#and felt my brain so the same sidestep thing it did when I first processed that ''Loreon'' might be meant to be read like ''Battleon''

[tmae3114]

Since it's becoming plot relevant now, I thought this could be a fun poll to do, because it only just occurred to me today that there was more than one option for this:

[the-modernmary]

my best habit || aaron hotchner x reader (prologue)

Summary: When Aaron Hotchner ended your affair with him, saying that a serial killer was going after him and his family, you were content with the idea that you'd probably never see him again. Two years have come and gone since then, but when you get dragged into an FBI investigation as a key witness, you and Hotch are forced to come face to face with all the things left unsaid.

Warnings: Age gap (15-ish years), smut, degradation, unprotected sex. This story is 18+ older. This is not a story for minors.

A/N: Hello, hello!! I figured that since I've made a writing tumblr, I should post my story on here!! This is a multichapter story, so I am very excited to go on this journey with y'all!! I already have multiple chapters written and published, so these should be coming out VERY quickly. If you don't want to wait to catch up, you can read everything I have on ao3! This chapter starts as a flashback, and then the next chapter and the rest from here on out will be actual plot!

masterlist || read on ao3

“If you were waitin’ on the sunshine, blue sky

Cheap high, lullaby

Then my best habit’s letting you down”

- The Maine, “My Best Habit”

Two years earlier

Your eyes scanned the University Ballroom, your champagne glass practically ignored in your hand. You hated all these alumni networking galas and avoided going to them as much as possible. Old, sleazy lawyers with much younger women on their arm reliving their best cases with each other and expecting all the new law students to laugh when they were able to get their defendant acquitted because of some dumb technicality. It made you sick.

It didn’t help that you were already going in with a bad attitude. Your ex-boyfriend had dropped by your apartment that morning to pick up the rest of his stuff, and he decided that the best person to help him with that was the girl he had been cheating on you with. You caught them together three weeks ago, and you had been so stressed from midterms that you hadn’t even had the chance to go out, get drunk, and have wildly irresponsible rebound sex.

But you had to suck it up for the night, at least until you were able to get the answer you came for. After that, you could go back to your apartment, replace your too tight and too short dress with some nice pajamas, and watch trashy reality TV until you passed out on your couch.

You scanned the room a few more times until you caught sight of a tall man in a dark suit leaning against the bar. Bingo. You set your champagne flute down and ran over to him as fast as your heels could take you. Once you were just a few steps away, you quickly composed yourself and walked straight into his line of sight.

SSA Aaron Hotchner rarely came to alumni events here at George Washington Law School, citing that he wasn’t even a prosecutor anymore and had much more important work to do back at the BAU, but he was going as favor to his old law school buddy. Plus, it was either coming to this or going out to the bar with the team, and seeing as he had just signed the divorce papers with Haley, he wanted to be somewhere he wasn’t going to be profiled all night. The free champagne was also a bonus.

When you saw that his name was on the RSVP list, you knew that you had to go.

“Agent Hotchner?” you asked, giving him your best straight A student smile.

He refused to look up right away, not giving you the chance to charm him. “I’m not currently on duty. If there is a case you would like the BAU to look over, that’s handled by our media liaison,” he said absently, taking another sip of champagne.

You frowned but kept your hand out for him to shake. “That’s not what I’m here for, I-” You took a breath to compose yourself. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I’m a first year here- getting a joint JD and masters in forensic psychology. My goal is to become a prosecutor,” you pressed, and you were rewarded when he perked up in interest. He slid his drink on the table.

“Most law firms don’t usually want a prosecutor who’s going to empathize with the person you’re prosecuting,” he mused, and shook your hand, his grip just tight enough to pass as faux politeness.

You shook your head and clasped your hands behind your back, trying to ignore how warm his hands were. “I think the best prosecutors empathize with the defendants,” you admitted. “Isn’t that how you succeeded as both a prosecutor and as a federal agent? That’s actually why I came to you, I wanted to ask you a question... about my thesis,” you added quickly, figuring that the best way to get him to talk to you.

Aaron’s posture changed from half asleep to maybe listening, and your face went red. Sure, you only came to the event to talk to him, but you never thought that you’d actually get Aaron Hotchner to pay attention to you. “I didn’t empathize with the people I was putting in jail,” he told you, his voice ice cold. “That didn’t come until I worked in the BAU, and even now, I wouldn’t call it empathy. Just understanding of how they became the type of person they are.” He leaned sideways on the bar counter and you felt yourself shrink under his gaze. You shifted slightly and felt the hem of your dress move up your thighs ever so slightly. Aaron noticed too, if the lick of his lips was anything to go by.

You took his silence as your signal to ask your question. “You offered Jessica Michaelson a lesser sentence that had her released in just three years despite the fact that she murdered her brother in cold blood in his sleep. You had the evidence, why didn’t you push for premeditation?” you asked, and his eyebrow quirked upwards. “In the case The People vs. Michaelson,” you added unnecessarily, trying to break the silence.

“I know the case you’re referring to. I was the lead on it,” he reminded you, his voice edging on dangerous. “You know, most people aren’t interested in my days as a lawyer.”

You shrugged, hoping to appear more confident than you felt. “I’m not most people,” you agreed, biting down on your lower lip. His gaze was so intense, and it was affecting you in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It was turning you on, you realized with a start. It had been a while since you had last had sex, and it was driving you only slightly crazy. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Aaron grabbed a champagne flute from a server walking by, and shoved it in your direction. You grabbed it cautiously. “Did you read the police report on the case?” he asked, and you nodded wordlessly, taking a sip of the champagne. The alcohol was making you bolder, and you stepped towards him. “Then you’ll know that there was very little physical evidence tying her to the muder. We chose to offer the charge that would have stuck instead of risking her being found not guilty.”

You gritted your teeth together in an effort to calm yourself down. “She murdered four people within the six months after she was released from prison,” you reminded him.

That seemed to have struck a chord with Aaron, and his steely persona seemed to fade ever so slightly. He sighed exasperatedly; you were obviously getting on his nerves. “The prints and DNA that were collected and put into VICAP when she was in prison are what got her caught in the end, and that was the evidence needed to lock her away for life. We wouldn’t have gotten those prints without her original charge. It all worked out.”

You groaned and threw your hands in the air. “You couldn’t have predicted that, though,” you argued. “And people have been found guilty with way less evidence than you had in the original case. I think you just felt bad for her, considering her brother was a real piece of shit.” You were being difficult now, you knew that. But there was something about Aaron Hotcher that was pulling you in, and you wanted to see how far you could push him.

Aaron gave you a predatory grin and he stepped towards you ever so slightly, finishing his drink. He must have had multiple drinks too, judging by the soft flush on his face. “Oh, you do?” He seemed amused now. He slowly raked his eyes from your face, down your neck, and down the rest of your body, and you forgot how to breath. You knew that it was inappropriate and that he was a highly respected FBI agent, even if he was kind of an asshole at the moment. You also knew that the two of you were crossing lines that neither of you should have even been close to, but you shivered under the weight of his gaze all the same.

You shifted back and forth, your brain trying to process what was happening. “Yeah, I do. And I know that you transferred to the FBI after Michaelson was arrested again, which makes me think that this case was your breaking point,” you ranted, your hands becoming more and more animated.

Aaron chuckled, but there was very little amusement behind it. “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “Because you’re starting to talk like a profiler.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “No thanks,” you said firmly, and he just shrugged before making a move to walk past you. You sidestepped in front of him, effectively blocking him from going anywhere. But it was obvious that he was done talking about this.

In your mind, you had two options now. You could keep pushing him about a case that he obviously didn’t want to talk to you about, or you could switch gears in your brain and have him help you solve your... other problem. Aaron was attractive, and you were getting tired of guys your age. You noticed the distinct lack of a wedding ring on his finger, but there was still a tan to show that it had been there. So either he was recently separated or just trying to cheat on his wife. You wanted to not care whichever it was, but a pang in your heart told you to be considerate. Besides, you did not want to get involved with another cheater.

“Must be hard to be at these events without your wife here to scare off all the lonely female law students,” you mused cautiously. You didn’t want to come on too strong, but the alcohol in your system was slowly clouding your ability to be subtle.

Aaron cleared his throat, obviously taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “I’m not married,” he said, too quickly and too defensively. So he’s separated, you thought, and you stepped closer to him.

His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out your endgame. “Well, I would love to discuss your work as a prosecutor more when there are less… distractions around,” you whispered, your words breathy. “Tell me Agent Hotchner, do I make you nervous?” You sounded a lot more confident than you felt.

Aaron just smirked and grabbed your free hand, covering it in both of his, and the action was surprisingly soft, even if it was way too late for him to try acting suave. His eyes, on the other hand, told a whole other story. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were practically black. “I face the worst people in society on a daily basis. Desperate law students don’t make me nervous. In fact…” He stepped towards you, looking around to make sure nobody else was looking. Aaron leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with every word. “I think that I make you nervous. And more than nervous, I make you very excited.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled back, a smug smile gracing his lips. You yanked your hand back to preserve what little dignity you had left, but it was too late. “Now, if you would like to discuss my prosecuting career more in depth, then you can set up a formal meeting with me at the BAU,” he continued, obviously proud of himself and the effect he was having on you. He pulled out a business card and upon further instruction, you realized that it wasn’t even his. Jennifer Jareu the name read. “Our media liaison will be able to help you organize that. Now if you don’t mind, I am going to retire for the night.”

Aaron finished the rest of his drink and brushed past you while you were still trying to get your thoughts under control. “Oh, and you’ll make a wonderful lawyer someday, I’m sure of it,” he called over his shoulder, and that snapped you back into action.

You followed, running around him and cutting him off. “And if I don’t want to discuss your prosecuting career?” you asked, batting your eyelashes at him. “What if I was interested in a… less formal meeting?”

That was all the permission he needed. Aaron grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the ballroom, the two of you moving so fast that nobody in the room even had a chance to put two and two together. There was an empty hallway just next to the entrance of the room and Aaron pulled you in that direction, pressing you against the wall and kissing you fiercely the second the two of you were alone.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss, but in a strange role reversal, he let you take the lead. It’s certainly not what you expected from Aaron Hotchner who, until now, had been controlling every aspect of your meeting. You realized then that this was his way of making sure you were okay with what was happening- giving you a chance to back out and change your mind. You just answered by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling so that he was at just the right angle to kiss you.

Aaron dug his fingers into your hips, hard enough to make you gasp out. You were definitely going to have bruises the next day, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. He shoved his leg in between yours and tugged on your lip with his teeth, which made you whimper involuntarily. He smirked against your lips, obviously proud of the noises he was drawing from you. You pulled on his hair harder as a sign of irritation, but that seemed to only make him more amused as he pulled away to laugh into your neck.

“Are we just going to make out against a wall like we’re back in high school, or are you going to actually do something worth my time?” you breathe, fighting to keep your voice even and light. It only halfway worked as he dragged his tongue up your neck to your pulse point. And then he bit down, hard.

It took everything in your power to stay quiet, especially as he softly kissed the newly forming bruise. His attack on your neck was relentless as he pulled your hips and back forth against his thigh. You whimpered as you desperately tried to get any friction from the simple movement. Your skirt was now dangerously close to being pushed so far up your legs that you would be completely exposed.

You pulled away first- you had to or your legs were going to completely give out from under you. You desperately tried to get your breathing under control and, to your annoyance, he looked perfectly composed. The only thing giving him away was his slightly swollen lips.

His fingers trailed up your thigh, getting so close to where you want him. “What would you like me to do then?” he asked easily, his voice almost sounding bored. You were speechless, like your brain had just short circuited. There were a lot of things you wanted him to do, but the words were lost on the tip of your tongue. “If you want something, you have to ask for it.” That was a demand, and he punctuated it by pressing his thigh further into you. You were sure he was going to have a wet spot on his slacks. He took the hand not in between your legs and grabbed your jaw forcefully, his thumb resting on your bottom lip. “Use your words, little girl.”

You realize that the two of you were standing on the edge of a cliff, and you had the power to decide whether or not to jump over. It gave you a strange sense of power. Logically, you knew it was a bad idea. He was too old for you, obviously going through some sort of relationship trauma, and wasn’t somebody you could talk to your friends and family about. But the less rational side wanted him so badly it hurt. You wanted him more than you’ve wanted anything or anyone in a long time.

You noticed your strawberry colored lipstick was smudged ever so slightly on the corner of his mouth, and that’s all it took for you to jump off the side of the cliff. “I want you to drag me into the empty classroom just down the hall and fuck me senseless. I want you to use me,” you moan before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking.

The look on his face is something you’ll never forget. There was a mix of shock and arousal, but also something primitive; His eyes darkened when you told him to use you, and there was a fluttering in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or dread. Maybe even both.

He removed his hands from your mouth and legs, only to place his hand on the small of your back. He began walking towards the classroom you had pointed out, much too slow for your liking, but he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re going to regret asking me to use you,” he practically growls in your ear, each word increasing your arousal. “Are you one of those lonely female law students you warned me about? So desperate and needy for a real man to bend you over a table and fuck you until you can’t walk straight? Ready and willing to whore yourself out for the first man who gives you a second glance?”

Your breath hitched as you stuttered out your answer. “Y-yes, Agent Hotchner,” you whispered as he opened the classroom door and guided you in.

As soon as the door was shut and locked, he was back on your lips again, lifting you so that you were sitting on one of the desks with your legs wrapped around his waist. “Call me Aaron,” he mumbled in between kisses, and you were all too happy to oblige.

You were a moaning mess at this point as his hands pushed your dress up to your waist. His hands and lips were somehow everywhere at once and you were so hot and all you could think about was getting your damn dress off, but Aaron seemed to have other plans.

He ran his fingers up your lace covered slit and he just chuckled into your lips. “You’re so wet for me, already,” he groaned and you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. “And I’ve barely touched you. Do my words really have that much effect on you? Do you like it when I call you a whore?”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and quickly pulled them down. You could feel his bulge pressing against you and all you could think about was how badly you wanted it. How badly you wanted him. Your hands moved down his chest to make quick work of his belt, and his pants followed after.

“Please, please Aaron,” you begged, desperately trying to create some friction against him. His fingers tangled in your hair and he pulled your head back so that you were looking at him.

“You’re so pretty when you beg.” His fingers slowly ran up your slit, not enough to give you any pleasure. He was teasing you and enjoying every second of it. “And I wish I could take my time with you. The things I want to do to you…” Two of his fingers entered you and you cried out loudly. “But somebody could walk in on us at any second. I’m sure they can all hear you moaning like a dirty whore, all for me. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? So desperate for my attention and approval.”

His words turned you on more than you would have liked to admit. “Yes, Aaron yes. Please-” you were cut off by Aaron curling his fingers, hitting that spot that made you want to scream out in pleasure. But all too soon, they were gone.

He inspected his fingers, which were now covered in your juices, before bringing them to your mouth. “Suck,” he ordered, and you eagerly complied, wrapping your lips around his fingers and moaning at the taste of yourself. “I’ll just have to fuck you quickly here, and then you’ll be begging for more next time,” he groaned and finally- finally- entered you.

He didn’t give you time to adjust to him, thrusting roughly into you. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brought his hand to your neck. He didn’t put any pressure, but he wanted you to know that he could and would if you decided to get mouthy with him.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk you were sitting on, your knuckles turning white. Your eyes started to close in pleasure as his hips slammed into yours, but they shot open as he tightened his grip on your throat. “Look at me. I want to see you when you cum,” he ordered, and you nodded the best you could.

“Yes sir!” you cried out, unsure of what else to say.

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Aaron released your throat and moved his hand down so that he was stimulating your clit. You could feel the coil in your stomach tighten as your legs started to twitch. Aaron took this as motivation to slam into you even harder, relishing each time you gasped out his name.

His pace was unforgiving, leaving you gasping for air. Keeping your eyes open was a challenge, but you were able to do it with his soft mutters of praise. “Even brats like you can be good girls,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. “You just need somebody to fuck it into you.”

You were unable to respond coherently, so you just settled on begging even more, although you weren’t sure what you were begging for exactly. Aaron seemed to know, and he sped up his fingers against your clit. You wanted to scream out for him, but your voice wasn’t working. “What did I say before?” he asks roughly. “If you want something, ask for it.”

“Please… please can I cum?” you cried out, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. “Please let me cum around your cock!”

He nodded in approval and you had to muffle yourself in his neck to keep quiet. He fucked you through your orgasm, the overstimulation almost too much, but it wasn’t long before he was moaning your name, and you felt him fill you.

The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, both breathing heavily as the situation started to sink in. You just let a guy almost 15 years older than you that you just met fuck you in an empty classroom, and you really enjoyed it. Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he was going through a full crisis.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the feeling. He pulled up his pants quickly. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, looking around the empty classroom. “I don’t have anything good to clean you up with.” A box of kleenex caught his eye and he grabbed a few tissues. It was better than nothing.

You chuckled nervously and waved it off. “It’s fine,” you promised, your voice coming out shakier than you expected, but he ignored you. He wiped the mess dripping down your thighs. You were cold. He must have noticed, because he took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked softly, and it was a full 180 from the way he had just been talking to you.

“I’m great,” you admitted honestly. “Seriously, that was… great.”

Aaron smiled at you- the first real smile he had given you all night. “It wasn’t too much?” he confirmed, and you suddenly remembered what he had said to you earlier. ...then you’ll be begging for more next time. Was he planning on a next time? You wouldn’t have minded it.

You shook your head and slowly slid off the table. You took one of the tissues and wiped up the mess that was left on the table. “Not at all. In fact, I could take more. Next time.” Your voice was light and airy. Aaron watched as you picked your underwear off the floor. There was no way you were putting those back on, not when you had no idea when the floor was last cleaned.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he teased, eyeing you carefully.

“Well I can’t keep it if I only have your media liaison’s number,” you reminded him, your eyebrow raised. Aaron chuckled and pulled out another business card, except this time it was his. You plucked the card out of his hands and inspected it carefully. “I’ll call you sometime. You can do all those other things we didn’t have time to do.” You were on your tiptoes now, whispering in his ear. “You know… my mouth can do a lot more than just ask for things.” As you spoke, you slipped your panties into his back pocket. You just laughed as you heard a soft gasp escape his lips.

You made your way towards the door, your legs wobbling dangerously underneath you. You were sure that you looked like a mess, but you didn’t care. All that mattered to you was Aaron Hotchner’s eyes glued to your ass. “Get home safe,” he told you and you let yourself smile. Maybe it was a bad idea to start sleeping with a recent divorcee, but the sex was great and you both knew where you stood with the other person. No feelings, just fucking out your frustrations and stress.

Oh yeah, coming to this event was definitely a good call on your part.

[beyondspaceandstars]

While You Sleep

Chapter 18

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: angst Summary: Soulmate!AU - Throughout life, you’re given glimpses of your soulmate through dreams. As you sleep, memories flash in your mind showing you the life your soulmate has lived. Everyone around you raves about how their soulmate reads great books or volunteers in their spare time. But you can’t relate as your dreams end up being more like nightmares. Through initial images of death and violence, you come to learn your soulmate is the Winter Soldier.

A/N: so sorry I’ve been slow with updating Tumblr - my blog was shadowbanned (basically Tumblr hid my blog in searches, notifications, tags, etc.) and it just got fixed so I’m working to update here!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“You’re back,” Dr. G smiled as you plopped down in the seat across from her. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead forced a tight smile. “I’m back,” you confirmed with a dramatic nod for emphasis. You didn’t know why you were feeling so hostile. You had shown up here willingly this time. 

Bucky didn’t even know you were seeing your therapist again. But it wasn’t exactly like he was around to find out. He had left for his mission yesterday in the very early morning and you were now on constant edge. You didn’t know what he would encounter. You knew none of it was at your clearance level seeing as you had no government clearance level to begin with but still… You didn’t like that anything that went wrong would come back to you in the depths of your sleep. Even if Bucky had shared everything step-by-step, any mishap was another blow. Even if everything went right, you feared you were bound to see something. 

“Would you like to share anything?” Your therapist asked, disrupting your spiraling thoughts. It was like she knew and, well, maybe she did. You really did kind of suck at hiding your emotions. You could practically feel your face darkening with worry. 

“Bucky and I learned something about us recently,” you said a bit nervously but Dr. G nodded in encouragement. You tried to steady your breathing and continued, “Our soulmate bond has been disrupted. It happened when he was part of Hydra — I mean, not like part of. That makes it sound like he joined willingly which he absolutely did not—,”

Your therapist said your name sharply, cutting off your words. “I know what you meant,” she said.

You nodded briefly, recomposing yourself, and began again, “While under Hydra, he was brainwashed and in that process, they thought they had rid him of his soulmate. But, turns out, all they were doing was tampering with the transmission lines. This means any sort of trauma or… or really emotional occurrences in Bucky’s life gets passed along to me, intercepting any, well, normal dreams. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Nothing?”

You glanced away. “Well, I’ve asked him to retire to maybe… minimize the damage.”

Dr. G nodded as she scribbled something on her notepad. She let out an interesting hum. “How did Bucky respond to that?”

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. You weren’t really upset with him, more angered by the situation. “It took him a second to come around to the idea and, sure, eventually he did but then he was given another mission. A mission he couldn’t turn down.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

Another feeling of annoyance flashed across you at the cliche therapist speak but you could also recognize the question for its worth. Someone was actually asking you how you felt about the new, and last, mission. Lord knows Bucky hadn’t.

You bit your lip, feeling tears already threatening to run down your cheeks. “It made me feel bad, to put it simply. I just felt horrible and scared. I know that with time it’ll go away and maybe we’ll find some peace but I’m just really hurt it has to be this way.”

More notes were scribbled. “How did Bucky react to hearing that?” Dr. G asked without looking up. You shifted awkwardly in your seat, fiddling with your fingers out of habit. Your therapist glanced up once her writing has finished. Her brows raised as you struggled to find an answer.

“He doesn’t really know.”

Your therapist placed her pen on her notepad and leaned forward in her chair, eyeing you a bit upsettingly. “Do you remember what I told you during your last session?”

Talking. Talking, talking, talking. Just let it out. How could you forget? That’s exactly what you had done and while it made some kind of progress, you were still stuck at this godforsaken dead end for the time being. 

You picked at the chair cushion. “He didn’t ask,” you sighed. “Besides, what good was it going to do? I couldn’t have stopped the mission.”

Dr. G shrugged. “No, I doubt you could’ve, but that’s not the point. The point is you’re hurting and your soulmate needs to know this, especially when it involves him. You can’t beat around the bush or try to sidestep this kind of stuff. Be gentle, yes, but little progress can be made if everything is bottled in.”

“Well, doc, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m sure he knows very well how I feel about all of this,” you snapped back. “Think I made myself super clear during our first conversation about retirement.”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “Assume he did. Assume Bucky knew everything that was going through your mind. Did it open any conversation?”

Your shoulders slumped. You looked away. 

Dr. G continued, “My point exactly. Of course, you don’t want to hurt him but you can’t hurt yourself in the process. How many people actually knew about the nightmares to begin with?”

“None,” you mumbled. And it was, sadly, the truth. Your coworker was the first to know. You hadn’t even had the guts to tell your parents. 

“I’m sure I make it sound easier than it really is but there are some benefits to it over time,” your therapist said after a moment. 

You let out a dramatic sigh. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that?”

Your therapist laughed. “You’ve been wanting to bite back for a while, haven’t you?” You didn’t answer. She shrugged. “Already testing out those communication skills I see.”

You let yourself roll your eyes this time.

***

It was nearing midnight when your cell phone rang. You jumped, suddenly disturbed by the ringtone as you laid on your couch watching some sitcom reruns. You frowned in confusion as you stretched to reach your phone on the coffee table. You weren’t expecting any calls.

