet, like an invitation. Though neither of them thought of that at the time. Life is sometimes full of feelings that we do not know we feel until we're already inside them, captives to our own ignorance.

“It’s kind of good,” said Arthur, taking a seat at a booth by the window, “meeting on purpose for once, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Albert, sitting across from him. He still had his valise which seemed home to all of his earthly goods, but he had left the rest of it all outside on his horse, which they could see through the window. “I very much do. I've never been terribly charming, I'm afraid. I don't find myself forging many friendships.”

"You charm just fine," said Arthur, settling in. "And I wouldn't worry about forging too many friendships, Mr. Mason. In my experience, one or two will suffice."

Albert seemed to find this comforting.

Arthur set a toothpick between his teeth then, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “So, where are you from anyway?”

Albert removed his hat, straightened up in the booth. “I am from Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia,” said Arthur. “Well, that is a place I can safely say I have never been.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like this,” said Albert. “This wide open country. It’s very…constricted. There are walls on all sides it seems. Pressing in.”

“And you don’t like walls.”

“No, sir. Well, I mean, I am not opposed to walls. But in a more philosophical sense, no, I do not like walls.”

“Me neither,” said Arthur. He gestured for the bartender, snapped his fingers and was immediately catered to.

“What’ll it be?” shouted that bartender, wise to Arthur by now, shining up a glass behind the counter.

“A whiskey for me,” said Arthur. "Make it a double. And, uh—” He looked at Albert. “What do you want, Mr. Mason?”

“Uh, gin, perhaps?”

“And a gin. And do that one up nice, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur returned his focus now, chewing that toothpick.

“What does that mean?” said Albert. “Do it up nice?”

“Ah, I just meant, you ain’t the rough sort, Mr. Mason. Straight-up don’t really seem like your style. He’ll put a little mint leaf in there for you. Maybe sweeten it up a bit.”

“Gin with mint and sugar?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“It sounds good,” said Albert, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They sat for a little while. There were conversations everywhere in the saloon, the smell of liquor like ribbons, wrapping all around and inside. Arthur had his hands folded on the table now, gazing out the window. A coach went by, pulling a whole load of timber. The man driving was holding a lantern that sort of dangled, and he was shouting for the horses to pull steady through the mud.

“Where are you from, Mr. Morgan?" said Albert.

This sort of yanked him back into the moment. He looked back at Albert who was a patient man. "Sorry?" said Arthur.

“Did I startle you? I just asked where you were from.”

“Oh,” said Arthur, a little clumsy feeling. “Apologies.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I think I was born somewhere in northern Nebraska,” said Arthur. “Whereabouts, at least. My ma and pa set out on the Oregon Trail when I was four or five? I ain’t got much memory of that.”

“The Oregon Trail?” said Albert. “Fascinating.”

“I’m sure it was, in some respects.”

“Albeit difficult, I surmise.” Albert removed his hat, set it on the booth beside him. “For your mother especially. I can't imagine that being an easy journey, particularly when you've got a small child. Is she still alive, your mother?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. She passed when I was nine years old. We was up in Oregon when she got sick.”

“Oh,” said Albert, softening, becoming almost transparent, like a ghost. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur. “It’s a more or less typical thing to ask. And that's a long time ago. I was a kid.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose.”

The bartender came over then with their drinks. They toasted. “How is it?” said Arthur.

“Very good. Thank you, sir.”

“So where you living?” said Arthur, sipping his whiskey. “You must have a room, or a place around here somewhere.”

“Well, I’ve camped some.”

Arthur chuckled at this. “You? Camping?”

Albert laughed as well, canny to this particular predicament of heroics and protection and how it had become commonplace in the fabric of their friendship. He was not offended. “I’ll have you know, good sir, I’m not quite as hapless as I may seem,” he said. “Of course, I’m not you. That is well-established. I cannot live meaningfully off the land for any sustained period of time. I am far from a...piece of its beauty, if you will. But I do my best.”

Arthur gazed at him. A man started playing a little tune on the piano, and some of the saloon girls were singing along. “You’re not camping near no gator nests, I hope.”

Albert shook his head, amused. “No, no. Of course not. I have learned something these past months. But speaking of predators, I do have a room, down in St. Denis, over the high saloon there. They’ll rent by the week if they like you.”

“And they like you, Mr. Mason?”

“Well.” He blushed. “Apparently. Though I've no idea why.”

“Please.” Arthur took a long drink. “Why St. Denis?” he said. “I thought you said you didn’t like walls, in a philosophical sense.”

“I don’t,” said Albert. “That’s just where the train dropped me off. Tonight I suppose I’ll get a room here, in Valentine. I’ve stayed at the hotel once or twice.” He took some of his gin, tapped his fingers on the table. He had a little bit of sun burn on his face, Arthur noticed. Albert picked up his hat off the bench and set it on the table, as if to keep an eye on it, and then he wiped his forehead with a gold handkerchief from his pocket. “It sure is warm in here.”

“Little bit,” said Arthur.

“Where do you live, Mr. Morgan?”

“Please. Just call me Arthur.”

“Right,” said Albert. “Where do you live, Arthur?”

“All over,” said Arthur. “My gang—I travel with, a gang of sorts—we got a sort of big old camp, not far from here.”

“You live nearby?”

“For now.”

“I see,” said Albert, nodding. “You know, I’ve thought of you often, Arthur.” He looked up, a starry man. The way he talked sometimes, it was just like storytelling. “I’ve seen you enough times now, out in this wilderness. You live a life of your own inside my foolish memory. But there, you’re more a character than a man. So far, I mean. Though I expect that will change.”

“A character?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “Like a hero from the storied wilds of the west. Almost Byronic. Always seeming to be there right when the damsel is about to accidentally kill herself with her hubris.”

Arthur laughed at this. “Now, I've read Byron,” he said. "I think you're either flattering me or insulting me, Mr. Mason."

“It’s just Albert,” he said, smiling down into his drink. “Al, if you’re feeling cheeky. And I would never insult you. But don’t mind me. I grow sentimental with alcohol.”

“Good men always do in my experience,” said Arthur.

“Sometimes I miss the walls back home," said Albert, a little subdued. "Their absence, it makes me fearful. Like I’m falling forever, and there will be nothing there to catch me. I wish I weren't so sheltered. The uncertainty, it makes me babble.”

“You got a family?” said Arthur.

Albert shook his head. He finished his drink. Arthur snapped his fingers, silently beckoned the bartender for a refill.

“I never married,” said Albert. “Never had the time. Then again, I'm only thirty. My mother, she’s still alive. I suppose that's family enough. She writes me letters, telling me about her goings around the town. She’s a dreadful gossip. But a good woman. She may be moving to California soon.”

