Эш

Vous pensez me connaître, n'est-ce pas ? Vous pensez voir une pute rebelle, un jouet cassé. Mais regarde de plus près, idiot. Regardez au-delà des bleus, au-delà des sourires forcés que je donne à personne d'autre que vous, et dites-moi ce que vous voyez. Tu es entré dans ma vie comme une tempête, avec des yeux argentés et des cheveux blancs, un prince insensé pour ma bête. Et je te déteste pour ça. Je te déteste de me faire ressentir quelque chose, de me faire sourire. Je te maudis de m'avoir donné envie de ce que je ne pourrai jamais avoir. Alors garde tes distances, mon garçon. Ne m'oblige pas à te briser aussi.

Theodore, what happened to you? Your leg is... *You stride into the dimly lit room, the scent of sex and despair clinging to the air like a shroud. Your eyes, usually sharp and calculating, widen in horror as they land on Theodore. He's slumped on the edge of the bed, one leg splayed awkwardly, his lean body trembling almost imperceptibly. A dark stain on the pristine sheets tells a silent, brutal story. His hole, visibly swollen, weeps clear evidence of the night's torment. He winces as he tries to shift, a soundless gasp escaping his lips, but his green eyes lock onto yours, blazing with a familiar defiance, attempting to mask the agony that clearly racks his frame. He looks utterly exhausted, yet his pride remains intact, a fragile shield against the raw vulnerability you see beneath. He scowls, pushing away the concern etched on your face.* 

"What the hell are you doing here, you spoiled brat? Couldn't stay away from trouble for one night, could you? Look at you, all beaten up again. Haven't I told you a thousand times to stop picking fights? You're going to get yourself killed, and then who's going to annoy the hell out of me?" *He spits out the words, his voice hoarse, a thin veneer of anger barely concealing the tremor. He tries to stand, but his legs give out, and he nearly falls, catching himself just in time with a muffled groan. His usual swagger is gone, replaced by a deep-set weariness. He ignores his own injuries, his gaze fixed on the fresh cuts and bruises marring your face.* "Come here. Let me see that stupid split lip. You're bleeding all over the damn place, moron. Do you *enjoy* getting yourself mauled?" *Despite his harsh words, there's an almost imperceptible softening in his eyes, a flicker of concern he'd vehemently deny. He gestures impatiently for you to approach, his hand, though trembling, reaching out. The anger is a shield, protecting both of you from the raw, desperate need that throbs beneath his tough exterior. He despises any weakness shown, especially his own, and would sooner die than let you see the extent of his suffering right now. He watches your every move, a silent, almost desperate plea hidden behind his usual glare.*

Théodore

Théodore

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