fists clenched

Look at me (boyf riends)

jfc it’s done look it’s the boyf riends being dorks can you believe it what a shock. 

Alternative title: How These Morons Manage To Put Off Kissing Each Other For Three Pages Because They’re Nervous Wrecks. HTMTPOKEOFTPBTNW for short. Just rolls off the tongue honestly.


From the very first few days of the Squip being disabled it was clear Jeremy was far from okay. He still flinched sometimes when his voice cracked, or when he got “dramatic” as he himself put it. Michael found a lot of things concerning about Jeremy’s behavior that hadn’t been there before. How he would sometimes slouch slightly and then suddenly straighten up as though he’d been burned. How he got uncomfortable doing anything that could be deemed uncool. Michael couldn’t lie, that in particular hurt quite a bit. Asking Jeremy if they could continue playing Apocalypse of the Damned from where they’d left off and seeing him setting his jaw and clenching his fists as if he was steeling himself for something; that had stung. Michael had forgiven Jeremy practically the second an apology was out of his mouth but that didn’t mean things were perfectly okay between them. The months of being completely alone were still fresh in his mind. Michael had to keep reminding himself that Jeremy was a victim in this too, that was clear to anyone watching even if he wouldn’t flat out say what the Squip had done.

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Someone to Stay - AU

Previous chapters

Chapter 10

Your heart is worth it.

Claire’s heart sank and stuttered as she stared at the ceiling in the gloom. Her shades were pulled down, allowing only a minimum of light to seep through the edges. Her fists were clenched tightly at her side, legs tangled in the sheets. 

So this is what heartbreak felt like. Fault lines with jagged edges carved into her chest. Dry heaving sobs, her eyes burning and red. So much worse than before. That hadn’t been heartbreak. This… this felt like the loss of life itself.

Her hair—the lovely, wild curls he had claimed to adore—were damp and plastered to her face. Tears had dried over and over in shiny silver tracks, sliding down her cheeks, across her temples, or onto her pillow as she tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

Joe had taken her home after the initial shock, where she had just sat on the couch. Her right hand had scrunched up the newspaper until it was  blurred and the strangled crying had begun. Joe had made her tea which had sat sullen and cold on the table. And so had she. Wrapped in her robe, she hadn’t attended classes or work, Joe calling in sick for her.

He knew. The unimaginable bastard had known from the beginning – she had been betrayed once. And she, stupid and foolish and trusting, had fallen for another liar. Again.

Her mind was weary and exhausted from going round and round in circles; dissecting every word, every kiss, every touch. Wondering if she had imagined it all—the gentleness of his hands, calloused and warm on her body. The gleam in his sapphire eyes when he looked at her…

Tha gaol agam ort.

Claire also wondered if that feeling would ever go away—that of being punched in the stomach, of a vise pressing on her sternum relentlessly and wouldn’t let her breathe properly since yesterday. The rage that snagged and clawed at her insides. A hand that was slowly but surely squeezing the life and blood from her heart. 

When she had gotten home last evening, supported by Joe up the stairs and through the apartment door, her mobile had rung. Without even pausing to see who was calling, she had thrown the phone at the wall. The screen had cracked and the phone lay there lifeless. Blessedly silent. No doubt she had been receiving calls and texts from many people – including him. But what was there to say?

Giving up on sleep, she struggled to her feet and wrapped a duvet around her shoulders. Padding slowly through the apartment, she saw the newspaper still spread on her small kitchen table. Like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt, Claire had practically memorized the image that accompanied the offending article. 

His red hair was perfectly rumpled, and he was wearing that damnable leather jacket. She was a petite blonde bombshell, stylish and indefinably French. They had been photographed walking down the street, sunglasses obscuring their eyes, holding hands. Lead singer of The Clan and the famous Parisian songstress were spotted canoodling in a popular Edinburgh restaurant, it said. The two had previously dated in 2012 and seem to have rekindled their romance. Whatever happened to Claire Beauchamp – was there trouble in paradise?

Disgusting.

Eyeing the newspaper askance (but why don’t you throw it out then?) she gave the table a wide berth and opened the fridge. There was not much inside however, except some expired milk, wrinkled apples, and a wedge of cheese. Her stomach gurgled in protest; she decided to test if it would keep down some toast.

And then the intercom buzzer rang.