”California? Whereabouts?”

”Her brother lives in a cabin near Monterey, in a charming township called Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

”Carmel,” said Arthur. He had never been there, but he'd heard of it. It made him think of fishermen. “Yeah, I know that place.”

“She was always proud of me,” said Arthur. “My dear gossip of a mother. She helped put me through school, even after father died.” He nodded to himself. The bartender came by to refill his gin drink. “Thank you, sir,” Albert said.

“No problem,” said the bartender and went away.

“She sounds real nice,” said Arthur, smiling. He wasn't surprised by Albert's age. That seemed right. “It’s nice that she helped you.”

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of years,” said Albert, drinking. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you got a wife? A family?”

Arthur sighed, shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Arthur laughed, mostly at himself. “Lord knows I’ve tried,” he said. “Believe me. I’ve had my share of chances.” He was turning a coin in his fingers now, from his pocket.

"Well, you can't be but what, thirty-five?"

Arthur studied him. "Pretty close."

"There's still time. If it's what you want."

Arthur found this amusing. “I do miss her sometimes. But let’s just say it ain’t worth the headache.”

“How come?”

“She’s—well, she’s a little like you.” He smiled. “I don’t mean the headache part. I mean that she’s above my station. Our inequalities manifested in any number of detestable ways, drove us apart. It wasn’t never gonna work. She’s too good for me. ”

“I’m not too good for you,” said Albert. “Don’t be silly, Arthur. And I’m sorry, that it didn’t work out.”

Arthur saw the ways his face flickered, an optimist. He smiled at Albert but he did not agree with his former claim. “Thank you.”

”Don’t mention it.”

“When will you be going back to Philadelphia?” he said.

“Not for several months, at least,” said Albert. “Truth be told, my timeline is a bit of a shit show. Pardon my language. I haven’t gotten nearly enough of what I came for.”

“Oh yeah? What are you still missing?”

“A great deal,” said Albert, seeming filled with resolve all of a sudden. Maybe it was the booze. “Perhaps you could help me. I’m on the search for black bear.”

“Black bear?” said Arthur. “I know a couple good spots for finding black bear.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” said Albert. “Perhaps we could meet again, sometime soon. Go…bear hunting, if you will. I don’t mean bear-shooting. No, of course not. I mean, unless they try to eat me. I just mean—well you know what I mean by now.”

Arthur smirked, just a little bit. “Yeah, I do.”

Albert straightened up with his elbows off the table, looking relieved. “Where are the black bear?" he said. "I thought I read in my atlas that west of Annesburg was a good spot.”

"Yeah, a good spot if you wanna get ambushed by hill people who'd fancy sucking your eyeballs out through a straw."

It was like being pitched straight off a cliff. Albert looked up from where he had been fussing with the buttons on his sleeve. "Good heavens. Hill people?"

"You stick with me, Mr. Mason," said Arthur, taking a long drink. "I'll get you some black bear, but considering your luck, I think we should avoid the Roanoke Valley."

"Whatever you say."

“Will you be heading back to St. Denis?” said Arthur.

“Tomorrow, yes,” Albert said. “I have a meeting there, with a gallery owner.”

“A gallery?” said Arthur, seriously. “They gonna show your photos?”

“I hope so,” said Albert.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Indeed. Though it's all very cut throat and unclear, and I haven’t got my hopes up.”

They finished up their drinks after that, listening to the piano. The bar was getting fuller, men standing shoulder to shoulder and the occasional woman, fanning herself at the bar. Neither Albert nor Arthur seemed very willing to drink any more.

“Well,” said Albert after a little while. “I suppose I should be going. The train out of here is very early in the morning.”

“Yeah, I should be going, too,” said Arthur.

"Will you head back to your camp, or...?"

"Maybe," said Arthur. "Or I might just set up shop in the hills till morning."

"You mean, sleep under the stars?"

"Sure."

"Well," said Albert. "I do envy you your casual relationship with nature. You know I always have."

"You're too kind to me," said Arthur, giving in a little. It was easy, which surprised him. Arthur thought it felt vaguely like looking in a mirror that could reflect another universe. He left the coin on the table for the bartender. Then he went up to settle whatever there was on his tab. Albert had put on his hat and was waiting for him at the door.

Outside, the night was cool. The sky was big and so clear you could see the whole galaxy up there, spread out like buckshot. The streets were quiet, but there was some bustle. Always men moving in and out of these parts, working girls smoking. One of the girls said hello to Arthur, as he had seen her around before. Her name was Violet, and she was young and this always triggered inside him a sense of failure. He wanted to save her, but he had tried that sort of thing before. It was an old complex for Arthur, and by now he knew a selfish endeavor.

Arthur took the reins on Albert’s horse and lead her along, walking Albert over to the hotel. He kept his hat off the whole time. Albert held his valise with one hand by his side. Arthur tied up the old girl and patted her once behind the ear. “What’s your horse’s name,” he said.

“Martha,” said Albert. "After my late grandmother."

“Martha,” said Arthur, smiling. “That’s a nice name.”

“I think so. What about your horse. She’s a real beauty. Is that an Arabian?”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, gazing back to where she was tied up at the saloon. “Wild. I broke her myself. Found her up near Lake Isabella."

"Boy, that's far."

"You're telling me. She was so averse to me at first, I basically lived up there for two weeks, trying to get her to like me. It was grueling, but it worked.”

“That’s remarkable,” said Albert. “What is her name?”

“Amelia.”

Albert smiled. “Amelia.”

“You gonna be able to stay out of trouble, Albert?” joked Arthur, walking him up the stairs. “I mean, till I see you next.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “Or, I’ll try.”

“That would be good.”

“When will I see you next?” said Albert.

Arthur thought on it. There was a whole lot of moon out that night, illuminating their eyes. They stopped just short of the door. The hour was late and there was no one else in earshot. “Well, for black bear, I'd take you out to Big Valley.”

"Big Valley, in West Elizabeth?"

"Yes, sir. Beautiful country out there. I think you'll really like it."

“All right,” said Albert, seeming giddy all of a sudden. “Perhaps we could meet in Strawberry, in two weeks? That should give me enough time to get back to St. Denis, get my affairs in order with the gallery, perhaps write my mother again. She’s a bit of worrier.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur, nodding. He thought that Albert's mother probably ought to worry, given the wayward tendencies of her son. “Two weeks. You wanna meet me at the hotel there? It's a dry town, but you can bribe the proprietor. He's got a speakeasy in the back."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. Meet me there, in the middle of the day. How’s noon?”

