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verbiscruenta:

The laughing he’d expected; the encouragement (because that’s what that was)— he did not. 

Or, perhaps he did. Perhaps he’d always known of Jon’s interest, or suspected it if that, but never took action for reasons even he couldn’t make sense of. Perhaps he’s really always been aware that this was just a matter of time. 

This was game over, this was Jon choosing to come face to face with yet another dark part of him, which he could not later unsee. Kel knew it in his head that if they did this, there would be no coming back and sure, Jon had stayed around for longer than anyone else had, but his leaving was long overdue. There was no other way this ever happened. Either people leave or he makes them. 

So whatever, he’d fuck him and he wouldn’t hold back, no such things as apologies or remorse— that would teach him a lesson. Maybe then he’d just get gone already, realise that he should never have stayed.

So he kissed him, decidedly and angrily, an act that looked a lot more like fighting back than giving in. His hand was at his neck, testing his hold on the soft flesh. He could feel Jon’s heart beat through his skin, and was glad to find it in a rhythm as frantic as his. Kel’s kiss was as passionate as it was violent. All of his anger – about Elaine, about Jon being a fucking idiot, about him thinking he could just walk into his place and undress like nothing bad would happen –, all of it, was deposited there. From the touch of his fingers’ skin on his body to the heat between their tongues. He kissed him like his life and Jon’s death depended on it.

Kel’s mouth moved to his neck and his hand traveled down from collarbone to chest, down his stomach and right where fabric met skin. He sloppily unfastened Jon’s pants, allowing for just enough room for his hand to sneak inside. Again, he wasn’t gentle, touched him like a revenge of sorts, like he was really saying, Happy? Saying, You’re mine now.

This was the moment he’d been enduring months of wet dreams for, the moment where Jon ruined their friendship by selfishly taking and taking and taking. This was him falling in love with the one he considered his best friend. This was the bear trap swinging shut, clamping down and never letting go.

Kel knocks the air from his lungs so swiftly by just delaying, letting the moment drag on while he lays there trapped with his bleeding heart in hand begging the predator above him to just devour it, eat it, take it. It was always yours, Jon wants to tell him and shake him until Kel realizes this moment means more than a cheap fuck to him because there’s no armor and Kel never pulls his punches.

A moan is stifled in his throat, caught by strong fingers that collar and entrap him with such ease it’s nearly suffocating. Jon lunges into those kisses, panting and snapping his teeth right back as Kel kisses him the same way he fights -- heated, intimate, dangerous. Jon feels useless, laying there with the other man bearing down on him until his hands are moving far faster than his brain is presently. It isn’t enough to just touch and he feels like his skin is too tight by the time Kel’s mouth is traveling down his chin, a gasping shaking breath drawn in greedily as he tries to push, tries to pull, all at once uselessly.

Muscles yield, his head falling back and neck offered up in thoughtless submission. Please, he nearly cries out, chewing on his own lip to stifle the plea for his pride’s sake. His hands are twisting into dark hair, toes curling against the couch cushions before his legs are forced wider to accommodate Kel’s descent down the many curves of trembling skin and shuddering muscle. Jon is surprised his heart isn’t in his throat with how it hammers in his chest, wild and uncontrolled, the lower Kel’s mouth crawls.

“F-Fuck -- Kel -- !”

The noise that couples with his best friend’s name is obscene, his back arching a little as the moan punches free of parted lips. He hadn’t expected Kel to be so bold, it’d always ended before this but now -- now it was real and it was as much the end of things as a beginning. The realization coupled with gin was enough to have his head spinning, his face flushed and senses suddenly hyper aware of everything. Kel isn’t gentle, but Jon didn’t fall in love with soft curves, sweet words, and gentleness. It was those hard corded muscles working along Kel’s back that he can’t stop tracing with glassed over eyes while his hips buck shallowly into calloused fingers tugging a heady mix of pleasure and pain out of him. It was the way Kel staked a claim on him without ever uttering a word.

Jon loves him even if Kel doesn’t love him back.

Another hoarse moan slips free and his breath hitches, “I get it, I get it, jus’ slow down a b-bit or ‘m gonna cum.” Jon’s voice is thin, wavering, as his brows knit together and he can’t look away from those dark eyes or how angry they are. A part of him wants to apologize as much as cry with relief. I’m yours you fucking idiot, Jon wants to say but it’s damn near shouted with the way he’s spreading his legs, arching up into each touch like he’s starved for even the slightest contact.