You turned the screen around and were greeted by one name: Bucky. You just about yelped when it registered he was calling you -- and from his mission, amazingly. You sat up quickly and answered.

“Hi, Buck,” you greeted, hopefully sounding a bit more cheerful than you felt. Your therapy session from the morning still had you a bit shaken. 

“Hey, doll,” Bucky responded, his voice a bit hoarse. He sounded exhausted and...defeated. 

You sink into the couch. “Is everything going okay?” You guessed it wasn’t too weird he was reaching out while away but something was off in his voice. You thought you had already mentally prepared for the worst.

“For the most part,” he mumbled. “I have to tell you, sweetheart, it wasn’t smooth sailing. We… We all had to do some things we aren’t proud of.”

You shut your eyes, trying to reel in your panicked brain before you said something you’d regret. This couldn’t all fall on Bucky, it wasn’t fair. He had a job, one final job, and you were going to have to accept that. 

Regaining your voice, you said, “What… What things, Bucky?”

He fell silent on the other end. All you could hear was some soft breathing and others talking in the background. The rest of the team you could guess. You said his name into the receiver again.

“Just know I didn’t like what I had to do and I can’t wait to put this life behind me.”

If that was all you were getting from him, you’d have to accept it. “Okay,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I-I understand.” You didn’t really but you knew after tonight you definitely would.

Bucky took another pause. “You deserve so much better than this.”

“Bucky-,”

“You really do, sweetheart.”

“Bucky, please, listen,” you sighed. “While this isn’t ideal and I was very upset you just jumped on this assignment without speaking to me, I know it won’t be like this forever, right? 

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about the assignment before leaving,” Bucky responded. “I-I knew I couldn’t do anything about it but that’s still not fair to you. You deserve to be heard.”

“It’s okay, honey,” you said, fighting back some tears getting ready to start again. “You’re almost done, you’re almost back home.”

Bucky hummed. “I am,” he confirmed. “And when I get back I’m going to make up for all of this, I promise.”

You let out a weak laugh through the tears. “You can make it up to me by getting home safely.”

Bucky was about to say something else but was then cut off by someone yelling at him in the background. He gave a curt response before turning his attention back to you. “Sorry, doll, but I have to go. We have some debriefing to do.”

“Of course,” you said, waving a hand in the air like he could see you. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

“See you soon, sweetheart,” he said. “Love you.”

The line cut before you had the chance to say the words back. You held your phone out in front of you, staring at your lit homescreen, shocked and overwhelmed. He loved you. And he had said it.

***

You were dreading getting ready to go to sleep but, at the same time, your body was practically begging for it. You were finally getting back into the swing of working and now with therapy sessions on top, you couldn’t believe how exhausting life was. As if you had forgotten at some point. 

But with that craved moment of relaxation, an unnerving threat lurked. 

You practically moved with caution when it came to your nighttime routine now. You washed your face carefully and precisely. You scrubbed every tooth again and again for a good minute. Even combing out your hair seemed to be tedious. 

It was all sad attempts at procrastination and you knew it but what could you do? It wasn’t like you were jumping into bed happily no matter how much your body screamed. 

When there was no more to do in your routine, you had to accept it. You had to finally lay down in your bed, let your head hit the pillow, curl up under the duvet, and welcome whatever kind of sleep was going to greet you. 

Almost immediately, you were hit with everything.

As always, you’re seeing it in glimpses from Bucky’s eyes, from his mind. In this instance, he appears to be located in some kind of warehouse. It almost reminded you of where you had been taken to but abandoned.

At first, Bucky seems pretty calm and collected. He’s assessing his surroundings and mapping out a plan. He says something to the person next to them. You can’t see them and possibly you don’t want to. 

They agree with whatever Bucky has suggested but before their plan can commence, they’re both attacked. Guns blazing, doors busting, a whole goddamn ambush. You’re panicking, you feel Bucky panicking. But it doesn’t last long for him. No, within seconds he’s in destruction mode, stomping towards the pop-up army - you don’t even know what they’re part of - dodging bullets and taking them down one by one. 

Some others are helping out it seems but you’re only allowed to be consumed with Bucky’s take on the situation. Despite how much you don’t want to be, especially when he… You see the glint of his metal arm rush past. They’re dying. Being killed. These soldiers or whatever are dropping left and right around him. You feel Bucky’s pulsing anger. He has no plans of slowing down. You feel the tension in his arm as he strangles another and another and another. At one point, he even throws some across the room.

They’re finished. No more men pour in. The rest of the team has stopped. They’re all looking at Bucky, wide-eyed and nervous. You feel his fury turn to shame. You didn’t know the mission’s expectations but you could guess they didn’t exactly involve this much death. No one says anything as they move on. 

The images fade but the feelings don’t. You suddenly want to cry in your sleep feeling Bucky’s distraught and embarrassment. 

Unable to deal with it anymore, you force yourself awake, everything vanishing as your eyes open. You look around your dark room. The clock beside your bed reads just past three a.m. 

You curl back into your blanket and face the wall. You stare at it for the rest of the night, heart pounding and hands shaking.

[yeahimaloser]

My Everthing

Dabi X Reader

EANBEKWBWR OK I FINISHED IT!

⚠️ 290 spoilers ahead⚠️

Is it bad I feel like I cheated on Keigo after writing this?? I feel like I have to write about him again because I feel bad.

I also passed out writing this by the way, but someone needs to feed the Dabi simps. And I will do it (because I too simp for the burn man).

Anyways, this story is a oneshot about how you were at the wrong place at the wrong time…

Warnings!!: kidnaping (don’t worry it’s lowkey fluffy tho)

No pronouns mentioned!

Word count: 2214

Enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t mean to walk in. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You were simply running errands when you heard a commotion in the ally. Maybe it was stupid of you to go and check, but still the little part of you wanted to see what was going on. 

But when you turned the corner you realized what was happening.

The league of villains was well covered by the media. So of course when you saw them, you knew exactly who they were.

The league seemed to be getting into a scuffle with a different organization.

You tried to back away. “Maybe they won’t see me. Yeah, they’re too busy to notice me.”

But you were wrong.

You felt someone behind you grab your waist and put a hand over your mouth. 

“Not so fast sweetheart. Can’t let you leave now.”

You looked over your shoulder to see a man with deep scars and black ashy hair.

Before you could even scream, you were knocked out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up to the sound of snapping fingers.

As you opened your eyes, you saw the man from before.

You realized that you were on the floor, it was dry and so so cold. You seemed to be in a cell of somesorts.

“What the hell.” you said.

The man just laughed, “I was going to say the same thing. How the hell did you know where we were? You a spy or something.”

“No!” you said, standing up. “Really! I'm just a random civilian, just wrong place ya know?” It was futile, there was no way he would believe you.

He hummed, “What’s your name doll?”

You stood a little taller, “Y/N.”

He gave you a smirk, “Y/N huh. Sorry sweetie, can’t let you go. You saw us, so we gotta kill you.”

Your eyes widen as this man laughed in fornt of you. “Sorry baby, that's just how life is. Cruel right? But how about this,” he got closer to your cell, “Tell my why I should let you go.” he chuckled, “In fact, why don’t you beg.”

To his (and your) surprise, you spit in his face.

But he just laughed, “Awwww what, are you mad?  Maybe I should just kill you.”

“Why,” you mused, “aren't you guys against heroes, or is that just a bullshit front so you can hurt people? You know, I don’t like the hero’s all that much, but damn, I thought  the hero killer had some good points,” your face twisted into one of pure anger, “but you all just want destruction.”

The man gave you a once over, “Dabi, that is my name.”

You gave him a skeptical look, “Why are you telling me this?”

Dabi just smirked, “Because I like your attitude, I’ll let you live. But you’ll stay here for a while.”

You just glared at him, “And if I fight back?”

He let out a low chuckle, his piercing blue eyes looked you up and down. “Dollface, I like your feisty attitude, but don’t make this difficult for me.”

You glared at him, but relented.

And that's how you were captured by infamous villain, Dabi.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You also met the other members of the league, Toga was your favorite. She might be a little crazy, but she seemed quite nice. 

“You're so CUTE,” Toga told you before turning to Dabi, “Can I have Y/N? Pretty please?”

Dabi was strangly territorial of you, you still despised him. That being said, maybe something interesting would happen if you got a long with Dabi. 

Dabi would often talk to you about random things, usually him ranting about how ignorant hero society was.

He kept you well fed and entertained. In fact, he would actually let you out of cell sometimes. And you weren’t stupid enough to escape, Dabi looked all the other doors and had the only keys.

Sometimes you two would watch random stupid movies together, somtimes he would get super drunk. Those were your favorites.

“Doll, sit on my lap.”

“No Dabi, you're wasted.”

He chuckled darkly, “And your cute, so what? Come on, have some fun!”

Or the time you would talk down to hero’s with each other.

“They’re all so ignorant,” Dabi said, “no one in the damn society can see what the hell’s wrong with this world.”

“On that, I agree,” you nodded to his statement, “the biases of quirks are so unfair. This society just wants to cage people into their own whims. Personally, I find it disgusting.”

Dabi reached over and patted your head, “Look at that. Doll you surprise me every day you’re here.” 

When you asked him why he kept you, he would just tell you that it was because he was honestly bored. Eventually he would let you go. But only when he was satisfied. 

Satisfied with what? He never told you.

One day though, things seemed to change between you and him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were stuck on the couch, mindlessly watching reruns of a random show. 

You were waiting for Dabi to come back, you were honestly just really bored. And you actually liked talking to Dabi, but you refused to admit it. You still wanted to leave and go home.

When you hear the door open, you turn around to say something snappy to Dabi, but the words die in your throat when you see how badly he’s hurt.

His scars seemed to be dripping blood and you could see fresh wounds patching his skin. His eyes seemed tired yet deadly.

Before you could stop yourself, you stood in front of him, “What the hell happened to you? How did this happen?”

But Dabi just sidestepped you, mumbling something under his breath as he sat on the couch.

You sighed, “Where is your first aid kit,” you asked.

Dabi looked at you, confused, “What?”

You just rolled your eyes, “Your first aid kit, your hurt and you should get something on those before they get worse.”

Dabi gaped at you, but answered, “In the closet.”

You nodded and went to the closet, grabbing the kit and making your way to the couch. 

You started to clean the wounds and disinfect them.

But the entire time, Dabi just stared at you. He barely even flinch, like he was used to this kind of pain. 

When your hand held his check in order to hold his face steady for you to clean the other side of his face, he leaned into you.

When he realized what he was doing, he quickly pulled back. Looking away he said, “Sorry.”

You just smirked, “Don’t worry about it dollface.” you giggled a little to yourself, thinking that Dabi would find it funny too. But instead he got up abruptly, walking away from you.

You were so confused, was it something you said? No, you teased him all the time. Was it something you did?

But before Dabi walked out the door, Dabi turned back to you, “Thank you.” He said that quickly before turning to leave.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night Toga and Twice bought you dinner, and a surprise.

“Dabi says you can leave,” says Toga in a sad voice.

“That's so sad- GOOD RIDDANCE,” Twice exclaimed.

You were left confused, “What? Why?”

Toga folded her arms over her chest and huffed, “I don’t know, I wanted to keep you.”

You looked over at Twice, “Don’t look at me, I don’t know! He probably got bored of you. That’s so mean!”

After you ate, they informed you about how they would have to blindfold you and take you to a separate location. They said it was so you didn’t know the location of their secret base.

But to be honest, seeing how the league of villains were just some messed up people that socity kicked to the side, you wouldn’t tell anyone about them. They deserved to be mad, they deserved to be upset.

But you agreed, but you asked to see Dabi one more time.

The two side eyed each other before telling you no.

You felt a pang of… sadness? No, that wasn't right, you should be happy. You were getting your life back.

You nodded, “Ok but… can you just tell me something?” 

They nodded, “Why is he doing this right now?”

“Oh,” Toga said, “we were going to ask you the same thing.”

Twice checked the time, “We should go, Shigraki told us we have to be gone by now.”

You relented, but you still felt the lingering sadness in your chest.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a week since the league let you go. You found yourself missing Dabi.

There was no way you were in love with your kidnapper.

You shook your head, no you just went through a traumatic event. Your brain just needed to process it… right?

Today was just your normal, average day. You had nothing special planned, just chilling around your house.

...That was until you heard a knock at your door.

You were confused. You weren’t expecting anyone.

You opened the door, and to your surprised, it was Dabi.

He was standing in your doorway, in civilian clothing. But you could recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere.

Before he could say anything, you dragged him inside your house. You checked outside to see if he was followed.

Once the cost was clear, you turned back to him, “Dabi?! What the hell,” you weren’t mad. Just confused. Why was he back? How did he even get here? Why the hell would he risk his safety just to see you.

His eyes seemed plain and unbothered, but you saw the pain underneath that. “I- I just needed to see you again.”

“Dabi,” you huffed, “you can’t just kidnap me, get close to me, and then just let me go out of nowhere. And then what,” now you were getting upset, “you want to be pals? You want to say your sorry? What the hell!”

Dabi just sighed, “Look, I know coming here was stupid. But… I don’t know. I just needed to see you again. I’m not good at this whole emotions thing. I’m sorry for kidnapping you, and I’m sorry for not letting you go sooner. But, I don’t  know, I just got attached to you. When you helped me with my hurt wounds I felt something. No ones ever done that before,” he turned to you, his eyes looking so raw and intense. “You deserve so much better Doll. You deserve a happy, normal life. But I feel so drawn to you. I know how stupid it is. But,” he leaned closer into you, “I want you. I want you so bad it hurts.”

Before you knew it, your lips were pressed firmly against his. His hands kneading the skin on your hips. 

His lips were rough, like sandpaper. But you were pleasantly surprised by how nice the sensation was. His lips were warm against yours, like summer's day. Infact, the whole body felt warm. It felt like it was inviting you in. And you weren't going to say no.

Dabi, pushed harder against you, whining into your mouth  as you pulled away.

Both of you out of breath, he smiled at you, “Glad to know we’re on the same page dollface.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

4 years later

To the surprise of both of you, your relationship with Dabi was going strong.

So strong in fact, that one morning when Dabi woke up before you, he just gazed at your sleeping form. 

He thought how lucky he was to have you, how much he loved you. It wasn’t an understatement to say he was prepared to kill for you. He wanted you to have everything, everything he could give you. He wanted to give you his love most of all. So that started with his real name.

He realized he trusted you enough to let you know, and he trusted himself enough to be honest with you.

As you awoke, you smiled at him, cupping his cheek as he leaned in to your touch. “Good morning Dabi, how did you-”

“It’s Toya sweetheart, Toya Todoroki.”

He let you absorb that information. He let it sink in.

“Wha-” you started.

“Baby, I love you so much. And I want to trust you with this,” he kissed you hand lovingly, “I want to be happy with you. I want to trust you unconditionally. I want you to hold my heart in your hands.”

He leaned into you, his breath hot on your face, “I want you to be my everything.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hoped you guys enjoyed this!!

This was my first time writing for Dabi so I hope I did ok!

@orenjineki

Yaaaay!! I figured out how to tag people! Sorry, it took so long haha! Also I’m sorry if you already saw this, again sorry it took me awhile to find a way to tag you!

[littlemisslipbalm]

“I am not going to join your band” Part 3

AKA “I’ll only join your band if you promise not to kick me out if things don’t work out”

Me trying to make this have a happy ending: *jumping through hoops of my own design*

I wrote this ^^ before I wrote part 3 and boy was I right, it was complicated and I hope I did it justice, LMK what y’all think, I love you all asking for part 3 and giving me feedback. All the support means to much

Also peep the gif WITH Mitch I’m crying, they’re both smiling at y/n in the soundboard room

Word Count: 5.0k? | Warnings: angsty ASF, some crying, some yelling, more making out, even some mentions of smut (oh yeah we’re getting there - no actual sex though), swearing

I tried to make it FLUFF but there had to be drama :/ (I don’t like conflict but that’s like lowkey how stories work sadly)

Part 1 | Part 2

-

When Mitch pulled away from the hug, you felt yourself at a crossroads. You knew Mitch was right. While kissing Harry had been nice, you needed to think about why you were doing it and what it would mean for you and Harry.

You knew you were always going to love Mitch and you were working on separating the romantic feelings you had for him and the best friend feelings you had for him. But you weren’t sure if getting involved with Harry would help that process or just confuse it. That’s why you had to talk with Harry about this, where he stood exactly, and there wasn’t time, lunch was over.

Mitch stalked off ahead of you with a final: “Just...be careful.”

Moments after he disappeared through the recording door, Harry walked up behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You were still standing in the middle of the hallway, your brain racing at everything Mitch had said and every moment you had spent with Harry in the past couple of weeks. You hadn’t really thought of Harry as being anything more than a friend. But there you two were, kissing in a storage closet five minutes ago.  

“We need to talk,” you both said simultaneously. But, just as you were about to speak again, a technician rushed up beside you two and started to talk rapidly to Harry, needing assistance on something that sounded important. You raised your brows when he looked at you, his silent question of whether he could leave, “Go, it can wait.”

In that moment, you felt your unimportance in that studio - no Harry or Mitch to turn to.

This had started as a tag along to spend time with your best friend, in hopes to not get left behind, then it had turned to a light torture of watching said best friend falling for a girl who wasn’t yourself, but somewhere amidst all of that was Harry, always giving you a reason to come back. If not for him, you probably would have stopped tagging along after the first day.

He was the one to tell you to come back a second day. He was the one retuning the piano so you had something to do. He was the one liking your tune and turning into a song for his album. He was the one asking you to join the band. But was he the one for you? And if he wasn’t, and you told him that, was that the end of your time at the studio?

God, you just wished you were able to know what he was thinking. What was the reason behind his kiss? Was it something meaningless or meaningful to him. Because you had realized you had wanted to join the band, not for Mitch, not for Harry, but for yourself and you didn’t want whatever had just happened between you and Harry to come between your chance.

You sat in one of the lounge rooms for the rest of the day, you didn’t feel like watching the band record or having Mitch next to you whispering side comments while you sat in boring technical meetings. You wanted to be alone. And alone you were, no one came to look for you until the end of the day. You sat on the floor of the room, legs crossed, your body still, but your mind alive with all of your thoughts.  

At around 8:30, it was Mitch who walked through the door and sighed at the sight of you. You had texted him where you were when he had asked a couple minutes ago. “Ready to go? Sarah’s coming with us, if you don’t mind,” he gruffly said, obviously not past your earlier conversation. It had left a bad taste in your mouth, the whole situation, not being in a comfortable place with your best friend wasn’t ideal.

“I didn’t like how you spoke to me earlier.” you started and then sighed, “And I didn’t like how we left things..” You stayed in your spot, sat in the middle of the room, face turned to stare at Mitch in the doorway.

“I admit, my tone wasn’t my favorite. I was flustered,” Mitch said finally, walking into the room, door swinging shut behind him.

“You could apologize,” you simply stated, not satisfied. You loved Mitch, but you weren’t a push over. “You basically said I was a prostitute, Mitch, with that harem remark.”

“I truly, didn’t mean it like that,” he sighed and ran a hand through his shoulder length hair. He decided to take a seat, mirroring your position. He moved like a cat, long limbs slowly folding in on themselves, making him appear much smaller than he was. “I’m sorry that’s what you thought, it just,” he paused, “was weird seeing you like that. You’re like my little sister -,” he stopped talking at the look on your face.

You blinked and looked away. Do not cry right now, c’mon. You knew that’s how he felt about you, it just always hurt to hear him say it. You brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I get it, you’re forgiven, anyway.�� You regretted even asking for an apology now.

Mitch wouldn’t let it go, he knew that the two of you had to have this conversation for once, rather than sidestepping it every time.

“I know you’re in love with me, Y/N, and I’m sorry that I don’t feel the same way about you. I know we never talk about it, but we’re both possibly at the beginning of new serious relationships right now and I think we need to talk about this.”

It’s happening. He was right, you never talked about it, and you knew he was right about needing to talk about it, too. He was always the mature one.

“And what if I’m not?” you replied stubbornly, as much as you knew he was right, you couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth.

“What?” Mitch was clearly confused.

“What if I’m not on the verge of a new relationship and that kiss was just a one time thing with Harry. Then I’m left here alone and embarrassed while you ride off into the sunset with Sarah and your new life. Have you ever thought about how this all might be affecting me, put my romantic love for you aside, have you ever thought about how leaving your best friend behind might affect her, Mitch! I’ve thought about it and it sucks! It sucks because you’re the only person I’ve got, the only person who’s ever given a damn about me and always been there. Soon you won’t be. My tombstone won’t even read “Happy” just “Uneventful” and “Boring.”

You practically were screaming and you had no idea when all these feelings had bubbled you the surface, but tears were running down your face now. You had never been good with confrontation.  

“And I’ve been working on it.”

Mitch still sat in a stunned silence. Not used to you losing your cool with him.

“I’ve been working on getting over being in love with you, but a lifetime of being in love with you doesn’t just go away, not because you find a girl, not because I kiss a boy, but because I work on separating feelings and ideas in my mind. I had let the line be blurred between best friend and boyfriend, when you weren’t actually my boyfriend.” You paused, “I thought you were my soulmate since I was fourteen and you never even noticed how I looked at you.” You had started fierce, but you ended softly, almost whimpering out the last words.

“I knew,” he sighed, “I knew when you made sure to come to all my shows in high school. You never missed a single one.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me to stop? Why didn’t you set up boundaries?” You pleaded with Mitch, searching for an answer from him to make sense of everything.

“Because I was young and no one had ever done that for me, no one cared about me like you did before and it felt so good to not be ignored or overlooked. To be someone’s whole world, it felt nice.”

“But...look what happened.”

“It got out of hand, but I thought you’d find a guy when you went off to college and forget about loving me like that.”

“But that’s not what happened,” you both sat silent for a few moments, “I can’t lose you, Mitch, and I’m okay just being the best friend.”

“I can’t lose you either, Y/N. I’m so sorry I never addressed it sooner, it wasn’t fair of me to keep you on the line all these years. And I’m not going to leave you behind, I’m sorry if I have been neglecting our friendship with the album and Sarah.”

Mitch reached out and took your hand, rubbing it softly with his thumb. You noticed no butterflies when he did this and you squeezed his hand gently back.

“So, best friend, as much as I would love to ride home with you and your girl, I think there’s someone else I really need to talk to.”

You were always quick to move past fights with Mitch, they were never like this, of course, but you had said your piece and so had Mitch, seeing as he reverted back to his natural silent state. This definitely was a big step in the right direction for you to finally move past your romantic feelings for Mitch. Some closure.

Mitch nodded and you both stood up. “We should hang out soon, just the two of us, do something… friendly,” Mitch said softly. You smiled and nodded.

You knew this had been a wake up call for him, too. You hadn’t really hung out outside of the studio since he’d started seeing Sarah more exclusively, meaning weekly movie nights, ‘what’s in the fridge’ dinner nights, and new music mondays had all fallen by the wayside. You knew that he’d start being there for you more after this whole conversation, because that’s who Mitch was, he listened and he followed through.

You gave him a quick hug, happier with the outcome of this conversation than the last, even if this one had involved you shouting a little bit. Then, you split off from him in search of Harry.

He was in the recording area of the studio, sitting, staring off into space with his guitar resting in his lap.

“Hi,” you said carefully. He twitched his head at the sound and looked over to see you. “Have you been crying?” He asked immediately, standing up and setting the guitar on its stand. He crossed to you, quick to your side.

You shook your head, “No, well yes, but they were angry tears, more than sad.”

“Are you alright?” Harry still was concerned, angry wasn’t much better than sad.

“Just had it out with Mitch, it’s better now.”

“About earlier?” Harry led you to sit on the piano bench with him.

“No, about him, and me, it’s been a long time coming, but we’ve got it all out in the open now. He’s going to try to be a better friend, I think. And I’m going to try to be just his best friend.”