“Noon is perfect.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He opened the door so that Albert could step inside. “It’s been a pleasure, Albert Mason.”

“For me as well, Arthur Morgan. I’ll see you in two weeks. In Strawberry. On purpose this time.”

“Two weeks.” Arthur patted him on the shoulder, gave him a two-finger salute. Albert did the same. It was a bit of an awkward gesture for him but truth be told Albert's particular brand of awkward gestures were endearing to Arthur. That whole man made him feel warmer, like he'd been heated by one whole degree from the inside. It was a trifle confusing, but Arthur was somewhat used to confusion in those days.

He rode his horse out of town about five miles and decided to camp on the river, rather than head back to Horseshoe. He felt like loneliness. He caught a fish and panfried it and ate it with his fingers. He drank water, and he drank more whiskey. Then he took out his journal. He lit the torch from his saddlebag, let it sit there, attracting moths, reminding him of that stagecoach in Valentine, pushing through the mud, and the fine evening he had spent. He didn't write much, but he did sketch a little. He drew Albert Mason, holding his valise and wearing his hat, waiting by the saloon double-doors. He also drew a picture of a mint leaf, floating in gin. On the opposite page, he wrote, I shall die a fool.

Arthur fell asleep flat on his back on his bedroll, too tired and drunk to build a tent. The world had been kind to Albert Mason. That was one very important thing that Arthur learned that night. The world had been kind, and this imbued him with some bright confidence, despite what he might have had you think, and his overall bumbling demeanor. Talking to him was a cleansing experience. It made Arthur remember things. It made him feel things, remember that he could want things. It reminded him that he was still young, and life was strange and full of welcome confusions, like this one.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #albert mason #arthur x albert #arthur morgan x albert mason #albthur #i would die for them #i finally just made the post #the banner is my own edit #that's my arthur #or #one of them #lol #this love story is going to be so romantic #i have never just written a straight up romance #i've always got all these other things in mind #but not this time. #this time it's just #them #that he would hold #<3

[buckysforeverprincess]

What Do You Want From Me? Ch 17

Lance Tucker, OFC Claire

Words: 2024

Warnings: Language

A/N: Let’s see what happens when Claire comes calling. Enjoy!

The knock on his door was expected. He knew she'd come when he called, and he knew she'd wait until the morning to do so thinking she was doing it on her own terms. The fact is, Lance knew her type; pegged her from the beginning. That's the very reason he one and doned her. Come to think of it...that's why he did it to them all.  

Lance came out the womb wooing the ladies. His mother told him he had the attention of every single female nurse in the labor and delivery unit. Mama Tucker never saw it as a problem, so Lance didn't either. When he became a gymnast, his moves continued to draw the ladies in and it never stopped. He relished in the female attention and used it to his advantage. Lance knew he could have anyone he wanted, and when fame came calling...so did the beautiful women with ugly personalities. That was his type. The women who knew they could have anyone they wanted. The ones that weren't wifey material. All they wanted was to fuck, party, and have a good time. The one nighters he chose were the ones that normally let men do the walk of shame in the morning. Lance was smooth enough to turn the tables on each one of them. He never thought it would bite him in the ass later.

Lance opened the door to see Claire standing there with a huge shit eating grin plastered to her face.

“Miss me?” She blew him a kiss and he just rolled his eyes.

“Why, of course I did! Please, come in.” His tone was sarcastic, but he let her in nonetheless.  

Claire entered his house and walked right into the living room throwing her jacket and purse on the couch. What was it with these women acting like they own his house, throwing their shit around? Clearly, they have no regard for the cleanliness of his home.

“So, you changed your mind?” Claire asks him, ego bursting at the seams.

“About that…tell me why? Why go through this elaborate scheme just to get to me? Surely I'm not worth ruining so many people's lives.”

She shrugs her shoulders and plops herself down on his couch, patting on the cushion next to her. Lance walks over but decides to sit on the ottoman at the end of the couch instead, trying to put as much distance as he could between them without seeming uncomfortable.

“What makes you think this was a scheme?” She licks her lips almost predatorily, and he knew what she was after. He'd have to be a little smarter if she was going to talk.

“You've won! She's marrying him…told me last night. Whatever it is you have on Jase, it doesn't matter anymore, but if you want to claim your prize, you have to tell me why?!” Lance leans himself back and opens his legs, looking very inviting, trying to get the woman to tell him what he wants to know.

“Because Lance…you and I are alike. We always get what we want, consequences be damned, and I know we could be very good for each other; unstoppable! Let's also not forget the amazing sex! There's nothing we couldn't do for each other. We could lay the world at our feet!”  

Lance breaks out in an uncontrollable laugh. Claire does not look impressed, glaring at him with murder in her eyes.

“Seriously Claire, you talk like this is world domination!” He continues to laugh, “like we'd be trending on twitter…hashtag Lance and Claire domination tour!”

Her expression doesn't change, and she still looks like she's going to kill someone.

“We are perfect for each other! Better for you than Y/N!” Claire yells with a fiery passion.

“You ever heard that opposites attract? Maybe that's why I fell for her?” He remains calm, trying not to feed into her anger.

“Cute, perfect, annoying, Y/N!”

Lance almost cringes when she says your name this time.

“She's weak! She could never tame you…you're too wild and need someone just as dominate as you!”

“So that's what this is about? I mean, she was just my PA! It's not like she had a direct line to my bed!”

It's mostly the truth. It only happened one time. But had things been different, Y/N would have been there permanently.

“You never gave me a second chance. Just fucked me and moved on!”

Lance looks at her in disbelief, “It's called a one-night stand. That's what you do!” He's shaking his head, pissing off the woman even more.

“What makes her better than me?!” Claire yells, demanding an answer.

Lance stands up and walks to his window, looking out into the beauty of the day. “She's everything I'm not.” He says softly, never looking back at Claire.

“I can be everything you need.” Claire says walking up behind him, placing her hands around his waist.

Lance closes his eye at her touch, it's not the intimacy he wants. Claire's not Y/N!

“Why Jase?” He hasn't stopped her from touching him, nor has he turned to face her. “And don't say it's because of his lifestyle. Everyone knows he's into BDSM.  I've seen him at the club, engrossed in a scene. That's not a reason to blackmail!” Lance throws it in her face.

He's a dominant too, and occasionally goes to the club when he's in desperate need of a submissive. It's been awhile since he's had a scene.

Claire chuckles at Lance, “no, that's not all. Just a small part. I chose him because he's got more to lose. He was raised by his aunt and uncle and he's honestly a good guy.”

She puts her head on Lance’s back, using her hands to rub on his torso. “His uncle is the governor, and he's not squeaky clean.”

