#at least my coworker showed some sympathy but a lot of other people i work with have started misgendering me again recently

[munch-mumbles]

trans people working retail should be allowed to tell one customer a day to ***

[punkclowngod]

Micheal Scott has HPD

Here is my irrefutable proof

Before you read, I do have to say: I have HPD and I’m also autistic and this is 100% an infodump. Everything I’m saying about the show is from memory, so sorry if I got quotes or details wrong. Hope this makes sense and honestly if you read through this completely you have my utmost respect bcuz this is going to be long.

What is HPD?

Histrionic Personality Disorder is characterized by a pervasive pattern of excessive emotionality and attention seeking.

Symptoms and Signs of HPD:

Demands to be the center of attention and often becomes depressed when they are not. They are often lively, dramatic, enthusiastic, and flirtatious and sometimes charm new acquaintances.

So already from that, you can see Micheal in those traits if you’ve watched The Office. But lets dive in deeper.

Here are the diagnosis criteria and how Micheal fits in every single one of them:

For a diagnosis, a patient must have: a persistent pattern of excessive emotionality and attention seeking. Micheal’s entire goal in every episode is to receive attention, love and affirmation from his coworkers. Everything he does, he does for approval and attention. He’s very emotional and explosive, very outgoing and social. It’s what makes him such a good salesman. He’s comfortable with people and he’s charismatic.

Here are the patterns of excessive emotionality and attention seeking. For a diagnosis, a patient will need five or more of those:

Discomfort when they are not the center of attention. There’s many proofs of Micheal being like this but I only need one episode to prove my point: the one where Kevin is waiting to see if he has cancer and it falls on the same day of Micheal’s birthday. The entire time, Micheal is uncomfortable, jealous, aggressive and distressed by not being pampered and showered with attention.

Interaction with others that is inappropriately sexually seductive or provocative. Do I really need to put a specific example here? Micheal struggles a lot with lines, when he crosses them he doesn’t realize, he’s very provocative in what he says and struggles with staying “family friendly”. Take any episode and there’s always going to be Micheal saying something inappropriate (like his famous “that’s what she said”)

Rapidly shifting and shallow expression of emotions. Using the Kevin may have cancer episode again as an example, you can see Micheal exaggerates his reaction when he learns Kevin’s situation. He plays more hurt than he is to gain the approval of others, realizing that if he plays more compassionate than he is, more people will be on his side. It happens a few times where he exaggerates his emotions to gain sympathy, like when Ed Truck died and Kelly asks him if he’s okay and at first he didn’t really care but now he sees the opportunity for attention and spirals from there. While he is very genuinely emotional, some of his emotions remain shallow for the simple sake of performing for attention.

Consistent use of physical appearance to call attention to themselves. This one is less blatant. He does work out (or at least tries to, wanting to stay toned), but it’s the only trait that he does not fit in as intensely as the others. Though he does have his jeans, the ones he gets dry cleaned that make him feel super confident. He loves the way he looks in them and makes a show of it whenever he wears them; he started Casual Day solely so he could wear them at work.

Speech that is extremely impressionistic and vague. There are many examples of this. One of my favourites is when he announces that Meredith has been hit by a car and is at the hospital. He’s so vague and uses weird wording, making everyone think for a second or two that she died. There’s also every time he misuses sayings so he sounds more serious, laying heavy on with the exaggeration and lacking details so whenever he speaks it sounds more intense than it really is. He says what he thinks, with no nuance and no reflexion. He believes what he sees and says it as he lived it. Everything he says is controlled by his emotions, he struggles with being objective a lot.

Self-dramatization, theatricality, and extravagant expression of emotion. Once again, do I really need to give a specific example? So much of who he is is described in this. Describing Micheal in three words would literally be: theatrical, dramatic and emotional. Everything is a big deal, everything is bigger than it really is. There are many times where a simple plot will be escalated to something completely off the rails just because Micheal’s imagination and emotions blew everything out of proportion. Herpes that was actually just an ingrown hair? Mob boss was actually just a rude Italian guy? New guy trying to dethrone him and steal all the love and attention was actually just an ex-con that simply wanted to earn a living? So many episodes have been carried by Micheal’s explosiveness and habit to “run out of amok” as he says.

Suggestibility (easily influenced by others or situations). When Dwight says he’s going to the dentist but he’s actually going behind Micheal’s back to go see Jan and steal his job; Jan calls Micheal to say she saw Dwight and Micheal’s first thought was “you were at the dentist too?”. Of course after that it escalates but it still took him a bit to realize he has been lied to. His ignorance is also born of suggestibility, he’s gullible and doesn’t second guess new information so when Todd Packer says misogynistic and racist shit, Micheal won’t question it because he immediately takes it as the truth. He struggles making up his own stance on things and will follow what is more popular. He doesn’t have the instinct to question and second guess the information he’s been fed. He believes people when they lie to him, struggle understanding when people are making fun of him, takes everything first degree because he just believes everything. He trusts people and trusts what they say or what he sees. The new chairs vs new copier plot is also a good example of this, he’s incapable of making a choice because he’s being sweet talked by both sides and can’t make the choice himself. He’s easily swayed and his mind is easily changed - which is why Jan abused him so easily, why he did everything she wanted without fighting. He simply trusted her, he didn’t question her and he was easy to gaslight and lie to.

Interpretation of relationships as more intimate than they are. The whole plot of the [herpes is actually just an ingrown hair] episode is this. Every woman he’s been with he immediately thought was the love of his life. He proposed to Carol on what, their third date? The entire beginning of his relationship with Jan was a train wreck because he thought they were a couple while she considered it to be a one time thing. The girl that washes dogs at the bar, they talked for a few minutes and suddenly he wants her to meet his mom. The entire office he sees as his family which is a plot that drives the episode where Meredith sleeps with a client for discount on supplies. Everyone is his friend, everyone is his family, he gets infatuated with people so easily he loses sense of who he is.

So those are the criteria. The only one I wouldn’t count is the use of physical appearance to call attention to themselves one. So he has 7/8. And even then, I’m not done.

Here are some additional notes:

HPD is born from trauma (like any personality disorders). It’s shown that Micheal has had a rough childhood, notably with his step father Jeff. He felt abandoned and neglected by his mother once she found a new lover, he felt left behind and still needs to compensate for that.

Let’s all remember Micheal’s childhood dog that ran away and since then he refused to go to the park in fear he would find his dog with another kid it liked better. Big HPD moment.

Also, Micheal “the machine knows!” Scott, who “drove [his] car into a fucking lake” just because he trusted the machine and took the right turn literally instead of bearing right. That’s suggestibility right there my guy.

He resents people who actually try to be his friend and struggles with love and attention (Dwight most notably but also Andy when he first arrives in the Scranton branch), because to him it feels overwhelming since he’s not used to it. He chases attention and love and struggles with accepting it because he doesn’t know how to. Of course he also seeks attention from people he sees as “cooler” (aka Jim because in his eyes Jim is the coolest guy in the office), so Dwight’s affection doesn’t feel as fulfilling. It’s hard to explain correctly but it is very relatable, to really do everything for acceptance and then hate it once you get it because it wasn’t from the specific person you had in mind or just because it ends up feeling forced.

To elaborate on the Jan abusing him: the whole sleeping on a bench thing, filming during sex to then improve his form thing, making him wear a schoolgirl uniform thing, and all the other atrocious things she’s done to him, all she had to do to get him to do it was with a smile or simply by staying. She knew Micheal was starved for love and so she used it to her own advantage. She didn’t have to do anything difficult, she knew Micheal would stay no matter what. People with HPD are “easy victims” for abusers because we need love and attention even if it kills us.

How could I forget!!! Micheal’s reckless spending habits!! He buys so many things he doesn’t need, he struggles with saving money and thinking about how his spending affects his life long-term. The condo, the three magic sets, the muppet show (I think that was it), the Burlington coat! He buys things - very expensive things - when he doesn’t have the money for it. He’s irresponsible with his money and that’s something very common amongst people with HPD.