“Cmere,” he’s almost begging, “cmere, wanna kiss you.”

[chevaliant-blog]

verbiscruenta:

And then the kiss. Kel should have seen it coming — what with the two of them so close they were practically one — but he didn’t. Jon was like this always; very much physical and prone to overstepping boundaries. But it’d been so long since Monte Carlo that Kel didn’t think he’d do it again. And yet.

His lips tasted just the way he remembered them — and he hated himself for this, remembering —, though now with the sharp gin aftertaste he of course didn’t mind. It was only after they were deep into the kiss that he realised how much he’d wanted it. And if he had, he might just have done it himself.

He’s hesitant at first, too taken aback by it to do much else. Then he grows into it, kissing Jon as though fuelled by pure instinct, and it might have been just that, with the animalistic quality in which the hand Kel had on him grabbed his waist only tighter, his breathing picking up until he was left with the same short, shallow exhales as Jon. Soon he had forgotten about whatever it was Jon was saying, and whatever it was Kel was reprimanding him on. Pointless.

He feels Jon pulling back and he’s angry, wanting to yank him back and tell him, Only when I say so. He feels himself hard and shifts slightly in between his legs and the reminder of this predicament only making him that much harder. He wants his clothes gone, and Jon’s, and whatever it is that’s holding them back too. He wants a hand at Jon’s throat and his mouth on his back as he’s working himself inside him and he’s finally getting what he wants.

“You can’t keep doing this and not expect me to fuck you right after,” he says, the words sounding more like a threat than anything else. “You were lucky we were in public last time.”

Tell me no, Jon knows he should say. Any rational person would’ve been polite about overstepping boundaries and here he is feeling nostalgic about the time Kel drove his knife into his shoulder with the intent to maim instead of kill. Maybe he’d left any chance of ‘normal’ back in the alley Kel found him in and now he was just thriving in the darkness that the other man called home. It’s been so long since Monte Carlo, since gunfire and bloodshed. Though there isn’t adrenaline this time around, there also isn’t half a dozen people gawking at them while they tear each other apart with gnashing teeth.

A shaking breath is knocked free into Kel’s mouth and he remembers. It’s always been so painfully natural to tug and twist at each other with such desperation Jon is sure the world is going to end (this is it, this is how it all ends) if Kel stops touching him like he’s starving. Jon wants to give him everything in those moments if it means that those hungry eyes know what it’s like to feel satisfaction just for a second. Kel’s cock is digging into his hip and all Jon has the mind to realize is how embarrassingly easy he feels arousal taking hold until they’re both a fucking mess.

I’m drunk and he’s being a gentleman, Jon realizes with an aching surge of affection at his chest as he looks up at Kel more than a little dazed in the wake kissing and biting back words. Half-lidded eyes dance across familiar features, caught on lips that are swollen from the intensity of his mouth crushing against them hungrily. This could ruin everything, comes a chilling whisper at the back of his mind, sobering him up enough that he listens when Kel talks.

“I know.”

He doesn’t exactly remember how or when he’d tugged up Kel’s shirt, but he doesn’t care because there is warm skin under his hands. Things with them have always been in a strange gray area of existence. Jon swallows hard, reaching the limit of how far he’s let things spiral before pulling away laughing. Only this time he’s got Kel’s shirt in a pile on the floor and his fingers in the loops on his pants. It’s embarrassing how intimate something so mundane feels when it’s been his job to seduce countless people into his bed to coax information free from their lips. Jon knows the reason even as he slowly tugs Kel’s belt free, leaning up just enough to taunt with a ghost of a kiss.

“You can’t keep saying shit like that without following through.”

I trust you.

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verbiscruenta:

Reality snaps back when Jon moves on top of him, and he isn’t thinking, really, and before he could consider his own actions he’d moved a hand flat against Jon’s back and around his waist, steading him in place. His scent was stronger now that he was closer, the pungent smell of alcohol filling the space between them. Of course, even without this he could tell he had had one bottle of gin too many, and it was one more thing he could blame Elaine for. Though sometimes he could swear his drunkenness was nothing but one fine excuse to get away with moves such as these.

“You are… very drunk,” he says it as if it is something new. Jon murmurs something into his neck but he can’t make it out, it’s muffled and low, and with his lips so close to his skin you can’t blame him for wanting more. A second more and it’s over. Which was very on-brand for them. It was an endless game of pushing and pulling and he could no longer tell who was winning. Perhaps none of them were. Perhaps they were both losing.

