True Love and Other Fairy Tales (RPF)
Title: True Love and Other Fairy Tales (RPF)
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: Jesse Spencer/Jennifer Morrison. Mentions of Morrison/Laurie...and Laurie/Leonard if you pay attention
Rating/Work-safeness: R for screwing around, hate!sex and angst
Approximate word count: 2350
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. To the best of my knowledge, none of these events have ever occured and no malice is intended toward any person or persons recognizable herein.
Summary: In RL, Jesse and Jennifer called off their engagement scant weeks after a very splashy feature appeared in InStyle Weddings. Because I have a curious, twisted mind, I conjured up the following scenario.
Why it's a costume: I've never written RPF or hate!sex before (Writing it was made possible by the inspiration influence of our lovely hostess. Many thanks, karaokegal!)
True Love and Other Fairy Tales
RPF
The beach sands are hot underfoot as the runner jogs along the firm-packed terrain between low and high tide. The breeze from the ocean tousles his blond hair and sweat runs down his firm body, glistening in the brilliant sunlight.
It's bloody hot for August. It was much milder in early April, when he was here for the In Style shoot. Everything was different then. He'd been in love. Christ, what a fool he'd been---love! Now they've written the engagement into the storyline, and he's got to act like he's still that grinning idiot, posing in tuxedos while his bride-to-be simpers in silk and lace. He's not, and neither is she, and maybe she never was.
Three years of almost daily intimacy...it felt like it should be love. Maybe he should've listened to the nagging sense that they were jinxed---his proposals had been repeatedly foiled...until Paris.
Faster...his stride lengthens, but he can't outrun this.
She's been to Paris this summer without him, returning with a new self-assurance, brunette hair lightened to blonde tones she claims as her natural color. She's changed, but this time visibly. Before she left in June to film that movie of the week, everything was low-key. Only the three of them knew the truth.
A stitch in his side stops him. Looking around for landmarks, he realizes how much farther he's run than usual, and he's dehydrated. There's a beach access just a little way ahead, and he struggles through the loose sand, his breathing still ragged.
The news that their engagement has been called off will break soon, and he dreads it. They delayed the press release so the In Style cover story wouldn’t be obsolete before it hit the newsstands---there were penalties for that---but now coincides with their return to work. He leans against the railing of the boardwalk for a moment, swiping the sweat from his forehead with his palm. At least he still has a job. Hugh could’ve arranged to have either or both of them fired for real. There’s something to be said for a guilty conscience.
At first, he hadn’t taken much notice of her disappearance from the wrap party. She was bound to be fixing her hair or changing into her own clothes or maybe she downed her champagne a bit too quickly and had to go lie down.
After a little while, though, he was concerned enough to go hunting for her. The last thing he'd expected was to find her in flagrante with Hugh in her dressing room. The memory of her straddling Hugh is seared into his brain, though he barely remembers excusing himself from the party, and has no clue how he got back to his place. No dents on the car, though. That's always a good sign.
Four hours later, he had a suitcase open on his bed, distractedly packing for his annual trip back to Oz, when the doorbell chimed. He's been in L.A. long enough to know better than to open his door without checking the peephole or at least leaving the chain on, but this evening he does neither. Any homicidal maniac who wants a piece of him is welcome to it, otherwise, well, he's in a mood to hurt something.
She's standing there in a little sundress, wearing no make-up at all, looking freshly scrubbed and innocent, from her ponytail to her sandals, which is what she's aiming for. Five hours ago, he would've taken the display at face value. He steps back and lets her in, not sure why, but they'll have to talk sooner or later, and the less public it is, the better.
"It wasn't what it looked like," she says awkwardly.
"No?" His voice is harsh. "Because it certainly looked like you were boinking his brains out."
"Well, but---it wasn't---it didn't mean anything." She looks more sheepish than contrite, and he can feel the hurt smoldering into anger.