Micheal clearly has a binge eating disorder. He stuffs himself with food he doesn’t even like, forces himself to eat disgusting things, eats tiramisu he found in the trash, mayo and olives because they’re out of ice cream, lemon cake where he’s even asked by Ryan if he likes it and Micheal replies with “it’s not about the enjoyment” or something like this. Taking two brownies and saying he’ll save the second one for later only to end up eating both at once, eating an entire family sized chicken pot pie, bingeing on ice cream cakes, there’s so many examples of Micheal displaying clear signs of having a BED and EDs are also often comorbid with HPD.

This is all I have at the top of my head right now but I know there’s a lot more. Every episode I could quote something he says or describe something he does and link it back to HPD. He’s an accidental perfect representation of the disorder - though that is NO EXCUSE for some things he had said (like slurs, misogynistic comments, racist comments, etc). Of course his HPD is worsened by his privilege, a cishet white man isn’t taught to second guess and question things, he’s encouraged to take what he feels as the truth and to see his emotions as facts. The HPD isn’t what keeps him ignorant, it’s what made it easy for him to stay ignorant. But anyone can grow and learn and no disorders is the cause of bigotry.

So here is where I rest my case. I sincerely doubt anyone read through this godawful infodump but I’m posting it anyways because The Office is my comfort show and Micheal is just a character I really enjoy as someone with HPD.

[bluewinnerangel]

hi there,

i hope this is the right place to share my story. i ended up on your blog because i have been trying to work through some things that have happened in my past and my research has brought me here. i wouldn't call myself a larrie per say but I have been doing a lot of reading in this space and a lot of what i read has resonated with my experience, so i thought i would share because i feel like my perspective would help a lot of people here understand the mechanics of closeting a lot better.

the bottom line is, i was a beard. i'm from a northern european country and what you would call conventionally pretty. when i was in my early twenties i tried to make a living through modelling and the odd bit of acting. never anything international or anything that would make me recognisable, but for a couple of years i made a decent living through it and managed to work my way around my country's entertainment industry quite well. about a year in, my management company suggested i went on a few dates with one of their clients, who was an up and coming singer (ironically, he had started out on a reality singing tv show). at first i thought they were trying to actually set us up, but it became pretty clear to me that he was gay and closeted. we spent more than a year and a half "together", while his career was taking off. i could go into more detail about contracts and stuff, although stakes for us were much lower than what we're discussing on this blog, but i am bound by an nda so i really wont go into any details about the relationship.

what i came here to say, though, is that i think a lot of people see the relationship between a closeted celebrity and their beard as something black and white, a purely transactional exchange between two people that despise each other, and its really not like that at all. i spent more time with my "bf" during those two years than i did with anyone else in my life. we traveled together, i spent time with his family, went to a lot of his shows - that life can be quite lonely and we actually became really good friends through it. when he won an award, i was genuinely happy and moved for him. when i saw the pictures taken of me crying of joy, it wasn't an act. we spent a lot of time together that wasn't for the cameras, pretended to be a couple even at private dinners or events. only a handful of people knew we weren't a real couple, and that includes only one of my very close friends at the time. we shared a room and a bed. i think people here look at what is happening with harry and olivia wilde and think that they don't spend any more time together than what is put on the internet, and i know for a fact that it's not true. i also know for sure that they are not a couple, i look at them and see my past, clear as day. two people bound together by an agreement, who at least partially enjoy each others company, but who are not romantically involved. i think people here spend a lot of time looking for hatred and disgust in their interactions, and i don't think you will find that. what you'll see is two adult coworkers making the best of a very unusual situation.

now, i'm not here to defend olivia wilde. i don't know her and don't particularly like her, and the time i spent with someone closeted has given me endless sympathy for people who are in the same situation and much much less for those who even partially take advantage of that (me included, though i cut myself a bit more slack because i was young, naive and also very much a victim of an abusive industry). but i do see in her things i used to feel, and i thought it might be interesting for you all to understand that. there was a specific period of time, when my "bf" was at the peak of his very shortlived career, where i really got lost in the illusion of being the girlfriend of a star, and i lost myself for a bit. when i would walk in a room with him and everyone stared and envied me, i liked that. i felt like i was most desirable, most enviable, to the point where i almost forgot that our relationship wasn't real. it wasn't being with him that was special to me, it was being perceived as his gf that gave me the biggest thrill. it became almost an addiction, i was near the stage at his shows every single time, and when i see olivia wilde doing the same i see myself. i think she knows, intellectually, that she is not harry's partner, and that this has an expiration date, but for people who live in the public eye and that are severely narcissistic like she is (and to an extent i was), the public life is the only one that matters, so in a sense if she is perceived as harry styles's girlfriend then she will BE, in her heart of hearts, harry styles's girlfriend, and i imagine that is a pretty addictive feeling.

i hope i didn't bore you with this and that you understand my goal in sharing this with you all. there is no point in overanalysing their interactions or in projecting your dislike of her onto harry. he probably likes her well enough, and will also be completely fine once their contract ends and they go their separate ways (my hunch is that it will be soon but who knows). i know that nuance is not big on the internet, and these are ugly feelings to open up about, and god knows i do that enough in therapy. but i see what you're all doing here and i know it is painful and can feel hopeless. all i can offer is, you're not wrong. you're not conspiracists. this is how it works, but since it's real life it's all a lot more nuanced than it looks.

ps my former "bf" is now very happy with his partner. he's not out publicly but has been out in his private life for a while now. we still see each other every once in a while. it gets better :)

.

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Then & Now (Ethan x MC)

Summary: A particularly difficult case forces Ethan to confront a blast from his past

A/N: This popped into my head and I had too much fun writing it. I will loosely incorporate some of the themes from book 3 and make them better, but this is mostly an AU.

A/N 2: Yes I’m writing another multipart fic while actively ignoring my others. The muses spoke and I had no choice in the matter. Enjoy!

~v~

“Would you like some more coffee, Dr. Ramsey?”

Whatever line he was reading in his textbook blurs as does his vision. Ethan looks up at the face of the newest member of the team, a young resident, Isabelle. He takes the cup, not missing the way her eyes light up as he does so. What is it with residents and their incessant need to kiss-ass and be people pleasers?

“Thank you, Dr. Proctor.”

“Of course! I figured we’d need all the caffeine we could get our hands on with this case.”

Ethan doesn’t respond with words, only offering the young woman a hum in acknowledgement. Instead his eyes land on his coworker, Harper Emery. “Harper, has your team been able to come up with anything new?”

“Nothing,” Harper replies with a resigned sigh.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’ve run as many tests, MRIs and CT scans as I could, and none of them came back with anything conclusive. We’re officially back to square one.”

Ethan hasn’t been this stumped in years. A week ago, a patient came to Edenbrook after waking up without being able to feel anything from the waist down. A young, relatively healthy 25 year old with no extraordinary medical history, no recent reports of any TBI, nothing. He assumed with Harper–one of the nation’s greatest neurosurgeons–on the case, that this would be a simple fix.

As painful as it is to admit, he’s wrong.

They’ve gotten nowhere with the case, they’ve made no progress, and to make matters worse, he has Leland Bloom and the board breathing down his neck because it’s been years since the team has spent more than a week on a case, so a week with no news reflects poorly on them—on him, as the team’s leader specifically.

The last member of the team, Tobias, clears his throat. “Did he ever mention getting into a fight? Maybe he took a hit to the head, and just doesn’t want to admit it?”

“Maybe, but like I said, none of the CT scans or MRIs showed me anything out of the norm,” Harper says. “I can always ask him again.”

“That’d be ideal–”

Ethan’s sentence is cut off as the door to their office is thrown open, and in walks Leland. “Hello, team!”

The most senior members of the team stay silent, but Isabelle gives a slight wave. “Hello, Mr. Bloom.”

“Dr. Proctor,” Leland greets in turn. “Nice to know at least one of you has manners.”

Ethan checks the time on his watch. “What are you doing here, Bloom?”

“Last time I checked, I owned this entire building and I didn’t need to ask your permission to be here.”

“We’re nearing midnight,” Ethan adds. “What are you still doing here, and not at home? I’m sure Mrs. Bloom would enjoy seeing you.”