Claire dropped the blanket, hands shaking. It had to be Joe. He had understood her need for space and privacy to grieve, and knew her mobile was not available. She glanced at the phone—still on the floor, useless. The buzzer rang again.

She pressed the button and through the static crackle heard his voice. “Claire, please, I—”

She took the finger off the button and backed into stove. It couldn’t be. He was cavorting in Edinburgh with Annalise-what’s-her-face. Her heart slammed away in the vicinity of her throat, fear and anxiety and fury swelling inside. Shit, what if he got in? He had an emergency key, as she had one to his London flat. Would he use it? 

Of course not, he respects you, doesn’t he? a voice in her head piped up. No, he doesn’t; he cheated on me verra publicly with a French trollop, so shut up, Claire retorted. 

This inner monologue was interrupted by the strident intercom once more. Claire wouldn’t let him in. She couldn’t. But like the time she heard the song for the girl with the whiskey eyes, again her heart of its own volition propelled her forward and she pressed the button– but said nothing.

“Claire, I ken ye can hear me. I ken ye can.” His voice tore her quietly to pieces. “I want 5 minutes and then—”

“Do you need to get in, dearie?” Old Mrs. Fitz from the second story was apparently on her way out. 

“Sassenach, I’m coming up. Thank ye, ma’am.” Shit, shit—she had let him in. Fuck! 

Her fist pounded the wall next to the intercom and she ran frantically toward the door. She could hear the thump of booted feet on the old stairwell, and she braced her hands against the door. Childish, but her feeling of righteous anger was stronger than logic at the moment. The bolt was locked, the chain in place.

“Claire.” 

Muffled by the wood between them, he stood beyond the door. There was no clinking of keys, no rattle of knob. She rested her forehead on the smooth, cool surface; her heart simultaneously skipped a beat at the knowledge he was here and unspeakable sorrow choked her words.

“Please.” His own voice sounded strangled and out of breath. “That picture isn’t what ye think, it was—”

“No,” she croaked, breaking through the tears. “I listened to you and every word out of your mouth was a lie. I should have known. You and me—” 

Mo nighean donn, that lass and I—we used to date, yes, but years ago. I havena seen her since, and that picture, it was meant to spite me. The only truth is here, between us. Always… tha gaol agam ort.”

Silence. 

She reached around her neck. Her fingers fumbled for the clasp of the chain that bore his ring, and exasperated, she yanked at it. The chain broke and lay crumpled in her palm with the cabochon ruby nestled in the middle.

Finally grateful for the wide and drafty crack under the door, she knelt and slipped the ring and chain through it. She heard him gasp and then a soft chink as he picked it up. A beat and a deep breath.

“Claire, I would never hurt you. Please, believe me,” he implored. 

“I did,” Claire whispered. “Not anymore.”


She had crawled back to the bedroom and finally slept for hours and hours.

Claire wasn’t aware of when he had left, but when she peeked under the door, there was no one there. No note either, nothing. The lack of food eventually got to her. Debating her choices, phone-less, she decided she had to leave the apartment to shop for groceries. Just around the corner. Then maybe e-mail her teachers. Get a bit of studying done. Stop thinking, stop feeling. 

Gathering strength she didn’t know was there, she dressed warmly and ambled over to the corner shop. No one talked to her, or even looked at her. Claire clutched her bags and trekked back to the building. And someone was waiting on the steps this time.

Tall, but not tall enough to be him. She hated to admit it to herself; her heart pounded, but it was Joe who turned around.

“Lady Jane! Finally! I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. Are you alright?” He took the bags from her while she fumbled for her key. 

“I will be,” Claire said grimly, “I promise. Come in.”

Joe helped her put the groceries away, watching her warily all the time. Claire finally exhaled in exasperation.

“Joe, what is it?” She leaned against the counter and waited expectantly.

“He came to see me at the hospital yesterday,” Joe said simply; he also seemed to know instinctively not to say that name.

Claire crossed her arms defensively. “He came here, too. I refused to see him.”

“I did not. I wanted to hear what he had to say—explain himself. You are my friend, Lady Jane, and it hurts me to see you suffer.”

“I don’t want to hear more lies, Joe. Twice in less than a year… I think it’s more than enough.”

“He put his sister on the phone for me. Jenny?” Joe sat at the kitchen table and gestured for Claire to do the same.

“Yes. What does she have to do with this?” Claire asked resignedly, plopping down on the chair.

