Sebastian Stan One Shots

stupid, sad, and lots of kissing

written may 30th, 2017

A knock on my door startles me from my self-loathing.
"Hold on." I fret, standing to run to the desk across the room. The top drawer holds bandaids, and the razor's home is stuck to a piece of tape on the underside of the wood. "Come in." I have my back to the door as I bandage my bleeding arm.

"What is this?" Sebastian exclaims as he bursts through the door, his voice echoing through the almost-empty room.

"Wha-" I turn around and pull my sleeve down simultaneously to see what caused this uncharacteristic fit. "Don't yell." He should know better.

"I'm sorry," He says after a moment, quieter now, and takes a step toward me. "But Ash, I found this and—and I'm worried about you." He holds something up—a small, orange notebook.

"Yes?" Of course I recognize it. Yet I try to sound nonchalant, though I can feel blood trickling down my wrist from the hasty bandaging.

Seb moves to the bed and takes a seat on the edge. "I read it."

My head immediately swells with fear and mortification and sadness and anger. I take a step towards him. "That's mine."

A look of guilt shadows across his face, but disappears just as quickly. "I just want to talk,"

"That's what people say when the last thing they want to do is communicate," I fume, clenching my fists.

Sebastian takes a deep breath and sets the notebook down next to him. "We can do this one way or another," he says calmly. "Please, just—" but he stops himself, eyes closing. "Come here."

I cross my arms over my chest. I want nothing to do with him right now, and it's not even his fault. It's my fault for writing those things in my notebook.

"Can you give me a minute." I whisper, not trusting myself to say it louder. Tears are coming to my eyes, the embarrassment washing over me.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice cracking, as he stands. He walks briskly past me and out the door. I only find solace in the face that he closed it behind him.

I walk to the bed and pick up the orange journal, caressing its cover. So many secrets within, so much pain, so much ardor.

fear is a strong motivator; so is attraction.

my own voice plagues me. fear of speaking my mind, fear of rejection, what people might say. i dream of his arms, enveloping me. his lips, caressing my neck. his fingertips, cascading down my back.

his love, true and full of passion.

but why would someone like him, with eyes like his and a jawline like his and hair like his and a body like his and him—why would he love me like that?

as an asexual, i'm not interested in intimate roughness; rather, i would rather lay in bed and press my body against his and feel his sleeping breath tickle my ear. but even in that gray area, between a friendship and a romantic relationship, what would he see in me?

i'm all about the mind and his thoughts, but when mine are violated daily by temptation of self mutilation, the only logical conclusion is that he would want nothing to do with me.

And he read it.

And now I feel like I'll lose him, like he's slipping away from me because I wrote those stupid things. It was probably just a crush anyway.

"Come back." I whisper, sinking onto the place he sat on my bed. "I need you." My voice bounces back to me, the words cutting to my ears. I know he didn't hear me, but I still want him. "Please."