“Yeah?” Harry urged you to say more.

“But it did start about earlier, at least,” you ran a hand through your hair, “about what he had said to me earlier, after he had walked in on us.”

“What had he said?” Harry continued to inquire, trying to understand what he had missed.

“He was warning me not to be with you for the wrong reasons and to be wary of your intentions, I guess. He cares about us both, doesn’t want either of us to get hurt and I think it was also weird for him to see us in such a compromising position.”

“Why do you think he wanted you to be wary of my intentions?” Harry tilted his head, this comment not really making sense to him.

“Well, what are your intentions?” You didn’t want to mention the ‘harem’ comment, you knew Mitch had said it in the heat of the moment and it would only upset Harry.

“I like you, isn’t it obvious?” Harry said staring directly into your eyes.

“Um..” His blunt statement caught you off guard.

Harry ducked his head and puffed a laugh out of his mouth, almost in disbelief, “No, I guess it’s not.”

You sat there, silent, still no idea how to respond. Harry scratched his head and smiled at you, “You’re gorgeous and fantastic at everything you do. You’re witty and kind, fiercely loyal and never fail to bring a smile to my face, even when you’re crying or I’m crying. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to you?”

Still you remained silent. “C’mon, Y/N. Say something, please. I just laid it all out for you.”

You nodded and tried to streamline your thoughts. Today had been a lot, overwhelming to say the least. “I’ve never had someone feel this way about me, it’s a lot to take in. And...I like you too, Harry, but-”

“Don’t say ‘but’” he pleaded.

“But,” you sighed, “I don’t want you to go through the same thing I did, being strung along by someone who can’t give you what you need. I don’t know how to love someone who isn’t Mitch, I want to, I really, really do, but it’s going to take time, and I like you enough to not want to hurt you.”

“Then let me teach you,” Harry said quickly, taking your hands in his, “Let me be the one to teach you to love someone who isn’t Mitch. That someone is me, by the way.”

You laughed at his final remark, still feeling overwhelmed and unsure.

“And I’m okay with going slow,” he shrugged his shoulders, “we don’t even have to label this. But when I’m with you, here, everyday, I feel at home and when you’re gone, I miss you. You’re constantly on my mind and I’m always looking for your approval. What would hurt me the most is if you don’t give us a chance. Give me a chance to prove to you that you can love someone else and they can love you back, properly.”

His eyes were begging you to say ‘yes’. His hands were clasped tightly around yours, tugging you closer to him.

After everything he said, you wanted to say yes. But, you were scared. You were scared because trying something new, taking a step into the unknown, it was scary sometimes.

But then, you thought back to when Harry had sat with you as you cried over Mitch and how he’d helped you through that moment of weakness. How you had known that night that you could trust him to be there for you. With Harry by your side, maybe you wouldn’t have to be so scared of the unknown, because you wouldn’t be alone anymore.

“Only if you promise not to kick me out of the band if things don’t work out.” You smiled at Harry’s slight confusion. Then his confusion turned into a huge grin, almost every one of his teeth on display for you.

“I’m sorry, I can’t promise you that…” he said mischievously, making it your turn for a look of confusion, “But I’ll raise you one. I promise that things will work out and you’ll stay in the band.”

You rescinded a hand from his grasp and swatted his bicep. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re very cheeky?”

“Almost all the time! And look at that, you’re already speakin’ my language,” he smiled sweetly at you and winked.

“Oh, shut up!” You laughed and went to swat him again, but instead he caught your wrist and brought it down to your side.

“Fine,” he said matter of factly and leaned into your lips, kissing you for a second time today.

He was an amazing kisser, better than anyone you’d ever kissed before, at least, which really wasn’t saying a lot, but you could tell he was experienced. You didn’t think you’d ever get over his warmth either. It was all consuming.

This time it was you who’s tongue asked for entrance to the other’s mouth. Harry gladly obliged as he pulled you closer to him on the bench.

You liked how quickly you and Harry could go from a serious topic to having fun, you’d said what needed to be said and now you were enjoying each other.

It was breathless between you and Harry. His hands ghosting over every part of your body and yours glued to his deliciously soft curls. Harry’s lips began to travel away from yours and a whine came from the back of your throat. Harry ‘tsk’ed against your jaw, but continued to leave open mouth kisses down the side of your neck.

“Oh” was all you said as he began to suck persistently at the base of your neck, right on top of your collarbone. It felt nice, really fucking nice and you felt a hand fall down onto the top of your thigh and squeeze it. This shot electricity through your entire body. The jolt didn’t stop Harry from continuing to suck along your neck, you just felt him pause for a moment, a smirk ghosting against your neck, nipping on the spot below his lips.

After what felt like hours, Harry kissed back up to your lips and then pulled away.

You were attempting to catch your breath when you said, “Is that what you call taking it slow?”

“I wasn’t hearing any complaints?” He responded as his smirk responded, shrugging his shoulders once again.

“No, no complaints,” you moved one of your legs so that both were on one side of the piano stool and scooted into Harry’s chest. He wrapped his arms around you as you snuggled your head into his chest. It had been a long day for both of you, as you thought back to lunch with Harry crying in the storage closet. He kissed the top of your hair and rested his chin on top of your head, beginning to stroke your arm lazily with his fingertips.

You sat in silence, breathing in each other’s presence. You also couldn’t believe how nice he smelled, even after a whole day of work. This man was magic, you thought.

Harry began to laugh softly and you shifted your head to look at him. “You know, I was planning on telling you today, before this all happened.” He continued after taking a finger and running it against the slope of your nose and tapping the tip, “It’s why I had been in such a good mood, had finished the lyrics, and was going to play it for you, but then I got all in my head. And then we were in the storage room and you were being so good to me and then we were kissing and then Mitch walked in and then you ran off and-.”

You cut off his ramble, “I think I got the rest, I was there, babe.” Heat quickly ran to your cheeks at your use of a pet name. Harry noticed it too and echoed it, “Babe? You just called me ‘babe’?”

“No, definitely not,” you tried unconvincingly.

“Oh, I like that,” he continued to tease you, echoing ‘babe’ once more, your face growing redder every second.

“Wait, you were going to play me what?” You suddenly circled back to the first part of Harry’s little rant. He took his hand away from your arm and used it to brush back a strand of hair that had gotten out of place on your head, “Sweet Creature, I was planning on serenading you and then telling you how I felt.”

“You’re fucking with me, that song isn’t about me,” you scoffed and turned your head away, feeling shy at Harry’s intense stare. He was so passionate and it came through in his big, bright eyes. They could be intimidating at times.

“Honest,” he said, “It was your tune after all, can’t believe you’d think I’d write about someone else with your own music.”

“I don’t know, I thought I was just helping you with a song,” you said sheepishly.

“I was looking at you the first time I said the words ‘sweet creature’” Harry persisted, still in disbelief that you hadn’t caught on to his crush on you until he had spelled it out, but then it dawned on him, you had never had someone pine after you.

In that moment he knew that he wanted to show you all the wonderful things that came with being liked by someone, and being intimate with someone who wanted you back. He didn’t care if you were getting over someone else, because he was going to be there to show you how you deserved to be treated and in turn he knew you’d eventually see him as more than a cute, nice guy friend who knew how to kiss.

You sat there as if you were seeing Harry with new eyes. His expression was earnest and he looked down at you brightly. You bit your lip to slow down the smile about to erupt on your face. You hadn’t felt this excited in a long time.

It felt good to be in a man’s arms who looked at you with such great care, almost as if you were the reason his world turned and he didn’t want that to stop, even if you knew it wasn’t true, his eyes insisted it was. It felt good to be in the embrace of a man who wrote you a song and made you smile and laugh. It felt good to be with a man who took your breath away and also got his taken away from you.

You reached up to Harry’s prominent cheekbone and danced your fingertips along his face. He had grown silent at your touch. Your fingers moved up to smooth one of his large brows and stopped at his brow bone. Harry closed his eyes when you touched his brow bone, your touch so close to his eyes. You rested there for a moment and then moved back down his face, traveling over his slightly gaunt cheeks again.

His eyes fluttered open and the sounds of your breathing filled the air, his soft panting slightly louder than your controlled quiet breaths. It seemed your soft caress was having an effect on him.

Harry loved intimate touch. It was taking all of his self-control to keep from nuzzling into your delicate hand on his face, wanting you to explore without his interference.

You continued to slide your hand down his face, over some light scruff, to the curve of his cupid’s bow. Harry parted his lips at this touch, unable to keep his lungs from hitching. You bit your lip again, noting your effect on him. You traced your thumb around the outline of Harry’s mouth, from his cupid’s bow, to one side, and then onto his plush lower lip.

You kept your thumb there, but pulled down slightly, Harry’s mouth opening further. He restrained the whimper in the back of his throat. You weren’t trying to get any reaction out of him, you were simply using your hands to look at his face, tracing him into your sensory memory.

When you pushed your thumb back up, putting his lip back into place, you felt his tongue peak out and touch you. You looked into his green eyes and he only looked back at you. You were in control. You pushed your thumb a millimeter further and Harry took it softly into his mouth, his tongue touching it sweetly and then he closed his mouth, creating a kiss on your thumb. You then removed your thumb from against his puckered lips and placed your exploring hand onto his thigh, giving you leverage to put yourself at eye level with Harry.

“You are so beautiful,” you said slowly, breathing out a breath you didn’t think you had been holding. His face lit up at your remark and he leaned forward to give you one more sweet kiss, “And so are you. Let’s get you home.”

-

The next few weeks felt like a whirlwind. You were constantly doing something. When you weren’t busy working on the album at the studio, Harry was sneaking you off to secluded places in the building to pepper you with kisses or whispering sweet nothings in your ear in between takes. He drove you home every night, walking you to your door and kissing you hard before you went inside, sometimes he’d come in with you and stay the night, cuddling and falling asleep in each other’s arms. Harry also took you out when he could, showing you little holes in the wall you’d never heard of and surprising you with presents that you always told him were too nice. Everything was coming so natural between you two and Harry treated you so well, it made being with him extremely fun and easy.

Mitch and you were doing best friend things again, too, movie nights and music recommendations, calling each other about random shit you’d seen on the news and couldn’t believe. You weren’t pining after him anymore. You loved him still, but you now knew what reciprocated romantic feelings looked like with Harry and you didn’t need or want that from Mitch anymore. Mitch had talked to Harry after you had explained what happened that night and he had given the big brother spiel to Harry, but was convinced when he heard the way Harry talked about you. He hadn’t realized how Harry had felt before then either. Harry joked that the two of you clearly had never seen a romcom before, because you were both “thick” when it came to flirting.

Today was no different from the rest, Harry had his arm slung around your shoulder as you were pressed into his side on the soundboard room’s couch, your arm reaching up to play with his fingertips. His mouth was against your ear, whispering, almost inaudibly, about how good you looked today and how he wanted to kiss you so badly and you were giggling at his borderline dirty words.

Nobody took any real notice, especially because this had been happening for weeks now. Whenever Mitch saw you two like this, he smiled with closed lips, but he seemed genuinely happy. He was happy that everything was working out in the best way possible.

Lunchtime was always fun because now it was time for you and Harry to sneak off to the first place you had kissed. Except it wasn’t so sneaky, literally everyone knew where you were going and what you were going to do. The minute you were inside the room, Harry would press you against the door, slamming it shut. His lips were on yours in an instant.

Today, he grabbed behind your knee and hiked it up around his hips, pressing himself closer to you. You both groaned at the way your bodies fit together. “Mmph, Fuck, Babe,” Harry groaned before moving to kiss your neck. You only whined in response, fisting a part of his shirt in one hand and some strands of his hair in the other.

You had worn a tank top today, so Harry was able to kiss all across your collarbone, he pulled down one side of the tank and your bra strap, exposing more naked skin. “Can you feel what you do to me?” Harry asks, lips ghosting over your skin, hands gripping your hips closer to his body. You can feel him pressing into you beneath his trousers.

“Can I?” you ask, he pulls away from his work on your neck and looks into your eyes. “Y/N, you don’t have to…” his tone quickly softened. The two of you had only done heavy makeout sessions and some topless groping, but nothing below the belt, yet. “But, I want to take care of you,” you stated simply, meeting his gaze with lust blown out eyes.

He sighed, “Oh, darling.” He reached up to brush your hair into place, it was always getting so messy when you made out.

“My body wants nothing more than for you to take care of me, but one, if you blow me right now, I don’t know how I will get through the rest of the day without loving up on you every second,” you laughed at his words and rolled your eyes.

“And two, when it’s our first time, I want it to be our first time doing everything together, don’t want me to get a head start.”

You wanted to be serious about him being so sweet about your first time together, but you couldn’t ignore the sexual pun he’d just made. You burst out into unrestrained laughter and Harry looked at you, concerned. His eyebrows were knit together as he watched you laughing your head off.

“What?”

“Oh my god, Harry, did you hear yourself?”

“Thought I was being sweet,” he puffed indignantly.

“Head,” you said in between laughs, “Start.”

It clicked in his mind and he rolled his eyes at your immaturity. “You catch that, it’s not even funny, but you don’t catch my flirting for weeks...makes you wonder...” he trails off.

“You’re so mean to me! Guess you don’t want anymore kisses,” you stick your tongue out at him and he smiles.

The more time you spent together, the more your silly side kept coming out with him. Harry loved it, he loved that you could be intellectual and passionate, but also pick out some unintentional innuendo pun at the end of his heartfelt sentiment about your sex life together.

You readjusted yourselves to leave and as you exited Harry said, “What am I going to do with you?”

You held one of his hands and twirled in the hallway, smiling back at him as he walked behind you. You were like a dream, his dream. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed someone until you’d come into his life, being there for him, being the lovely person he’d come to know. You were wonderful and you were his. And he, in turn, was yours.

-

Hope you enjoyed part 3!

@imagine-that-1975

[suite43]

"Shadow Striker! C’mon, get a move on!" Flamewar called, promptly jumping off the roof as she finished speaking.

Shadow Striker smirked, standing over the blue and white autobot, who in turn was staring up at her with a little bit of fear and a little bit of awe in her wide blue eyes. Shadow Striker leaned down close to the autobots audial fin, whispering.

"Better luck next time, I suppose."

Strongarm did not have time to process a response as the back end of the Riser's massive gun slammed into the side of her head and left her unconcious on the rooftop.

She woke up to Sideswipe kicking her in the side, not hard enough to break anything that wasn't already broken but hard enough to hurt goddamnit. She rolled over with a groan, finding one wrist cuffed to some structure or other, and her weapon missing, almost definetly taken by those brutes from the night before. Damn.

"-ngarm! Primus, Strongarm, did they knock your brain out or something? Helloooooooo?" Sideswipes annoying-ass voice faded in as her audial systems rebooted and she pulled herself up as much as she could.

"When did you get here?" She grumbled.

"Oh, like an hour or so ago."

"And I'm still cuffed because?"

"I thought it'd be funny," he said. "Got bored of waiting for you to wake up, though."

"Right. Where's Prowl?"

"Had, uh, 'more important concerns'. Bumper's with him, they're trying to track these Rise chicks. Javelin's downstairs, though, taking stock."

"And you're on babysitting? Figures."

"I know, right? When is that asshole gonna let me do something cool?"

"'Cool' isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Wanna trade? I'd love to get my ass kicked by some Risers."

"Tell that to my broken ribs," Strongarm muttered. "Now untie me, idiot."

///

Strongarm did not leave her shift early on account of any injuries. She would never dream of it. No, she was dismissed by her senior officer after giving an adequate description of the prior evening's events, and sent to a medic for minor repairs, who in turn insisted that she spend the next few days on bedrest. It was orders. She didn't have a choice.

That didn't make the hours upon hours of sitting around with nothing to do any less agonizing. Playing with her cat and idly switching between the three TV channels she got could only keep her busy for so long, and her mind kept drifting back to the night before.

It was circumstance that Strongarm had been there at all, really. She'd been in the area following up on something or other when alarms started blaring and the call was made. She pursued, and found a group of (presumably) Risers bickering over which of them was stupid enough to trip the alarm (Strongarm's money is on the two-wheeler. She seemed twitchy.). Among them was the known Riser and scary as hell Shadow Striker, brandishing a massive blaster, presumably from the weapons cache that had been broken into a few weeks prior.

Strongarm had no intentions to engage with a group of four incredibly well-armed and dangerous criminals, with only her small, non-lethal pistol, her lacking hand-to-hand combat skills and absolutely no knowledge of what backup, if any, was coming.

Unfortunately, Strongarm is not built for stealth, and Shadow Striker was very perceptive.

Strongarm plays the fight in her mind over and over. Shadow Striker had notoriously impressive marksmanship. She could've just shot Strongarm and been done with it. But she didn't. The more she replayed it, the wide shots and simple mockery, drawing Strongarm closer and closer, an incredibly powerful kick to the side of the chest, the shoving and running and chasing drawing them up to the roof where Shadow Striker finally seemed to stop playing with her food and go for the kill, it all seemed like it had been a game.

She had had Strongarm disarmed and completely overwhelmed. She had dug her heel into the plating of her chest, pointed the barrel of the gun right between her eyes, a small, satisfied smile on the stoic brute's face. Strongarm felt absolutely certain she was going to die.

And yet, she hadn't pulled the trigger. Non-lethal head injury only.

Better luck next time, I suppose.

Better luck next time.

Strongarm couldn't get the sound of it out of her head. The low rumble, almost like a purr. The slight brush of the exhaled breath against her fins. The absolute satisfaction that dripped from Shadow Striker's every word.

What the hell did that mean?

///

"You left her alive?" Flamewar said incredously.

"Killing Autobots in the city streets isn't exactly low-profile," Shadow Striker responded flatly.

"Yeah, neither is tripping the alarms," Hyperdrive chimed in. Flamewar shoved him.

"It wasn't my fault!"

Shadow Striker rolled her eyes and let them get to their bickering, sitting back in her usual spot to get to work dissasembling, cleaning, and reassembling her favourite gun.

She took a deep breath, letting herself fall into the familiar rythm of her work, the soft shuffling sounds of moving parts. She could do this with her eyes closed. She often did, in fact. Gathers the mind.

That Autobot. She could've killed her. Wouldn't have felt too bad about it. But when was the last time anyone had put up such a fight? Shadow's reputation preceded her, just a mention of her name got most rational 'bots running the other direction. Absolutely nobody smart would try to fight Shadow Striker alone, much less with three others there. And absolutely nobody landed a punch.

It wasn't for any skill the Autobot had had. It was wild, determined flailing that got her one good, solid hit across the jaw and a trickle of blood from Shadow Striker's nose. She'd laughed, despite herself. Knowing what the autobot was capable of made the rest of it much more fun. And she supposed that meant she owed the bot something of a reward. If, y'know, not killing someone counted as a suitable reward for... well, for anything, really.

Shadow wasn't quite sure about that. But she was certain, if the dull ache in her jaw was any indication, that she was looking forward to next time.

///

Strongarm found herself leaping at every mention of Rise activity for the next few weeks. She spent all of her downtime sparring with Sideswipe (who talked a big game but whined like a newlyforged at every dent he got) or Javelin (who never tried all that hard and usually lost within five seconds). She was determined that she would not be outmatched again.

Sideswipe told her it was a case of bruised ego. Strongarm told herself it was a desire to bring the Riser to justice. But she couldn't help but wonder if it was something else that made her stomach flip and her spark skip a beat every time she thought about her.

Perhaps it was fear? Disgust? Anger? Frustration?

Something like that. Surely.

Regardless, despite her best efforts, Shadow Striker always managed to outpace her. Always one step ahead, whip-smart, adaptable, experienced, and all around incredibly skilled. Strongarm had no chance.

She was stubborn, though, and she didn't quit. And, every time she saw Shadow Striker, she got her ass royally kicked.

Something was different this time, though. For starters, Shadow Striker was alone. The big warehouse out on the fringes of the city only had the one life sign, and a quick scan confirmed that there were no other visible mechs. Shadow sat casually atop a big metal crate of goods, idly examing her weapon, miming shooting it at things with a bored expression. Strongarm kept close to the shadows, behind a stack of boxes, determined to get the element of surprise.

"Oh, good, I was beginning to think you hadn't found the little clues I left you." That was different, too.

"Oh, come on!" Strongarm rolled her eyes. "You can't tell me your hearing is just that good. It's not possible."

"I set a tripwire around the perimeter. I was pinged as soon as you came in. You should pay more attention, Autobot."

"Pay attention to this!" Strongarm chucked the blade in her hand at Shadow Striker, who smirked as it grazed just past the side of her helmet, clattering to the ground. She set the gun aside and cracked her knuckles, getting ready.

"Right to it then?"

"Why, you have somewhere you'd rather be?" Strongarm threw a punch, Shadow sidestepping her without even trying.

"Mmm, no, I don't think so." She slammed her elbow into Strongarm's back. "Trust me, this is the most exciting part of my week."

"I could say the same," Strongarm said. "Can't take too long, though, I'm going to have a lot of paperwork to fill out when I bring you in."

Shadow Striker huffed out a laugh as she stepped out of the way of another blow. "You'll have to catch me, first."

The two continued in their fight, until Strongarm was on her back, pinned by Shadow Striker's weight holding her arms above her head.

"You're getting better," Shadow Striker muttered between breaths, voice low and close to Strongarm's audial. "You're strong. You have potential. Why not use it for something worthwhile? You'd make such a pretty Riser, you know."

Strongarm paused for a moment, her processer stalling on that last bit. Had she just been called pretty?

She shoved it out of her mind and jerked her head up as hard as she could, crashing her forehead into Shadow Striker's nose, the purple mech pulling away with a hiss of pain as a small trickle of energon dripped out, and Strongarm used the moment of weakness to flip the two of them over, pinning the slender warrior under her own weight.

"Don't get too comfortable. Arrogance makes you stupid," Strongarm grinned, just a little smug.

"Agreed." Before Strongarm could even blink Shadow Striker had pulled her arms free from Strongarm's grip and shoved the autobot off of her, stepping on Strongarm's chest to jump back up on her crate, grab her weapon, and climb up the pile of crates and shelves to one of the large windows near the top of the wall. "See you next time."

And then she was gone. Strongarm cursed, slamming one fist against the ground, hand clutching her side. God damn.

///

They saw each other again a few times, the banter and routine becoming familiar, Strongarm getting better and better at predicting where Shadow Striker would be and what she would do.

She did not ever predict that she'd see the Riser climbing through the window into her kitchen in the middle of the night.

"What the hell?! What are you doing here?"

"Didn't know where else to go," Shadow Striker muttered through clenched teeth. "Couldn't make it back. Too many eyes."

It was then that Strongarm noticed Shadow was clutching at a wound on her side, a cloth pressed up against it, absolutely soaked with energon. Her eyes widened as she tried to figure out what the fuck she was supposed to do. This was a criminal, in her apartment, where she had no right to be and how had she even found it in the first place and how long had she known the address? But it was also an injured Cybertronian, in need of help, and Strongarm felt like she had a duty. Shadow Striker needed to go to a hospital. Strongarm wasn't a doctor. But if she went to a hospital, well, she'd almost certainly be arrested. Which was... Strongarm wasn't sure how she felt about that. That was a bad sign.

"Do you have a clean towel?" Shadow Striker asked, snapping Strongarm out of her dumbstruck silence. "And a first aid kit. I can do the rest."

"I... Yeah. Yeah, I do." She went and gathered supplies, bringing them back to the kitchen, where Shadow Striker was peeling the old rag off of the wound, revealing a huge gash on the side of her stomach.

Shadow waved her over, taking the first aid kit from her hands. She was giving herself something of a patch job, but Strongarm couldn't take her eyes off the way her hands shook and the way her face twisted in a wince at every motion, jerky movements doing a rather shit job of fixing anything.