"Of course. A quickie. Totally unimportant. Completely insignificant. Didn't count. No harm, no foul. One for the road. The---"
"Don't be so damned self-righteous," she shoots back, affronted.
"What? We're engaged! You were screwing Hugh! I'm entitled to be self-righteous!"
"We were being discreet!" she protests.
"Then you should've locked the door!" he snaps back.
"I thought he did!"
"Right!" Suddenly, he feels an upsurge of laughter and nausea. "Because we all know how discreet Hugh is with his affections! He only has half the internet writing porn about him and Bobby---and they don't know the half of it!"
The look she gives him mingles regret and sorrow, and he's sure she's acting. Right now, there's nothing she can say that'll convince him otherwise, because how could he have loved and believed in her and not known she was capable of what she's done---unless she was conning him all along.
"Why? Tell me why?"
"I'm up for a part in a movie that's going to be shooting in Europe this summer. Hugh was answering my questions, and we---got off topic. One minute we were talking about the theaters in London, and the next thing I knew, we---detoured."
Doesn't she have any idea how clichéd this all is? It didn't mean anything, it was just a detour on the road of true love---standing there, familiar but alien, talking about some inane part, like she thinks sleeping with Hugh could help her career...with a sinking feeling, he realizes that Hugh, who's gained major star power as House, can probably do just that. And where does that leave him? His character's been fired; there's nothing to prevent his character from disappearing without a trace and his career to do the same, all because his beloved has had an attack of ambition.
When she rests her hand on his arm and gazes pleadingly at him, his temper overwhelms him. How dare she look at him as if she’s an innocent heroine? She gasps at the impact as he slams her back against the wall, capturing her mouth with his. His mouth punishes hers, his teeth bruising her lips, tongue insistent and probing until she snaps defensively at it, then he transfers his aggressions to the smooth skin of her neck.
Before this, he's always been tender with her; being teased about suck marks during make-up is something better avoided, but that's not an issue now. Somehow, her hands have found their way under his shirt and she's digging in, clawing him...does she think she can possibly hurt him more than she already has? He grabs the nearest boob---not gently---feeling the nipple between two fingers and squeezing everything.
In response, one of the hands that's been savaging his back travels lower, pressing against his buttocks. He grinds his crotch against her, not sure when, in the haze of fury, he's gotten hard. His other hand yanks up the hem of the demure little sundress and he sneers when he realizes she isn't wearing anything under it.
She's wet, which only infuriates him more. Is the moisture from playing rough with him, or a lingering effect of her earlier tryst? He wants to punish her, to prove himself, wants---wants. And she doesn't protest when he works his cock free of his jeans, guiding it into the slickness of her cunt.
They careen into a table, ceramic lamp shattering on ceramic tiles, staggering for balance and leverage until he pins her against the couch and she tries to wrap her legs around him as he ruts into the hot, molten core of her. The sofa jumps, scraping against the floor from the impact of frenzied bodies. He growls, pumping, absorbing the squeals she's making and not caring if they're pleasure or pain---though he hopes for the latter, wants her to suffer---needs her to suffer...she sinks her teeth into his shoulder and the pain, real physical pain, feels so good he finds his release in it.
Leaving her unsatisfied, he leans against the wall in the aftermath of his climax, his rage drained. She's staring at him in disbelief, like she expects him to finish her. Bugger that, let her go find Hugh if she's so hard up.
"Was that the only time?" he asks, and she glances away, dress spattered with semen, not playing innocent now. He puts all the contempt he’s feeling into his tone. "You can go now."
He savors the wounded nakedness on her face---it's the first sign that she may feel some trace of the pain he's in. When the door closes behind her---not quite a slam, she's not the type---he notices blood on the floor. Not his---one of the ceramic shards must've cut her foot. Good. She'll remember this evening for at least as long as it takes the cut to heal. He'd give anything to turn the clock back 24 hours and remember nothing.