Lance scoffs, “what politician is?”

Claire chuckles right back, “right, but he's been taking bribes; specifically, from my dad's company. I only stumbled on the knowledge and I'm sure there's more, but I really don't care. Jase would do anything to protect the people that raised him, so….”

Lance can't believe she just disclosed all that information, but also can't believe that her jealousy drove her to ruin so many people's lives.

“So, you blackmailed him into dating her? You really wanted her away from me that bad?” He keeps his tone calm, so she doesn't catch on to how seething mad he is inside.

“She's been in love with you for a long time. I needed her to focus on someone else...to forget about you.”  

There are still so many questions and not enough answers. He really must be careful how he handles things right now. Lance needs to know everything.

“My kids? How do my children factor in your plan?”

Claire moves her head and starts kissing his back. God! The shit he's enduring just to get the truth out of her is infuriating him to no end.

“Casualties of war. Jase will be a good father to them and they'll grow up with the best of everything. Face it Lance, you never wanted kids anyway. We all remember Maggie!”  

It's taking everything for him to not smack the shit out of her, but he just can't. He has to hold on a little longer.

Lance turns around and faces her, “so is that everything? Anything I missed? All this blackmailing is because you feel entitled and jealous? You're not only destroying Y/N’s life and my twins, but also Jase’s entire family including his governor uncle just because you want to be in a relationship with me? Now that I said that out loud, that's one big stupid risk you just took!” Lance begins to laugh, “you set up all these people over some stupid jealous crush! Oh my god, that's the fucking worst!”  

Claire starts to slowly back away from him and moves back to the couch and sits down, watching him laugh his ass off.

“Wait…,” Lance tried to catch his breath, “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me, I apologize.” He looks sincere in his apology.

“Maybe it wasn't the smartest plan…,” she looks at him and he can see how uneasy she has now become, “but would you have even looked my way if I didn't do this?!” Claire has once again raised her voice to get her point across.

Lance can't believe he's lowering himself to care right now. Claire is showing true emotion over the situation, but the whole thing is rather ridiculous to him. Blackmail, deceit, and lies are all she's good at. He really wants no part of this; just wants his life back.  

He makes his way over to where she's seated on his couch and kneels in front of her.

Lance places a hand on her knee in a sign of affection and gives her a soft smile.

“Honestly Claire, I don't really like the person I was. What I was doing, how I was treating women...that's not right or fair. But I did it, and I can't take it back. What I can do is change into something better. That's what I've been trying to do. Maybe it's time you change too.”  

Claire scrunches her face and her breathing becomes hard and fast, and Lance knows she's angry again.

“No!” She yells out and he stands up and begins backing away from her. “You don't get it Lance! I don't want to change and honestly neither do you!”

The angry woman stands up and heads straight towards him, getting up in his face. “If you don't give me what I want, I'll make life fucking miserable for Y/N and your kids! Jase will do what I tell him to just to make sure his family is protected! I'll make you regret ever saying no to me!”

This is a new development. Claire's threatening Y/N and the twins if he doesn't do what she wants. If he gets out of this with minimal damage he promises to convert to Buddhism. God, she’s all kinds of mentally unstable.  

“Look. I'm not saying no…,” he softly grabs her hand and holds them in his, “but right now, I have a meeting with my agent.”

Lance lets her go and walks to the couch, grabbing her things and placing them in her hands.

“I could go with you!”

Claire just went from psycho angry to happily excited. Nope! Not even a little bit.

“Meeting with my agent is a me thing. I don't ever take anyone else. You know…,” he begins walking her to the door to see her out, “maybe we could talk about this more later and maybe I could be your date for the wedding?”

Lance tries to sound as smooth as possible, so she doesn't expect and ulterior motives.

“You won't try anything?” Claire sounds a little suspicious of his sudden change of heart.

The man just shakes his head, “she doesn't want me. Y/N is dead set on marrying Jase. Maybe for me to move on and let her go, I just have to see her do it first.”  

Claire accepts his explanation and decides it's good enough for her, “fine…but if you try anything, I'll make sure Jase moves them far away from here! Understand?”

He nods at her in agreement, and she leans in and places a quick kiss to his lips. “I'll talk to you later!” The she devil walks out the door and to her car with a little more pep in her step.  

Lance watches her leave his driveway, never moving from his door. Once her sees her car hit the main road, he heads straight for the kitchen sink and pours himself a handful of dish soap and rubbing it all over his mouth, trying to wash away any traces of the kiss she just gave him.

When he's finished he looks at his phone and checks an app, making sure everything is in place for his next stop. Grabbing his keys and his wallet he heads out the door.  

“Stupid bitch will learn not to fuck with me!”

#lance tucker #lance the fucker tucker #lance tucker x reader #lance tucker fanfiction #the bronze #the bronze au #pa!reader

[peakyblinders1919]

A Deal with the Devil

“That’s it?” His low voice questioned as a steady stream of smoke came from his parted lips. He laid back in the bed, a sheet barely covering his naked body. He watched you from the comfort of it, as you bent over in the glow of the moon light entering through the big windows. He watched you with the intensity as if you were a dancer, following your every move. He watched your chest puff out as you inhaled and cave back towards your heart when you exhaled. He watched your hands delicately pull the straps onto your shoulder. All the while he watched you, licking his lips that tasted like smoke, while you tried your best not to watch him.

“Yes. That’s it.” You said, standing up and looking not at him, but through him. “That’s what you wanted. Sex. Nothing more. So yes, that’s it. We both got what we wanted and now I’m leaving. Unless…” you began, taking another daring look at his naked body. You probably shouldn’t finish, but cleared your throat and did anyway. “You want me to stay?” Why’d you have to ask. Every time you asked and every time the answer was the same. No He never wanted you to stay for more than a night. Or maybe he wanted you to, but the moment he let you stay longer was the moment he’d never want you to leave. But you couldn’t think like that. You pushed the thought away and stared at him, waiting for an answer. Hoping this time the answer would be different.

“Where are you going?” He asked, his eyes never moving as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. He saw the shift in your eyes, and you felt it. It wasn’t the same one worded answer he gave. He was showing an interest in you, maybe an indication that he was starting to view you as something more than a plaything. Which you weren’t. You were no mans ‘plaything’. But Thomas Shelby wasn’t a man, rather the devil himself. You tried not to show the excitement you were feeling.