Leland ignores the mention of his wife Caroline, pretending like she wasn’t mentioned at all. “I just stopped by your patient’s room to see how he was doing. And then I decided to drop by to check in with you guys. Are there any updates on the Miller case?”

“I’m not discussing patient information with you,” Ethan says.

“Well, I am your boss.”

“And until you go to medical school, graduate, become a doctor at this hospital, and join in on this case, I don’t have to tell you anything. You may own this hospital, but I do not have to discuss my patients with you.”

“Okay, so you guys have no new information,” Leland concludes.

Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, this conversation giving him a headache even though it just started. “We were actually in the middle of a brainstorming session before we were interrupted, so if we could have some privacy again, that would be much appreciated.”

Ethan’s tone causes Leland to drop the veneer of kindness, the smile dropping from his face only for a second before he catches it. He looks away and sniffs haughtily. “Fine. I’ll check in with the patient tomorrow for a status update, since it’s clear I won’t be getting it from my employees. Thankfully, his father and I go way back.”

“I can’t stop the patient from divulging his own information.”

Leland glances around the room one more time, his gaze lingering on Ethan a bit longer than it does on the other occupants. “Goodnight, doctors.”

Once Leland leaves, Harper turns towards Ethan. “You act like it would literally kill you to be nice to him.”

“Be nice for what? Bloom thinks we owe him undying loyalty and infinite ass kissing because he bought the hospital. He’s pulled a lot of nonsense since moving into this position, but he’s not worth breaking any laws over. My patients deserve their privacy.”

“And I agree, but the extra hostility isn’t needed. The last thing we need is World War 3 with you and Bloom tearing down the hospital. Just be nice.”

“Okay, are we getting back to work or calling it a night?”

The rest of the team glances around each other. Pulling an all-nighter with Ethan while he’s in a foul mood sounds like a nightmare.

“We’re calling it a night.”

~v~

Ethan ends up falling asleep in the office, finally dozing off around 5 o'clock in the morning, surrounded by a mountain of books and the harsh light of his computer screen. The sleep is short lived though as the sound of his pager wakes him up.

He jumps up with a start, and checks the time on his watch before checking his pager. He only managed to get two hours of sleep, but he can’t dwell on that. The page is a 911 alert to his patient’s room.

“Shit!”

He takes off to the 4th floor where his patient is housed, thankful that the early morning hour means the hospital is not yet flooded with people.

Isabelle, Harper, and a nurse are already in the room when Ethan finally makes it. “What’s going on?”

“He had a seizure,” Harper explains.

“How long did it last?”

“Around 50 seconds. We administered lorazepam into his IV.”

“Could this be a new symptom?” Valencia asks. “Or something else entirely?”

Harper shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m going to take him down to radiology for another CT scan. Hopefully this next one can actually yield some results.”

Ethan nods. “That sounds like a plan. In the meantime, Dr. Proctor, add seizures onto the list of symptoms to broaden our search criteria. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Gotcha.”

“We’ll reconvene when Tobias comes in and once we get the new CT scans back.”

There’s a knock at the door and Ethan bristles when Leland’s loud voice calls out to him. “Dr. Ramsey, can I speak to you out in the hallway?”

“With all due respect, I’d rather not.”

“It wasn’t a request, doctor. Hallway, now.”

Ethan shoots Harper a look, and she gives him a quick sympathy smile before he and Leland step out into the hallway.

They move a few feet away from the patient’s door, out of earshot before Leland lays into Ethan. “How in the hell is the patient actually managing to get worse under your care?”

The question actually takes Ethan aback. “You can’t possibly be saying his condition is my fault?”

“I’m saying he’s been here for a week now, and he’s no better off than where he was. You don’t have any information to give him or his family. Do you know how many phone calls my assistant has had to field because they want to get him transferred to a different facility?”

“We are giving him the best care possible, Leland. Just because you and his father belong to the same country club or whatever, does not mean there’ll be some instant diagnosis or treatment that he can buy...or steal. We need to do our due diligence.”

Leland is smart enough to know when a dig is being lobbed in his direction. His eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say, Ethan?”

“Exactly what I just did. Besides, why do you have such a vested interest in my team and what we do? I’m sure you have other businesses and people to micromanage these days.”

“You guys don’t make me any money yet remain my biggest cost. The least you can do is be efficient and answer my questions when I ask.”

“And like I told you last night, I know you own this place. You never let me forget it. But you buying this hospital does not mean I am here at your beck and call, now does it mean I have to be governed under anything that isn’t set forth by the American Medical Association. Now, me team is the best this hospital and this city have to offer, so back up and let us do our jobs.”

“You guys are the best?” Leland chuckles humorlessly. “Act like it. Or I’ll find someone else who can.”

The threat causes Ethan to pause. “What does that mean?”

“You heard me loud and clear, Dr. Ramsey. Loud and clear.”

~v~

“You idiot! Why on earth would you get into a fight with Bloom in the middle of a hallway?”

Ethan doesn’t try to school his bored expression as Tobias paces the entire length of the office, huffing and puffing as he does so.

“I didn’t get into a fight with him,” Ethan amends. “It was an exchange of words.”

“A loud exchange of words,” Harper adds. “In front of our patient’s room, might I add.”

“I had plans for this day to be productive, but the minute that man opens his mouth, I just–”

“We get it, you don’t like him,” Tobias interjects.

“Disliking Leland is an understatement.”

Isabelle stays silent, unable to find a good place to cut in, despite having questions. Ethan’s dislike of Leland Bloom is the hospital’s worst kept secret, but the contention has always been passive aggressive at best. And as a second year resident, she doesn’t have any background knowledge on why the relationship is the way that it is.

“I don’t like him either, but you don’t see me needling him in front of the nurse’s station!”

“Sure Leland is...obnoxious at times, but I don’t understand any of it,” Isabelle says, finally speaking up. Ethan looks at her as if he’s just now remembering that she’s been in the room the entire time. “What happened that caused this much animosity?”

Leland’s kidney disease wasn’t a major secret. Most medical personnel that worked at Edenbrook and the larger Boston area remember the huge media blitz, and all of the pomp and circumstance surrounding his hospitalization early last year. And the official story is Leland got a kidney from a family member who wished to keep their identity a secret from the public, and everyone ate it up.

Only a handful of people know the truth. That a few well placed phone calls and dollars exchanged got Leland to the top of the donor list within a day, stealing a second chance from the true person at the top of the list: a 14 year old girl.

“So long as there is breath in my body, Leland Bloom and his ilk will never get an ounce of respect from me, and I’ll just leave it at that,” Ethan says cooly. “And that’s all you need to know, Dr. Proctor.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just saying man, Bloom is petty,” Tobias adds. “Men like him, who think the rest of us should bow at their feet, don’t take kindly to getting told off, especially in public. Underneath the billions is a tiny ass, fragile ego. Can you just keep a low profile and be quiet for the next day or two, so Bloom doesn’t dismantle this team?”

“I’ll be as cordial as Bloom is,” is what Ethan settles upon. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

The only thing that can rival Ethan’s intelligence is his stubbornness. Tobias knows it’s the best he’s going to get out of Ethan, so he relents. “Okay.”

“Good. Now can we get back to work and stop talking about Bloom?”

His team nods and Ethan sighs in relief.. They still have a chance to turn things around and actually have a good day.

They fall into a productive routine, tossing around different theories, sharing research and narrowing down ideas. Too bad that only lasts for about half an hour before there’s a knock at the office door. A few seconds later, Naveen pokes his head in.

Ethan smiles because part of him was expecting Leland to show up again. “Naveen, this is a nice surprise! Don’t tell me you’re ready to get back in the saddle.”

Naveen laughs good-naturedly at his mentee. “Not quite.”

“Well what brings you down here?”

“I wanted to talk to you for a second, Ethan,” Naveen says.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. It’s not about me, it’s work related. Team related news, that I wanted to tell you personally,” Naveen explains, fully entering the office. “Is there any way I could steal you for a few minutes?”

“If it involves the team, I think we can have the conversation here. Is this about my...spirited discussion with Leland?”

“No, it’s about the case you’re working on.”

“Now I know we don’t usually work on cases for this long, and we’re working on it.”