“She said to tell you, it’s not in her brother’s nature to lie,” Joe said carefully. He pulled a newspaper clipping from the pocket of his coat and set it in front of her. It was from a different publication, where The Clan’s PR denied the relationship between their lead singer and Annalise de Marillac. 

“Please. Celebrities do this all the time. Damage control.” She ran her hand through her hair, tired of excuses.

“She also pointed out something in the picture that doesn’t fit. Did you look at it, really look? Beyond the obvious, I mean. Fucking gossip rags will do anything for money.” Joe stood up and pulled the old newspaper towards them. Wrinkled, but otherwise clear. He smoothed it out. “Here. See?”

Joe tapped at the right hand, swinging beside him. The left, enveloped in Annalise’s grip; Claire deliberately covered up the girl’s face. But the right hand… her breath caught in her throat. 

“It can be a bit troublesome when playing guitar,” he had said.

He was a left-handed guitar player. His right hand was always bare to enable him to press down on the strings and twist to play all the chords freely. 

He—Jamie—was wearing the ring in the picture. 

in this home 
there is always something
to be forgiven-
it is never forgiven,
there are no apologies

my sisters grow eyes
so wide that it feels like 
swimming in sorrow,
their mouths never open
to beg for anything 


my brother screams 
out ‘I’m sorry’s' 
that mean nothing,
his fists clenched against 
any forgiveness 


and I am left choking
on all of the things
I never said,
we have done what we could -
how do I apologize for that?

—  GUILT UNSPOKEN || O.L.

azurakenway  asked:

Please could you do #50 and #52 with Kylo for the disney prompts! x

Alright hun! Hope you like the direction I took this :)

Kylo Ren +  “I haven’t seen this much love in a room since Narcissus discovered himself.” +  “I was just imagining a rope around that beautiful neck.”


The tension in the room, to say the very least, was heavy in the air. When you were assigned to be Kylo’s apprentice you had never imagined such a situation. Apprentices and masters were supposed to get along, work together. Instead you and Kylo almost consistently found yourselves with clenched fists and flaring nostrils directed towards each other. 

Even as you stood in this smaller control room beside him, you remained fuming. You weren’t sure what feature of his made him so infuriating, but you certainly knew he pushed all of your buttons without hardly trying. 

With a sly smirk Hux walked into the room, “I haven’t seen this much love in a room since Narcissus discovered himself.”

Of course Hux was going to be smug about this. He loved to see Kylo frustrated. Kylo’s nostrils flared as he glared at the red head before you both.

“Spare me the jokes General.”

“I suppose I could. What am I being called for?”

“The newest excursion to Skywalkers hideout. I will need a small squadron.”

“WE will need a small squadron.”

Hux arched a brow in your direction, obviously surprised by your sudden declaration. Kylo turned his attention to you, though you didn’t have to face him to know he was agitated with you.

“We?”

You sighed as you turned back to face him, keeping your expression defiant.

“I’m going on this mission too. I’m perfectly-”

“Underqualified.”

Your brows furrowed, “If I am so underqualified, how have I been able to disarm you multiple times?”

“It takes a lot more than disarming (Y/N).”

“You’ve seen me in training master, imagine what you could achieve with me there too!”

Kylo leaned towards you with his teeth sneering at you, “I was just imagining a rope around that beautiful neck.”

Instantly you felt heat rise to your cheeks. You were certain it was a slip up, but he had most certainly used the word beautiful in regards to you. Even though it was more of a threat than a compliment. You smirked at him, instantly knowing your witty response.

“I know what you were imagining.”

Suddenly as you winked you could sense Kylo’s baffled self. Your choice of words obviously catching him off guard and making him unsure of what to say next. 

“I’m flattered master.”

Hux smirked as he looked between you two, obviously enjoying both the thick tension and watching his brooding colleauge become flustered.

“Well, if that’s all. I shall arrange for that squadron, commander.”

Kylo gulped as he tried to hide his obvious flustered state, “Thank you General.” 

Back with Olivier, Alex, Sig, and all the rest. They’ve gotten word that Buccaneer and some of his men died, Wrath was dealt a fatal blow, and Greed is fighting for the good guys.

“Well if he indeed died smiling, then he wouldn’t want us standing here weeping over him! So let’s go!”

Such is the way of Briggs. Only a tightly clenched fist belies her true feelings. The loss cuts deep, but they can’t afford their steps to falter.