Again, Kel isn’t thinking, and when Jon pulls him closer he just complies, moves himself forward into him in something that somewhat resembles an embrace, but isn’t quite it. He’s suddenly struck with the cruel reminder that Jon was only half-clothed, his palms over naked skin, his lips brushing against the cold bare shoulder. Their bodies, as they were, were only really separated by the fabric of Kel’s own shirt. This moment— he hated it. Wanted it over. 

And yet, doesn’t do a thing to stop it. 

“Which was your idea,” he observed quietly, but firmly. “Not mine.” Making that clear was almost a badge of pride. But he did remember that day. Remembers Jon saying what he said now, to shake suspicion. If the intention was to get people to stop looking, then they both failed miserably at that. While yes, people stopped looking at them as though they were up to no good, people absolutely did not stop looking altogether. In fact, they just did it more. This was entirely their fault. It was fake, sure, but they kissed as though it was their last opportunity to get a taste of each other – which, in a way, it might have been –, like each had hidden something the other wanted and they were trying to get it back. It was both beautiful and frightful to watch.

He complies again, letting Jon’s hands guide him, but there is noticeably more resistance from his part. A hand moves to Jon’s side while the other reaches for the armrest, which he uses to support himself even if only a few inches from Jon. Pushing and pulling, once again. When Jon mentions his possible — though unlikely — death, Kel can only laugh. “Please,” he says, and looks at Jon as if he’d just said something absurd. While Elaine was fragile, weak… he was not. He knew how to survive, knew how to extend his life even if it meant shortening that of others.

Kel doesn’t give half a shit about any of this, Jon’s heavy sentimentalism that always he chooses to ignore. Still, he holds onto something— "Is there any good left in you?“ He finds himself saying, and there is but a hint of dark playfulness in his voice that he can’t quite shake off. "How do I rid of it?”

Maybe Elaine ruined him, taking his flaws and setting them aflame. She’d always looked away, uncaring when he’d had one drink too many. Said it made him fun, more enjoyable and easy to be around. Either way, the habit stuck even after he’d buried her and it seemed like every time he got drunk, well, here he was again. Breathing in Kel like he’s air, touching him as though letting go too soon would send him spiraling drastically off course. Jon knows it’s because he’s too much of a coward to ruin whatever fucked up friendship they have just to entertain the thought of what if that danced at the back of his mind ever since Monte Carlo.

But now they’re here, Kel a warm blanket over his body and Jon is sighing into his shoulder. So he’s drunk, but it doesn’t stop the fact they both know he’d be dead twenty times over if not for those hands on his body. Kel tells himself he’s incapable of tenderness, of kindness, but Jon knows that in a way he’s the only one who sees it underneath the scathing disregard. They fight, they push and they pull, tugging at each other and twisting together, apart, tangled up until he has the other man underneath him by some twist of fate. His mind is back in Monte Carlo, on the tugging hands, the rough taste of Kel’s tongue invading and the prickling arousal threatening to crawl up his spine. It’d have been easy to forget if they hated each other.

Instead they’re here and Monte Carlo is several years behind them. Kel is laughing and Jon feels his heart dance, skittering awkwardly about, because it’s so rare and so beautiful a sound. Jesus, how long has it been this bad? He’d thought it was a passing attraction, the kind you get for something unobtainable. But this was more. With everyone, even Elaine, he’d been tense, ready to act at the drop of a pin even when wasted out of his mind. But this? Kel’s body is warm, and even though he knows that there’s no way he could stop him from killing him, Jon has never felt more at ease in his life.

Is there any good left in you? Gods he wants to laugh, and he does, soft and breathless as he looks up at Kel. He isn’t scared in the least and maybe that makes it all worse. If there is, let me give it to you, Jon nearly confesses as he stretches out, coils his legs loosely about hips settled between his thighs. It’s so easy to let go and fall harder.

“You have t’eat it t’make sure it doesn’t come back,” Jon replies, words playful as fingers find purchase along his jaw, smoothing back into dark hair. “Like this, Kel, with every last ounce of it.”

Funny thing about falling, it feels a bit like drowning. Or suffocating slowly until your lungs cry out, your head does dizzy, and your toes curl. Jon wants to tell the other man some kind of sonnet, whisper poetry on his skin. He wants to claw and scream and blame Kel for his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He wants to give him everything and the thought is more terrifying than feeling Kel’s blades digging into his side, scraping against his throat until he’s forced to submit. There’s nothing good left, Kel had the chance to run and Jon had the chance to stop this from happening, but they’ve circled around over, over, over and this time he’s tired of finding his footing before he falls.