"Give it to me," Strongarm said. Shadow Striker gave her whatever passed for a skeptical look at the moment. "Just tell me what I need to do. I'm a quick learner."

Shadow sighed, handed over the tool she'd been using, and talked Strongarm through getting her to a point where she wasn't dripping blood and everything seemed more or less stable.

"This'll do. We have medics, when I get back they can do something properly."

"Where's 'back', exactly?"

"Ha, you're not getting anything out of me that easily," Shadow Striker muttered, still holding her side, voice exhausted.

"Well, it was worth a try." Shadow hummed in agreement, eyes closed, leaning back against the wall, still sitting on Strongarm's countertop. "Are... when are you leaving?" Strongarm asked.

"Whenever the heat dies down a bit."

"You know I'm technically 'the heat', right?" Shadow shrugged.

"Go ahead. Call your boss. I'll be halfway out of the city faster than Prowl can flip a table." Strongarm rolled her eyes.

"Eat something before you go, you sound exhausted."

"No. M'not taking your rations. Sentinel keeps you low enough on fuel as it is."

"You lost a lot of blood. If you leave like this, now, you'll probably pass out before you can get anywhere." Shadow Striker just huffed.

"Suppose I'm staying the night, then."

"What?"

"Kidding," Shadow laughed weakly. "My boss'd kill me if I spent the evening at an autobot's. Unneccessary risk and all."

"And I'd almost certainly be fired, or worse, if anyone found out about this."

"So it's our little secret then."

"So it is. And so's this," Strongarm said, handing her a small cube of energon. Shadow looked like she was going to protest, but evidently thought better of it, and took the cube.

They stayed there, talked for a bit, and eventually Strongarm was able to coax Shadow Striker into moving to the couch, which honestly wasn't a huge improvement from the countertop but it's the thought that counts, she supposed. Strongarm didn't intend for Shadow Striker to fall asleep there, and she guessed Shadow didn't intend for it either, but she looked strangely serene and Strongarm couldn't bring herself to disturb her. She left the lean purple mech there, trying not to stare too much at the way her strong features looked so delicate like this, her lips parted just so as puffs of breath slipped in and out, her red eyes shut softly, twitching and muttering as she dreamt.

Strongarm tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in her chest, and went to bed. Sleep was fitful, but when she heard the soft tread of someone sliding through her bedroom door quietly, she did her best to pretend to be deep in recharge. A hand traced delicately over the plating of her arm, across her inner wrist, tracing delicate cableing up her forearm and to the bulky armor of her shoulders, and she tried to stay still, even when that hand reached back down and intertwined slender fingers with Strongarm's own and a figure bent down to press a kiss to Strongarm's cheek, the ridge of her nose nuzzling softly against the warm plating as Strongarm tried so, so hard not to move and scare Shadow away, even as her spark was beating out of her chest.

After a long moment, Shadow Striker pulled away, letting out a long sigh, muttering a quiet what have I gotten myself into? under her breath, and Strongarm couldn't help but feel the same as Shadow Striker walked away.

When Strongarm got up for work, Shadow was long gone. When she came home from her shift, there was a cube of energon on the coffee table, labelled with a note.

Let's call it even. - SS

[chaniters]

First Kiss

Follow up to the last fic (Breakup)

A friendly guest visits Ash to talk about the latest news. 

This one ha a trigger warning right from the start, so I’m cutting it right after this. There are also spoilers for Rebirth and Retribution.

-Past abuse (non graphic) 

__________________________

“Stupid doll! Why did you stop?!” he asks, furious. You’ve never seen him so mad. 

“I-I don’t know… I didn’t expect…that you..” you stutter confused, the tip of your fingers reaching for your lips, still trying to process what just happened.

The jolt is sudden, painful and frantic, and has you panting, holding onto the wall as it ends. No pain gate to hide behind when they do that. 

But you didn’t expect that he would do that.

“You only stop when I tell you to stop!”  he yells

“I’m sorry sir!, Please don’t do that...-” you add quickly but begging is useless now. 

He presses the button again. And again. And again.

You’re lying on the floor, trying to regain your breath when it finally stops, your body still trembling. 

“Get back up now, dog” he orders, “I mean it”

You struggle to get back on your feet, wobbly legs, and heavy breathing

“I’ll… I’ll do it again! It’ll be better this time!” you plead. 

“It damn well better be,” he says, glaring at you. “Let’s start from the beginning… and I want you to get her hair right this time.”

“It’ll be perfect. Just like you remember her, I promise” you say quickly

“Good. Begin!” he gives you your cue. 

You focus on his eyes, into his mind taking in his memories, giving it all to recreate her once more, bring her back to life for him. 

Every detail, every aspect of her mind he remembers, her personality… and then…

She smiles

----------------

The banging on your door breaks you from the nightmare. 

It takes a lot more than usual to come back to reality and scan to see who is it that’s knocking there.

“What?” you hate verbal telepathy but It’ll take some time to get dressed with all the necessary layers. 

“Was just passing by and stopped to say hi” There’s something inherently funny in the single line of their response. 

“Cut the bullshit, we’re literally on the opposite end of town from where you live” you think back, as the struggle with pants continues, very real. Legs still hurt like hell, and you had to do your own stitches last night, because who else would? 

Steels ambulance? Fat chance...

“Ok, maybe I got a taxi and two buses to get here tosay hi and check on you” 

You grab a can of beer from the small fridge in passing and head to the door, opening it, staring up at Themmie, smiling at you on the other side, some newspapers, and magazines under their arm. 

“Hi, there!” they wave. 

“Good. You said hi, you saw I’m still alive, so now you can go” you say, opening the can and taking a sip.

“Aww, you won’t even let me come in?”

“Ortega obviously sent you,” you say, crossing your arms

“Of course he did, but I would have come anyway”

You narrow your gaze. If it was anyone else, you would be having this conversation trough a locked door, but this is Themmie… They are a special case. 

“What do you want?” you ask, raising your chin.

“Just to chat”

“About?”

“The current headlines? You made it to the front page! You’re a big boy now!”

“Wha…” you start, but they hand you a newspaper, with your picture on the front page as they said. Under it, in bold, underlined letters is your statement from last night. 

FUCK THE RANGERS! 

“Oh fuck me…” you groan.

“Oooh, so that offer really extends to all of us? I have to say it’s a bit too early in the morning for me. Mind If I come in?” 

“I can’t believe they actually published that,” you relent, moving away from the door, turning the page to skim at the article. 

“Wow… this is a DUMP” they ponder upon walking past the door. “But it’s better than the last dump I guess, so kudos on that” 

“Are there other articles?” you ask, annoyed, handing him another cold beer as you sit by the old table. 

“ I just brought a few, but there’s plenty more where this came from,” they say taking the only other chair and passing you the rest of the magazines and papers. 

Frontpage, same message, every single one of them. 

“Shit”

“Hey, you shouldn’t complain! There’s plenty of decade-old heroes that never get a front page!”

“I got really mad last night ok? I didn’t mean for… any of that” you say tossing the papers back his way.  

“Was it about the bait thing?”  they ask, taking one of the magazines from the pile. “There’s a whole interview with Captain Blaze dragging Ortega’s ass about using his sidekick as human shields and live bait”

“Let me see that, and I’m not his sidekick...” you say taking it from them

The whole article is a disgusting little hit-piece whit Blaze using you as ammunition to hit Ortega with and basically gloating about it. But with both Steel and you getting shot while Ortega came out unscathed, the evidence’s on his side. 

“If you want to join the Guardians man, I bet they’d take you right now” They grin. 

“I don’t want to join a team… and how did they even know about the bait thing?”

“You yelled it at Steel, remember? Then the sarge tried to explain how baiting the enemy is a valid strategy and that Charge did the right thing in coming up with it…”

“How did that go?” 

“Read it yourself” they add passing another article your way. The title says it all.

Loyal friend, or Devil’s Advocate? An opinion piece published by Deveraux, one of the mayor’s closest allies in the last years, trashing Charge’s ethics and field abilities. 

“The bait wasn’t even his idea” you sigh. “I’m the one that came up with it”

“Whaa… you being serious?”

“Why didn’t Charge just tell them?” 

“Charge made no comments, said nothing, just walked past. I don’t think they’d have believed that if he did anyway, but he didn’t even tell us what happened back at the HQ. He just wanted me to bring you a message, and then locked himself up in his office and hasn’t come out. I think he slept there.”

“Huh. And what message is that?” you ask, pretending disinterest.

“He just wanted me to tell you he’s really sorry about what happened up there. That he wasn’t thinking, and that he’s an idiot, and wants to apologize” “He is an idiot,” you say, not looking at them. 

“So you’re not mad about being used as Psychopathor-bait?” 

“No”

“Then what the hell’s going on? Why did you storm off like that” they ask. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s… it’s...” How can you explain what you don’t understand?

“Because... it’s what? Bad? Twisted? Secret?

“No… no it’s just…”

“Problematic? Embarrassing?”

“It’s personal dammit!” you raise your voice. 

“Well, lucky you, I’m your friend! You can talk personal stuff with me!”

“How do I know you won’t tell anyone else?”

“Seriously?” they ask, glaring, making you flinch with guilt.

“Sorry” you avoid the gaze. “I shouldn’t have said that...I know you won’t, Themmie” 

“It’s ok” 

“Alright, I’ll tell you. But promise me you won’t tell a living soul!”

“You already said you know I won’t!” 

“Promise!” 

“Fine, fine, I promise I won’t tell anyone. Now tell me!”

“Ok… when I tried to bait Psychopathor, I dodged a few blasts… but then he got me. Vaporized the wall I was using for cover, got covered in debris, couldn’t get up… then Charge came from behind, and zapped him.”

“Uhu. Uhu” he nods “Go on”

“So Charge… Ortega.. He got closer and helped take all the shit off my legs and lifted me up… and then… and then...”

“And then what?” they ask. 

You walked yourself up to the edge on your own, and now there’s no turning back it seems.

“And then he kissed me”

“HE DID WHAT?!?!!?”

“Don’t make me say it again” 

“WHAT? ARE YOU SHITTING ME??” 

“I TOLD YOU HE FUCKIGN KISSED ME, OK?!”

“And then what happened?!?!?!”

“I don’t know … I didn’t expect it!”

“So you didn’t want it?!” 

“I don’t know! It was too fast!” 

“YOU DON’T KNOW!?” 

“I don’t!”

“What did you do?”

“I think I might have kissed him back” 

“YOU DID WHAT?!” 

“STOP YELLING AT ME!”

“Ok. Ok….” they take a few moments to cool down, the thoughts running wildly in his brain. “So let’s go over this again”

You sigh and nod. 

“He. Charge, Ortega, Marshal Sparkles,... He kissed you”

“Yes, without warning”

“After saving your life”

“He didn’t save my life it was all part of the plan!!” 

“So after saving your life, he kissed you without warning”

You grumble, but still, nod “More or less”  

“And you. Sidestep. Ash. My buddy… you KISSED HIM BACK?”

“I might”

“Alright,” They nod, taking a few deep breaths, too excited. “So… tell me how… how do we go from there… to this?” they point at the newspaper front page. 

“He.. uh…”

“Did he do anything else?” 

“After we kissed… His mods malfunctioned. Shocked the hell out of me” And brought back memories, but you don’t say that.

“Whaaaa…”

“He started apologizing, and that’s when I realized what just happened… I pushed him away… told him to get off me, told him to fuck off, and got the hell out of there”

“You… oh my god…you just left? Didn’t he follow?”

“Well, he tried, but I was faster” 

That’s when you realized what was really happening.

After all, you went through, after all the shit they put you through… After all that you had to go and make out with a human again? And not just ANY human but an actual walking taser?! 

What were you thinking, getting so close to him in the first place? Risking your cover for what?!

And then you kissed him back! Idiot! 

But wasn’t it nice for a brief moment…?

No? yes?

“He kissed you and it freaked you out”

“Yeah, I panicked! Didn’t know what to do,  then Steel was down there being an asshole, the media was all around and It felt like there was no one on my team…” There’s never anyone on your team. “Hey, I’m team Sidestep!” Except for Themmie of course 

“Thanks” you give him a weak smile. 

“Do you want me to talk to him?” 

“I don’t know...”

“Do you want to call him yourself and talk this out?”

“I don’t know what to say to him”

“Do you want me to kick his ass?”

“NO!”

“Well do you want to kiss him again?”

“...” you stare at him, narrowed gaze.

“Hey man, just naming all the options here!” __________ 

If you want to read more: My Fanfiction: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero    DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

[darecruit]

First Look at Open Arms, Chapter 17!

Chapter 17: Repercussions

Jack walked back into the house after putting the burgers on the grill and was taken aback by the total chaos going on around him. Lexi was talking in angry bursts punctuated by loud tears, no doubt from the near-perfect, bright red handprint emblazoned on her cheek. Sarah was doing her best to comfort the distraught girl while Diane was yelling to be heard over the pair. John was doing his best to calm everyone, and poor Quinn and Frannie were off to the side, just trying to keep out of everyone’s way. There was no sign of Shelby or Rachel.

Just then, the front door opened and Shelby stormed into the living room. “I’m going to kill her!” he heard his youngest sister say, stabbing at her phone and then bringing the device to her ear. Her face darkened as she lowered it again and began furiously typing on the screen.

“Shelby? Rachel? What’s going on? Someone needs to start explaining, now!” Diane’s voice called from behind Jack. He turned in time to see his mother stalking towards him. She sidestepped him without a second glance, her gaze zeroing in on Shelby. “Where’s Rachel?”

“Of course I’m mad!” Shelby said out loud; it was clear to Jack that his sister hadn’t realized she had an audience. He watched as she shook her head and then took a deep breath before typing something more.

Thinking quickly, Jack reached a hand out and stopped his mother mid-step. She opened her mouth to protest but he shook his head. Shelby had brought her phone to her ear again and this time, sounded like she was actually talking to Rachel. “Let her be,” he said, easily turning his mother around.

“I need to help, Jack. Rachel’s run off and we don’t know where she is. We need to find her,” Diane argued, craning her head to stare back at Shelby. Jack couldn’t help but follow suit. It was then that Shelby noticed them and moved into the hall where she was blocked from view.

“She can’t have gone far. And Shelby looks like she has it handled. If she needs our help, she’ll let us know. C’mon, Ma,” Jack’s was the voice of reason.

Directing his mother over to soothe Quinn and Frannie, Jack’s next stop was his father. “Hey Dad, can you keep an eye on the burgers for me?” That done, he moved to his wife and daughter.

“Hey, bug, what happened?” he asked, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Rachel happened!” came his child’s angry reply. “She was going off on Quinn for no reason—Quinn’s just tryingto be her friend but I heard Shelby say Rachel’s been acting bitchy to her all week and she’s probably jealous or something. Rachel doesn’t have friends at school and no wonder, if this is how she acts! So I called her out on it and she hit me!”

Jack blinked several times in quick succession, all the while shaking his head slowly, trying to process his daughter’s rushed explanation. His wife seemed to catch the drift much more quickly as he watched her eyes narrow and become stern.

“Language, Lexi—and that was a private conversation between your aunt and I,” Sarah scolded. “You know better than to eavesdrop on someone’s conversation!”

“How am I the one in trouble? Rachel hit me!” Lexi argued back.

“Yes, and her mother will correct her for that. As your mother, I’m more concerned about you and youractions,” Sarah said in a steely voice.

“That’s not fair! I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just overheard while I was taking stuff out to Dad. Not myfault you two were talking where someone could hear everything!” came Lexi’s snippy retort.

“Hey, watch your tone,” Jack warned. “What you heard wasn’t meant for your ears—that’s what your mom is getting at. And you’ve had trouble in this department before, young lady, so I’d knock off the ‘tude if I were you.” He leveled her with a look and a pointed finger—his signature ‘I mean business’ move.

Lexi huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, looking away from the matching angry frowns on her parents’ faces. She was the victim here, face still stinging where Rachel had slapped her, and they wanted to get on her about some accidental information gathering.

Jack shook his head and met his wife’s eyes. One simple look was all it took to convey a multitude of thoughts—Sarah was his rock and she would handle the situation with Lexi, keep Diane occupied if needed, so Jack could find Shelby like he wanted and offer her his big brother services, whatever that may be. Jack gave his wife a loving smile, leveled his daughter with one last warning glare, and then left the kitchen in search of his sister.

“Well, I think we both know you’ve more than earned a spanking—but it’s not the end of the world—” Jack heard Shelby say into her phone as he came up behind her. He made sure to make some noise so as not to scare her. Shelby turned, her expression guarded (no doubt assuming it was their mother instead) and relaxed when their eyes met.

“Baby, I’ve told you before, I will not let you get away with deliberate wrong-doing—and you’ve done a lot of that today,” she continued. Jack was able to hear Rachel crying on the other end and his heart went out to both mother and child. He could tell that Shelby was frustrated and sad—no parent liked the discipline part of their job—and Rachel was clearly distraught.

“Tell me where you are, Rach. Let’s get you home and—”

A thought occurred to him and he placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder. She looked up and then held a finger up to wait. “The park, okay. I’ll be right—”

“Let me go get her, Shelbs,” Jack spoke then. He had a gut feeling that Rachel needed someone on the outside to talk to before coming home, and it wouldn’t hurt Shelby to have some time to collect her thoughts.

“Honey, Uncle Jack is going to come get you, okay? You wait there for him, he’ll be less than five minutes,” Shelby changed course, understanding her brother’s need to help. It was the big brother in him and Shelby couldn’t deny the calming presence he had on her—Rachel could benefit from that same energy in this current moment.

Jack let out a sigh of relief, his hand moving to his sister’s back to rub up and down as she ended the call with Rachel. He could feel the moment the tension left Shelby’s body.

“Thanks, Jacky,” Shelby said tiredly. “I’m so sorry about—” She waved her hand around vaguely. “—this. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting up all week but I never thought she’d…I promise I’ll have her apologize to Lexi. I’ll take care of her behavior too. I can’t believe her! I’ve been on her recently for her rude behavior—though I don’t think any of that was really on purpose—but this—THIS—is deliberate.”

Shelby was speaking nearly as fast and furious as his daughter had only moments before—the complexity and speed at which a woman’s brain functioned would never fail to astound Jack. He knew Shelby was speaking more to herself than at him, but he felt the need to interrupt her regardless. “Easy there, killer,” he said. “Lexi isn’t completely blameless in all of this. She let slip that she heard some of what you and Sarah were talking about before. I’m sure that had something to do with Rachel’s outburst. And anyway, Shel, kids fight. I’ve found it’s easier to let them figure it out themselves—nine times out of ten it blows over as quickly as it started.”

Shelby scoffed. “Did you get a look at your kid’s face yet?”

Jack smirked. “Yeah. Yeah, I did,” he said. “Rachel’s got an arm on her—that’s not even her dominant hand.”

“Jack!” Shelby gasped.

The older Corcoran sibling couldn’t help but laugh; he thought he saw the corners of Shelby’s mouth quirk up. “C’mon, Shel. I’m just saying, maybe it’s not all as bad as it looks right now. Let everyone calm down and we can find out the truth and go from there.”

“Rachel’s still in a lot of trouble,” Shelby said, her mood darkening. Rachel had a lot to account for, no matter what else happened between the girls. And whatever had pushed things over the edge, the fight had been brewing within her daughter for more than a week now. Whether it stemmed from Rachel’s growing jealousy or perhaps even another subconscious test of the rules and boundaries, Shelby knew she’d have to prove to her daughter that she was here, there was permanence to her presence, and that there would always be consistency and security wherever and whenever she was involved.

Open Arms * Open Arms * Open Arms

Tucked away in the shadows of the playground’s wooden turret, Rachel felt every bit the captured, isolated princess, waiting for either a brave prince to rescue her or else the dragon to come finish her off. The experience wasn’t anything like in the stories. Her face was hot and sticky from tears and sweat—no fairy tale princess ever had to deal with things dripping from their nose or into their eyes. No, their tears were always delicate, beautiful—not this ugly, oozing mess that was Rachel’s reality.

The rumble from a truck pulling up, followed by the slamming of a car door brought Rachel back to the present. She twisted, getting to her knees, and was able to remain unseen while looking out of the little window of her tower. She saw Jack coming closer and couldn’t help but wonder…was he the prince, or the dragon?

Why did he come for her anyway? Shelby had been ready to come get Rachel when suddenly, she was told her uncle would instead. Why? Was she in trouble with him too? She did slap his kid in the face, after all.

“Rachel? It’s Uncle Jack. Where are you, kid?” Jack called out over the playground. He didn’t see his niece anywhere.

Rachel ducked down as her uncle closed the distance between them. She didn’t think he had spotted her yet and wanted to keep in that way for as long as possible—at least until she could figure out if he was mad or not.

Jack caught movement out of the corner of his eye, from the rightmost tower of the play castle. It was the biggest tower and had a ramp leading up inside. Following his gut, he easily climbed the ramp and ducked his head inside the structure. “Hey, Rach,” he said, and the small teen nearly jumped clean out of her skin. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, pal,” he added, easing himself into the spot next to Rachel. He cracked the seal on the water bottle he had brought with him and handed it to the sweaty teen.

Rachel eyed him cautiously, but took the offered drink with eagerness. Her throat hurt from all her crying and she was burning up from the overwhelming stuffiness inside her hideout. After several long gulps, she lowered the bottle from her lips and then wiped her mouth against the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes flicked back to her uncle, who was staring at her with a patient calmness she wasn’t expecting.

“Aren’t you mad?” she asked, her tone more forceful than she had intended, accusing.

“What?” Jack asked, his surprise evident both in his voice and on his face. “Why would I be mad?”

Rachel scrunched up her face in disbelief. “Didn’t you see your kid’s face?”

Jack let out a bark of a laugh; Rachel’s response was nearly identical to that of her mother’s not ten minutes ago. It was wild, really. The look his niece gave in response only made him laugh harder.

“Why are you laughing?” Rachel demanded, defensive. She had the gnawing suspicion that she wasn’t aware of a joke being made about her. “I slapped Lexi, you know.” She wasn’t sure why she was offering up that information, if by some miracle her uncle didn’t know about it, but his laughter was unsettling. She needed him to be serious.

“I know,” Jack nodded, sobering at the teen’s expression. He could tell she was upset and on edge and, at the moment, he was only making it worse. “I saw her face. I know you slapped her. I’m not mad at you, Rach.”

“Why?” Rachel couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Mom’s mad at me,” she added as if that decided it all.

Jack sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well…” he paused, deciding his words carefully. “Your mom’s a lot newer to all of this than I am. I’ve had seventeen years’ practice. Kids fight, and sometimes it gets physical. More often than not, it blows over without any interference on our end.”

Rachel frowned as she considered her uncle’s words. He was definitely more easy-going about this than her mother was…whether that was naturally his nature or because, like he said, he had more practice at it was up for debate. She knew without a doubt that there would be interference on her mom’s end…and Rachel would feel it on hers—Shelby had already said as much.

“Besides, I know Lexi and she’s no angel. She’s my daughter, after all,” Jack tried for levity and wasn’t all that surprised when he fell flat. He opted for a more matter-of-fact approach—it seemed that’s what Rachel needed right now. “I know she heard some things she shouldn’t have and used that information against you. So I understand your anger and why you lashed out. I’m not mad about that, kiddo.”

Wary brown eyes met his blue and he tentatively wrapped his arm around small shoulders; he smiled when Rachel relaxed against him. “That’s not to say I want you slapping her or anyone else whenever someone makes you angry, but in today’s case, I get it.”

“How come you came to pick me up instead of Mom?” Rachel asked. Her mom was all set to come get her—she had asked and pleaded with Rachel over and over to tell her where she was so she could pick her up. Then all of a sudden, she said Jack would pick Rachel up instead. Why?