“I know. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Leland has some concerns about how long it’s taking you guys to treat this patient, and he told me that he wants to outsource some extra help to speed things along.”

“No thank you.”

“He’s already made phone calls. I’m just here to give you a heads up about who he picked.”

“A heads up?” Ethan scoffs and rolls his eyes. Who on earth could Leland think of reaching out to that Ethan would need a warning about? “Who is he asking for? Mendoza from MK? Catherine Morgan from Stanford? The Boogeyman?”

“I don’t think I’ve reached Boogeyman levels of infamy. Well, at least not yet.”

The voice makes the hair on the back of Ethan’s neck stand up. It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in close to three years, one that he thought he’d never hear again.

His eyes snap up, locking with the large brown ones staring back at him, and all of the breath leaves his lungs at once. The last time he looked into these eyes, they weren’t full of humor like they are now, but pure fire. His chest constricts, inhaling suddenly the most difficult task in the world.

The entire room goes silent, everyone watching as Ethan and the woman stay locked in their staring contest. Isabelle’s eyes dart back and forth, hoping someone can clue her into what’s going on, but Naveen, Harper and Tobias offer zero assistance.

Isabelle takes the quiet time to appraise the stranger. She’s petite, almost a foot shorter than Ethan even with her sky high Jimmy Choos on. The second thing that catches her attention is the mess of dark curly hair spilling over her shoulders, and the amused smirk on her face, like a cat that got the canary.

The woman breaks eye contact with Ethan to look past his shoulder. “Harper, Tobias, hello. Long time no see.”

When he regains the ability to speak, Ethan grits out, “Naomi, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I got an interesting call from Leland Bloom this morning, saying that the diagnostics team was in dire need of some assistance on a particularly difficult case. Within the hour, his private helicopter was picking me up.”

Ethan takes a sterling’s breath and silently counts to 3 before talking again. “I’m not working with you.”

“You don’t have a choice. Not unless you quit.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Drama was never a good look on you, darling, I was always better suited for it.” She turns her attention to the young resident gawking at her, turning on her megawatt smile. “You’re new. I don’t know you.”

“Um, n-no you don't. I’m Dr. Isabelle Proctor.”

“Isabelle,” Naomi repeats slowly, letting it roll off of her tongue. “What a pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Dr. Naomi Ramsey.”

The last name catches her attention. Her eyes flicker over to Ethan’s face, catching the way his jaw ticks as female Dr. Ramsey talks.

“I can see the wheels turning in your head as I talk, so I’ll clear things up for you right quick,” Naomi continues. “No, the last name thing isn’t a coincidence. I’m Ethan’s ex-wife." She sticks out a hand for Isabelle to shake. "Nice to meet you.”

~v~

Tags: @openheartfanfics @mvalentine @choicesaddict5 @professorkingslay @maurine07 @aka-calliope @bluebellot @whimsicallywayward15 @blossomanarchy @takemyopenheart @jamespotterthefirst @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @the-pale-goddess @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramseyx @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @cecilecontrera @thatysn @bellcat2010 @blainehellyes @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey @uneravine @choicest

[princesssarcastia]

loki and the avengers and being a terrible person who’s TRYING

alright!  alright, fine, god, I can’t take it anymore.  i guess we’re going full 2012 up in this bitch, because I’m going to meta about the avengers in the MCU now, because im going insane.  i mean between this and the harry potter what-is-going-ON.jpg

i’ve been thinking about things I’m seeing on my dash about the Loki show, and what they’ve done to his character (taking away all his sharp edges because apparently you can’t be Good with them); and I’ve been thinking about the pepper potts/JARVIS mcu fic Hardwired (which is one of the greatest things I’ve ever read, even now that I hate touching the MCU.  maybe even especially now).  I’ve had lots of conversations with SainTalia about their fic in the comments, and one concept they talked about that hit me like a bolt of lightning is how in mcu fic, people liked to sort of wooby-fy Tony Stark.

Tony Stark, literal genius mechanist who made a real AI, heads a billion dollar arms company that’s been supplying bombs and guns and planes and whatever to the U.S. government since WWII.  That Tony Stark is not going to be anything other than a privileged white man who expects the world to be handed to him on a silver platter, who expects the world to revolve around him because it always has, because his wealth and genius have made it so.  He’s an asshole!  He’s nothing but dangerous and sharp edges and if he was real, most people on this site would hate his guts and rightfully so.  But because he’s a complex character with room for growth, he also loves Jarvis and Pepper and Rhodey and, even in his earliest days, has something like the seeds of a conscience even if he applies it in a very american-exceptionalist way.  Writing his as weak and scared and like he’s always been interested in doing the right thing is a disservice to his character.

To bring this back around: Where’s that one post about how villains always get the lines that are true that we don’t want to admit to, so that we can write the truth off as just a pithy monologue?  Loki has a line in the first Avengers movie:

“You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are part of you. And they will never go away.”

He and Natasha are both playing mind games with each other in this scene to be sure, but like—Loki is right, with this line. 

Everyone on the goddamn Avengers in the beginning is a fucking terrible person except for Steve Rogers.  All of them.   Tony Stark, we covered above.  He a goddamn arms dealer whose company sold to terrorists, sure, but also gave the U.S. the arms it needed to devastate Afghanistan and Iraq.  Natasha Romanov is a former assassin who’s murdered children, and innocent people, and guilty people; who used to do it against her will for the Soviet Union, and now does it of her own free will for the U.S. government (sorta).  Clint Barton, depending on your flavor of canon, either used to be a thief or used to be a mercenary for hire.  Bruce Banner engaged in dubiously ethical super soldier experiments for the U.S. government and then, like, turned it on himself when he got desperate enough to prove it could work.  Thor is LITERALLY a war criminal; he got pissy one day and decided to go murder people he thought were of an inferior race, nearly starting a war in the process.

Steve Rogers is none of these things, but this isn’t about him.

The whole point of the Avengers that I sort of appreciated is that this is not their first chance, or even their second, or even, sometimes, their third.  They didn’t have a realization that what they were doing was wrong before they’d already done it; before they’d made doing the wrong thing into nearly all of what they were.  Nothing about their stories is conveniently timed.  They all have skeletons and victims in their closets that they literally murdered. 

But when they did finally have that realization, after the fact, after Yinsen was dead by weapons Tony had designed and his company had sold, and Drakov’s daughter was murdered and Natasha had so much blood on her hands, and the frost giants were dead and Asgard on the brink of war and Thor banished with no way to do anything to change it, and the Hulk already a part of Bruce and breaking Harlem—they still started doing the right thing anyway.  Or trying, at least.  Trying to make up for the horrors.  Think of Elliot Spencer, if you’re looking for comparisons. 

And they do get rewarded for it narratively! But that’s not why they’re doing it!! They’re doing it because its worth doing of its own merits; and they’re not always very good at it, because they have no practice and are unlearning some terrible habits, but their is grace in their failures.  Not saints, but seekers.

All these terrible people who are trying to be a little less terrible on their own, only its a little difficult when you’ve spent your whole life revolving around violence and murder; They all, each and every one of them, end up on that hellicarrier in the first avengers movie not even trying to fix their mistakes, because its too late for that, but instead, trying to, i suppose, avenge the people they’d wronged by themselves.

The hope for us fans, of course, was that they would then start trying to be less terrible together.  Instead, the mcu decided that not only would they never be more than hostile coworkers, but also that the five of them needed their sharp edges filed down so they could be canned Superheroes™ that no one could object to, until they became nearly unrecognizable.  Or, in some cases, the MCU just sort of glossed over their terrible bits like they were never unforgivable in the first place.

to those of you still desperately caring about the MCU who have now, apparently, watched them do the same thing to Loki in only eight episodes, you have my sympathy.

[amelialincoln]

The Way Life Goes

This is my post finale fic. Will def be 2+ parts. Hope u enjoy

TW: substance abuse

The look he wore on his face was a mixture of confusion and betrayal and it made her want to run away and hide. She found herself wondering how he could feel betrayed. She had told him exactly what she wanted and it was exactly the opposite of what was happening at this very moment. If anything, she should be the one looking at him like that. She couldn’t bring herself to glance in the direction of her nieces and nephew. She found herself wondering how many people were in on this, how many people she was going to disappoint yet again. Link had always told Ellis she’d be their flower girl and Amelia couldn’t imagine how excited she was when Link had told her that they were going to get married. She blinked hard, wondering for a moment if she was going to throw up.