Jon sighs into the kiss, lips parting as he bites and licks his way into the heat of Kel’s mouth chasing the taste of gin as much as some kind of cure to the desperate ache in his chest. Arms circle broad shoulders and he traps them both with one fell swoop, parting the kiss with a shallow breath. Forehead to forehead, he’s trying to find the words but all he can manage is a crooked sort of smile and shaking syllables.

“I wanted you t’have it.”

He’s been falling faster since Monte Carlo and he still can’t catch his breath. But Jon lays back, he looks up at Kel, and suddenly drowning doesn’t seem so bad.

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verbiscruenta:

If at first Kel moved away from Jon’s touch, all those years ago, now he did not. Of course, he never initiated it— the only contact he was ever the first at was in a fight, when he didn’t have to be gentle, and if you hurt someone, good. That’s what you’re supposed to do. This, though, was not something he would ever do mindlessly; he simply did not have it in him, which was something he didn’t think could be changed or improved. After a lifetime of living in this merciless skin, he’d grown to accept certain limitations. 

But what mattered now was that he didn’t move away; an action – or lack of – that in that moment, didn’t feel too out of place. 

“In my defence, I wasn’t trying to be kind.” If the word sounded foreign in his voice, it’s because it is. As it was, kindness was not a concept one would easily associate with Kelsey Bratten. He was cruel, and unfeeling, and not the type of person who generally experienced such a thing; both towards him and others. Perhaps it was exactly that, the lack of kindness that made him this way; or perhaps he was just always meant to snap— one way or another. “I don’t even remember what I was trying to do.”

He steals the gin back and leans lazily against the cushions. “Whenever I bring men home it’s either to fuck or kill them,” Kel says, almost too nonchalantly for the subject at hand. He brings the bottle to his lips and swears he can still taste Jon on the glass rim. “You’re free to speculate.”

Jon has always been a tactile creature, touching, feeling, and somewhere it turned to violence as much as intimacy. Kel was the only one he didn’t hide away behind a mask with when fumbling his fingers along warm skin. It was real. This. Them. Fingers twisting and curling over Kel’s arm, nestling close as if he deserved to fit right in the hollow parts. He is warm, steady, and Jon’s face rubs into the curve of his shoulder as a disgruntled noise slips free.

“Shhhh,” he hears himself saying at first, because he remembered Kel that first fateful night and how kind those hands had been. A part of him bitterly hopes the entire Bratten clan turns over in their graves hearing their son lying about being kind. It wasn’t a traditional sense of kindness -- Jon has had his fill of that thank you very much -- but it was still warm, still comforted.

What isn’t kind is how Kel jars him from his thoughts by stealing the gin back and moving. So he’s forced to re-situate himself as he clumsily reaches out for the bottle cussing under his breath in a strange mix of italian and german. Long gangly limbs end up twisted and coiled around Kel and he finds a comfortable kind of spot that lets him sit in the other man’s lap, arms twisted around his shoulders, and face tucked into a shoulder. Jon forgets about the gin as he sinks a little boneless into him, muttering how it be better if he’d laid down.

Whenever I bring men home it’s either to fuck or kill them.

Free to speculate? Laughter is absent as he watches his fingers toy with an old bullet hole he’d left in Kel’s shirt. Again he wonders. Again he asks a question they dance around. Then what did that make them? They’ve been tangled up for years, working together, against, and sometimes leaning on each other. Jon closes his eyes, breathing in Kel’s scent -- birchwood, cinammon, and smoke -- as he mumbles out incoherent words.

I love you asshole, he says in the muffle of Kel’s shoulder, face flushed, just to try them out and taste the feel of such an honest truth. After years of Elaine, he’d refused to give a voice of what came first, what sank in bone deep, what had him ditching Elaine just to come over and put Kel back together.

The world is tilting and his face connects with a cushion before he wriggles a little and grabs blindly for Kel, wordlessly begging him to come closer. “S’why I said ‘m a stray,” Jon slurs out a bit breathless, “It’s always been you ‘nd me, most we done is that fake kissin’ in Monte Carlo t’shake suspicion.” Fingers tug a bit at Kel’s shirt and Jon settles once he has the weight of him splayed atop him albeit a little awkwardly. His nose is buried in dark hair as he sighs out murmuring quietly, “When I got the call about Elaine, it’s bad but -- I was jus’ so fucking relieved it wasn’t you that’d died. Her I could’ve handled losing, but you--” Blue eyes fall close again.