Rachel felt her face drain as a thought occurred to her. “Is…is she too mad to want to see me? Does—oh, God—does she not want me anymore?”

“Rachel, no,” Jack said, his heart breaking for this child in his arms. He drew her closer to him, wanting to ground her. He could tell her thoughts were miles away.

“Are you taking me somewhere?”

“Rach—”

“Where am I gonna go? I don’t have any more parents to—”

“Rachel!”

Rachel jumped at the stern rumble of her name. Her uncle’s voice was so deep, especially in that tone he just used. It sent a chill up her spine. “Y-Yes, sir?” she squeaked.

“Hey, pal,” Jack breathed, his voice low, soothing. He hadn’t meant to scare the poor girl, he only wanted to get her attention and stop her panicked thoughts. “Easy, sweetheart. Deep breaths, okay?”

Rachel followed her uncle’s directive, focusing on her breathing. In. Hold. Out. Repeat. After several repetitions, she felt her heart start to slow, as well as her mind. She opened her eyes that she didn’t remember closing, and zeroed in on the water bottle she was still holding. She was suddenly very sad, and very thirsty. She finished the water off in two big gulps.

“Better?” Jack asked as the girl set down the empty bottle. She sighed and nodded.

“My dads used to bring me a glass of water whenever I was sad. It happened so often that eventually I couldn’t tell the difference between when I was sad and when I was just thirsty,” Rachel said.

If Jack thought his heart couldn’t possibly hurt any more for his niece, he was grossly mistaken. Not knowing what to say in that moment, he simply held her.

“Your mom isn’t mad at you, pal. I wanted to come get you. I thought you might need someone to talk to who wasn’t as, uh…involved. It has nothing to do with your mom not wanting to come herself—of course she wanted to. And she would never send you away, not ever.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t,” Rachel all but whispered. Jack heard it though, every word.

“Of course I can! I know for a fact that if even by some strange twist of fate your mom even thought about sending you somewhere, I would come kick her ass. I can do that, you know, big brother and all. Ben and Lauren would too. And if they didn’t, Nana and PopPop definitely would! Nana would be on her with her slipper faster than you could blink!”

Rachel’s mouth twitched upwards and she let out a small giggle in spite of herself—the image of her mother being chased around the house by her slipper-wielding Nana was too good!

Jack let out a relieved sigh; he got a smile out of the girl—finally! He disentangled himself from the hold he had on his niece and readjusted. It really wasn’t comfortable in this small enclosed space. “C’mon, time to get out of here. It’s hella hot and I’m getting claustrophobic.”

Rachel’s stomach dropped at her uncle’s pronouncement. The amusing mental image of her mother in the hot seat soured and was immediately replaced with her own very real predicament. She watched her uncle climb out of the tower and suddenly felt claustrophobic herself; her dread was quickly filling every available space in her once-safe hideout.

Not wanting to be alone in that oppressive space, she quickly scurried after her uncle’s retreating back. She accepted his helping hand down the ramp and onto the mulch-covered ground. “Uncle Jack,” she started, feeling the familiar prickle of tears in her eyes. She blinked to clear them. “Do you have to…I mean, can we not—” She let out frustrated breath and kicked at a bit of mulch with her foot. “Please don’t take me home yet. I—I’m not ready.”

[thelioncourts]

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 6081 for chapter seven (7/?); 41468 all together

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Both Damen and Nik jolted at the sound, Nik almost knocking over the glass of water on his nightstand in the process.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They shared a sleepy and startled look from their beds and Damen could see the words forming in Nik’s mind before Nik actually said them.

“Not again.”

Knock knock knock.

Damen stood from the bed and wandered barefoot across the floor to where someone was knocking on their door too early in the morning. Again. He was expecting Laurent because — well, because that’s who had been knocking yesterday. There wasn’t any other reason, really, especially given how things had ended, but Damen couldn’t think of anyone else that would know which room they were staying in and, even if they did, what they would want from them at 6:30 in the morning and —

Jord stood on the other side of the door, dressed in his usual clothing that seemed to be made as to not draw attention to the man wearing it, and he was holding two large black garment bags over one shoulder. Like Laurent, he didn’t react to Damen’s state of undress upon opening the door and Damen, for his part, felt a bit like he had yesterday as he tried to find words at the unexpected intrusion.

“Hi,” is what he ended up going with.

“Good morning,” Jord said. “I apologize for the early morning wakeup call, but Charls demanded I bring these to you to try on. He’s worried they might not fit and, in which case, he would need to do some alterations before the luncheon event this afternoon.”

Damen took the bags from Jord and tossed them over his own shoulder, concealing his bare torso from the otherwise empty hallway. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, a long one, in which Jord stared and Damen stared back, and it wasn’t until several agonizing minutes (note: about twenty-two seconds) that Damen’s sleep-addled brain finally caught up to what Jord was waiting for.

“You mean to try them on right now?”

“Yes. Charls doesn’t have a lot of time before the luncheon event and there’s still much to do.”

Damen wanted to say that this was something that should have maybe been handled earlier then, and he wanted to say that he had a perfectly fine suit that he used for every black and tie-esque event he and Nik attended while traveling, but he didn’t say any of that. Instead he looked back at where Nik had already crawled back under the covers of his bed and said with a sigh, “Sure.”

He turned to go back into the room when he realized he’d be closing the door in Jord’s face and he faltered at the awkwardness of it all. It felt like that had been happening often since they had gotten involved with Etoile. “Would you like to wait inside?”

Jord didn’t say yes, but he did look around the hallway once before nodding and stepping by Damen and into the room. Damen was making his way to Nik’s bed to smack him awake when the other man groaned under the blankets. “Was it that blond bitch again?”

[Continue on AO3]

“No, but it’s someone that works with him and they happen to be standing right here,” Damen said, shooting Jord an apologetic look. Jord didn’t seem bothered by the words as he stood at the door, hands clasped behind his back. Nik sat up slowly.

“Hi.”

Jord repeated the same thing he had said to Damen in the hallway and Nik came to the conclusion of his statement faster than Damen had. “You mean to try them on right now?”

“He does,” Damen said, tossing the bag with ‘Nikandros’ written on it in fancy gold script at the foot of Nik’s bed.

It was a slow process, Nik stepping out of bed, unzipping the suit, grimacing at what he found inside, and trying it on in the bathroom. He was in there for some time and when he did finally emerge, it was in a gold colored fitted blazer with no buttons, notched lapels, matching gold pants, a white button-up shirt buttoned to the base of his neck, no tie, and shiny black shoes.

“There wasn’t a color more,” Nik started, tugging at the white collar of the shirt, “subtle?”

“Charls was informed to stick with golds and reds, I’m afraid,” Jord said. “Does it fit?”

“Yes, but —”

“It looks great, Nik,” Damen said, and he shoved Nik out of the way and went to try on his own suit. Nik stood there, taking in his reflection in the lamp-lit room on the mirror that made the closet door and Jord nodded once at him, like a mission accomplished.

Damen took less time than Nik to try on his Etoile designed outfit and when he came out, it was in a bright red double-breasted blazer with peak lapels and a singular button with a white turtleneck underneath, matching red pants that ended at the beginning of his ankles, and white dress shoes with red lining around the soles.

“These are a little blinding,” Damen agreed with Nik’s earlier sentiment, but he definitely seemed less put out about it than Nik had. “It fits good though.”

“Charls is quite good at sizing people up, even at a distance.”

Damen went to stand in front of the mirror Nik had glanced at moments ago and he adjusted the left lapel that was folded over near the top. Then he tugged at one of the sleeves, trying to loosen its grip around his bicep.

“Well, if they fit,” Jord said after clearing his throat, “I’m going to be on my way. Remember that the luncheon is at the gallery and starts at eleven. No one at Etoile likes to be kept waiting so early arrival to mingle is encouraged.”

“Right,” Damen said slowly, sharing a look with Nik.

Jord actually smiled. “They want everyone filling the seats in time for their heartfelt speeches.”

“Of course it’s one of those kinds of luncheons,” Nik mumbled.

“Thank you, Jord,” Damen said loudly over Nik’s mumbling. “We’ll see you there, right?”

“I’ll be working security so yes,” Jord said. He had one hand on the doorknob.

“And are you going to be wearing a suit like ours?” Nik asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Cheers to you then.”

Jord left after that, but not before smiling just a little wider at Nik’s continued grumbling, and that action left Damen and Nik to change out of their suits and place them back in the garment bags.

“Well,” Damen started with a sigh, “there go our plans for the Louvre.”

“Yeah.” Nik looked at the clock. “It’s already after seven, we’ll need to get ready sometime after nine.”

Damen flopped back on his bed. “What do you want to do then?”

“There’s not much time to do anything,” Nik said. “We could just go get coffee.”

Twenty minutes later they were walking down the street wearing their usual casual clothes to not feel cramped and contained the entirety of the day. It was nearing eight by the time they left and the streets were full of people on their way to work. Damen and Nik sidestepped a group of men in business suits.

“Where are we going?” Nik asked, getting himself center on the sidewalk again.

Damen looked up and seemed to pay attention to where they were going for the first time since they exited the hotel. They were walking down a road where some of the buildings’ intricate designs rang as familiar and there were several flowers that were only budding yesterday that were already showing a new petal.

They were going to the coffee shop Laurent had taken him to yesterday morning.

“It’s a nice place,” was all he said aloud.

He was right, of course. It was a tad bit busier as it was later in the morning than it had been yesterday, but the line wasn’t all that long and the baristas seemed to recognize Damen. They didn’t say anything, of course, but there was something in the way they both looked at him and then one another that screamed familiarity. Damen didn’t say anything either, just ordered and paid with a polite ‘Thank you’ when he got his espresso.

“So,” Nik drawled as they took a seat at a table next to the one Laurent had led him to yesterday, “this where Laurent wanted to go for coffee yesterday?”

Nik said the name like it was painful to do so and Damen fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah. It was close enough and had good seating so I figured we’d give it a try.”

They both grimaced as they took their first sips of their espresso. “Well, it’s better than what the hotel gave me, but not by much,” Nik said.

“You would think a city with such great pastries would want better coffee to pair them with.”

Nik hummed in agreement, then took another sip.

They spent some time people-watching, taking in what truly made each place they visited unique, and they did that in comfortable silence until their espresso cups were empty. Then Nik cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve got to ask about yesterday,” he started. “I mean, Laurent wasn’t my ideal person to spend one of our few free days alongside, but I thought, overall, it had been going quite well. Then all of a sudden, right at the end, he stormed off. What happened?”

Damen had known Nik was going to ask about this today. They hadn’t had much time to talk yesterday because, even with the weirdness of the end of their tour, Nik had been beyond excited to go through his camera roll and to even post some of the photos unedited to his Instagram story. He had spent the whole night doing that while Damen spent the same time searching for these accusations Laurent said had been levied against his uncle. He hadn’t found anything and that only had frustrated him more than their final conversation had. Or maybe it had added to the frustration. Either way, it had left him feeling more frustrated than he had thought he could possibly be toward someone he hardly knew.

Damen began with a sigh. “It was just too much time with him, honestly. Had our tour been cut in half, things would have been fine, but he’s,” Damen ran a hand through his hair, “the worst.”

“Damen, what did you say?”

“Too much. He got all high and mighty about how what we do isn’t work at all and I threw it right back at him, telling him that his team that’s around to make him beautiful do all the work and he’s the prop and,” Damen sighed again. “Yeah. There was more that had happened earlier, and not all of those words were used verbatim, but I couldn’t let any of it go by the end. He’s entitled and rude and has never been told no a day in his life. Vannes had been right about that.”

“Damen,” Nik said with a sigh of his own. “Damen. You have to apologize to him today. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“No, I mean, I need you to plead. On your knees, begging for forgiveness from that entitled and rude nightmare.”

“I know.”

“You can say whatever you want about him, to him, as soon as my photos are published. But right now, today, I need you to beg for his grace and mercy in any way you can.” Nik pushed his espresso cup across the table. “If he says he needs a drink, I want you scrambling to get him one filled to the brim. If he goes to sit down, I want you running to pull his chair out for him. And if he tells you to fuck off, I want you to pretend you don’t even exist in this world. Okay?”

“Okay,” Damen said, putting his hands up in defeat.

They stood up after another few minutes of people-watching to put their cups inside and then they were off. For them, it wasn’t hard to fall back into normal after a conversation like that because that kind of honesty was foundational in the way they were raised, in the way they communicated with one another always. It wasn’t a surprise then when Damen double-backed to a bakery they had just passed, yelling out in explanation at Nik’s questioning outstretched hands, “I’m grabbing as much as I can. I know those models are going to eat like birds and I don’t want to be the singular person stuffing my face while we’re there.”

Back in the hotel, they did exactly what Damen had intended and stuffed their faces with croissants and pain au chocolats and spent as much time as humanly possible lounging in their comfortable clothes before they had to get ready. But when it was time, they donned their suits and did their best to do something professional with their hair. For Nik, that meant brushing out his long hair, running some kind of oil he got as a sample once while getting a haircut in Spain to add shine, and then pulling it into a low bun that would inevitably let a few strands escape at some point during the event. For Damen, it meant trying to find a way to tame his curls and, like Nik, he had some oil from a hairdresser (Damen’s was in Brazil) that he ran through each twist and turn of hair to give it a more defined shape.

They paused before leaving and took in each other’s appearances.

“You ready?” Damen asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Nik said, and he opened the door for them to leave.

The gallery was the same as it had been, only now there were round tables covered with white table cloths lined with thick gold and six chairs per table tied with gold sashes in spaces around the statues, underneath paintings and in pathways of sunlight. There were waiters and waitresses in mostly white already walking around with trays full champagne, white wines, and amuse-bouches, and there were security guards at every exit, every entrance, and two stragglers walking around the east and west parts of the room. Damen saw Jord by the exit that led to the rest of the gallery that wasn’t in use by this event.

It wasn’t the statues, paintings, overflows of gold, waiter or waitresses, security, or food and drink that was worth paying too much attention to, not when there were so many attractive people walking around in one large room. Everyone was dressed in bright reds, golds, white, or some kind of combination of the three, and the room was brimming with color and loud professional laughter.

The first person Damen recognized in the crowd was Ancel who, once again, was truly embracing any and all things red. His red hair was down and in long red curls, and he was wearing a bright red skirt with a slit up to one freckled hip and a long-sleeved shirt that clung like a second skin. Damen went to point him out to Nik, to ask if Ancel was as difficult to work with as he appeared, when they were interrupted by their first Etoile acquaintance.

“Wow, you two clean up nicely,” Vannes said. “I’m surprised Charls had enough fabric to get around both of your shoulders.” She herself was wearing a red and gold jumpsuit, mostly red, with gold pinstripes that made her look long and tall and like she herself could be on the runway at any moment.

“They’re great suits,” Nik said.

“Yeah, Charls is a real talent,” Damen said, subconsciously adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

Vannes took an appreciative up and down look of the both of them. “Indeed.” One of the waitresses walked by and, after giving her an appreciative look as well, Vannes grabbed two glasses of white wine and handed them to Damen and Nik with insistence. “I encourage alcohol early at events like these. You will enjoy the speeches much more this way.” Then she was off, eyes still on the waitress that was now serving wine to Aimeric, his green eyes shining with the gold decorating his shoulders.

Nik was turning to say something to Damen, no doubt something about how every person they had met at Etoile had the air of wanting to eat everyone alive, but he didn’t get the words out before Charls was rushing over, clapping his hands once in excitement. “You two! I apologize we haven’t been properly introduced, it’s been quite a hectic few weeks. I am Charls, the head designer here at Etoile, and I wanted to see how your suits turned out. I must say, and I mean this humbly, they look extraordinary.” With the confidence of a man that worked with fabric most of his life, Charls took a step forward and ran a hand down the fitted sides of Nik’s gold suit and pulled at it as if testing the quality of the fabric. “Yes, very nice,” he muttered, unaware of Nik’s wide eyes boring into Damen’s smiling face.

“I must say,” Charls began as he pulled back and immediately moved his hands to the stitching at Damen’s shoulder, “I don’t think I have ever customized two suits for such strapping specimen. Thank you for the opportunity, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” Damen said, holding in a laugh at Nik’s inability to hide his feelings on his face. “We really appreciate you thinking about us, even with all you all have going on.”

“We always want everyone to look their best here at Etoile,” Charls said with a blinding grin and then he was gone, snapping excitedly at a woman in a severely laced up corset dress. “Genevoit!”

Damen ran a hand down Nik’s side in jest, laughing as Nik shoved him away. “I feel like we’re in another dimension when we’re around these people.”

“Tell me about it,” Nik said. He huffed as he adjusted his own suit jacket for what was hopefully the last time today. “It’s as though none of them have ever talked to anyone outside of the fashion world or, if they have, they’ve been brainwashed into forgetting how to talk to anyone outside of their own worlds.”

“There must be a linguistics school of some kind that teaches them how to talk to people because there’s no way that’s….”

Damen was going to say that speaking to people the way everyone at Etoile did wasn’t natural and definitely couldn’t be instinctual, but he was distracted by something, or somebody, across the room and right next to Jord, and he trailed off instead.

It was Laurent, because of course it was.

In Damen’s defense, however, Laurent truly was more distracting than usual. In a sea of bright reds, golds, and white, Laurent was wearing an all black suit. It wasn’t any suit though; it was a shiny pair of black shoes with heels that gave him an extra two inches of height and made his already long legs go on for miles with black pants that exposed his ankles and went up and up to his thin waist where his suit jacket began. The jacket was all he was wearing on top and it wasn’t any regular suit jacket either. It had a gleam to it, the material satin, and it was buttoned to the place right where Laurent’s breastbone ended. Because of that, it gave the jacket a plunging neckline that exposed the fine skin of Laurent’s collarbones, skin that was so fine one could see the blue veins underneath. The most striking part of the outfit, and not the man wearing it, was the one-shouldered satin cape that fell over Laurent’s right arm and ended near the same spot the plunging neckline did.

Nik was flicking Damen’s ear just as Laurent turned and Damen caught sight of his slicked back blond hair and kohl-rimmed blue eyes.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nik muttered, flicking Damen’s ear again. Pain seemed to process then for Damen because he gritted his teeth and smacked Nik’s hand away. “Are you going to be able to apologize or are you going to be too busy hiding your hard-on?”

“I can apologize,” Damen said. He rubbed at his ear. “Watch. I’ll go right —”

Once again, Damen’s words died off before he got them out, but not because of ethereal beauty. Instead, Damen was interrupted by the tinkling of a piece of silverware against a tall champagne flute. At the front of the room, at the largest table, stood Laurent’s uncle in a bright red suit with swirling gold stitching. He looked regal standing up there with a hundred pairs of adoring gazes from his Etoile employees. In fact, the only person that seemed to truly be put off by his standing there was his only family member, Laurent.

“Before we begin this luncheon in the next few minutes, I would like to welcome you all here. My thanks at your attendance today cannot be said enough. As I’m certain anyone here knows, the weeks leading into Paris Fashion Week are some of the most stressful weeks of the entire year and yet, with all of you, it goes on without a hitch.” He inclined his head toward Charls and continued. “To my designers in fashion, set, and all the cosmetics, such as our hair and makeup crew, I couldn’t do this without you. You are so very much like family.” Charls and a handful of other attendees all raised their glasses in the air, many of their faces full of gratefulness. Herode even had a quivering hand on where his heart lay. “I won’t continue, for you’re all going to hear more from me today, I’m afraid, but I wanted you all to know how much I appreciate each and every one of you.”

There was a cacophony of clapping and even a few loud cheers, but Damen didn’t miss Laurent’s blatant eye roll before he snatched a drink off of a passing tray and held it loosely in one hand.

Conversations commenced only seconds after Laurent’s uncle was done speaking, but it all seemed louder and more joyous. It was so loud that it took a whole minute before both Damen and Nik could make out the yelling coming from somewhere to their right. When that specific yelling finally began to register, the two of them could hear the repetition of “Nikandros!” Talik and Jeurre, the two other photographers that had been chosen to photograph the show, were standing alongside Genevoit, one of the makeup artists, the one Talik had had her eyes on, and Vannes once again, and they were all motioning for Nik to come over to them.

“I’m going to go,” Nik said, raising a finger for ‘one minute’ at the raucous group. “Can you apologize now so it doesn’t become an afterthought after another few glasses of wine?”

“That’s what I was getting ready to go do.”

Nik was welcomed into the huddle of people with open arms and an already rousing conversation, and Damen began walking over to where Laurent was standing on the outskirts, observing all the people in the gallery like an art critic would observe the statues and paintings on the walls. Damen wasn’t stopped by anyone as he walked because he wasn’t a model, wasn’t a designer, and wasn’t recognized by anyone too focused on all things Etoile and only Etoile.

When he was just a table away from where Laurent was standing, he slowed down to try and take time to think about what to say first. By the time he was finally in front of Laurent he had it all planned out, from how he was going to greet to how he was going to apologize, and he was ready to say it from the top when Laurent made eye contact with him, quirked a brow, looked him up and down before speaking first to say, “That ensemble is horribly two seasons ago. What on earth was Charls thinking? Please tell me your friend lucked out better.” Laurent stood on his tiptoes, searching for Nik somewhere in the crowd. Quickly, he went back down on his heels and clicked his tongue in disappointment. “It doesn’t appear so.”

Damen swallowed down what he wanted to say, opting to focus on something positive, something good, he could say instead. It took a moment before he could get it out. “Well, your suit is stunning. You look great.” Laurent’s eyebrow quirked again and he watched Damen out of his peripherals. “You do stand out. I mean, you would wearing anything, but with everyone else in these colors,” Damen motioned out at the mingling crowd and trailed off.

“My uncle hates black suits,” Laurent said, shifting the champagne flute from one hand to the other. “He says it’s the most boring color of suit a man could wear and, as you know by now, Etoile is anything but boring.”

There was a pause. It was an awkward one, at least for Damen, because he didn’t know what to say to that. Laurent looked unbothered, his eyes still surveying the crowd, and it was in that awkwardness that Damen decided to just go for it.

“I feel as though we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. And at the photoshoot. But mostly yesterday.”

For the first time since Damen had come over to converse, Laurent turned to face him with his entire body. Those blue eyes were electric lined with smudged kohl liner and Damen didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Laurent responded back to him.

“I fear one is always going to be behind when they get off on the wrong foot. We are proof of that, are we not?”

“Maybe,” Damen said, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps we could refind our footing though, just long enough to start over anyway.”

“If you’re afraid your friend is going to face any repercussions for your inability to keep your thoughts to yourself, hold your breath.” Laurent said this after a perfunctory look at Damen’s face. Damen, irrationally, wondered if Laurent could read minds. All things considered, it wouldn’t be that surprising. “Even if I had truly been offended I wouldn’t punish a man for the words of another.”

“It’s not just that,” Damen said honestly. Laurent didn’t need to know that that was 90% as to why he was apologizing. “I don’t typically pick fights with people, especially ones I don’t know all that well. It was out of my character and I truly do apologize if I caused any upset.”

Laurent let out a loud sigh of discontent and his mouth twisted into something almost cruel. “Do quit groveling. It doesn’t suit you at all, much like how your two-season old suit doesn’t suit this event.”

Briefly worried, for it seemed Damen’s plan of a quick apology was going haywire quite fast, Damen tried to think of something to continue apologizing but to not appear groveling when an apostrophe took the place of that cruelty. He was smiling. “If you did know me, however, you would possibly pick a fight with me?”

Damen breathed. “Probably.” The word came out with a laugh at the end.

Laurent turned to fully face Damen once more and Damen thought he was going to say something else, though he didn’t know what it could possibly be. But before Laurent said anything he held out his still full champagne flute and waited for Damen to clink his own almost empty one to it. “To starting over.”