When she opened her eyes again he was standing on both feet, collecting the tiny boxes, that she refused to look at, from the kid’s hands. Were they supposed to go dance now like everything was okay? This was supposed to be Maggie’s day, why would he make it about them? She felt that familiar impending feeling, in the pit of her stomach, that she had just fucked everything up. Still, she was stuck frozen in place. She wanted to say something to him to fix this. She wished she could just say yes. For the sake of him, Scout, and for everyone who works at the damn hospital and is tired of putting up with her shit.

The kids ran off and it was the two of them. He was kicking sand with his feet, dirting up the shoes he’d spent so much time polishing the night before.

“So what now then?” He questioned bitterly.

“I don’t know,” she choked out, the only thing she could think of to say. He shook his head and let out a sour chuckle. He muttered something that she felt grateful not to hear before pushing past her and storming back to the after party. She found herself guiltily wondering if he was going to find Jo, who always seemed ready to give him shitty advice whenever they were having a fight. Maybe they’d decide that they had actually loved each other the whole time. That idea felt like a knife to the heart but she also felt a sense of relief, knowing that at least he’d have found someone who deserves him. Someone who can be all the things that she can’t. Someone who can make him happy.

The tide was coming in and water was lapping gently against her ankles. It was cold but she couldn’t really feel it. The music had died down and she could see people vacating the reception. The after party would be held at Meredith’s. She was supposed to be helping host it. She sat down, her dress clinging to her small frame as the bottom half became submerged in the clear water. She’d wait until everyone was gone. Until every person that would offer her sympathy or judgment had driven away. Not until, most likely, the sun had dipped into the glittering water that shone in the horizon and until the beach was surrounded in darkness.

He had taken the car, she’d realized, as she stood shivering and soggy in the empty parking lot. Why the hell would he take the car? The answer was simple, he’d assumed that she would’ve caught a ride with Meredith, to get to the house early. That was the plan even before he’d pulled out that ring box. But the whole situation made her even more pissed. Her phone was at 8% and she opened the maps app quickly, eyeing if anything was around. It was the park, less than a kilometer away, that caught her eye. She knew exactly what happened in that park. She recognized the name since it had been brought up in almost half of the addicts at her meeting’s backstories. That park had exactly what her entire body was craving and suddenly it overcame all of her thoughts.

The thing was that she had already fucked everything up. She couldn’t go to Mer’s. She couldn’t go to Link’s apartment. She had nowhere to go. No one to talk to who wouldn’t express some form of judgment. Unlike every person she was now close with, the people at the park wouldn’t care. If anything, those people understood her more than anyone else. The comfort of being surrounded by people who also needed to escape from their unbearable and insufferable lives was intoxicating.

The first bonfire was filled with teenagers. She grimaced slightly before realizing she was in no place to judge. Since when had she become so judgmental? It was her coworkers, her brain was screaming at her. She was becoming one of those egotistical people she used to hate, who had the idea that they were better than everyone else. The type of people who had convinced her that something was wrong with her. The type of people who couldn’t mind their own business for once in their life. She pulled her hoodie tighter around her wet dress as she approached the next blaze.

“Hey,” a woman greeted her gruffly, probably only a couple of years older than her. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here?” The woman was giving her a look of resentment that only Amelia could really understand. She wanted to laugh but instead gave her an uninterested shrug.

“What do you have?” She asked, pulling out her wallet.

“Come take a seat and I’ll show you.” She reminded Amelia of one of her dealers in California except without the little toddler who would always be following his drugged up mother around. There was a strange comfort that this woman provided though, Amelia realized as she settled onto the log between her and a man she’d probably sleep with, by the look of him, if she wasn’t in a relationship. Was she still in a relationship? She passed the woman whatever bills she kept in her wallet and turned to the man beside her.

“What do you recommend?” He looked as if he was having the best trip of his life. He eyed her softly, his vision slightly glazed over before nodding to the syringe the woman was offering.

“Well, what do you like?” He asked simply, scratching his prickly beard with his index finger and eyeing her wet dress with confusion.

“Oxy,” she replied, her eyes glancing over to the little bags and boxes in the women's impressive stash. Watching as he smirked slightly and opened his palms up to the warmth of the fire with a shake of his head.

“You’ll like this then. Camilla's got you.” he confirmed. “If you can handle it.” There was a small kind and teasing tone to his voice and it relaxed her slightly.

“Alright,” she shrugged calmly as she stretched her arm out in the direction of the women and waited for the world to fade away.

Find part 2 here

[the-melting-world]

Strength | Side B: "Colder Heavens"

art by @ ligiawrites

~ In which a former Count breaks a very important rule…

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Lucio | Valdemar

Track Origins: “Colder Heavens” by Blanco White

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: Strength

Khleo is Non-binary and uses she/they pronouns interchangeably

cw: language, alcohol, blood, violence, mild gore

~ 3.3k words

***

~ 17 years ago ~

Hans von Heine shrugged the heavy sack of potatoes off his shoulder as he arrived at the door of his small flat. He unlocked the door and shortly after letting himself inside, he was met with a very tired, “Careful. There’s glass on the floor.”

Hans looked up and locked eyes with his wife, Magda. She was still busy sweeping up the remains of broken ceramic bowls in the kitchen.

“What happened?” Hans asked, gracefully sidestepping the uneven shards. There was no alarm or urgency in his voice, only concerned curiosity. After dropping off the potato sack, he began to help Magda by collecting the larger pieces.

“Khlee.” Magda sighed. “She had another headache and panicked.”

Hans grunted as he stood up. “It’s been a while since her last one. I’ll go talk to her.”

Magda got up too and touched his shoulder. “She’s finally up and moving but…” The skin around the woman’s clear blue eyes wrinkled slightly. “She can’t lift her arms, Hans.”

He covered her hand with his larger one and used the other to gently massage a little tension out of her shoulders. When she relaxed some, he nodded in understanding. “Thank you, Magda. We’ll come help you with dinner soon.”

Magda looked around. “What did you bring for me this time?”

Hans’ dark beard stretched over his toothy grin. “Kartoffeln.”

Magda rolled her eyes. “Wieder, Hans?”

He chuckled as he disengaged from her and popped a kiss to her brow. “Yes. Again. Khlee likes them and they’re cheap.”

Magda drifted back to her task. “Hm. I can see what you’re doing. You want to take her to the beer garden this weekend.”

“The festival is in town,” Hans said. “And I’m willing to bet that wherever Khlee came from, she’s never been to one quite like ours.”

When Hans left the kitchen, he didn’t have to walk very far to get to Khlee’s room. He found his child sitting on the edge of her cot, swinging her legs and glaring at the wall. Though she hadn’t been a part of their household for very long, Hans still felt like they had brought her up since birth.

“Mama says you’re walking now,” He said as he closed the door behind him. “I’m very proud of you.” He took a seat beside her.

Khlee tensed underneath the warm poncho Magda had quilted for her. It was large enough to allow her arms to hide away unless she wanted it otherwise.

“Mama helped me.”

Hans lowered his gaze to Khlee’s knees, which bore fresh cuts from the broken dishes.

“Oh? So is that how you thank her? By breaking all of her kitchenware?”

Khlee drew in sharp breath and leaned over as if to cradle her head, but she couldn’t.

“Papa, I didn’t mean to, I swear! I… I was trying to remember something, but I–”

Hans cursed himself for taking it too far. “Khlee, calm yourself. No one is angry with you.” He gathered her head under his chin and held the wheezing child until her breathing was back under control.

“Now.” Hans sat her upright and pushed some of those wild curls out of her dark eyes. “What about your arms? Show me the progress you’ve made.”

Khlee puffed out her cheeks once, twice. Then she strained hard enough to grow veins in her neck. The only evidence beyond that of her effort was the rigid tension in her shoulders.

Hans smiled fondly. “That’s all right, Khlee.”