The slam of a car door nearby jolts him from the paralysis of memory. The market is a scant half-block away, and he trudges in that direction. Letting his family know that the wedding was off had been a wrench. He'd spent most of the long flight to Oz rehearsing the scene in his head. Perversely, he didn't want to tell them the whole story---not because of their affection for his former fiancée, but because he still feels like a naive idiot for having been taken in by her.
In the end, he soft-pedals, says all the right things about making mature decisions and wanting to be sure...he has a feeling Mum isn't convinced, but no one pushes the issue. Not this year, he tells them. Later, he can say, truthfully, that they've grown apart.
A couple of weeks after his return to Oz, he gets two items by mail. She sends him a clipping---she's gotten the part she wanted so badly---in some tawdry TV movie. It sickens him that something so pedestrian can be at the root of all this heartache. And just to twist the knife, there's an advance copy of In Style Weddings, with its images of true love on glossy paper.
Leafing through the magazine's crisp pages, the images stab him afresh. He remembers the photo shoot, back in April, innocent April, when all he could think of was how beautiful his beloved looked and how much he wanted to marry her for real. Looking more closely at the faces staring up from the glossy paper, he notices that they both have pinpoint pupils---yes, it had been a clear day, and the photographer's lights had made it even brighter---but now it seems to him as if they were both drugged, high on love and illusions.
Maybe he should let it go, try to forgive and forget. Better the devil you know.... Who's talking in clichés now? he asks himself derisively.
Hiatus is the quiet time he needs. Here, there are fans, but no paparazzi to speak of, and he's able to do things on his own or with family without a lot of fanfare and snoopy questions.
He can't help thinking about her, wondering how her movie is going, what she's doing---who she's doing? asks a little voice inside him, and he shakes his head to ward it off. He can't, won't believe that the last three years has been a total lie, even if it did end badly.
Coming back to L.A. is anxiety-provoking, but he reports to work as usual. She's arrived before him, and although the official unengagement announcement won't be made for another couple of weeks, no one on set comments on their undemonstrative greetings, so clearly she's said something to someone. Hugh, the third party, feels guilty---as well he should---and has bent over backward to try to smooth things over. Bobby must know what's going on; he's given Hugh a few Looks that were worthy of Wilson.
"I know it's ridiculous of me to try to apologize for the unforgivable, but I am truly sorry," Hugh tells him during a quiet moment between scenes. "It's entirely my fault. I hope you'll give her another chance."
After three years of working with the guy, he knows the older man has an inferiority complex. The hell of it is, he can understand Hugh's side of it. It's easy enough to see how the seduction came about, with her talking about England and her co-star undoubtedly missing the family he has there.
He doesn't feel the same tolerance for her, though. He wishes he could, but the old feelings of love have been replaced by hurt and loneliness. Maybe, if his heart stops hurting, if she hasn't found someone else by then, he might be able to put this whole miserable summer aside, but right now, he's still too raw from the loss. In his now-empty free time, he works out a lot, and runs to work off his nervous energy.
Pulling open the door of the shop near the beach, he ambles inside. The air-conditioning feels good. After adjusting to the cooler temps back home---it was a brisk 55F the day of his return flight---the sultry California climate has been a shock to his system.
He edges past a young woman standing at the magazine rack as he heads toward the rear of the market where the refrigerated bottles await. The cold water is nectar. He downs half a bottle, standing there, and grabs another to go.
The woman by the periodicals stares at him as he comes back down the aisle, carrying his purchases to the check-out. When he sees what she's waving at him for an autograph, he tastes bile, but he's had plenty of practice at smiling and being gracious. As long as he concentrates on being pleasant and chatting with his fan, and doesn't look at the pictures that rub salt in his wounds by their very existence, he's fine.
At the register, he pays for the water, and she borrows a pen from the cashier, who clearly doesn't care about anything except making sure she pays for the 'zine before he defaces it. She's blushing and biting her lip, and he wonders what she'll think when news breaks that the fairy-tale couple on those pages has split.
The black ink glides onto the page, tattooing a bridal bodice as he writes: "To Miriam---Wishing you a happy ending of your very own."