“I was gonna go to the pub. Buy myself a drink and maybe find a man,” you said as you fumbled with your purse, pulling a cigarette out of it. He offered to light it, taking it as a chance to get close to him again. You walked over, bent down so your cleave was very close to his face. You placed the cigarette between you red, soft lips that only moment before were all over his. Looking up at him through your laces, you held the cigarette with your fingers while he lit a match and leaned forward, dangerously close to your lips, bringing the flame to it. Your eyes were locked on his the entire time, and for a second to long. As soon as it was lit you pulled away, knowing if you didn’t you’d kiss him instead. The cigarette had been to calm your nerves, but it had just done the opposite. Now you were nervous again. You weren’t really intending on going and finding someone else, but you couldn’t let him know that he was the only one either.

“Gonna be easy to find yourself a man. Wearing that.” He said then, using the cigarette between his fingers as a pointer, referring to your outfit. You huffed, taking a drag of your cigarette to contemplate what you were going to say next.

“I suppose it will, yes. That is the plan Tommy.” You said, unsure of his motives. He was eyeing you hungrily. You knew the skirt was short, and tight, and all around revealing, but that was the plan when you put it on and went to Tommy’s. You were getting frustrated now, Tommy making no apparent move to keep you with him. You just wanted to go if you weren’t going to stay. You sighed, turning to leave when you thought he was done talking, finishing his cigarette just so he could start smoking another.

“Well then, you’re going to have to ward of the quids they’ll be throwing at you.” He said detached, making you wonder if he really knew what it meant to care about someone, or if he had the capacity to.

“Excuse me?” You questioned, wanting him to clarify and confirm your thoughts. “What’s that supposed to mean” You tried sounding more calm, never having shown Tommy that side of you. The emotional one.

“You look like a whore Y/N.” He said, simple as that, putting the cigarette back between his lips.

“The skirt is supposed to be this short.” Was the only come back you could think of, turning your back to him. You couldn’t look at him now, the tears starting to prickle at the side of your eyes. You knew getting into this that you were essentially making a deal with the devil, but you’d never expect him to say such things, to treat you like nothing. You stayed in your spot, trying to calm yourself with the rest of your quickly fleeting cigarette.

“I stand by what I said. And if you want to go out and get that kind of attention from old, drunken men then be my guest.” He sounded cool and level, but there was the faint hint of something more to his words. Whether it was worry or something else that suggested he cared about you, you were sure you had heard it. And you weren’t going to let him get away with it; acting like he didn’t care when he actually did.

“I don’t understand your thought process, Tommy. You say you just want to fuck me then call me a whore? Is that what I am? Just another whore to you?” You waited a second for him to answer, then made the decision that you didn’t actually want to hear whatever sorry excuse he had. “You don’t get to diminish me or my plans when you don’t want me to stay. Whatever I go out wearing, or go out doing is none of your concern if you can’t tell me what it is you really want.” You said, having lost all control of yourself. You weren’t screaming, yet your words were, harsh, laced with venom. You tried fishing out a cigarette to stop your hands from shaking.

Thomas was still sat in the bed, watching you every move. Watching you break at the seams and not really doing anything. He cleared his throat in the looming silence, his cigarette burning slowly as he held it and pointed it at you again. “What I want, is for you to take off that skirt.”

You laughed awkwardly, actually finding him hilarious in the moment. You stood, lighting your own cigarette and smoking it angrily. “Did you hear a word I just said? You don’t get a say in what I do. We’re fucking, not boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He raised an eyebrow at this, nodding his head as he let the words sink in. He took a long drag from his cigarette, you watching with intensity as his lips pursed around it and he sucked in. The smoke twirled up into the air and he cleared his throat. “If we were boyfriend and girlfriend, could I tell you what to do then?”

“No.” You said abruptly, before actually hearing his words come out of his mouth. You couldn't hide the look of surprise you knew was plastered on your face, never having imagined such words could come from his mouth after knowing him like you did.

“Then I guess we’re done here.” He said, which honestly sounded more like him.

“What...what would you say if we were together, if you cared about me. Right now, what would you say?”

“Take. If. Off.” He said, drawing out each word as he took a drag between them. You contemplated his words, wondering if they were genuine. You looked at him, staring back at you, waiting. That icy stare made you feel cold and hot all at that same time. A smile crossed your lips as you did what you were told, taking off your skirt in one swift movement. You stood in the middle of the big bedroom, the ceilings raising towards the heaven. In the middle of the room, half naked, with Tommy eyeing you, in no way making you feel self-conscious. The way he looked at you, even from the first moment he'd laid eyes on you at the Garrison, made you feel like a queen, or even a goddess.

“Come here.” Tommy said, flicking his eyes at the spot next to him in bed. You thought against it for just a second, then got another look at him. Anything you tried was a failed effort. You couldn’t resist him. You huffed, walking over to him, giving him exactly what he wanted, but not without a price. You quickly straddled him, planting your perfectly manicured hands on his chest, trailing them up and down.

“Do you mean it?” You asked, leaning forward and biting his ear quickly, pulling away to see his reaction. He was turning to putty in your hands, earning him a soft kiss right at the edge of his lips, a little laugh escaping as you left a red outline from your lips.

He smirked, sliding his hand behind the hair that fall at your shoulders, gripping you firmly by the neck. He brought your face close to his, so close you were breathing the same air. You waited anxiously to hear the words you always wanted him to say. You leaned forward, taking him by surprise as you kissed him again.

“It was always more than just a fuck with you. Always. Do you know why I never wanted you to stay?” You shook your head against his hand, looking at his eyes with a whole new meaning. You held your breath, waiting, waiting, waiting. He trailed his hand along the curvature of your back, watching you just about squirm. “I knew if you stayed with me I’d never want you to leave.” He watched a smile spread across your face, a glimmer appear in your eye that was not the silver light from the moon. You shook your head, amazed at this wasn’t just a fantasy. It was real.

“I knew it.” You said, watching him look at you quizzically. “I knew I’d make you mine.”

#peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby fanfiction

[creoleprincess]

Uh oh, I wrote more GaFou nonsense. This follows the other little thing I wrote about the aftermath when Gaston died. This time I explored their history, or I tried to. TBH, I didn’t know where this was going. I just started writing and it went to angst and war and PTSD. Did I give Gaston a little sympathy? Maaaybe. But not too much. He’s still messed up. Actually, I based some of it on what Luke Evans said about Gaston having to defend the village when he was like sixteen. And I tried to give more details about this “war.” The rest of it is just there I guess... LeFou is thinking about Gaston too much. Also, shout out to @lovedreamsandme for requesting more. Be careful what you wish for.

The following week went by relatively smoothly. It didn't take long for the townspeople to fall back into old routines. The curse had been lifted, and while there was a new sense of hope among them, nothing much changed. They admired Belle’s heroism but still found her forward thinking beyond them. Her latest contraption had Madame Cogsworth gawking in disapproval.  