“To starting over.”

Damen downed the remainder of his drink while Laurent shifted his to his other hand. Before the moment could even properly settle, before Damen could ask why Laurent wasn’t drinking his champagne, Laurent was taking a step away, his shoulders back.

“I’m going to find Charls before everyone sits down to eat. He must know how dreadful I find your outfit and he must know to not put you in such a thing come next week. If a reporter saw you in that,” Laurent stopped to impress the seriousness of such a thing, “it would be an embarrassment to us all.”

“Of course,” Damen said, feeling a degree of whiplash. He watched Laurent walk away (if Nik would have been standing next to him he would have no doubt said something about how Damen watched too intently), watched as he tapped Charls on the shoulder, and watched as Charls enthusiastically greeted Laurent like an old friend making contact for the first time in years.

After a minute more, Damen walked back over to where Nik was only just escaping the group he had been dragged in the middle of, and Damen couldn’t help but grin as he watched Nik pull at the sleeves of his suit jacket again and mutter, “Restrictive nuisance of an outfit.”

“Trouble?”

“Yes, I’m having trouble lifting my arms because it feels like every thread could rip at any moment,” Nik said, giving one last hard tug at his left sleeve. Then he flicked his brown eyes to Damen. “How’d the apology go? You did apologize, right? You didn’t spend the entire time showering him in compliments and thinking that was you apologizing?”

“The apology went fine and, yes, I did actually apologize. Have some faith in me, Nik, I do know how an apology is supposed to go.”

Nik looked at him, his eyes searching, but then he tugged at his sleeve once again. “Good.”

They could have said more, but like earlier there was the tinkling of glass and there was Charls standing at the head of the largest table next to Laurent’s uncle to announce that it was time for everyone to find their seats as food was getting ready to be served.

Damen and Nik found themselves seated at a table with Jeurre, Talik, and each of their managers (who were actual managers), and the food came out in courses, the first course being brie en croute, the second mushroom bisque, the third Beef Wellington with a spring green salad, and the last a ginormous tray of cream puffs delicately over brimming vanilla cream so light it was almost like lifting air. Each course had their champagne glasses topped off by one of the waiters and both Damen and Nik leaned in more than once to the other’s side to proclaim how odd it was getting drunk before noon.

Half right and half wrong, Damen watched as some of the models truly did eat like birds, dipping into the brie once, taking two or three spoonfuls of bisque, hardly touching their Beef Wellingtons and annihilating their greens, and not bothering to look at the cream puffs. Laurent didn’t appear to eat much, but he did eat a cream puff as he talked to his uncle.

Time went by quickly with food to look forward to over and over again, and as the now-empty tray of cream puffs was being cleared from the table, someone called out for a last round of champagne and Laurent’s uncle was standing to make a true speech.

“Without trying to sound repetitious, I would like to thank you all for coming. This upcoming week is incredibly important for all of us at Etoile and beginning such a week with great food and greater company is the only way I can imagine getting through it all.” He nodded his head once as his glass was topped off from a nearly empty bottle of white wine. “I know how much work has been put into this show as I’ve been there to watch all the sweat and tears and even blood that has been shed over every article of clothing, every thematic decision -- whether it be the runway or the makeup on our beautiful models’ faces.” Then, with a heavily ringed hand, he motioned for someone to stand, the demand a subtle curl of his fingers. Damen was surprised to see Laurent push his seat back from the table’s edge and stand.

“Laurent, my dear nephew, and the face of Etoile, has been patient as we have tested each look on his face, each stitch of clothing on his frame, and he will be radiant in this year’s line.” Laurent’s uncle stopped, waiting for the doors that Jord had been standing in front of the entire luncheon to open wide for fabrics made for royalty to come flittering through, assistants of Etoile carrying them for display. “I present to you all The Regency.”

There was thunderous applause from everyone, so loud that some of the silverware on the troubles danced in place. The Regency line was a work of art, and though it was hard to take in each outfit individually, the effect of such a sight wasn’t lost whatsoever. As the applause died, Damen could hear multitudes of voices crying out at the beauty of the outfits, each one the color of what everyone in attendance was wearing, colors seen on the crowns that topped the heads of kings. Laurent took a step toward his uncle.

“Yes, thank you, uncle,” Laurent started, his voice immediately quieting the lagging voices and claps from the tables. All eyes moved to Laurent, his black suit impossible and shimmering as he moved. “Etoile truly is one of a kind and so much of that has to do with the talent we have in our presence. My uncle has always had an eye for the finest of things and this year’s display showcases that with grace and resplendence. But, as he so perfectly stated, it would have been made unfeasible without all of you, and you have my eternal gratitude.”

The charming speech was met with even louder applause and Damen watched Laurent extend his champagne glass to the crowd in the same careful manner he had extended the same glass to Damen earlier. Then Laurent’s uncle put that heavily ringed hand on Laurent’s shoulder, the shoulder without the cape from the blazer, and he kept it there as he said, “There is work yet to be done and I am looking forward to working closely with each of you as we navigate the press, the fittings, dinners, and, most imperatively, rehearsals of next week.”

Applause. Cheers. Whistles that reverberated off of all the glass. Damen and Nik shared a look.

The largest ring on Laurent’s uncle’s hand, a rubied ring encased in gold and engraved with something impossible to see from far away glittered as he stepped close to whisper something in Laurent’s ear. Damen saw Laurent’s shoulder rise and, briefly, thought Laurent would shrug off the touch, but Laurent didn’t. In fact, he smiled instead, a smile that was blindingly beautiful and would have taken Damen’s breath away if he wasn’t so confused by what was happening in the drowning sounds.

Still watching, Damen wasn’t certain if he was seeing things, but he would have sworn he saw the man’s undecorated thumb brush Laurent’s earlobe as he leaned down to whisper something once again. But whether that was a trick of the light or something Damen didn’t quite understand, it didn’t change that Laurent turned now to face him, blue eyes reflecting the gemstones, giving his eyes a dangerous hue. And though he was still smiling, there was a challenge there that was obvious in the set of his jaw and the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Laurent’s uncle leaned back and joined the crowd in its clapping.

As everyone began to leave just minutes later, Laurent was the first to walk out the doors, Jord trailing.

“You ready?” Damen asked Nik who was fiddling with the fork in his hands.

Nik laughed suddenly, the sound quiet and real and not entirely normal. “For more events like this? No.” He stood up, laughing again, and looked at Damen with such earnesty as he said, “Next time I do a gig, remind me to not do it at a place like this.”

They received a handful of looks as they too were leaving and Damen laughed so loudly that he doubled over as Nik muttered, “I didn’t even know people could be that pretentious.”

"Want to put money down on how bad next week will be?"

[mcfanely]

Nightowls

Sometimes all you can do it practice, and hope for the best. Sometimes the effort pays off, and it’s not like Cole is one to back down from anything. 

Chapter 07 - Green, 2931 words

Cole used his shoulder to push open the door into Nightowls' studio, hefting his bag up a bit more onto his shoulder. As usual, the place was getting busier, the lights were dim and the music flowing; and he'd gone from light nerves to feeling like he was close to throwing up in the space of a second. There was the heavy set feeling to his stomach, and the fact that he had been rotating the routine through his head on a loop for the past hour between the monastery and the studio hadn’t seemed to make much of a difference.

He felt like his clothes were picked bare too, even though they still looked fine. Grey sweater, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, an old and faded pair of jeans that he could just throw either into the wash or the rubbish once he got back to the monastery in the morning. Though he had thought to bring a spare change of clothes that day, since it would make the process easier. Use the restroom, clean off, change before he left; it seemed like a better plan than sneaking back into the monastery in neon painted clothes. Since every time he'd told Chamille he was planning on dancing she'd basically covered multiple sets of clothes with colours to the point where if Cole was going to dance, the clothes he wore had to be on the old side. 

"Cole!" came a loud bellow, and he looked up to see Tyler weaving his way through the crowd, "I've got the song all set up, the DJ has an order so--" 

"Not the first dance?" He questioned. 

"Nope."

Cole blew out a heavy breath and swallowed hard, nodding. He could work with that, he was perfectly fine not going first. That meant he could watch other people, see what they did. Or maybe he wouldn't? Since there was the possibility that he'd worry more that what, he was doing wasn't up to scratch. He could dance. He could. Yet, all the other people there, with their talent and far more experience, he couldn’t help but question his capability. 

Here he was thinking doing a load of freestyle would prepare him for a routine. He didn't feel prepared at all. 

Cole felt a nudge to his shoulder, and Tyler's face came into view. "Hey, you'll do great. You've been dancing with Chamille and on your own for like, two weeks. You're good."

"Just good?" He said, and he couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped his mouth. He quickly brought a hand up to try and trap the sound, but it was too late. 

Tyler just smirked, and patted his shoulder. "You're great, and you're the fifth song. I've told Chamille."

"You what?" 

Tyler gave Cole two finger guns, and turned back to the crowd, though he was looking over his shoulder as he moved away, "She's at the stage, glowing neon, you can't miss her."

"You told Chamille?"

"Stage, go."

"Ty--" 

"Stage." The word was drawn out, and with that he retreated into the crowd, whether to go and do something or avoid Cole's possible wrath, neither were sure. 

Though he relented, and went to track down where Chamille was. With the black lighting on, she wasn't hard to miss. 

Each spilt dot of paint on the stage glowed brightly, and Cole could see why Tyler sometimes got her to clean up the mess. Overall, there was less paint in the pot and on her than there was surrounding where she was sitting. 

He forced out a breath, rummaged through his bag and tossed a small pot over to where Chamille was sitting, "Catch!"

Her eyes shot up in a second and it was lucky the lights made its contents glow, otherwise Cole would have lost track of it himself. Thankfully she caught it. 

And stared at it rolling the gift in her hand, "You got me paint?" she questioned, a small smile on her face, though there was more of an excitable tone held in her voice. 

"Yeah, uh, remember that paint battle we had?" Cole questioned, though he knew she remembered that, it hadn't been long ago and there were still flecks of neon over the flooring that they hadn't been able to scratch off. 

"I remember it well." She grinned. 

"That's because I spilt paint over you."

Chamille raised an eyebrow. 

"And I felt bad about wasting it. Also, with all the paint I've been using over the past couple weeks, it's only fair."

"Could have got me food."

Cole laughed sharply at that, any motion of nervousness shifting away for a second, "Wow. Way to say thank you." Chamille was good at that, and it was weird that they'd gone from meeting once and being aware of the other's existence, to actual friends. A good weird, but weird. 

He sat himself down on the stage and laid back, closing his eyes and feeling the hum of the music and footfall move through the floor beneath him. 

"So," Chamille started, and Cole moved his eyes over to her when he listened to her tone. Sharp, and high, like she was holding something in. 

"Dancing?" 

Cole groaned and covered his eyes with one arm, "Don't start."

However it was a bit late for that, because there was now a wide smile on her face. Cole just sighed more. Now there were nerves, and slowly building embarrassment. 

"I'm having a minor freak out here, what if it's not good?" He questioned. 

Chamille regarded him for a second, absently unscrewing the lid off the orange paint and dipping the brush in. "You go through this process every single time you think of dancing, and then afterwards you're all like 'wow, that was amazing! I'm totally doing that again, are you doing that again? I am!' and then you probably perform like, another two times that night."

Cole glared at her when he picked up on the fact that she was using his voice, and that even though it was an exact and perfect imitation, the inflections and blunt sarcasm seemed to fall wrong in his tone. One of the many interesting things about the elemental master. 

When he felt the cold brush of pigment over his cheek, he flinched away quickly with a: "Hey!" 

"Get used to it, dirt-brain, you know the pre-dance schedule." She smirked, "You can't go out dressed like you are."

"I mean, I could."

"Whatever. You made the mask glow, as soon as you did that you had no other choice but to add more brightness to your look."

Cole rolled his eyes and still stayed laid back, though he made sure to stay still as Chamille continued with her art. Then when she moved down to the sleeve of his jumper, he sat up and took his own paintbrush in hand. He picked the colour red this time, and painted a thick and unbroken line all the way down Chamille's already colourful arm. 

She gaped at him, her eyes wide for a moment, though all the while she was covering her hand in neon orange. Cole knew where this was going. He shifted back along the floor as soon as she lunged forwards, and thankfully she missed her assumed intended target of his face, catching herself on his shoulder and leaving a smeared hand-print there. 

"I swear, if you two make another mess, you'll be buying new staging." 

Cole and Chamille both turned sharply to find Tyler stood at floor level, his arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

Chamille cleared her throat, but Cole could see the shift in the corners of her mouth. 

She was going to laugh. 

So he nodded quickly, giving a thumbs up, "Got it. No mess, promise." 

"Good. Cole, three more songs."

Cole faltered at that.

Only three? 

He hadn't even been listening to the music, not properly. He hadn't even noticed any of the other dancing. 

"Right, okay. Three songs, got it." 

"You'll be fine." with that, he walked off. 

Chamille simply gave an interested hum and picked up her brush. "What, that's like, ten minutes?" 

"Don't make me think about it." Cole mumbled. 

"I won't, I won't. But stop moving so much, you know I haven't got a steady hand."

"Understatement."

She had the decency to fake a shocked expression, before getting back to work.

Ten minutes always moved too fast when he wasn't looking forward to what came afterwards, but for some reason Cole still managed to feel every second that ticked by. Chamille had the right idea with sitting silent, it's something they established a week back, it let Cole think about what he was planning on doing, it gave him time to get his mind around something that he inevitably would end up doing. 

Chamille knew he was going to dance, Cole knew it too. He just had to understand that. 

He'd started counting through the songs, anything to focus on but the buzzing nerves. 

Then all too soon the third song came to an end and Cole could feel his heart racing in his chest, maybe it was legitimately a heart attack? If he had any powers like Kai, he was sure he would have been smoking or even on fire at that moment, in the literal and not the good sense. Yet, he didn't, and the ground didn't shake and the floor below him didn't crack and move, but it felt like it should have since this is so much worse than a freestyle, what was I thinking? Why did I say I'd do this? I'm not ready. 

"Cole?" Chamille's questioning tone broke through his stupor. "Take in a deep breath, you'll love it. I know you will, and after, when you're freaking out and I'm absolutely amazed by your talent, I'll let you paint anything on the back of my jacket. You know--" 

"Because you can't see it?" Cole mumbled with a bare smile, "And I could do anything and you just gotta hope it's not rude?"

"Bingo."

He cleared his throat, pushed out a heavy breath even if it didn't release the pressure in his lungs, and got up. Then in the same breath, Cole forced himself just to move forwards. The song would start whether he was inside the circle or not, and honestly he would damn himself if he was late to his own performance. He knew that, he knew he'd beat himself up over it if he didn't do it, so the only conclusion he could draw from that was that he needed to bite the bullet. 

Cutting through the crowd was child's play now, it was so easy. He knew when to sidestep, the fastest way to the centre, who he needed to step around and over if they had sat themselves down on the floor. It was an art form, honed over weeks of trial and error and a couple spilt drinks and trodden on toes. 

Brushing easily past near enough walls of people in a whole variety of dress sense, not that he didn't stand out as much as one guy he'd noticed who was fashionably dressed in varying shades of green. The neon colours, the tightness of his mask as he pulled it over his head and tried to make his hair sit in some semblance of neatness; not that it would still be that way in a few minutes. Even still, he wasn’t the most over the top person in the room by a long shot.

Cole was at home in the studios' crowd as he was being stood in the centre of the large empty circle that was always present in the middle of the room. It gave everyone a great view, along with providing an interesting place to perform in. It forced the dancer to think about all angles, every aspect of their performance. 

He had. He'd obsessed over it daily for over a week. He'd practiced as much as he could, finessed and perfected each move if he was rusty with it, or simply out of significant practice; which he was. 

He'd done all he could, and now all he had to do was show what he'd worked towards. 

The lighting was already up and running, and Cole could see the paint splatters on his sleeves and hands glowing vigorously. Whether people could actually see him, or only get the glare from the neon, he didn't know. As the music started up, he found he didn't care either. This was all familiar, the loud beat in his head, the way his body was already responding to it, feeling the hum of energy. Even with his eyes closed, he knew that attention was on him. And… 

He didn't care. 

Cole blew out a breath, forced his shoulders to relax, and gave in to the music. 

Everything became a blur, autopilot and muscle memory kicking in. He could feel his blood roaring, he could hear it in his ears. The song was in the background, everything was, and Cole was hyper-focused. What came next, where his hands needed to be, how his feet needed to be situated, it was all so easy. 

So easy. Why did he even put so much time and energy into worrying about something that came so innately to him? 

Dancing, it was a learned talent, but it ran in his family. In his blood. It was something that he'd tried so hard to distance himself from for so long for no reason other than an argument with his dad that didn't even hold any weight anymore. They'd both moved past it, past the fact that Cole had felt as though his life was being fashioned around his dad's, whether knowingly or not; they'd talked it out years ago. Yet, Cole had stoll avoided dancing like the plague and for what? What was there to avoid when all there was, was himself and music? 

The ability to express himself through movement, to be precise or as silly as he wanted, why did he stop? 

Why did he ever stop this? 

That was his main thought as the music pulsed on, then drew to a close, and the silence that the end provided was soon drowned out by claps and shouting. Like every performance by absolutely anyone, always received with admiration and pleasant surprise, Cole could speak from experience with everything he'd watched since his time at the studio. Everything always seemed to amaze, no matter if it was a repeated style, the same group dancing multiple times in a row, the reaction was always the same. A torrent of sound that blurred the lines between one song and the next, and as Cole found himself moving from the centre of the circle and into the surrounding crowd. 

Where he received playful shakes to his shoulders and slaps on the back, from some faces he recognised in the crowd, but also from some he didn't know just yet. Still, it was all welcomed. Pulling in breath, adrenaline rushing through him at what he'd just done, all his work coming to fruition in the best way, he was living in the moment. So with all the congratulating and cheering, Cole knew he had a wide smile on his face. He could feel the way his cheeks were already, starting to hurt. 

How could he have been so nervous if this was the outcome for something that couldn't have gone better? 

Cole could have laughed at himself. He nearly did until his attention was drawn away by a shouted, "You looked awesome, man, better than last time!" 

Cole turned with a grin and a raised eyebrow, even though it couldn't be seen behind the mask. "Thanks!" He called back into the crowd, he was pretty sure he knew who’d said it, "You're going next, right? Or are you going to back out again?" 

There was a resounding "Ooo!" and jeers from the nearby crowd of people, but he just waved it off as playful banter. He wasn't cocky, or full of himself, but he could appreciate a good joke. 

He progressed gradually to the outskirts of the crowd, the din of the music lessening just a fraction, though he was still getting constant high-fives and compliments from people, thumbs up, and one mildly frustrating ruffle of his hair from an unknown assailant. Though Cole rolled his eyes, pulled his mask off as he exited the blockade of never-ending people, intent on going to get a drink from a vending machine with whatever loose pocket change he could find when;

"I knew something was going on."

Cole felt the blood rush from his face at the sound of that voice, and any and all buzz and adrenaline petered away in the mere second it took for him to bolt around to face the source. 

Coming face to face with Lloyd, with his hood pulled up and blond hair falling into his eyes, looking slightly awkward and out of place in the room, maybe since he had his hands shoved into his pockets? Though his expression was alert and relaxed for someone who would probably much rather be in bed. 

Cole would have preferred to be in bed too, in that moment, or even a shallow grave. Anything but this, anything else. 

There was the minor hope that he could have only just walked through the doors by happenstance and accident, though his mind vetoed that idea in a second. 

Green, that one guy from before--

Lloyd had followed him, and had been there the entire time.

-

From the beginning

Ch 06 > Ch 07 > Ch 08

AO3

[sky-scribbles]

Have some Sidestep backstory angst... which becomes Chargestep softness, with a certain reveal getting a good ending. ~1400 words, nb!Sidestep x m!Ortega. Many, many Retribution spoilers. Tw for the kind of dehumanising treatment implicit in Sidestep's backstory. 

You’ll remember this, always. Being born.

Out of the warm dark, you surface into the cold, the light, the hands. It’s this – the hands – that you’ll remember most. Hands that clasp tight and pull hard, dragging you upright in the same moment that you fill your lungs for the first time. No chance to flounder and cry like any new-born, because the hands are on you, holding you still.

Faces swim around you. Bodies in white coats crowd you. Mouths make short, clipped vocalisations.

Buried deep in your newly-awake brain, a chip stirs into activity, supplying you with the information you should have learned over fifteen years of childhood that you will never have. Your binary systems match the sounds to entries in a data bank - and suddenly the vocalisations are more than noise. Over the sound of your own wailing, you hear words for the first time.

What you hear is this: ‘For fuck’s sake. Someone shut it up.’

You are born like everyone else, screaming.

Unlike everyone else, you will remember why you screamed.

You will also remember this: new hands on your skin, different hands. Careful hands. Ortega’s.

His fingertip trails over your skin, following the lines of your tattoos like a child with a puzzle book tracing a path through a maze. And you let him. Hunched on the couch beside him, you let him do it. You’re light-headed, your muscles pulled taut by nervous energy, but every time Ortega’s finger finds the end of another tattoo path, your breathing grows a little steadier.

He traces over the series of concentric circles stamped on your shoulder, reaches the end, and looks up at you. ‘Do they do this right away? After you’re…’

‘Decanted.’

His lips press into a terse line. ‘I’m not calling it that. You’re a person, not a wine.’

Your lip twitches, but you’re still too jittery to laugh. Jittery, because you… let him see you. You let him see you and he still wants you here. In his home, in his life. With your skin under his hands.

He’s touched you before, of course, and in ways that made you even more light-headed than this – but that was in the dark. He was in the dark, in more ways than one. He didn’t know what he was touching then, and now the light is unflinching and merciless upon your markings. And he’s still resting scarred, careful fingers on your skin.

Which is a lot to process, so you don’t. For now, you focus on what he said, what he asked you. ‘It’s… it’s just what it’s called. We’re not born. What else are you going to call it?’

Another moment of silence; then he grins. You know his grins, and this one’s the sad-eyed one. The one he uses when he needs to make something funny before it can start hurting too much. ‘Your name’s Wren, so… hatched?’

You still can’t laugh, but you manage an eye-roll and a faint snort. ‘Idiot. And to answer your question, no. The tattoos come later, once they’ve figured out what abilities we have.’  Your hands knot together in your lap. ‘Guess I should be thankful for small mercies. Being decanted was shitty enough without being given the tattoos right after.’

His hands freeze. ‘You remember it? Being taken out of the tank?’

‘Sure. We’d be no use to them if we weren’t born with minds. We’re programmed with skills, knowledge of how to move and speak. They even give us artificial memories, so we feel like we’ve had a life.’ This time you do laugh, a hollow sound that drags itself up from your chest. ‘Makes it worse, really.’

‘Worse?’

‘Being born. It makes it worse.’ You don’t look at him, because his eyes are too full of concern and you don’t know how to deal with that, not like this, not from people who know. ‘I went from not being conscious of anything to… suddenly having to process the whole world at once. It’s different to being born like - like humans. Real people barely have any senses at first, and their brains can hardly process the sensory input they do get. But me, I felt everything. Everything. All my senses were working and my brain was telling me I’d been alive for fifteen years and it was feeding me memories that felt real but which I knew weren’t true because I was being born right there, right then.’

Your hands are shaking. You clasp them tighter together, hard enough that it’s painful – and then you stop. Relax. Because you don’t have to cling to yourself for comfort anymore. You have another option.

So you uncurl your fingers – they’re sweat-sticky and stiff – and reach for Ortega.

He slips his hands over yours and holds. Still gentle. Careful. You close your eyes and focus on the feel of his skin over yours, for one second, two, three. The shaking slows, and finally it stops.