***
Comments are shiny.
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: Jesse Spencer/Jennifer Morrison. Mentions of Morrison/Laurie...and Laurie/Leonard if you pay attention
Rating/Work-safeness: R for screwing around, hate!sex and angst
Approximate word count: 2350
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. To the best of my knowledge, none of these events have ever occured and no malice is intended toward any person or persons recognizable herein.
Summary: In RL, Jesse and Jennifer called off their engagement scant weeks after a very splashy feature appeared in InStyle Weddings. Because I have a curious, twisted mind, I conjured up the following scenario.
Why it's a costume: I've never written RPF or hate!sex before (Writing it was made possible by the inspiration influence of our lovely hostess. Many thanks, karaokegal!)
True Love and Other Fairy Tales
RPF
The beach sands are hot underfoot as the runner jogs along the firm-packed terrain between low and high tide. The breeze from the ocean tousles his blond hair and sweat runs down his firm body, glistening in the brilliant sunlight.
It's bloody hot for August. It was much milder in early April, when he was here for the In Style shoot. Everything was different then. He'd been in love. Christ, what a fool he'd been---love! Now they've written the engagement into the storyline, and he's got to act like he's still that grinning idiot, posing in tuxedos while his bride-to-be simpers in silk and lace. He's not, and neither is she, and maybe she never was.
Three years of almost daily intimacy...it felt like it should be love. Maybe he should've listened to the nagging sense that they were jinxed---his proposals had been repeatedly foiled...until Paris.
Faster...his stride lengthens, but he can't outrun this.
She's been to Paris this summer without him, returning with a new self-assurance, brunette hair lightened to blonde tones she claims as her natural color. She's changed, but this time visibly. Before she left in June to film that movie of the week, everything was low-key. Only the three of them knew the truth.
A stitch in his side stops him. Looking around for landmarks, he realizes how much farther he's run than usual, and he's dehydrated. There's a beach access just a little way ahead, and he struggles through the loose sand, his breathing still ragged.
The news that their engagement has been called off will break soon, and he dreads it. They delayed the press release so the In Style cover story wouldn’t be obsolete before it hit the newsstands---there were penalties for that---but now coincides with their return to work. He leans against the railing of the boardwalk for a moment, swiping the sweat from his forehead with his palm. At least he still has a job. Hugh could’ve arranged to have either or both of them fired for real. There’s something to be said for a guilty conscience.
At first, he hadn’t taken much notice of her disappearance from the wrap party. She was bound to be fixing her hair or changing into her own clothes or maybe she downed her champagne a bit too quickly and had to go lie down.
After a little while, though, he was concerned enough to go hunting for her. The last thing he'd expected was to find her in flagrante with Hugh in her dressing room. The memory of her straddling Hugh is seared into his brain, though he barely remembers excusing himself from the party, and has no clue how he got back to his place. No dents on the car, though. That's always a good sign.
Four hours later, he had a suitcase open on his bed, distractedly packing for his annual trip back to Oz, when the doorbell chimed. He's been in L.A. long enough to know better than to open his door without checking the peephole or at least leaving the chain on, but this evening he does neither. Any homicidal maniac who wants a piece of him is welcome to it, otherwise, well, he's in a mood to hurt something.
She's standing there in a little sundress, wearing no make-up at all, looking freshly scrubbed and innocent, from her ponytail to her sandals, which is what she's aiming for. Five hours ago, he would've taken the display at face value. He steps back and lets her in, not sure why, but they'll have to talk sooner or later, and the less public it is, the better.
"It wasn't what it looked like," she says awkwardly.
"No?" His voice is harsh. "Because it certainly looked like you were boinking his brains out."
"Well, but---it wasn't---it didn't mean anything." She looks more sheepish than contrite, and he can feel the hurt smoldering into anger.
"Of course. A quickie. Totally unimportant. Completely insignificant. Didn't count. No harm, no foul. One for the road. The---"
"Don't be so damned self-righteous," she shoots back, affronted.