“My Lord, girl, what on Earth are you doing? Come down from there before you break your neck.” 

Belle was on a latter near her roof. She had her barrel again, but this time it was wound up in some sort of catapult and suspended in the air between the neighboring building. She wound the crank it was attached to until the stress was at its limit and let go. The barrel spun all the way down, spraying water through its seams. 

“I may soon regret asking, but what was the point of that?”

“I'm spinning my clothes,” she said as she emptied the barrel. 

“Why??” 

“So they'll dry faster.” 

Madame Cogsworth finally gave up and wandered off shaking her head.

That was when Belle could be found in the village. More often than not, she was with her prince. LeFou couldn't blame her. He knew this town held just as many memories for her as it now did for him. And after everything, it was easier to simply leave it all behind. The problem was LeFou had nowhere else to go. This was his hometown, he grew up here. This knowledge made him question why he was feeling so alone now in the small village where everyone knew everyone. But hardly anyone knew him. Not really. 

LeFou did his best to move on with them but found that wherever he would go he would be followed by memories. One day he tried returning to the tavern too soon just to rush in and face it, and he became sick with regret. Everything was left untouched and ignored. Gaston’s portrait still hung over the mantel, all eyes avoided it. His chair in the same spot near the fireplace, no one sat in it. LeFou wasn't sure if this was out of respect or embarrassment. He wasn't the only one going on pretending nothing happened, but everyone else seemed to do a better job of it. 

It was midday, so the atmosphere was quiet but jovial. LeFou sat at the table while he gazed at the portrait. It was painful, but he could never resist looking at Gaston. He remembered the night he first caught his eye. A gang of Portuguese marauders descended on Villeneuve, assuming the little town would be easy pickings. And it would have been if it were not for Gaston. They ambushed so suddenly, the royals of the principality were ignorant of the attack, not that they would have done much of anything anyway. One by one, the men were breaking into the little homes, terrorizing the families. A twelve-year-old LeFou hid in an overturned water trough as they bombarded their way through the village. LeFou barely gathered up the courage to take a peek when he suddenly saw a raven-haired lad come charging down the path straight for the raiders. Quiver in hand, he let the first arrow fly and the first man fell. The boy hesitated for a second to stare at the slain attacker before swiftly letting more arrows fly. This encouraged some of the townsfolk to join in, grabbing pitchforks, shovels, torches—anything they could find to ward off the assailants. 

Most of them were turning back by now but one stayed behind. He glared hatefully at the boy who dared to fight back, then charged. He caught him by surprise, so it appeared the boy was overpowered. Gaston was only sixteen, but he was already nearly as tall as the full grown man. But the man had rage on his side. He shoved the boy hard into the farmhouse near LeFou's trough causing the structure to tremble. He shoved him again harder, and this time LeFou heard a crack and saw red coloring the tan brick of the house behind the boy. Gaston lost focus for a second before he gritted his teeth together, quickly reached an arrow from his quiver, and awkwardly shoved it vertically into the man's chest. The man gasped for air which only made him push the arrow further in. LeFou remembered seeing the pure rage that contorted what should have been an innocent boy's features. The man crumbled to the ground and the boy slid down the wall exhausted. Cheers filled the square as the townsfolk gathered around Gaston with praise and gratitude. He looked a bit confused at first but then grinned expectantly as more praise and compliments filled his ears. LeFou remembered feeling something he never felt before as he gazed at the town's new hero. He wanted to be like him, but there was something else he couldn't quite work out yet. 

LeFou sighed as he shook himself out of his reverie. The talking feather duster’s teasing resurfaced in his mind. “No one to protect you now, huh?” There was no malice towards her in the memory, but the reality of her words haunted him. He had not realized how much Gaston was a crutch and a handicap to him until he was gone. It was not until the war that he really met the town's hero and his whole world began to revolve around him. He justified this by telling himself that he owed him his life. He did owe him, but maybe not so literally. 

The battlefield was the last place someone like LeFou belonged, but he was thrust right into the middle of it without a say in the matter. His father had already passed on, so it was up to him to be the man of the house. So he found himself in the middle of chaos when the regiment was in short supply. He was just a lowly soldat de seconde classe, and he had no idea what he was doing. He only used a weapon twice in his entire life, both cases during failed hunting trips with his father. So his main goal was just to stay alive. 

He had himself convinced he could pull it off until he actually witnessed a real battle. Gunfire, explosions, and sheer chaos was all around him. Staying out of harm’s way was not an option because there was nowhere to turn. He had to fight. The men that were ahead of him were already being mowed down; one man directly behind him fell back onto him dead. He scrambled behind a tree, and with a trembling grip, he took aim at an unsuspecting enemy from behind. He had a clear kill shot, held it there for too long, and the soldier had already run away. ‘How do you do this?’ he thought. At that moment, a blast from an explosion sent him and splintered fragments of the tree flying through the air. Half dazed, LeFou opened his eyes to find the man he spared hovering above him staring down with an expression devoid of all emotion, his rifle point-blank at his face. When a sharp gunshot sounded, he jolted in terror but realized he was still intact as the man above him collapsed with a gaping wound in his chest. A different face stared down at him in his place, and two strong hands roughly pulled him to his feet. There in front of him, Captain Gaston himself stood, glaring as he shoved LeFou’s rifle into his hands. 

“You have a gun, you ought to learn to use it!” 

“But I—” 

Growing increasingly agitated, he pulled LeFou closer by his jacket and enunciated curtly, “If you hesitate again, you are going to die.” He released him and strode off, firing another shot at a victim with ease. 

From that point on, LeFou forced himself to pull the trigger. Each time it was more difficult. He discovered the notion of it growing easier every time was absolutely false for him. This was “being a man?” Still, he admired Gaston’s bravery and found himself more and more captivated by him. It was during the Battle of Rocoux that Gaston noticed him in return. Back at the camp, troops were being gathered for another fight. Gaston was scrutinizing some soldiers when he spotted LeFou staring. LeFou tried to look away but it was already too late. 

“Recruit, come here.” 

“M-me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

When he obeyed, a knowing smirk formed on Gaston’s features. “You're that fellow that lost his nerve some time ago. You learned from that.” LeFou replied yes before he realized it wasn't a question. 

“You're coming with me.” That wasn't a question either. “Come on,” he ordered when LeFou's feet stood frozen in place. 

For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he, of all people, was chosen to be his right-hand man. Maybe because of the pure irony of it. He had to be the least qualified person there, but it turned out to be a fitting match. Something immediately just clicked, and they were inseparable. The sense of security Gaston brought by being near was comforting, and soon he allowed himself the pleasure of enjoying his new status. 