“Maybe y’did kill me that night, the rest of me just hasn’t caught up. I jus’ know if it’d been you instead of her, nothing good woulda been left of me.”

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verbiscruenta:

Kel should have seen this coming, but did not blame himself for being caught off guard. Jon was not typically the irrational, unpredictable one– he was. He gave in to anger, seeked out reasons to cut someone open. Jon– well, he gave in to other emotions; it was Kel’s mistake to have underestimated how powerful those could be. To this, all he could say was, “Please tell me you cleaned your tracks.” 

He moved to where Jon was lying on the couch, taking the gin away from his hands and drinking some himself. He held onto it, resting the bottle on his thigh as he sat down on the (small) space Jon had left for him. “Thanks for taking me,” he said. “You know there’s nothing I like more than being surrounded by crying strangers.”

Of course it didn’t stop there, and Jon had to continue on with his fantasy – because that’s what it was, what it had always been; even more so now that she was dead –, talking about what could have been. Talking about her. Still.

“I’ve already told you this, but you have shit standards.” After all, he was there, was he not? If Jon was capable of thinking Kel was worth his time– then he was capable of thinking anyone was. “The girl OD’d. Which would have happened anyways. If not now, then a week from now. What’s it matter if she would have loved you? She’d be dead before the wedding.” If the drugs weren’t the reason, then Kel would gladly have been instead. God knows she tried him far too often to still be left breathing. Her death was, for lack of a better word, a blessing. Of course, Jon didn’t see it that way. 

Kel looked at him sharply, his eyebrows weighing heavily above his eyes. “That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? And that’s coming from me.” Kel hated this – having to be the responsible one. Responsibility was not something he was good at, not when it came to anything but his own personal affairs. And even then there was room for error. “I’ll only say this once. You need to get the fuck over it. If killing everyone she has ever crossed paths with will make you feel better, sure. But it’s not gonna bring the bitch back and it sure as hell isn’t gonna make her love you.” He shrugged, “If you’re cool with that, then by all means. I’ll bring the knives.” 

“I don’t think I could kick you out if I tried,” is what he says, but Sure, whatever you need, is what he means. 

“Course, between you and my dad I’m pretty damn good at keeping it wrapped up.” A part of him almost wants to be offended but he understands Kel’s concern. Jon does have the mind to look offended when the bottle is stolen away from him. But then he’s motivated to sit upright once more, finding Kel’s shoulder far more comfortable an incentive. Jon stops in his struggle, his shirt abandoned on the ground after the sleeve has him frustrated in finding his balance. Elaine makes Kel’s face twist up angry and ugly, but Jon still curls into the other man without much protest or warning.

Fingers curl and twist into warm fabric, Kel is scolding him and warning him. Jon doesn’t like to admit just what those eyes do to him, cutting daggers at the drunken grieving part still clutching to what if, what if -- But it’s not gonna bring the bitch back and it sure as hell isn’t gonna make her love you. So maybe it wouldn’t but it would sure as hell make him feel better. Elaine was beautiful, everything he wanted in a woman. Just to know that after one more death he would be the only one left clinging to the best parts of her, the shining parts that aren’t stained black with drugs.

Even when he’s being told off though, giving that sharp stab of truth that’s twisted slowly, Kel never pushes him away.

His chest aches a little when he sits up a little, crowding with a sway into the other man’s space as his hand falls to rest on Kel’s knee. As long as he can remember it’s always been them. Elaine might’ve been part of their lives and his heart might’ve bled itself out for her, but it was always them -- just Jon and this asshole. Each broken bone, swollen eye, bleeding gunshot, any of it was always paired with Kel. How’d he never realize until now how much of his life was curled up in those scowling lips, sharp words, and brooding tense shoulders. Maybe it’s the grief or the gin that has him thinking long and hard about his life.

The world looked at Kel and saw a monster with gnashing teeth and dangerous claws. Jon looks at him now and still sees the same man that told him to not be an idiot again while cleaning up his bloodied hands, wrapping them up with gentle hands.

How long have I been in love with you?

It explained why he’d mourned Elaine so brief, she was what his father always wanted -- a girl, pretty and a promise of a family of his own. Kel though -- one word about the funeral being the worst date ever and he’s forgetting about Elaine, laughing into Kel’s shoulder. Elaine was a struggle to hold onto, to go through the motions of telling himself there was a chance for a life together. Even after Liam married her, she was always a warm presence at his side devouring the love he had for her while giving nothing in return.