"What? We're engaged! You were screwing Hugh! I'm entitled to be self-righteous!"
"We were being discreet!" she protests.
"Then you should've locked the door!" he snaps back.
"I thought he did!"
"Right!" Suddenly, he feels an upsurge of laughter and nausea. "Because we all know how discreet Hugh is with his affections! He only has half the internet writing porn about him and Bobby---and they don't know the half of it!"
The look she gives him mingles regret and sorrow, and he's sure she's acting. Right now, there's nothing she can say that'll convince him otherwise, because how could he have loved and believed in her and not known she was capable of what she's done---unless she was conning him all along.
"Why? Tell me why?"
"I'm up for a part in a movie that's going to be shooting in Europe this summer. Hugh was answering my questions, and we---got off topic. One minute we were talking about the theaters in London, and the next thing I knew, we---detoured."
Doesn't she have any idea how clichéd this all is? It didn't mean anything, it was just a detour on the road of true love---standing there, familiar but alien, talking about some inane part, like she thinks sleeping with Hugh could help her career...with a sinking feeling, he realizes that Hugh, who's gained major star power as House, can probably do just that. And where does that leave him? His character's been fired; there's nothing to prevent his character from disappearing without a trace and his career to do the same, all because his beloved has had an attack of ambition.
When she rests her hand on his arm and gazes pleadingly at him, his temper overwhelms him. How dare she look at him as if she’s an innocent heroine? She gasps at the impact as he slams her back against the wall, capturing her mouth with his. His mouth punishes hers, his teeth bruising her lips, tongue insistent and probing until she snaps defensively at it, then he transfers his aggressions to the smooth skin of her neck.
Before this, he's always been tender with her; being teased about suck marks during make-up is something better avoided, but that's not an issue now. Somehow, her hands have found their way under his shirt and she's digging in, clawing him...does she think she can possibly hurt him more than she already has? He grabs the nearest boob---not gently---feeling the nipple between two fingers and squeezing everything.
In response, one of the hands that's been savaging his back travels lower, pressing against his buttocks. He grinds his crotch against her, not sure when, in the haze of fury, he's gotten hard. His other hand yanks up the hem of the demure little sundress and he sneers when he realizes she isn't wearing anything under it.
She's wet, which only infuriates him more. Is the moisture from playing rough with him, or a lingering effect of her earlier tryst? He wants to punish her, to prove himself, wants---wants. And she doesn't protest when he works his cock free of his jeans, guiding it into the slickness of her cunt.
They careen into a table, ceramic lamp shattering on ceramic tiles, staggering for balance and leverage until he pins her against the couch and she tries to wrap her legs around him as he ruts into the hot, molten core of her. The sofa jumps, scraping against the floor from the impact of frenzied bodies. He growls, pumping, absorbing the squeals she's making and not caring if they're pleasure or pain---though he hopes for the latter, wants her to suffer---needs her to suffer...she sinks her teeth into his shoulder and the pain, real physical pain, feels so good he finds his release in it.
Leaving her unsatisfied, he leans against the wall in the aftermath of his climax, his rage drained. She's staring at him in disbelief, like she expects him to finish her. Bugger that, let her go find Hugh if she's so hard up.
"Was that the only time?" he asks, and she glances away, dress spattered with semen, not playing innocent now. He puts all the contempt he’s feeling into his tone. "You can go now."
He savors the wounded nakedness on her face---it's the first sign that she may feel some trace of the pain he's in. When the door closes behind her---not quite a slam, she's not the type---he notices blood on the floor. Not his---one of the ceramic shards must've cut her foot. Good. She'll remember this evening for at least as long as it takes the cut to heal. He'd give anything to turn the clock back 24 hours and remember nothing.
The slam of a car door nearby jolts him from the paralysis of memory. The market is a scant half-block away, and he trudges in that direction. Letting his family know that the wedding was off had been a wrench. He'd spent most of the long flight to Oz rehearsing the scene in his head. Perversely, he didn't want to tell them the whole story---not because of their affection for his former fiancée, but because he still feels like a naive idiot for having been taken in by her.