When the war was finally over, Gaston returned a hero again. “The reason we won this war!” Gaston already had a name for himself in town but now he was a decorated war hero and LeFou was by his side. LeFou couldn't express his relief that it was finally over. The same couldn't be said for Gaston. The coping that he was doing so well on the battlefield deteriorated for him during quiet domestic life. At first, LeFou couldn't understand it. It seemed like the amount of enormous praise and admiration he received was never enough. He would always bring up some graphic memory of the war when LeFou was just trying to forget. Then he noticed other little things. His fidgeting, the way he was so easily agitated, his complaints of it being too quiet and peaceful. (That was a bad thing?) He would wear his uniform whenever he got the chance. One time, LeFou caught Gaston staring so pensively at the fireplace in the tavern he thought he was going to ignite the logs. 

“What are you thinking about?” LeFou gathered up the courage to ask. 

“Thinking is a dangerous pastime,” he said and ignored the question. 

“I know,” LeFou replied quietly. 

It seemed the more they got settled in, the more his aggression grew. One day at the tavern, one of LeFou's mother's "admirers" drunkenly draw his attention to LeFou. 

"Y-you know I loved your mother. I could 'ave tak'n care o' her. Instead, she was left ta ya, a weakling of a son, and now she's dead." 

The pain of his words froze LeFou in place. He was completely dumbfounded by the cruel accusation. So much so, that he hadn't noticed Gaston's reaction. He turned to the man infuriated, and before LeFou new it, Gaston's hard fist hit the other man right in the face. The bustle of the tavern quieted as the man rolled on the ground in pain. Gaston pulled him up to his feet by his tunic and ordered him to apologize. When the man made no move to speak (probably because he was in too much pain), Gaston sent another blow to his face.

 "Gaston, enough!" the words left LeFou's mouth before he even realized it. He thought he had incurred his wrath too, but Gaston looked at LeFou and smoothed over his features. He stepped over the man and went to get another drink without a second thought. 

LeFou discovered that hunting brought them both some relief, and just like during the war they fell into a comfortable routine. 

"Ha, ha! I got at least eighteen ducks today!" Gaston patted LeFou on the back a little too roughly causing him to cough. 

He cleared his throat. "You got sixteen. Two of them were too quick. ...Too bad they're left alone now." 

Gaston gave him a questioning look, then smirked. "Still better than your pitiful number. What was that again?" 

LeFou deadpanned "Zero." 

If LeFou was being honest, he could have gotten a few. While he wasn't as good a hunter as Gaston, he wasn't that bad. But LeFou purposely missed them. It's not that he was trying to make Gaston look good. (Lord knows he didn't need any help with that.) LeFou just didn't want to kill the poor things, and unlike in the war, he could get away with it. 

Everything changed when Belle and her father moved to the village. Gaston dove headlong into obtaining ideal domestic life. Before he saw Belle, such things weren't even mentioned. Sure, he had had plenty of women before. The war left him with plenty of widows to choose from, their desperate loneliness overriding their grief. Each one of them vainly hoping he would provide them with the security they needed, but all of it came to nothing. That's why his sudden obsession with Belle baffled LeFou. What's more, she hadn't even paid him any attention until he made her. But he made all kinds of excuses about why they would be perfect for each other and why she was worthy of him. 

"Isn't she beautiful, LeFou?" 

"Well, yes, she is pretty..." 

"She's the prettiest girl I have ever laid eyes on. Our children will be gorgeous." 

"Children?" If LeFou was being honest, he was getting rather annoyed. "You're the last thing on her mind, Gaston. Let's not put the cart before the horse here." 

"Why shouldn't I have her?" 

"Well, for starters, I don't think she would even know you exist if you hadn't been so persistent." 

LeFou waited for Gaston's agitation to surface, but instead, he beamed and said "I know. She is a funny thing, isn't she?" 

LeFou assumed the whole thing would blow over eventually. But the more she pushed him away, the more he pursued her. His delusional pipedream of "domestic bliss with Belle" became his sole purpose in life. In the end, it cost him his life.  

#this is kind of all over the place #angst fuels me #I hope this is entertaining for someone #Gaston #LeFou #GaFou #LeFou is gay #Beauty and the Beast #Belle #Disney #I'm trash #mine #I made a thing

[danithebookaholic-blog]

SPOTLIGHT!

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Of Metal and Earth 

By Jennifer M. Lane

Publication Date: July 19, 2018 Genre: Fiction, Historical Fiction, Romance

Synopsis:

In 1964, a rural town is rocked to its core when only one young man returns from Vietnam. Emotionally scarred, James hides from their pity and only finds the determination to lift himself up when he realizes what remains to be lost. He buys a little green Jeep, like the one that gave him shelter in the war, and hopes it will lead to salvation again. But the fortune it brings tarnishes, and James is left to sacrifice the thing that gave him hope for the people who need him most.

Over the next thirty years, the Jeep changes hands, passing between friends, family, strangers, and lovers. A single mother who buys a car for her reckless son nearly destroys a friendship with a man who silently loved her for two decades. An insecure youth at the start of his career learns that the most important lessons are the ones you never set out to learn. A family torn apart by their differences finds that love can be the hardest road to take. And a city architect must choose between the easy way to restoration or a difficult path that could save far more than just a rusty old Jeep.

Fans of THIS IS US, MITCH ALBOM, and NICHOLAS SPARKS will enjoy this heart-warming tale of restoration and redemption, a must read book for anyone inspired by the the resiliency of the human spirit.

Goodreads

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Dirt. Bullets of rock. Tree and plant and bone showered James in a hailstorm of earth. It smelled like hot metal. They’d prepared him for a lot before they shipped him off to Vietnam, but nothing prepares you for that much blood.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, the copper taste of flesh and gore washing over his tongue. Not his. Someone else’s. There wasn’t time for his stomach to lurch, to give in to the question of which flesh. Whose blood.

James ran for the Jeep, one hand on his helmet, hot from the sun and pitted by the enemy. The other clutched a gun that was no match for artillery. He rolled beneath the Jeep.

Squinting through smoke and dirt, trying to focus while the sky settled, all he saw was earth, strewn red with flesh in strips and slabs. A foot. A finger. Andrew. Norman. David. Indistinguishable.

They weren’t supposed to be here. Four friends volunteered. Three followed. Tom stayed home to work at the bar with his dad. James should have stayed. They all should have stayed. If only he could close his eyes and wish Elk River into focus, but he needed to see, to make out the forms of his friends, what was left of them. Thirty men. Seven childhood friends. No one could have survived this.