Being with Kel was as easy as breathing.

“Exactly,” Jon says and leans closer to steal back the gin and take a long swallow. “You made the terrible mistake of bringing me into your house as a stray.” His cheek is back against Kel’s shoulder. “Didn’t you know that when you’re kind to a stray you’ll never get rid of them?”

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verbiscruenta:

I need you was not something he’d ever liked to hear. Perhaps some people, regular people, would see it as a good thing— a sign that you, on the receiving end, were a big enough part in someone else’s life to be needed in the first place. For Kel, he was mostly frustrated because he knew — and by this point, so did Jon — that he was not someone who could help. And not someone worthy of being needed, either. He sighs.

Kel doesn’t say anything, but allows him in. The door buzzing open should be enough of a response.

He moves to open his own door, leaning against the frame and waiting for Jon to come through the dim-lit corridor. Kel’s brows furrow at the sight of him and he does a once-over, staring him down with mild concern.  

Finally, he says — “You look like shit,” — as if he didn’t know it already.

Stumbling up stairs is enough of a challenge. But here he is keeping a miraculous grip on his gin and he doesn’t even tumble. Gold star? He deserves twenty. Instead he gets something better, Kel standing there with a mix of just enough agitation that he doesn’t think it’s a bad idea to come waltzing in with a a slight smile. Kel tells him he looks like shit and Jon rubs at his eye without thinking, “Yeah and still miraculously more put together than most.” His voice is a little hoarse and Jon clears his throat as he drops onto the couch with a sigh. The cushions are sinking underneath him as he turns to step the bottle on the table before he breaks that too.

“So Liam is no longer scurrying about like a pissant.”

Clumsily he’s shrugging out of his jacket. A huffing sort of laugh slips free as he rolls over and tugs loose his tie. “But he painted Elaine’s grave nicely enough,” he’s murmuring into the pillow and tugging his belt off until he’s a mess of limbs and twisted up clothing. Jon huffs out a breath and rubs his fingers along his stomach when he finally finds the way to lay down with his back into the cushions. “Just didn’t seem right leaving that fucking cockroach scurrying around when she wasn’t around,” he’s breathing out, covering his face with an arm, “Her funeral was nice I guess. Thanks for going last week, I didn’t --” A sharp breath and he’s giving a shrug. “You were the first person I thought to have with me.”

Jon’s voice cracks a little, his eyes finding Kel as he draws in a shaking breath. You’re all I have left, he doesn’t say before turning around, sitting up enough to twist open the bottle and nurse it with a sip. “She was never gonn’ love me y’know? Said I was too focused, too needy.” A huffing laugh and he’s leaning heavily on the large bottle as he glances sidelong at Kel. “I really want t’kill her father, her whole family. It’d be better if they weren’t here.”

A broken sort of huffing laugh and he closes his eyes.

It was only ever going t’be you and me Kel. I knew it since the day you put me back together. But saying that out loud would make it real. The bastard was too important for him to lose and he didn’t know where that would leave them standing. “Kel,” he’s murmuring, voice small and shoulders slumped, “mind if I stay here t’night?”

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-- @verbiscruenta . [ kel ]

It feels a bit like a siren’s song, but instead there’s a scowl and a bottle of gin. After burying his best friend and leaving flowers at her grave, it only made sense to drag her husband to the headstone. To hold his head down to the fresh ear and pull back the hammer as he blamed the man for her death. He should’ve protected her and kept her safe. Jon tells him he failed her, deaf to the way the man whimpers and begs. Hot tears run down his face and he steps back watching the man cower into her headstone hiding behind his hands as if it will save him. She made her choice, despite how he loved her with all his heart, and it killed her. Jon leaves his love for her and the past they’ve shared. It is buried in the ground next to her and when the gunfire rings out it’s next to her husband’s brain as well.

Wiping the prints clean, he puts the gun in the man’s hand, makes it look like a suicide and pulls out his phone.

He wants to call Kel. Wants to, but he doesn’t.

A bottle of gin in hand and the knowledge of an empty one two blocks back tossed into the street. It’s broken into a thousand pieces. Jon is laughing as he leans against the wall near the callbox. Fingers fumble, he finds the right name after a few wrong buzzes.