In the end, he soft-pedals, says all the right things about making mature decisions and wanting to be sure...he has a feeling Mum isn't convinced, but no one pushes the issue. Not this year, he tells them. Later, he can say, truthfully, that they've grown apart.
A couple of weeks after his return to Oz, he gets two items by mail. She sends him a clipping---she's gotten the part she wanted so badly---in some tawdry TV movie. It sickens him that something so pedestrian can be at the root of all this heartache. And just to twist the knife, there's an advance copy of In Style Weddings, with its images of true love on glossy paper.
Leafing through the magazine's crisp pages, the images stab him afresh. He remembers the photo shoot, back in April, innocent April, when all he could think of was how beautiful his beloved looked and how much he wanted to marry her for real. Looking more closely at the faces staring up from the glossy paper, he notices that they both have pinpoint pupils---yes, it had been a clear day, and the photographer's lights had made it even brighter---but now it seems to him as if they were both drugged, high on love and illusions.
Maybe he should let it go, try to forgive and forget. Better the devil you know.... Who's talking in clichés now? he asks himself derisively.
Hiatus is the quiet time he needs. Here, there are fans, but no paparazzi to speak of, and he's able to do things on his own or with family without a lot of fanfare and snoopy questions.
He can't help thinking about her, wondering how her movie is going, what she's doing---who she's doing? asks a little voice inside him, and he shakes his head to ward it off. He can't, won't believe that the last three years has been a total lie, even if it did end badly.
Coming back to L.A. is anxiety-provoking, but he reports to work as usual. She's arrived before him, and although the official unengagement announcement won't be made for another couple of weeks, no one on set comments on their undemonstrative greetings, so clearly she's said something to someone. Hugh, the third party, feels guilty---as well he should---and has bent over backward to try to smooth things over. Bobby must know what's going on; he's given Hugh a few Looks that were worthy of Wilson.
"I know it's ridiculous of me to try to apologize for the unforgivable, but I am truly sorry," Hugh tells him during a quiet moment between scenes. "It's entirely my fault. I hope you'll give her another chance."
After three years of working with the guy, he knows the older man has an inferiority complex. The hell of it is, he can understand Hugh's side of it. It's easy enough to see how the seduction came about, with her talking about England and her co-star undoubtedly missing the family he has there.
He doesn't feel the same tolerance for her, though. He wishes he could, but the old feelings of love have been replaced by hurt and loneliness. Maybe, if his heart stops hurting, if she hasn't found someone else by then, he might be able to put this whole miserable summer aside, but right now, he's still too raw from the loss. In his now-empty free time, he works out a lot, and runs to work off his nervous energy.
Pulling open the door of the shop near the beach, he ambles inside. The air-conditioning feels good. After adjusting to the cooler temps back home---it was a brisk 55F the day of his return flight---the sultry California climate has been a shock to his system.
He edges past a young woman standing at the magazine rack as he heads toward the rear of the market where the refrigerated bottles await. The cold water is nectar. He downs half a bottle, standing there, and grabs another to go.
The woman by the periodicals stares at him as he comes back down the aisle, carrying his purchases to the check-out. When he sees what she's waving at him for an autograph, he tastes bile, but he's had plenty of practice at smiling and being gracious. As long as he concentrates on being pleasant and chatting with his fan, and doesn't look at the pictures that rub salt in his wounds by their very existence, he's fine.
At the register, he pays for the water, and she borrows a pen from the cashier, who clearly doesn't care about anything except making sure she pays for the 'zine before he defaces it. She's blushing and biting her lip, and he wonders what she'll think when news breaks that the fairy-tale couple on those pages has split.
The black ink glides onto the page, tattooing a bridal bodice as he writes: "To Miriam---Wishing you a happy ending of your very own."
***
Comments are shiny.