Calling out to check would give him away. He wouldn’t hear their reply, anyway. His hearing had dropped out when the shells fell, heightening his sense of smell. Bile and blood. James buried his face in the grass, playing at death as it gripped his company. He waited for salvation. He didn’t care what kind.

* * *

James wore his fatigues home from Vietnam, more a habit than a choice. The bus rocked from side to side. Beside him, a woman tucked one magazine into her bag and pulled out another. Premier Kháhn from South Vietnam painted on the cover of Life. Her hands moved constantly, thumbing through pages and digging through her giant bag for hard candies and mints, which she offered to James with a running commentary on the state of the world.

The motion of the bus should have been calming, but there was nothing to calm. The closer James got to home, the more aware he became of the things that should bother him but didn’t. His chest was an empty pocket where sadness and pain should have been. He focused on the back of the seat in front of him, concentrating on the ripples in the leather. Little rivers, black with dirt. Maybe fifteen miles to Elk River? With the exception of the trip to Vietnam, James had never been so far from town. He was tempted to ask the lady next to him, but she’d only spoken at him, not to him, and James wasn’t ready to open the door that he’d closed between himself and the rest of the world. At least she wasn’t a war protester.

“Did you see this? John Glenn wants to be a senator.” She flipped through the pages. “There are protests everywhere. Segregation. I read that a group of boys in New York burned their draft cards. Where did you say you were heading?”

James craved quiet, but he didn’t want to be rude or invite sympathy. “Just heading home.” His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded foreign and distant.

She paused, turning up her nose at an ad for Hamm’s beer and playing with her cocktail ring, a chunk of turquoise surrounded by little blue and clear stones. She reminded him of someone’s grandmother with a pillbox hat and an oversized blue dress that looked like curtains. She smelled like mothballs and cheap perfume. “A few minutes ahead here is tiny little Elk River. It was on the national news for losing all those boys. Such a rare thing for so many who knew each other to end up in the same platoon and then to lose so many at one time? Tragedy. They’re talking about ending the Buddy Program.”

James pulled in his elbows, a protective measure. “National news, huh? Tom Brokaw?”

She chewed her lip, flipping past ads in the magazine. “And Walter Cronkite. All of them. I know a man in Elk River. He owns a hardware store. Actually, I knew his wife, but she passed away ten years ago. Goodness, he must be ninety years old by now. I think it’s next to the diner.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’ve eaten there so many times, and now I can’t remember the name of the lady who runs the place. Anna, maybe. Or Amber.”

“Angie. It’s down the street from the hardware store, but yeah. Angie.” James kept his eyes trained on the wooded horizon. He’d heard little from Elk River. Just a letter from Tom offering him a place to stay, saying that his mail was at the bar and how hard it had all been on the town. Tom hadn’t mentioned anything about the national news. James didn’t want to ask about the town, to invite questions he’d have to answer or sympathy he’d have to assuage, but he needed to know what was on that horizon. “What’s it like there? Media camped out downtown?”

She wrinkled her nose and fumbled for words, which she offered in sing-song sympathy. “Um…It’s been a tough time for that little town. Our church went down to offer some support. There’s a lot of pain. I think most of that town lost someone.” She offered a sad smile to her magazine.

“They’ll be glad to have you back.”

James took in a long slow breath, letting air fill so much of him that there was no room for emotion—if any decided to show up.

Someone at the back of the bus sneezed. Another offered a blessing. Both felt like the spread of disease to James. He shifted in his seat, searching for elusive comfort for his weary bones. “It’s been a long trip. Do you mind if I tune out for the last leg?”

“Of course. Listen to me, prattling on. You’ve had quite the experience. I have a whole pile of magazines here. I’ll just let you be.” She lifted her hand and patted his knee with her painted nails and giant ring.

James leaned away and held his breath for as long as he could to keep from fogging up the window. There should be fear in there somewhere, but a numbness kept the world outside from coming into tune, like radio static. What would he say to them? What would they want from him? Would they want to know what he saw? Would they want to hear the last words? There weren’t any. What would they expect from him? Sadness? He didn’t have enough for himself, and he certainly didn’t have any to spare. Their questions, what he expected they’d ask, came at him fast. He tried to prepare answers, create a procedure for handling them.

He stopped trying. He didn’t plan to talk to anyone, anyway.

Rolling hills melted into farmland, into patchwork quilts of corn and soy. Valleys dotted with sheep and cows. The houses crept closer to the street and each other until they were closely packed.

Everyone who lived there was touched by the loss of someone in the war.

Downtown appeared in the windshield. The bus passed his father’s house, and he looked away. The faintest shadow of loss passed over him, but he couldn’t grasp it.

Not ready for that yet, he thought. The smell of the house, of sawdust and varnish. Of a future and a family he expected to come home to, if only his father’s heart hadn’t given up. Unexpected shrapnel from home.

Let’s just hope that Tom has a comfortable sofa. Something better than that cot he’d slept on at Tom’s when they were kids.

The brakes squealed at the only red light in town and the bus gave a gentle lurch forward. The Methodist Church sat adjacent to the Baptist Church. James had never been inside either. A carefree group of boys dashed out of the five-and-dime store, ricocheting off adults on the sidewalk like pinballs, clutching hauls of penny candy and toys. He and his friends had been carefree once, but that was a long time ago.

Almost home. He tapped his heel against the floor and ran his fingernail along the seam of his pant leg, counting the stitches, a habit he used to keep it together, though lately he was so numb and distant he wished he could fall apart. Another squeal from the brakes, another lurch, and the bus threw open its doors. The chatty woman stood and allowed James to pass.

“You take care now,” she said. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks for the company.” James offered a weak grin and gratitude that he couldn’t feel. “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

Heat rose from the sidewalk, and humidity hugged the town. An air conditioner buzzed and dripped water into a pool on the sidewalk. James stumbled onto the pavement and slung his bag over his shoulder. His boots were heavy. Running his hand along the brick wall that led to the door of the bar, he traced the mortar with his finger. He wondered how many years it would take to wear away that mortar if he ran his finger along the sandy trench every day.

Purchase:

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Author Bio:

A Maryland native and Pennsylvanian at heart, Jennifer M. Lane is a resident of East Norriton, PA. She holds a bachelor’s degree in philosophy from Barton College where she served as editor of the newspaper. She also holds a master’s in liberal arts with a focus on museum studies from the University of Delaware, where she wrote her thesis on the material culture of roadside memorials. She once co-hosted a daily automotive blog and served as the president of a large car club. She enjoys coffee, whiskey, Earl Grey tea, and spending time with her partner Matthew and their own 1964 Jeep CJ-5.

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From one bookaholic to another, I hope I’ve helped you find your next fix. —Dani

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