“Kelly --” his fingers slips and a broken curse slips free and he’s holding it down again, “Kel, hey, let me in. I brought gin to apologize. But I -- I -- I need you alright?” A sigh and his forehead falls against the cold metal with a dull thud. Jon thinks for a moment that Kell won’t be there or let him in, hell the bastard has no reason to let him.

Elaine is dead, maybe now he can move on with his life.

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Sweetie, if you’re going to be two faced, at least make one of them pretty.

Marilyn Monroe (via maansisunkara)

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ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ . relations & prior canon . (i’ve given this a lot of thought and how best to word it and present it etc. so I’ll address all established relations and how they’ll be changing from here forward once I’m back fully from hiatus.)

“Oh everything’s a   M E S S . . .”

it all starts with Ella . [ @ellaxlancaster ]

with her growing absence in his life, rowan has become more erratic in his choices which is the catalyst for a lot of what is to follow. he knows she is more than aware of his feelings for her but of course he’s too much of a coward to confront her on it because being in her life is better than nothing and it’s something that he refuses to come to terms with because  he is in love with her and common sense doesn’t exactly apply. with her distance, rowan therefore falls further into the bottle, making poorer and poorer decisions as a whole. this is actually kind of pivotal to rowan as a whole as it effects him as a character.

then Charlotte is a stressor . [ @charlotteroyal ]

with the terrible trio’s success coming under fire (rowan becoming more of an alcoholic, ella being absent, ares being who knows where) by their leader, rowan feels more pressure to get results. rowan isn’t precisely accustomed to leading the three of them but it’s a role he’s quickly attempting to find his footing with few successes and many failures. he still isn’t aware of her present status as he took to the states for a family ‘emergency’ and to sort out his affairs in new york.

which brings it to Devlin . [ @devlinxtaylor ]

prior to the auction, they’d chanced upon each other and rowan had earnestly enjoyed talking to him. flirting with him was enjoyable and he didn’t really expect much out of the interaction. and then he learned who devlin was with a little bit of digging and now he finds himself in a precarious position that has him weighing the benefits of keeping his advantage to himself. rowan knows that being devlin’s friend at the very least is key to getting into charlotte’s good graces and in turn protect ares and ella which is his main focus aside from you know, trying to take over the world. if that means sleeping with devlin and blackmailing him to do it? well, who knows, either way rowan isn’t above doing what he needs to in order to win. if it means double crossing charlotte to keep above the game and ensure ella and ares’ safety, rowan is contemplating a deal with the devil.

of course there is the dilemma of Bailey . [ @bulletsnbouquets ]

you see rowan on a good day will scalp a man with his words and then debate if he’s worth collecting as an asset. rowan with a few drinks in his system makes very very very bad decisions and in this regard, it was easy, bailey reminded him of the only other man he’d loved back in the states [ see: asshole by the name of marshall ford ] that he’d cut ties with when he’d made a clean break to the UK in a bid to try and make a name for himself. one thing leads to another far too quickly and rowan mistakes that feeling at the pit of his stomach for love. again, drunkenly confessing as much without giving much thought to it until after the fact. presently he’s keeping his distant because he’s more than aware of the fact atrius is chasing after the florist as well. only recently, through extensive digging [ again see: a man named ford ] he’s accepted their relationship is beyond detrimental to his goals and from now on has decided to take a more practical approach. bailey is a weapons dealer in his mind and though there are lingering feelings, rowan refuses to let himself act upon them much less voice any interest upon his return trip from the states. funny how time grants clarity.

it seems there’s always Atrius . [ @atrius-trower ]

truthfully he’d thought atrius was nothing more than a brief source of entertainment. eventually the man became something of a thorn in his side and now rowan could frankly care less if the man wants bailey, art, or a job cleaning up messes. he’s been neatly filed away as an asset in rowan’s mind and one that he is fully intent on manipulating should the need arise in the future. sacrificing his relationship with bailey (and the clusterfuck of emotions that comes with it) is a small price to pay to have a pawn under his thumb now that he knows precisely where to apply the right amount of pressure.

the other thorn is James . [ @jamesblackbl ]

while friendly on the surface, rowan actually mistrusts the royals assassin. wanting to appear better in charlotte’s eyes, james is something of competition in his mind as much as a hurdle to overcome. training endlessly with his gun and he’s shown up by some idiot with a knife? you’d be a little bitter too. but rowan is good at smiling and putting on a nice show. his plans for taking more power put them inevitably at odds in the grand scheme of things in rowan’s mind, especially if the time comes where an opportunity presents itself where he can overthrow charlotte. either way, his mistrust goes hand in hand with a healthy amount of respect.