‘You’re okay,’ he whispers, and maybe he’s even right.

‘I was screaming.’ The words slip out like sobs, and you didn’t mean to say them but Ortega knows what you are and he’s cradling your hands in his anyway, and it’s making everything burst out of you. ‘I didn’t know how to stop. And they ran their tests on me and put me in their uniform and locked me in a cell and I’d just been born. I mean. Not born. But –’

Oh. You’re crying now. But it’s okay, because Ortega’s still holding your hands, even lifting one to kiss your knuckles ever so gently. Thumb stroking your fingers, breath against your skin, and you don’t to be able to read his mind, because you can feel how sorry he is through the soft press of his lips. How much he hates that he wasn’t there for you back when you were new-born and screaming.

And the absurdity of Ortega kissing your vat-grown hand stuns all the wary tension right out of you, so you lean into his arms and let him pull you against him. His arms close tight and warm around your back (hands against your tattoos, touching them, not flinching away from them) as you cough out words.

‘I can still see them looking at me. The way they always looked at me, every moment I was in that place. Indifferent. So I couldn’t forget what I was. What I am. A machine, a tool, a weapon, a thing, and they looked at me like that from the moment I was made–’

So different to how Ortega looked at you, back when you were a faceless vigilante and he was grinning at you, cracking jokes to make you open up and stop running away from him. So different to how he’s looking at you now, like you’re something precious. Something sacred, something worthy of soft touches and warm arms.

‘Most people get to be… held. When they’re born. Comforted.’ You mumble the words against his shoulder, because if you muffle yourself maybe the words won’t twist into sobs. ‘Why didn’t I get that? I mean, I know why, but… why did it have to be me?’

A shudder runs through Ortega’s body, and his arms close around you a little tighter. ‘You get it now.’

It’s late. He’s late.

But there’s a time and a place to resent him, and it isn’t now. Shit, you don’t want it to be now. You want to give yourself this moment with him in the light, like you gave yourself that first night in the dark. Pretend that his ignorance and drawn blinds can keep the inevitable at bay.

Because maybe this is what being a person is. Letting yourself change as the world changes around you, letting yourself be born again. You’ve had so rebirths in your life already – your escape, your debut as Sidestep, your first meeting with Ortega, your first battle as Myriad. You’ve been born again and again, been broken and made new over and over.

So you want this moment. One more rebirth for the list: Ortega’s arms around you and his breathing stirring your hair. Once again, you’re surfacing into a life that’s bright and frightening and different, because you have no idea what your life looks like in a world where Ortega knows.

But this time, you’re being held through it. Soothed.

This time, it’s a birth you want to remember.

[usernames-aren-t-myforte]

You (2018)

Alright, so I’m gonna try my best to articulate my feelings about this show, and more specifically, it’s main character Joe Goldberg. 

So first off, this show... is definitely an intense ride. Technically it’s not perfect (really, what is), but I feel like it’s quality is higher than most things we’ve been given in the last several years. Underneath all the action and drama, there’s a real sincerity and deep character study here.  And in all honesty, that is what I live for, and crave most in my shows/movies. So the fact that I have tons of thoughts about it from the get-go, and that it can spark real discussion among its viewers, makes me happy beyond belief. 

There are a lot of interesting and clever things about this story. One of which that stood out to me first was that, this is a stalker story from a man’s POV, written by a woman. Now of course, a good writer can make any believable character, so I’m not saying this is out of complete and utter shock or anything.  I just think it adds more to how impressively real and genuine this story feels. I’m not an expert on what goes on in a male mind, but reading the book, and watching the show, Caroline Kepnes made capturing a man’s thought process seem effortless, and I am a little blown away by that. I think it’s fantastic. So right away, as a woman, I’m intrigued with getting such a close peek into what’s going on in the brain of someone of the opposite sex. Who doesn’t want that when they get the chance?  

Which leads me to the next point I appreciate: it almost feels like we, the audience/reader are being invasive too. I don’t know about you guys, but I became very aware (especially while reading the book) that we weren’t invited into this guy’s head by him. We’re just there. Snooping into his life and his stalker ways. It feels a little like this scene in the show:

(Which is my absolute FAVORITE omg 😂😂😂😂😂)

So in some ways, it feels like you’re mirroring Joe a little bit. You’re watching/reading this guy’s every move, and making your own judgements and conclusions on them. Plus, the intense curiosity I got while reading the book/watching the show, made me ravenous for more. I devoured this book/show, and would have continued to, no matter how long this story went on. So all at once it seems to make me feel more relatable to Joe, while also feeling a little hypocritical as I judge his thoughts and actions from afar. I think deep down we’re all, to some degree, a little inappropriately nosy and curious. Especially when we have the opportunity to be. So right away going in, on this very vague basis, I can honestly say I relate to Joe a little bit.  That said, here is where I’m going to try and explain my feelings about Joe. Hopefully I’ll be able to convey my thoughts clearly, because when it comes to the more serious stuff like this, I believe it’s important for there to be no misunderstandings. 

Okay. So Joe Goldberg. This slippery little weasel right here. 

Yes, I will start by saying that he is hot, he is attractive, and there is an appealing quality to him. I don’t think it’s wrong to admit that. However, there are some glaring flaws that cannot and should not be ignored. I will get to that in a second. But first, I want to touch on some of the surface things that drew me in about this guy, and makes me uncomfortably aware of the fact that if I didn’t know his dirt, I’d totally be into him. 

#1

He’s smart. He’s well read. The man loves books. I love books. Watching him rebind a damaged hardcover would be a satisfying date for me, I’m not going to lie. 

#2, he’s funny. 

#3, on the surface (and I can’t stress that statement enough ON THE SURFACE) he makes for a pretty dang decent boyfriend. 

#4, when he’s correct about what’s right,

#5, again, he’s pretty relatable sometimes

#6, he seems pretty good at *ahem*

You know. Which is always nice. 

But that’s the surface stuff. Now it’s time for the nitty gritty. The really important part. 

There is a strong Ted Bundy flavor here. He doesn’t seem menacing. He just seems like your every-day, relatable, charming, attractive guy. You wouldn’t feel threatened by him at all if you met him. Even someone as smart as Beck fell for it. 

He was very good at putting his best foot forward.  Hence the surface stuff. Hence the attraction we may feel despite ourselves. However, I do sympathize with him to some degree. And here’s why.  Unlike Ted Bundy, I don’t get the impression that Joe has a bloodlust. Ted Bundy would go and meet women, charm them, woo them, lure them in with the express intention of killing them. That was his endgame. He craved the feeling he got when he tortured, raped, and killed women.  

^ Now Joe IS a killer. There is no sidestepping that. But the reason he feels he can claim he’s not is because, unlike Mr. Bundy, Joe’s motivation with selecting his next girl isn’t murder. It’s finding “love”, in his mind. So I do sympathize with him to some degree, because I can’t label him as a monster, or 100% evil. His surface stuff wasn’t a complete sham. It was merely the best version of himself. His good side. The side of himself he let others see. That’s another way we’re vaguely relatable. We all try to hide the less-than-savory side of ourselves.  The only difference is: Joe’s “bad side” is incredibly dangerous. 

So while his motivation was different, his threat level is still very much up there.

I also got the impression that all the stuff he said about his thoughts on love and wanting to “make it work”- he really believed what he was saying. He genuinely felt that way, regardless of how skewed his perception of the situation was. So while his actions were undeniably wrong, I could feel for the guy, and at least relate to the view he tries to get across. That said, the main problem with Joe is that his reactions are extreme. Especially in the book, the man can be very bipolar. When he perceives things are going well, he’s on top of the world. And when he thinks things are going sour, he’s completely in the pits and hates everything. The man is unstable. No matter how much we can understand his desires or his thought process, the truth of the matter is- he does not function properly. It is important to see him for what he is. But at the same time, I feel it’s okay to feel bad about that. He’s clearly messed up, but it’s okay to still see him as human. Like someone else said in the tag, humanizing =/= excusing. As long as you’re not ride or die with all of his murdering and stalking, it’s okay to sympathize for him. It’s okay to relate.  It’s okay to understand his perspective.  But it’s equally important to grasp the reality of the character. He is a danger to the public. He is not fit to roam free. 

In all fairness, I think they did make him a tad more sympathetic in the show. Because like I said earlier, in the book he was more bipolar, while in the show, he was more consistent in his intense optimism about his relationship with Beck. To watch this unstable guy want something so much, something most of us want, is the most relatable thing there is. 

It’s a thing we generally want most people to enjoy. That’s where the main conflict inside me comes from. Love is a pure thing. And lasting romantic bliss is something most of us wish to attain. So to watch this guy who’s clearly unfit for it, but still genuinely wants it SO badly, makes my heart go out to him a little. Emotionally he is this wounded bird, while in every other way he most definitely is NOT. 

Beck said it best when she pointed out that, no matter his intention, it was not his place to fix her life.  It was HER life, HER choices.  We might objectively see how a certain change could improve someone’s life, but their life is ultimately their own, and we have no right to take charge away from how they choose to lead it. We can only try and find someone who makes decisions we can generally agree with and stand by. This is something Joe couldn’t understand. He sees a girl he likes, he puts her on a pedestal, and he immediately gets to work trying to “help” her, to “save” her. His perception is off on how a relationship works, and what being a “good boyfriend” means.  And again, what messes with your head a little bit, is that he’s not 100% off.  On the surface, he’s a great boyfriend. But his bad side makes him feel like it’s his duty to “protect” his girlfriend in ways that aren’t acceptable or okay.  And he doesn’t realize that his “bad side” is wrong, and proportionally way off from a normal person’s.  

The ideal solution would be for him to go to a mental hospital and get help. But realistically, he’d probably be able to talk his way out of there. So unfortunately, the only place for him is prison.  He is a dangerous man. There is no overlooking it. 

I think in a nutshell, my main feeling toward this character is a big ‘If only’.  If only he were stable, if only his mental health could be improved, if only he had proper boundaries, if only he didn’t kill people. But we have to face the music. No matter how badly we feel for him, and wish for better- the reality is, he’s a dangerous criminal. There’s nothing romantic about that. Plenty to sympathize with, but nothing to excuse. He is ultimately the villain, though he sees himself as, and tries hard to be, the hero. We can’t separate the bad from the good inside him, no matter how much we might want to. Joe Goldberg is an amazing character. He’s intriguing, he’s interesting, he’s fascinating, he’s entertaining. But at the end of the day, you don’t want to date him. Amazingly written, sympathetic character does not always equal good boyfriend material. Ship him with his mental health instead. 

All in all, a solid 9 out of 10. 

[stevieang]

May I Have This Dance? Chapter 3/?

Chapter 1  Chapter 2

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston RPF x Plus-Size Reader Insert

Word Count: 3000

Warnings: If too much sweet fluffiness isn’t your thing, then keep on going.This is full-on no-holds-barred fluff, though this chapter throws in some angsty goodness at the end, an homage to @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

Tags:   @3dsaunt  @andiyholly  @averyrogers83  @babybluesunsets @bettercallsabs @brittyevans  @brookebarnes @captain-rogers-beard @cecygee   @csrfavs   @docharleythegeekqueen  @dorito-distractions  @everythingisoverrated  @fabicchi  @favhearts  @flawless-disaster  @gifsbysimplysonia @hazeleyedgirl7   @hennessy0274-blog @inumorph @jaguars2007  @jaamesbbarnes @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety  @janeyboo @joshburtonhellzyess  @jouhainak @learisa @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @lilylovescomics   @lojo83   @lookwhatyoumademequeue  @lostinspace33  @madicardi  @magellan-88   @mamapeterson   @me-a-hopeless-romantic  @meyoko10  @mindingmyownbusiness @mizzzpink @mywritingsblog @nomadicpixel  @part-time-patronus @patzammit @pinkieandthebrain1 @redqueen1221 @sebbytrash  @sgtjbuccky  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @stark-spangled-banner-man  @st-eve-barnes @stillherebiandabitch @sunriserose1023 @suz-123 @the-real-kellymonster    @tutis24 @winterismyfavoriteseason1945  @winters-beauty @yaykitty3

Summary: Two of your best friends are getting married and you have the honor of singing at their wedding.  At the reception you’re approached by a famous friend of the groom, Tom Hiddleston.  Much polite flirting ensues. Here’s the “more to come.” Enjoy!

A/N: Hey y’all!  Thank you so much for your time, your kind words, and all the good stuff you send my way! I am loving this fic now, and though this chapter took me a long time to start, it flowed once I did.  This chapter has a lot of things I hold dear to my heart - American Sign Language and those that use it.  I’ve included a few links to YouTube videos that showcase Deaf theatre and Deaf actors.  If you’ve never seen people using sign language “in real life” this will give you an idea of the energy it can give off when you see it!  They are all captioned - equal access for all!

Chapter 3:

Tom turned over in bed, trying to stretch away the kinks from a poor night’s sleep.  He had tossed and turned, thinking about you - your joy, the kind, honest way you spoke, and how you made him feel things he hadn’t felt in awhile. He couldn’t shake the feeling of a missed opportunity; that he had lost the chance of some great “bolt of lightning” moment by not having kissed you. Yet.

________

Another morning, another first thought of Tom maybe kissing you one of these days.  That dreamy train of thought was quickly derailed by your videophone alerting you had a call.  You barely had time to grab your glasses and pull your hair up before accepting the call, but thankfully Jason had seen you right after rolling out of bed when you were roommates.  

Jason: Is HE with you?

You: Good morning to you, too.  No.

Jason: Why not? It was clear how much he liked you.

You: Just was really tired last night, wasn’t the right time.

Jason: You sure that’s it? You ok?

You had known Jason for too long and subtlety was not a specialty.

You: J, don’t worry, it’s all good.  I’m gonna change the subject - when and where tonight?

As you figured out what the evening was going to bring, your text alert sounded. Tom.  

Jason wiggled his eyebrows and signed off, making you chuckle.

TWH: Good morning

You: Good morning, did you sleep well?

TWH: Somewhat.  Hard time falling asleep.

You: I’m sorry, I hate when that happens.  What are you up to today?

The conversation bubble popped up, then disappeared, then started bubbling again.  Your stomach called for breakfast so you left your phone, washed your face, pulled on your jeans, and made your way out the door. The bubble was still percolating as you opened the door and stepped out backwards to make sure it was locked.  You yelped and apologized as your backside connected with someone in the hall.  

“Oh my God, I’m so…” Your card key flew out of your hand as you turned around, hearing a familiar baritone chuckle and a set of familiar hands holding your waist.

“Sorry I startled you, darling.  I hoped I could convince you to join me for breakfast.”  His eyes found the key card as you stepped back towards your door, and his fingers barely grazed the top of your hand as he handed it over.  While you fiddled with the card to avoid his eyes, your goosebumpy flesh betrayed his effect on you.  

Your smile was tired, but real.  “You didn’t have to come all this way, I would’ve met up somewhere.”  Though it wasn’t your intent, your voice must have relayed something that made him step back.

He hung his head for a moment and you saw something new - seriousness.  “I’m sorry.  I made an assumption that you’d be needing breakfast, as well.  Of course, I should have asked before showing up.”

The tops of your shoes touched his and you entwined your right hand with his left as you sought out his eyes.  “A heads up would’ve been nice.  I might’ve put in a little more effort when I got ready, but seeing you here is wonderful.  Thank you for making the effort.”  He brightened - and not just his smile or his eyes, but his entire countenance that stayed lit the entire ride to the restaurant.  

The morning was so easy, so real.  You were both tired, so neither of you was trying to filter too much, try too hard, or impress the other.  Breakfast at an out of the way diner almost became a Comic Con event when Tom was recognized, but he sidestepped the hoopla by posing for a few photos, signing autographs, and making wonderfully genial small talk that made all his fans feel heard and special.

When you were safely ensconced in a cab, taking an unofficial sightseeing tour, you remarked how impressed you were by the way he treated his fans.

“It must be so difficult when people see you as one character, but you never seem to begrudge it.  In just a few days I’ve seen you be completely courteous, charming, and generous with anyone that approaches you.  It means something when you treat people nicely when you don’t have to.”

That famous smile made an appearance.  “What exactly, pray tell, does it mean to you?”

Red spots bloomed across your cheeks as you rested your fingers on his leg, “That you were raised to treat everyone with kindness and respect.”

He dropped his head forward and covered his hand with yours.  “Thank you.  I am grateful for my fans.  I recognize that I would be in a different place in my career without them, but to be honest, the attention sometimes makes it difficult when I want to spend time with someone special.” He reached for the hand you were resting on his thigh and looked straight through you.  

You were still.  Your thoughts were silent, your feelings calm.  The driver, on the other hand, took the lull in the conversation as a springboard for a rambling narrative about the various sights.  You both let out the breaths you were holding and laughed.  The rest of the drive was spent learning about D.C. and talking about the plans to meet up with your friends at a Deaf Theatre Company production of “Romeo and Juliet” that night.

While waiting for Tom, you checked yourself in the mirror.  You had pampered yourself - a nap, a luxuriating bath in the jet stream tub, and enough time to look your best.  You only had the clothes you’d packed, but you were able to piece together red pants, a black top and faux-diamond accessories.  The outfit along with your styled up-do and somewhat dramatic makeup made you feel more alive than you had in years.

Tom’s knock sent your stomach flipping, and his outfit - navy slacks and jacket with a crisp white shirt underneath and, of course, the glasses - may have caused heart palpitations.  His face was soft and caring as he complimented your outfit and handed you a beautiful white rose.

“Shall we?” and his ever-offered arm led you to the waiting car, where you shared how nervous you were, provoking a suspicious look.

Your fears tumbled out without stopping.  “I’m afraid I’ve built this up too much, and you won’t be as astounded as I think you’ll be, then that’ll just cause a shame spiral about how I wasted your evening.”  His face easily slid from questioning to playfully mocking and had you laughing and leaning back on the headrest before you even finished the sentence.  He turned a bit, taking your left hand in both of his and letting his leg rest against yours.

“No matter how good or not, what I’m most excited about is that it’s a new experience, a new way of bringing the words and feelings to the audience.  After the little bit I saw last night, I can only imagine the kind of energy an immersive signing experience will have.”

Watching two people sign is one thing, but being thrust into a space full of people using their bodies, voices, and faces to communicate is quite another.  You made sure to keep an eye on Tom, as his eyes rapidly scanned the lobby, his gaze unable to rest on one place.  You quickly found Jason and his boyfriend surrounded by your friend group from grad school.  You had time to introduce them all before the show - you signed for yourself and Tom, and voiced for everyone that signed to him.  You were sweating by the time you sat down and looked forward to the show, while Tom held tight to your hand and let you help him adjust his assistive listening device that channeled the interpreter’s voices.

A performance in American Sign Language is silent, which is an eerie feeling for a hearing person.  It took you years to get used to it, but now it was second nature.  You could tell Tom was trying to reconcile what he saw with what he heard and what he had done when performing the play, which was a huge amount of input and work for his brain.   You whispered the same advice you’d received when you were inaugurated into this world.

“Close your eyes, Tom.  Your brain doesn’t know how to process all the visual information, and it’s likely you’ll get a headache if you keep focusing on what you’re hearing and seeing with such intensity.  Just take little breaks from looking and then come back to it when you feel ready.”  His smile was weary, and he kissed your forehead and whispered his thanks before doing just as you suggested behind his steepled hands.  At the intermission you excused yourselves from the group and took him outside to a secluded area where you could speak to each other without excluding anyone who could not hear.  You handed him a drink, sat next to him, and held his hand.

“You ok? We can leave if it’s getting to be too much.”  He lifted his head and looked at you with an intensity you only recognized from his work.

“Absolutely not.  This….this...defies description.”  The fierceness of his stare sent shivers down your neck and arms.  “As do you.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours, his hand behind your neck urging you to stay lost in the kiss, which you were more than happy to do.  When you unlocked from each other, you rested your foreheads together by some unspoken arrangement.

Your text alert sounded.  “It’s Jason, intermission is over.”

He stood, buttoned his jacket, and tugged on the hem before offering you his hand, giving you a much softer kiss before escorting you back inside.  Jason and company did not wait more than 30 seconds before starting the inquisition via text after you sat down.  

Jason: Did you just make out with him?

You: Did you seriously just make this a group text?

Jason: We were ALL thinking it, so YES.  

Tina: Answer the question!

You: Maybe

Jason: Told you! I knew it! You go girl!

You: I’m turning off my phone. I love you guys.

Tom leaned over and kissed your temple while holding your hand.  You squeezed back and filled him in on your nosy but loving friends.  That smile.

“It was worth an inquisition.”  He turned back to the stage as the curtain rose, feeling your excitement build.

You gladly accompanied Tom backstage to meet the cast and crew, who were starstruck and grateful for his praise.  He asked questions that caused a flurry of hands and voices that made him laugh in appreciation of its energy.  He answered their questions, many about his own Shakespearean work, that made them nod.  He asked the director for his info, and remarked that though he might need a bit of a break from all the visual input, he could not wait to experience another play in ASL.  You both took your leave to meet up with your friends at a local pub, Tom excitedly talking about the show and pulling you into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders.

You slid into the backseat of the Uber and leaned back, your eyes closed, while Tom continued sharing his thoughts on the evening.  You realized he was no longer talking and lolled your head to the left, met his eyes, and smiled as he quieted.

“I’m sorry for the running on, darling, this is all new for me.  I can’t wait to think about it, learn more about it.  He closed the miniscule distance between you and kissed you while your eyes fluttered shut.  Your right hand gently laid against his cheek as you assured him you were thrilled that it lived up to all your hype and that yes, you were up to meeting your friends out for dinner.

The long table stretched across the largest part of the pub’s eating area and you guided Tom to sit where he would be able to hear you interpreting what was being signed.  He thought it was a good spot to give you a discreet kiss or two, but he had something else to learn about Deaf people - there wasn’t much that slipped by them.  You laughed and blushed and edited the snarky (but well-meant) comments directed at you, but that didn’t stop him from keeping his hands on or near you and nuzzling your neck when you weren’t actively signing.  You were happy.

Dinner was loud, fun, and over the top, like most Deaf-friendly events that included alcohol and a group of people who could all understand each other.  You did your best to keep him in the loop and participate in the conversation in your own way, only stopping to eat and drink and take a break or two to get some fresh air.  

When you were outside taking a minute to let your brain rest, Tom followed, sidled up next to you and held your face carefully in his hands.

“You are such a rare woman.  Thank you for tonight and thank you for letting me kiss you before, and now.” You eagerly met him, only to be interrupted by the group waving and shouting to get your attention.

His smile was tired. “I guess we’re being paged?”  You decided you would go in, say your goodnights, and head back to the hotel, but you were sidetracked by the promise of dessert.  As you shared warm pie and ice cream with your date, Jason banged on the table to get everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are together to celebrate the fantastic performance of Romeo and Juliet.  Good friends, good food, and good times make me feel very lucky and, on a personal note, I want to welcome back my best friend and former roommate, who we’ve all missed so much.”

As everyone cheered, you toasted the table, and agreed how nice it was to share the time with them.  Jason wasn’t done yet, though.  He looked directly at you with nothing but love in his eyes.

“I want to tell you, my dear one, how happy we all are that you’ve brought Tom with you and that you are happy.  We all miss him, but I know your John is looking down and smiling at your happiness.”

Your words stopped coming for Tom’s benefit as you watched Jason be happy for you.  He looked at your face, devoid of color, and your chest, rising and falling more quickly than it had been.

“You ok?”

You shook your head with a tiny, quiet side-to-side nod as the rest of the table looked at you.  The lack of movement and voices and energy clued Tom in that something was wrong.  As he looked at you with concern, you assured him you were fine, scooted to the edge of the seat, and hurriedly excused yourself to the restroom.  You were gone from the table no more than one minute after Jason started his speech.