She gave a violent shake of her head and clenched her jaw against the resistance. “No. Wait, Papa. I can–”

Hans placed his hands on her shoulders. “That’s enough for now. You’ll grow into them…. Now come with me.”

As he pulled Khlee onto her feet, he glanced down at her knees to make sure she didn’t aggravate her cuts. Oddly, the cuts were still there, but no longer weeping. They looked more like scabs now, as if they were halfway done healing.

“Papa?”

Hans put the thought out of his mind before Khlee could notice the concern in his face. He looked down at her and ruffled her hair. “First we’ll help your mother in the kitchen. Then I’m going to show you how to use those legs.”

Khlee shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to adjust her poncho. “What do you mean?”

With a smile, Hans gently guided her towards the door. “There’s a few folk dances from the Heine that I want to show you. You don’t need your arms for those.”

Khlee grumbled something about how dancing was stupid.

Hans only chuckled. “Trust me, meine kleine Khleo, a dance will come in handy the next time you feel like you want to break something.”

*

*

*

~ Present Day ~

“Hey, Basil.”

Lucio beckoned the mixologist over. As soon as he found out that Khleo’s coworker with the cropped salt and pepper curls and cool blue eyes was helping out that night with the club’s activities, he took the opportunity to catch the barhand’s attention.

Lucio couldn’t tell if the look Basil shot him was wary or friendly or a little bit of both. But he came down to his side of the minibar anyway and started cleaning a fresh glass.

“Montag, right? Did you need something?”

Now that Basil was closer, Lucio could count the dark marks scattered about his olive-toned skin. Lucio, who was feeling a lot more confident these days, let his eyes linger a little longer than average before speaking again.

“Enjoying the view?” Basil whispered, his eyes still on his task.

Lucio cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from the barhand’s tanned forearms.

“Say, Basil. Do you know why Khleo never fights?”

Basil finally looked up, but instead of locking eyes with Lucio, he cast his gaze over the former Count’s shoulder at the rest of the members mingling about the basement.

“Sounds like that’s not the first time you’ve asked that question.”

Lucio surrendered his hands. “I’m just curious is all. Trust me, I don’t have any plans to challenge Khlee in a fight. I’m no fool.”

Basil’s eyes finally met Lucio’s. “Khleo doesn’t fight that often because they don’t bleed. Or at least, not for very long. I have a feeling they keep out of the ring just to make everyone else feel comfortable.”

Lucio made a curious sound. “They cast some sort of regenerative spell before the fight or..?”

Basil shook his head. “It’s not magic. They’re blessed or... bewitched. Whatever you want to call it. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask Hefe.”

Lucio glanced over at the fireplace and shuddered. “I am. Not. Doing that.”

He was briefly reminded of a few days back when he woke up in the hearth with no clue of how he got there. He remembered most of everything that happened the day before up until after the fight club had let out for the night. The very edges of his memory contained snippets of Khleo pouring themself a drink and asking Lucio if he wanted some. After that it was just a haze in which Hefe’s face sometimes showed up. She would lock Lucio into her amber stare and somehow amplify the space around his head with headache-inducing vibrations.

“Like you said,” Basil smiled a bit more openly than before, “you’re no fool.”

They laughed together and after that, their conversation flowed with much more ease. Lucio managed to ask Basil on a date before getting dragged into club meeting activities. He walked out of the bar with fresh bruises and a split lip that suffered even more under his wide, content smile.

Lucio hardly noticed the days passing him by. By now he was a pro at reserving himself a place to lay his head at night and grab breakfast in the morning for free. On the days where he didn’t have fight club to look forward to, he spent his time volunteering at the very centers where he stayed. Most of the work was boring and the people who passed through made his gut twist in sympathy, but it kept him busy.

One day, Lucio was enjoying a late breakfast of grits and sardines when a rough-looking bunch filed in. After they got their food, they collected around Lucio, who couldn’t help noticing their stares.

Some things never changed with Lucio. He still enjoyed attention. Whether he was happily getting his ass kicked in the ring or peacocking around at a masquerade party, something stirred pleasantly in his abdomen whenever all eyes were on him.

And he knew exactly why the rough newcomers had gathered around to stare at him.

“Those are some gnarly war wounds.”

Lucio grinned quietly to himself as he finished the rest of his food. “Thank you.”

One of them scooted close enough to him to bump elbows. “Tell us where you got ’em.”

Lucio coughed in order to hide a burp before looking up at the twelve or so individuals.

“Well, see here’s the thing,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

The curiosity on their faces immediately turned into intrigue, which got Lucio’s pulse quickening. He was enjoying this.

Several of the group glanced at one in particular. The leader, if Lucio had to guess. He was a big fella with about a dozen rings decorating his ears, creating frills of copper and obsidian glass.

“Look, we get it. You’re no rat. But me and my friends, we’re uh… a restless bunch.” He leaned over the table in order to whisper to Lucio. “We’re not looking to cause any trouble. We just need a place to let off some steam, you know?”

Lucio hesitated for a moment. “I do. I know what you mean.”

The one who had brushed elbows with him earlier, slung an arm over his shoulder and said, “So, you don’t have to tell us anything, but maybe you can point us in the general direction?”

Almost immediately after he had, the group of friends took their food and abandoned the table. Lucio sat there, a little bewildered. A part of him had expected them to stay a while and chat him up a little more.

He tried to shake off the sour feeling and just focus on looking forward to fight club. By the time evening had rolled around, Lucio’s skin was tingling with excitement. He was one of the first to arrive at the tavern basement. Khleo hadn’t returned from her delivery shift yet, but it seemed she had already set the table with bread and pilsners. These days, there was a large sign propped up on the middle of the table that read: Clean up after yourselves or no bread ever again!

The rest of the members started to file in not long after Lucio sat down. The companions he had made greeted him and gave him the attention he had been craving since that morning. At some point, Khleo swept in, looking sore and sulky from a long day’s work. But the club members knew how to lift her spirits and very soon all of them were barefoot and clustering around the center of the room, trying to decide who would be fighting first.

The friendly atmosphere, however, turned cold the moment the door that led out onto the street opened and a new presence entered the space.

“You’re telling me that there was a fight club right here under the Chandrian this whole time?”

Lucio, who was positioned near the back wall, strained to look over all of the heads between him and the new voice. Whispers broke out among the fighters.

“Who the hell are those guys?”

The intruder stepped into the light and repeated himself. “Who’s club is this? We want to talk to the manager.”

Lucio blinked suddenly as he recognized the man from Temple District. It appeared that he had brought along his whole flock from that morning and then some.

“Heard you had a friendly little club going and we wanted to see if the rumors were true. See we’ve just stolen a brand new ship and we need a bigger staff. So I’m here to recruit.”

Finally, Khleo separated herself from the sea of members. She scanned her crowd and said coldly, “Which one of you ran your damn mouth?”

Lucio felt the blood drain from his face as he drifted back and back and back into the shadows. When his spine collided with the wall, he edged to the right towards the little hallway nestled under the stairs.

His skin jumped as he heard Khleo repeat her question in a sterner tone. Lucio scrambled over crates and stumbled through racks of costumes until he was sure he was safe.

“Hello, Lucio.”

Lucio swung his fist at the sound of the voice, missed, and tripped into the brick wall hard enough to split his lip back open.

“Interesting... that they let you stay in this club.”

Lucio steadied himself against the wall. “Quaestor. W-what are you doing here?”

All that was visible in the dim light was the silhouette of Valdemar’s mummified horns.

“Bringing my tuna home of course. It’s been fourteen days. Or have you in all your frolic not been paying attention?” They came closer and drew a deep, wet breath. “Not that I’m complaining. Your blood smells more rare and ripe than I could have imagined. Well done.”

Lucio swallowed. “Wait. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to the Lazaret!”

It wasn’t in Valdemar’s nature to care what their experiments desired or craved. They unhatched a portal behind Lucio for easy transportation right before lifting their heel and kicking him square in the chest. Lucio stumbled backwards into the gooey blackness. Valdemar followed shortly after.

***

“You?” The challenger snorted. “You can’t be the one in charge. You’re just a squirt with freakish arms.”