they’d be best friends, Victoria and him . [ @victoria-saint ]

see before rowan had the taste for power, he wasn’t all bad, not really, and he actually quite enjoys victoria’s company. they’re evenly matched as far as wit and sarcasm goes. rowan hides his care for her in the mocking tone for her attire and is actually quite protective of the other socialite believing her to merely be innocent in the war going on behind the scenes. more than a few times he’s contemplated going to regis to make some kind of deal to guarantee she stays safe knowing that everything has a way of getting worse before it gets better. no matter what though, through some strange twist, she is somehow the closest person he considers a friend that doesn’t know what he does beyond merely be a pretty face.

then along came a surprise with Mirabelle . [ @mirabellexvincent ]

rowan didn’t expect to enjoy the woman’s company so much, but when she was trying to avoid a date gone sour who was he to not play the knight in shining armor. a few drinks and now rowan is curious as to where his drinking partner went. either way he’s almost certain she dodged a bullet with the meathead of a man that’d been tailing her. her number is one of the few he’s kept in his phone and one he fully intends on using from here on should he need to call in a favor.

this inevitably led to the events prior to the auction and rowan’s further spiral in the absence of either ella or ares to stop him. in his job, he has grown accustomed to the notion of using sex as a weapon (power is everything and what better way than to use their heart against them). with straight men it lends him power over them through blackmail, with people that care about him well they’re in his pocket and easy to manipulate as long as they’re happy. with men he falls back to the method of using sex while with women he knows that something so crude won’t really work. he goes through the effort of befriending them, sinking in his claws with a pleasant smile and an offer of a shoulder to cry upon if they need him.

a surprise came in the brief entertainment with Philippe . [ @philippexlinwood ]

see, rowan knows where charlotte is weakest only through carefully watching and keeping a close eye on things. without ares and ella to reign him back, well, of course his next plan of attack was to unsettle philippe and leave him on shaky ground. easy enough to do when the auction was all about making a grand show of things. nothing is quite as satisfying seeing philippe, the royals second in command, so unsettled and caught off guard by his advances. rowan plays at being genuine, showing coy eyes and a sweet smile, and in truth he wants nothing more than to watch him fall to pieces as charlotte’s empire comes slowly crumbling down.

with the auction ending early for him, prize in hand, rowan had no idea of the events that transpired (only later did he applaud it alone with a bottle of dalmore because what better way to set everyone off guard than to create chaos). he came with one goal and that was to displace suspicion as to his recent behavior. well, that and to play the part of a good little terrible socialite causing a scandal.

said scandal came in the form of Noah . [ @noah-carlisle ]

oh how his family was less than pleased by the tabloids seeing him walking side by side with the thug of a man. they’d probably be turning red if they knew noah was one of the rare few he dragged to bed time and time again. there is a little bit of an underhanded reasoning for his picking noah though, and it lays solely with the fact he is charlotte’s bodyguard. over time, rowan came to appreciate how easy it was to relax and let noah fuck him into the sheets over and over and over until he was boneless and satisfied. no words, no emotions, no ties. though rowan is more than a little fond of the surly asshole. of course, it means he’s more than aware of noah’s strengths and has slowly been thinking of how best to use it to his advantage. it also means he has a safe harbor to turn to and with that comes some affection on his part.

for now, he’s a good lay and that’s enough to keep rowan pleased.

then his world was upturned by the resurgence of Ares . [ @waronares ]

following his return to the states, who else would find him than one of his wayward trio. one of the few people he is unshakably loyal to, ares only had to call him to have him back on the next flight to the UK. with enough money to cover up an upsets, rowan has paid his dues to the King to keep ares’ head out of the man’s sights. there’s something oddly soothing seeing the other man as much of a mess as him. it’s not a lot, but it’s something, and all the time apart counts for nothing because it means they’re one step closer together. rowan loves him just as much as ella and owes a lot to him (especially early on when he was shit at fighting -- he still is honestly and that’s the main reason he prefers surprise or a sniper rifle -- and ares saved his ass more than once) so there’s almost nothing that he won’t do for him. rowan doesn’t have a name for his feelings when it comes to ares but everyone just assumes they’re brothers so it’s good enough for him for now. all he knows is that he feels safest with him and now that he’s back, even just bandaging the stupid asshole’s wounds, he’s finally home.

[chevaliant-blog]