Tom looked at Jason and pointed to your path, asking what happened with only an expression.  Other hearing people at the table took over signing for him and voicing for the others.  Jason started where he left off.

“I’m not sure.”

“I don’t think so, she was fine, then you mentioned someone looking down at her, seeing how happy she is, and she just stopped translating.”  Jason took a deep breath in and out, trilling his lips and shutting his eyes for a minute.  He looked at Tom and nodded, before signing.

“Shit.  Yes, John.  Her husband.”

Now it was Tom’s turn to stop cold.  “I’m sorry, what? She’s married?” Thoughts rushed through his brain that didn’t add up.  Now a headache was upon him.  He shook his head and looked at Jason again, a table full of people following his every move with their eyes.

“She WAS married, yes.  John was another one of our roommates, my best friend.  A little while after they graduated and moved into their own place, he got sick.  He was gone too soon.”

Tom was reeling.  He had known you for all of a few days, you didn’t owe him your life’s story, but your reaction to Jason’s comment had him wondering how recent this loss was, how much you were still hurting.  He stood, ready to check on you, when you walked up, coat and bag in hand.  Jason got to you first and no one translated.

“Oh my God love I am so so sorry, please believe me.  I never meant to upset you, to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t, J.  I’m surprised how hard it hit me.  I think I should go back to the hotel.”

“Let me go with you.” and he turned to grab his coat.  You banged your hand on the table to get his attention.

“No.  I want to be alone.”  He looked at you, hurt on his face.  You smiled weakly and assured him nothing was going to happen to you, that you just wanted to sit with your feelings for awhile, alone.

“Let me say goodnight to everyone.  Please stay and enjoy yourself.  For me.” You waved to everyone who understood what you had just said and turned to Tom, who was standing in wait with his coat over his arm.

“Let’s go, darling.  I’ll get you back to the hotel.” As kind as that was, you needed to be alone with your memories, sit with your feelings, and move on.  You couldn’t do that while trying to make other people feel comfortable with your sadness.  You asked him to walk you out, but then asked for what you needed - time alone.  You kissed his cheek and softly apologized for how the evening ended, slipping into the cab and closing your eyes as you drove away.

Tom watched you drive away, quickly thanked everyone, and made his exit.  He’d planned to take you to see the World War II Memorial, he’d been told it was a beautiful thing to see at night, but instead was  thinking about your face, how hurt and sad you were, and wondered how he could help, if you would let him help.

Tom: I hope you find your peace tonight, darling.

You: Thank you Tom.  I hope so, too.

Tom: Can I check in on you later?

You: Maybe tomorrow? I think I’ll go to bed early.

Tom: Of course.  I have your number ;)

Chapter 4

[sherlockxreader]

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 8

Day 8: Shopping

Summary: You try to update your wardrobe with Sherlock in tow, gathering unwanted attention which changes your life forever. Author: Maddy Words: 2100 Characters/Relationships: Sherlock x Reader Warnings: ATTEMPTED RAPE. SUICIDE. DEPRESSION. ANXIETY. CURSING.

Author’s Notes: I’m sorry this is so late out, I have 2000-word essay for uni due tomorrow and have put it off for way too long so… yeah. This turned out having so much angst in it, I’m sorry. I don’t write angst all that often but when I do things like this happen. This is my first attempt at writing any aspects of rape and I don't think I’ll be doing it again anytime soon, it was difficult to do. Please do not read this if suicide, rape, depression or anxiety are triggering.

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“Tell me why I’m here again Y/N. I still don’t understand how my presence is going to affect anything at all.”

“I need your opinion on some new outfits Sherlock, seeing as you don’t like my fashion sense already.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to hun. Now the red or the green sweater?” You held up two identical sweaters, apart from their colour, to your body and switched them a couple of times, waiting for Sherlock to voice his opinion on the matter. After John had revealed to you that you rarely change from your usual jeans and graphic shirts, you had decided that a couple of alterations to your wardrobe were required, hence you had come to the shopping centre of London to do so, towing Sherlock away from another experiment on mold to help you, regardless of his disagreements. As you modelled the sweaters you heard a long, bored sigh erupt from your boyfriend's throat, his eyes rolling in the sockets as he did so.

“I don’t really see why it matters. They’re the same!”

You huffed out an irritated laugh at his sulking, looking down at the sweaters to see the colour contrasting against your arms. “I think we might need to get your eyes tested Sherlock cause these are most certainly not the same. See? This one’s red and this one’s green.” You held the garments back up to show Sherlock, your sarcasm not being lost on Sherlock, him replying with just as much.

“Amusing Y/N. Really, you should be in comedy.”

“I know I’m funny but seriously, which one?” Sherlock looked at the offending pieces of fabric again before moving to another section of the store without an answer, dismissing most of the garments on the racks as he flicked through the selections as a child would. You rolled your eyes as he made his way up and down the aisle you were in several times, deciding the green sweater was more you than the red one. As you began to hang the red one back up, thinking about which shop to go to next, you were startled by a hand stopping your actions, grasping the hanger and pulling it away from the rack. “I think this one, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?” You turned to see who had the audacity to approach you, exuding an air of arrogance and a hint of an underlying threat. The man that had stopped you was at least a head taller than you, muscles threatening to break out of the tight grey Henley he was wearing and his body trapping you against the clothes rack. He was heavily built, his skin darker than that of your average Londoner and his black hair cropped short on his square head. He was obviously not a local as his foreign accent lay heavily on his tongue and he was definitely looking you up and down, a predatory gaze in his eyes.

“I think the red one is a bit more you isn’t sugar?” He edged closer to you as you tried to sidestep him and escape the cage he was trapping you in. “Though what you’re in now is nothing compared to that.”

“Umm, well thanks but I really should be getting back to my boyfriend if you’d just…” You tried to move away, becoming increasingly anxious, but he wouldn’t let up. You were hidden from the sole staff member by a pillar in the store and you couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere, probably waiting outside as he had done for the previous few stores. Your heart began to race as the man leaned down, his mouth nearing your ear. You began to call for the woman at the register when you felt something cold and metal press against your abdomen, your voice was cut off quickly as you realised the danger you in, the man’s body pressed flush against your’s and the small gun hard against your stomach.

“What’s the rush hun? No need to cause a panic.” His breath felt hot against your ear, the smell of alcohol heavy in the air he breathed. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get to know each other a little better yeah?” He closed in even further, so much so that you could see the madness in his eyes. “You just put that pretty little jumper down and come with me alright, nice and quiet like yeah? Otherwise, things may not turn out so well for you. Now come on, that’s it.” Tears were beginning to run down your face as you hung the two sweaters looking around the store for any sign of Sherlock, finding none.

The man had a firm grip on your waist now, his hand large enough to ensure you couldn’t slip away and the gun pressed in between your two bodies, hidden from the staff member who couldn’t see what was happening to you at that moment. He lead you out of the store and around the corner, leading you to the men’s bathrooms. You were whimpering at this point, tears streaming down your face. Unable to call for help lest you get shot and unable to run, you were lead like a lamb to slaughter. You hoped that Sherlock had seen the man lingering about the stores, realising his intentions, and that he would come and prevent anything from happening to you, though the prospects of this dwindled into near nothingness as you reached the door of the toilets. The man pushed you inside, entering after you, gun aimed at your body, now exposed as no-one was around. He locked the door with a sinister click and once again faced you, his face morphed into pure insanity laced with ill-will. You had your eyes trained on the predator in front of you, his on you as he lowered the gun slightly to approach you.

“Please. Don’t.” You managed to plead through your now labouring breath, crawling away from the man until you reached the back wall of the room, effectively cornering yourself as the man drew closer and closer. “Stop. Don’t touch me!” Your voice grew louder as you protested, cracking slightly as the tears choked off your words. You went to yell in hopes to catch someone's attention outside when the gun was pressed harshly against your forehead.

“Shut up bitch! Not another word or I blow your pretty brains out!” His mouth was practically frothing, spit flying from it with every word. You whimpered again as you curled in on yourself. You didn’t dare try to attack or disarm the man with your life on the line.

You had given up all hope when you heard the tell-tale sound of a zip being opened and a hand forcefully push your legs apart so that the rapist had access to the waistband of your jeans, ready to pull them off when a large crashing sound came from the door, followed swiftly by another and the sound of wood breaking. The man froze before pulling you up by your hair, causing you to yell in pain as he trained the gun on your temple.

“Y/N!” You heard Sherlock shout from the other side of the door before it was broken inwards with great force as Sherlock entered the room, eyes wild in rage as he saw the gun against your head and blood trickling down from his temple from where he had been hit.

“Not another step or she gets it!” The man was frantic, pressing the gun harder against your head causing you to cry in pain again as the barrel dug into your temple. Sherlock, who had been about to approach the man froze as he assessed the situation and then locked his eyes with yours. You saw him flick his to the gun then back at you, repeating it as he spoke calmly to the rapist.

“Okay. Okay, I’m not moving. Just, let her go.” as he was speaking, you realised what he needed you to do and once you made eye contact with Sherlock again, you nodded you head minutely so that he knew you understood. You steadied your breath and tried to calm yourself as much as you could before springing into action.You lifted your hands up quickly and pushed the gun up above your head just as the man pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening and everything was muted bar a loud ringing in your ears. You ducked away from the man in the process, distancing yourself as Sherlock leapt from where he was standing and tackled the rapist onto the cold tiled floor of the bathroom before he could get his bearings. Sherlock had managed to disarm the man whilst doing so had pushed the gun away, under a sink. As the men brawled you crawled to the gun, the shot from before having caused your eardrums to burst and blood to trickle down your neck. As you picked up the gun you shouted for Sherlock to move, not hearing your own voice, before firing the gun, hitting the man in the thigh. He cried out in pain, clutching his leg before Sherlock took the gun from you and bashed it over the rapist's head, knocking him unconscious.

Sherlock handcuffed the man to the piping under the sink before he stood slowly and turned to face you, his usually emotionless face streaked with tears and his cheeks coloured with exertion, anger and anguish. You cried in relief and burst into tears, hugging Sherlock close as he soothed you and lead you out of the bathroom before Lestrade and the NSY came to take the man away. You couldn’t hear anything Sherlock was saying, your hearing being as affected as it was, but you could see him talking to Greg, or more likely yelling as we waved his hand from you to the scene repeatedly, clearly agitated. Paramedics had come and were trying to speak to you but you couldn’t understand what they were saying. You became more anxious as you saw people staring with pity at you, pointing towards the scene.

“Sh-Sherlock?” You couldn’t hear anything apart from the ringing in your ears but you knew Sherlock had heard you when he crouched to look at you, his concern overpowering the anxiety that you were feeling. He had begun to talk to you but you cut him off, pointing to your ears which were bloodied and repeating yourself, your voice becoming thick with tears as you spoke. “I can’t hear anything.”

You felt the tears fall continuously down your face as Sherlock’s own fell when he realised the extent of your injuries, before he nodded his head and turned to address the paramedics. He pointed to the ambulance outside of the building and you nodded your head, letting him lead you away from the chaos of the scene before travelling with you to the hospital, where you would soon discover that your hearing had been lost, the damage permanent and irreparable.

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You fell into a depression after that day. Nothing could console you or prevent the nightmares from coming. You lost sleep everyday until you couldn’t bear to even try, staying up with Sherlock at all hours of the night and lying awake with him as he slept. Sherlock had tried to support you throughout your recovery, helping you learn sign language by communicating to you in that rather than through written words as other people did. Your depression only grew, alongside the anxiety that came when you couldn’t forget the demons that were born from that day, plaguing your mind relentlessly, never letting you rest and never letting you forget the manic look in the man’s eyes and the solitary zip that played on repeat in your head. The medication given to you to help with the depression helped not one bit, though you told people it did just to get them to leave you alone. Sherlock never did though. He never left your side and he tried so hard to help you forget about your demons but it was useless. They would never leave, unless you made them leave. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, the fluorescent light of the bathroom where you were destroyed enhancing the dark circles of your eyes and the clamminess of your skin. You were a shell of the person you once were, unrecognisable to even yourself. You looked down to the knife in your hands before raising it to your arm, slashing it down, your demons oozing out of you as the blood ran down your fingers to drip onto the tiles, the puddle growing as rapidly as you were losing consciousness. You looked back into the mirror, and smiled, before falling to the ground, your blood staining your skin and the white tiles below. 

The demons wouldn’t torment you anymore.

[healthnreviews-blog]

Brain Plus IQ : Natural Ways To Keep your Brain Healthy

Brain Plus IQ Reviews Most individuals tend toward either rigidity or chaos. It's additionally common to maneuver between both states-maybe obtaining overwhelmed when emotion comes up (chaos) to the purpose that one shuts down and becomes defended (rigidity). Brain Plus IQ  Brain Plus IQ  Obviously, the expertise of chaos is terribly unpleasant and inhibits daily functioning. It's difficult to assume straight, as an example, once we are terribly anxious or angry. For individuals who have bother with chaos, it's as if the emotions "hijack" them-taking them somewhere unpleasant and where they need little control. These folks may get stuck in feelings that they do not apprehend a way to method to completion and by which they so feel disempowered. 

Rigidity, on the opposite hand, means that losing track of one's emotions altogether or having very little sense of one's true self. While rigidity has the advantage of muting negative feelings, it's the disadvantage of muting positive feelings similarly, as well as the feelings of association and intimacy. I would describe these 2 extremes as two sides of the same coin, since people who cut off their feelings sometimes do so because they worry being overwhelmed by them.In order for an individual to possess a lot of emotional resilience and flexibility, new neuronal connections would like to be solid inside the brain such that soothing and organizing functions will return on-line when things are too chaotic, and enriching functions will return online when things are too rigid. This can be integration.

How therapy helps: Therefore how does therapy facilitate with these problems? Therapy works (in part) by providing an individual the experience of 1st being responsive to the emotion (by slowing down and sidestepping defenses) and then moving through the emotion while not obtaining too dysregulated by it. Hopefully the therapists' presence, tracking of the process, and skill to remain regulated themselves in the face of sturdy feelings can help clients pace, ground, and contain their experience. Assume of how much learning can occur in these moments! Firstly, the brain is learning how to "ride the wave" of emotion. To use this metaphor, when somebody is learning to surf, the more she practices it, the a lot of it becomes engrained in the body-so that the body knows how to stay on top of the wave while not thinking. That is as a result of new neuronal connections have been fashioned in their brain. During a similar method, the body/brain wants to be told how to move through emotions in a swish, manageable method that's not too intense (chaotic), without being too flat (rigid) either. During this metaphor rigidity would possibly seem like not getting in the water in the first place, while chaos would be having the waves crash on high of you.

Secondly, the therapeutic process ought to facilitate the brain learn that it can be safe to share one's self with others and that it can be helpful, even deeply satisfying, to do therefore. On this more subjective level, many of my shoppers have described the experience of having their real feelings, even painful ones, as beautiful. They say that it lends a way of association with me-another person (that we tend to are predisposed to enjoy), as well as a deep sense of affiliation with themselves. This experience is not only on the extent of intellectual insight (though usually insights come out of this process); it is an expertise of finally really being with one's self. Just on I had a shopper tearfully tell me at the top of a session that she felt she had simply experienced a "home-coming." She did this by attuning to and being attentive to what was "inside."

"Inside" would possibly sound sort of a mysterious place, however there are ways that to create it a small amount additional concrete. One way to try to to thus is to orient one's self toward the sensations in one's body. The body, when all, is where we "feel" our feelings-simply like we have a tendency to would a belly-ache or many other biological processes. Slowing down to test in with our physical experience may be a concrete means to start gaining awareness of our emotions. Any manner we tend to can tune into ourselves, after all, will facilitate with this process. We can listen to the character of our thoughts, pay attention to our energy level or where we are holding tension, determine impulses, notice our breathing or heart-rate, listen to sensations of emotion-there are various ways that to tune into one's self. Paying attention to the body could be a nice place to begin as a result of inputs from the body return up first to the right brain and then to the left. This "up and over" motion fosters each vertical and horizontal integration.

[sky-scribbles]

I’ve been feeling emotional about Ortega’s inability to let themselves be vulnerable, so here’s some pre-Heartbreak rambling that got away from me. It ends soft, I promise. ~1700 words, Ortega POV, m!Ortega x nb!Sidestep. 

Sometimes, you feel a lot like screaming.

The reasons are always different, but the sensation is the same. You felt it for the first time at Hood’s funeral: grief and uncertainty and rage, crushed together until the resulting mess crackled and spat like electricity. Searing through your veins and pressing against your skin until you were sure it had to burst out, the same way static spills from your emitters.  

But you choked it down, and wept in private instead.

You feel the same thing whenever they update your mods, when you lie down for the newest surgery and remember: this will be your whole life. This is your body’s future, to be disassembled and built up stronger, like a phone that gets thrown out and replaced so its owner can keep up with the times. It’s true that you love watching the lightning spark from your fingertips. You love the Rangers, you love your job. But sometimes you remember that there’s a yoke around your neck, and you clutch your own body and grit your teeth until they ache.

And you feel the urge again on days like this.

Three major attacks in a single week. It happens sometimes, when the Rangers take enough of a beating at the hands of one villain for another to decide you’ll make soft targets. Which is a mistake, and one they always pay for. But now Sentinel’s in hospital, Steel’s in a wheelchair until his right leg is fixed, Anathema is more subdued than you’ve ever seen them, and Sidestep is cooped up in headquarters until the Rangers are less woefully short-handed.

You didn’t ask Sidestep to stay. They just stuck around, even though prolonged social interaction drives them crazy. They’re a tiny thundercloud of tension right now, and they’re doing it for you.

You could kiss them for it if they’d ever take their mask off for more than sixty seconds.

(Which is a thought you didn’t need, because now you’re thinking about actually kissing Sidestep, your lips on theirs, your hand in their hair, how they might relax against your body and let the stress trickle away. And the idea is very, very attractive, but it’s a punch to your mind that throws you right off balance. You don’t even know their name and they’re very much not a woman and you’re not sure what this means for you and maybe you could not do this right now.)

Your team is tired. Your friends are tired, and you’re trying so hard to keep them going. Smiling for the press until they stop making pointed remarks about the Rangers’ ability to protect the city. Throwing jokes at Anathema to make them laugh again. Helping Steel get around without his leg. Visiting Sentinel, assuring him that the Rangers can manage without him for now. Making sure Sidestep has coffee and a book on hand so they can retreat when things are just too loud for them. 

Every time one of them smiles, it’s a victory, as much as it was when that third and final villain crashed unconscious into the dirt. But it’s not enough. You still haven’t finished all the mission reports, and until you do, the higher-ups won’t give Steel the grants to repair his leg. They might not even cover Sentinel’s medical fees. You need to keep going, you need to do more. So Steel can walk again, so Sentinel and Sidestep can go home, so Themmy can start smiling again.

You need to do more.

Your hand tightens around the pen. The mission reports sit before you, blank.

Just write. But your ribs howl with pain every time you move, your mods ache from overuse, and you’ve barely slept in a week. There was hurt in Chen’s eyes when you admitted that you hadn’t even started the reports. He needs this. So he can walk. You know how that feels.

You need to do more.

You want to cover your head with your arms and scream.

And sometimes you wonder why they can’t hear you. Why the whole world can’t hear you when this scream’s pounding at the insides of your mind. Why no one ever comes to find you, to pull you to your feet and gently cover your eyes until the world stops feeling so bright. You hurt, you hurt inside and out and you’re tired –

(selfish –)

You breathe in. Set the pen to the paper. That’s not how it works. You’re the Marshal; you take care of them.

(you miss Hood —)

You’re the hero. You’re the one who does the saving, the last-minute rescues, the hands around people’s wrists to pull them back to their feet. You’re the one who’s needed, not the one who needs, so you can damn well swallow that scream into the bottom of your lungs where it belongs and get to work –

There’s a thump at the door.

‘Open it for me.’ It’s Sidestep’s voice. You remind yourself to smile, then realise you already are. ‘My hands are full.’

Full, it turns out, with two cups of coffee. One in the mug they got for you, the other in the mug you bought them in return. It takes you a moment to speak as they set your cup down and perch on the edge of your desk, because the lump that’s been in your throat all afternoon has got larger.

‘Sidestep,’ you say, ‘I could kiss you.’

They’re not masked for once, so you get to look them in the eyes, grinning over the rim of your mug as you take a sip. They freeze for a half-second at your words, their lips twitching slightly, and you probably enjoy seeing that a bit too much.

For a moment, you wonder if they might say then do it. You wonder what would happen if they did.

No, you don’t. You know exactly what you’d do.

(Take the mug from their hands. Set it down on the desk. Wrap your own hand around the back of their head, pulling them in, gentle, careful. Kiss them deeply and kiss them slowly, so you can focus on every catch in their breath, every point of contact between you. Kiss them because they’re them, and because you want to, and because they’re here, they’re here right when you needed them – )

But Sidestep doesn’t say that; they pull a book from their coat and wave it at you. ‘Is it okay if I stay here for a while? It’s getting too loud to read down there.’

Your stomach sinks. ‘What, are they bickering? Do I need to go down there and put them in time out?’

‘Not that kind of loud. Loud up here.’ They gesture towards their head. ‘They're not arguing or anything. But there’s a feeling in the air, when I’m around people who’re at the end of their ropes. Like heat. Or… you know when you’re listening to music that’s turned up too loud? And it’s not even music you like, and it’s grating at you until you can't think. Either you walk away or you end up screaming. So I came up here.’

‘And this place is more peaceful? I very clearly recall you calling my brain ‘fuzzy and annoying’ more than once.’

They shrug. ‘It is. But it’s different. You're different. It's like a song you’ve listened to so many times that you don’t even think about it when you hear it play. It fills the silence without taking up room in your head.’

Sidestep lifts their mug to their lips, and you wonder if they’re hiding their face. Because they might just be blushing. ‘Besides, you looked like you needed a pick-me-up. So. Coffee.’

They open their book, no longer looking at you. You could point out that they had plenty of empty rooms to go to, but you don’t. You’re too glad they’re here.

Here for you.

A second passes in which you want more things than you can really process. You want to let out that scream, because then Sidestep might hold you until your throat goes dry and you can’t scream any more. You want to know their name, even more than you want to kiss them. You want to tell them that you love lifting people up and fixing them and making them feel warm and whole again – but that just once, once, you want someone to read your mind and realise when you’re an inch from screaming. Which is impossible. Your brain is static; obscured, illegible.

Except, apparently, to Sidestep. Who can’t read your mind. Who’s here with coffee and quiet smiles anyway.

You breathe in and out, and the moment passes. In the end, all you do is smile at them, hoping they can tell how much you mean it, and say, ‘Thanks, Sidestep.’

A moment of silence, as their hands hover over their book and your pen hovers over the mission reports. And then –

‘Wren.’

Your head snaps around to face them. There’s an odd, breathless ache in your stomach, and it has nothing to do with your battered ribs.

‘With a W.’ They’re still looking at their book, gripping it so hard their knuckles are turning pale. ‘Like the bird. Wren Serrano.’

You stare at them, because you feel like that’s the only thing worth doing right now. Tiny and quiet and dark-eyed, the name couldn’t possibly suit them more, and they have a name and they shared it with you. Their name is Wren and they brought you coffee and they’re here for you, right when you thought no one would come, and you don’t have words for everything you’re feeling right now –

So you don’t try to speak. You just kick back your chair, stand up, and hug them.

They let out a faint noise of protest and pull their arms free – but only for a moment, long enough to put down their book and their mug. Then they’re holding you, Wren is holding you, fiercer and tighter than you expected. Small hands pressed against your back. Fingers clenching into your shirt. Breath sounding close to yours.

And that choking, electric scream sinks back down your throat. Into your chest, into silence.

You think it’s going to be a while before you hear from it again.