“I bet they’re not even real,” one of his companions drawled. “Probably just some parlor trick glamour.”

“Get lost. You’re not recruiting anyone tonight.” Khleo said as they looked up into the eyes of the challenger with the frilled earrings. Without hesitation, he stepped up to Khleo and gave their chest an easy shove.

“We weren’t asking for permission. If your people don’t want to come with us, we’ll just take the ones we need.” He and some of his crew gestured vaguely to the weapons fastened to their hips.

Khleo lifted their chin. “If you weren’t looking for permission, why in the hell did you ask to speak to the manager?”

A couple of snickers erupted from Khleo’s side.

Earrings gave a nasty scowl before spitting by Khleo’s foot. “You got a lot of mouth for someone who calls themself the damn manager.”

“Meet me in the ring and I’ll show you how I got that title.” Khleo said. “If it ends in a KO or I tap out, you can take whoever you want.” They stretched out their hand. “And if I win, you leave us the fuck alone.”

The challenger snatched their hand up. “You’re on.”

Khleo could feel the eyes of all of the patrons. They knew what they were thinking. This wasn’t the first time some low life had found out about the club and came in trying to shake things up. The patrons must have been wondering why Khleo had chosen to fight.

I need this. I need to do this.

< I’m here. >

Khleo felt the soothing presence of their familiar across their mental link. They wished they could reach out and stroke her.

~ I know, Hefe. Thank you. ~

The challenger met them in the ring and didn’t hold back. He was a street fighter before this, that much was certain. His familiarity with Khleo’s style made them go into the defensive. He was much bigger than them and knew how to grapple correctly.

But Khleo wasn’t about to hold back. Not this time.

They gave the challenger an opening. With a sure punch, he knocked Khleo’s head back, filling the air was a short, sickening crunch. The challenger’s followers whooped in excitement while the fight club members gasped in disbelief.

Khleo staggered, but instinctively raised their elbows around their head.

“See?” The challenger scoffed. “I knew you were all talk. You practically let me hit you.”

Khleo stopped swaying and firmly planted their feet. They lowered their arms and pulled themself out of the hunch so everyone could see what happened to their face.

The challenger sneered in distaste at what he was seeing.

Khleo stared right back at him, refusing to cradle their unhinged jaw, seemingly unaware of the blood leaking from where teeth and jawbone had torn their skin apart. Khleo snapped their head hard enough to seal off the gaping chasm. The crowd’s disgusted groans turned into gasps of disbelief at the sight of Khleo’s jaw stitching itself together.

“Go on,” they said, wiping the leftover blood on the back of their hand. “Hit me again.”

The challenger didn’t look like he wanted to do anything of the sort, but it was clear that the approval of his crew meant a lot to him. Khleo hoped he would walk away, she really hoped he would. But all he did by staying was make himself a target. For their anger, their frustration, every weight that had been added onto them in the past few weeks.

Khleo didn’t hold back her strength as she fought. The challenger was no match for her and this fight was not fair. But Khleo went over the edge a long time ago. She didn’t care.

There were so many things she couldn’t fight back against. So she fought the challenger. She fought and fought and clawed at his decorated ears with her blunt fingernails. She emptied out all her kicks and elbows to his face until it was unrecognizable.

Khleo wrestled their opponent to the ground and fired a right hook to his cheek. All the bystanders were screaming now. This was no longer a fight. It was bloodsport. And Khleo knew better than anyone how silly with delight a crowd could get from it.

In an attempt to regain some control, the challenger roared in defiance and cracked his forehead against Khleo’s nose.

The crowd erupted with excitement.

Khleo slowed down, bringing the challenger close enough so that he could see her nose render and heal with his own eyes. The incredulous terror in the challenger’s eyes made Khleo break into a wide, blood-stained grin.

“You should kill me and see what happens.”

He tried to tap out. “Okay, you win. You win!” The longer he looked at her, the more his lip trembled in fear for his life. Tears and snot soon mixed with the blood leaking from his contorted face.

Khleo ignored their own rules and snarled, “What the fuck are you crying for? You’re the one who came up in my house! And for what? To intimidate my friends into joining your disgusting crew?”

“I’m sorry! I said I was done!”

The tapout had served its purpose – to snap everyone else out of their bloodlust. They tried to talk Khleo down, reminding her that it was over. When they started to pull her off of the man, Khleo thrashed.

“No �� Let me go! If he wants to cry, I’ll give him something to cry about!”

She lunged. The challenger begged for his crew to help. The seconds that followed were simply pandemonium. Patrons and the intruders clashed, wrestling each other to the ground. Several fighters dogpiled Khleo at once in order to protect the challenger. She wheezed under their crushing weight.

Then the sounds of fighting were interrupted by a wild, guttural roar. The cacophony of screams that followed caused Khleo to twist in agony.

“There’s a fucking lion in here!”

Khleo drew in a ragged breath as the weight lifted from her back. She scrambled to her feet. Not long after she righted herself did she hear something that made her blood run cold.

The door at the top of the stairs flung open and a booming voice filled the space.

“What in the gods-damned fuck is going on down there!”

People were already running and tripping over each other, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the lion. Khleo tried to reach out to Hefe through their link, but it was too late. Otto was already at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the mess of the basement as well as the enormous lion terrorizing all of his potential customers.

~ Hefe. He saw you. Go! ~

Hefe didn’t argue with her human. She stole out into the street, chasing off the last of the challenger’s crew. Once she was gone, Khleo turned to face their boss. They took a deep breath because they knew they were in for it.

Khleo needed a miracle. Because she was certain that after tonight, there wouldn’t be any more fight club.

[carromeaway]

Dazai is a Sociopath

Dazai is a Sociopath

A Persuasive Essay About Why Dazai is a Sociopath

By @carromeaway

Dedicated to @/bsdthoughts on Twitter

Created to annoy said user

Also, I thought this would be a good way to practice how to write arguments

This may contain spoilers! Read at your own risk.

Also trigger warning! Mentions of suicide and self-harm!

Oh, also here’s a PDF version if you don’t wanna read it here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1aNYWMTb8wNEaoZGb9277_UcsUzNQjoHP/view

The definition of a sociopath, stated by the Oxford English Dictionary, is “a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.” In this essay, I will be explaining the personality disorder and how it correlates to Dazai Osamu’s character in Bungou Stray Dogs. I will be focusing on four key points for my argument; how Dazai fits the attributes of a sociopath, why I do not consider him a psychopath, how it affects his relationship with others, and how it may explain his past and his actions. Keep in mind that this is only a theory and I will be including both assumptions and speculations to support my argument. 

Let us begin with the point how Dazai fits the attributes of a sociopath. Common signs of a person with sociopathy, or an antisocial personality disorder, include lying or deceiving others for a goal, being charismatic and manipulative, criminal behavior, lack of empathy and/or remorse, struggles with forming good relationships, recklessness for his and others’ safety, and irresponsibility among other things. Dazai has exhibited behavior with all of these symptoms. I could give a variety of examples where Dazai has lied or manipulated someone for the sake of achieving his objective. For the sake of keeping this shorter, I’ll provide only a couple of situations.

    Dazai had been caught by the Port Mafia, albeit on purpose, and came across his old partner from his days in the mafia, Nakahara Chuuya. This happens in the tenth episode of the anime and the tenth chapter of the manga. During his interaction with Chuuya, Dazai manipulates Chuuya by blackmailing him using the fact that Chuuya was the one who released Dazai from his chains. He also blackmails the mafia by sending them a threatening letter containing a simple statement, warning the mafia that if he were to die, then all their secrets would be exposed. Another example of his manipulative behaviour would be when it is insinuated that Dazai deflates Sakaguchi Ango’s airbag in his car so he would sustain multiple injuries when another car rammed into theirs. This was to force Ango, a government agent, to cover up the 35 murders that Izumi Kyouka, an Armed Detective Agency member, had committed. This takes place in episode 19 (episode 7 of season 2) of the anime and chapter 26 and 33 of the manga.

    Dazai has also displayed recklessness, irresponsibility, and a lack of empathy and remorse. Using the same example as before, Dazai showed no remorse for Ango when he was severely injured by the car accident. Dazai is often irresponsible, pushing his work on to others and lazing about when he should have been productive. This is a repeated pattern throughout the entirety of the manga and anime, so I’m sure if you’re reading this, you have no need for any examples. Additionally, Dazai has always been very reckless with his actions, his plans often include someone being thrown to the sharks. You can see this in episode 21 (episode 9 of season 2) in the anime and chapters 30-31 in the manga when Chuuya is forced to use Corruption to defeat H.P. Lovecraft as planned by Dazai. 

    I could go on for a while about Dazai’s sociopathic traits, but that is not the focus of this essay, so let us move on to my second point. Dazai is not a psychopath. Psychopaths and sociopaths have many similar symptoms. Every trait I listed previously are ones that both types of people share. So, why would I not consider Dazai a psychopath? There is a very simple reason for that. One of the biggest differences between a psychopath and a sociopath is the ability to be attached to others. While psychopaths may be able to fake a relationship, whether it’s platonic or romantic, they are completely unable to form real bonds with other people. On the other hand, while it may be difficult for them, sociopaths can have genuine relationships with others. 

    My biggest piece of evidence for this section is the bond between Oda Sakunosuke and Dazai. Dazai in the Dark Era, when he is in the Port Mafia, and Dazai when he joins the Armed Detective Agency are two very different parts of the same whole. Dazai in the Port Mafia is quite a bit more serious and emotionless, while Dazai in the ADA is much more lighthearted compared to his former self. There is a huge fact to point out, though. Dazai with Odasaku was strikingly dissimilar to how he acted without Odasaku there. Dazai acted a lot more childish with Odasaku around, exhibiting their comfortability around each other. They had a close bond and Dazai was a lot more vulnerable around Odasaku than around anyone else. That was the reason Odasaku was able to understand Dazai better than anyone else.  

    In chapter 4 of the light novel, Dazai Osamu and the Dark Era, and in episode 16 (episode 4 of season 2) of the anime, Odasaku talked about Dazai during his fight with Mimic’s leader, André Gide. He stated, “I still have one unfinished matter. I didn’t say goodbye to my friend.” He later goes on to explain the difference between Gide and Dazai, who were both actively seeking death. This displays their closeness, and it is canon that only Odasaku was able to get that far into Dazai’s mind. Dazai also showed sorrow when Odasaku passed away, which is an emotion that is difficult for sociopaths to feel unless they have a bond with someone. As a side note, I would also like to point out that while there is no certain proof, Dazai does seem to feel a little remorse for some of his harmful actions. That is another trait unique to sociopaths in comparison to psychopaths.

    My third point is how Dazai’s possible antisocial personality disorder may affect his relationships with other people. While you may argue that Dazai can feel sympathy for others, especially when he is the one who saved Nakajima Atsushi from starvation, I believe that that was only for Odasaku. In episode 16 (episode 4 of season 2), Odasaku explicitly tells Dazai to “protect the weak and save the orphans.” It would make sense if Dazai only saved Atsushi because he felt as if he had to carry out his friend’s orders. 

I would also like to point out his relationship with Nakahara Chuuya. Before I begin explaining, I feel the need to mention that this is mainly speculation and is very likely to be proven wrong. Dazai and Chuuya seem to have a deep hatred for each other, as you can tell by the multiple times they have stated that they despise each other. An example would be episode 21 (episode 9 of season 2) in the anime and chapters 30-31 in the manga. While I do not want to put words into their mouths, I would like to point out that their actions contradict their statements. In the same episode, Chuuya expressed worry for Dazai when he is thrown into the tree and nearly loses his arm. In another scene, Dazai cleans up the blood on Chuuya’s face and neatly folds his clothes after Chuuya passes out from exhaustion as he had been using Corruption (or Tainted, whatever you prefer). While he does abandon him, it goes to show that Dazai has, at least, a little bit of a conscience. 

This may be a long shot and you are free to argue (respectfully) with me about this, but I believe that Dazai does not really hate Chuuya. There are three emotions that are the easiest for sociopaths to feel. Hatred, anger, and fear. I think Dazai has some conflicting feelings about Chuuya (I swear I’m not insinuating anything), but he resorts to hatred to define those feelings because it was simply the easiest emotion to feel. On a similar note, Dazai doesn’t really have any good relationships with the people he interacts with, like his coworkers at the ADA. While they may care about him and vice versa, the relationship with his coworkers doesn’t seem to go deeper than mutual respect and common decency. 

My fourth and final point in this essay is how Dazai’s sociopathy correlates with his actions and his past. Now, I warn you, there isn’t a lot of evidence for this theory, but I hope you can still hear me out about it. I think Dazai understands that he is a sociopath. You could argue with me that Dazai isn’t a sociopath, that he feels sympathy for the innocent people who get caught up in their business, but I don’t buy that. While this sounds quite harsh, I don’t believe that Dazai has a sense of empathy, especially when Dazai continues to inconvenience others despite knowing what he’s doing. But if Dazai knows he’s a sociopath, why doesn’t he change? Well, that’s simple. He can’t. There’s no way he can force himself to feel empathy and adjust his actions. His brain doesn’t work that way. He can pretend to be sympathetic, but what’s the point in that? 

Now, how does Dazai’s acknowledgement of his sociopathic tendencies affect him? Let’s begin with Dazai’s past and build from there. In episode 26 (episode one of season three) and in the light novel, Fifteen Years Old, when Dazai is asked why he wants to die, he replies, “Let me ask you, then. Do you think there is any value in the act of living?” Throughout this light novel and the light novel, Dazai Osamu and the Dark Era, Dazai continues to show a pattern of hopelessness. All he longs for is to view the world differently than he already does, but if he cannot achieve that, he would rather die. But I think, as he grows, Dazai’s mindset changes. His desperation for death becomes a joke, something he doesn’t take as seriously anymore. I believe Dazai realized his sociopathy, and while he couldn’t change how he experiences his emotions, he began to think differently. What if Dazai believes that he doesn’t deserve to live, that no one would want him around because of his sociopathic tendencies? But he wants to live. After Odasaku’s death and after he’s experienced the light, he begins to realize that there is something worth living for. He just doesn’t believe he deserves it. I do not have any solid evidence to prove this theory, but it was something interesting that I would want others to consider.

For anyone who has gotten this far, I congratulate you. It must have been difficult to read my scatter-brained thoughts. Before we end this, I would like to clarify something. I am not a medical professional. I do not have a degree in psychology, but I am studying it. Please take that into consideration if you decide to debate my theory with me. For anyone who didn’t feel like reading through this, I won’t even bother with a summary. Trust me, it’s not worth your time. Thank you for reading and thank you to my friend who has put up with my dumb theories. You can message me on Instagram @carromeaway if you would like to discuss my theory or the show in general. Also, ask me any questions in the comments, whether it’s to clarify something or to ask me to analyze another character or to even elaborate further on Dazai’s character. I could talk about this for hours.

Citations:

Antisocial personality disorder. (2019, December 10). Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/antisocial-personality-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20353928

Bungo Stray Dogs Wiki. (2020, December 03). Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://bungostraydogs.fandom.com/wiki/Bungo_Stray_Dogs_Wiki

Duignan, B. (n.d.). What's the Difference Between a Psychopath and a Sociopath? And How Do Both Differ from Narcissists? Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://www.britannica.com/story/whats-the-difference-between-a-psychopath-and-a-sociopath-and-how-do-both-differ-from-narcissists

Grohol, J. (2020, May 20). Differences Between a Psychopath vs Sociopath. Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://psychcentral.com/blog/differences-between-a-psychopath-vs-sociopath/

Robinson, K. (2014, August 24). What's the Difference Between a Sociopath and a Psychopath? Retrieved November 29, 2020, from https://www.webmd.com/mental-health/features/sociopath-psychopath-difference

[bauslut]

as you are | i.

word count: 2.235k

warnings: mentions of sex trafficking, sexual assault, cursing, mentions of child sex trafficking, rapists, arsonists, and serial killers

a/n: hiiiii everyone! so this is a fic that’s been on my mind for the past week or so now, and i felt really inspired to write it! the title comes from the song “as you are” by the weeknd, which will later tie into later chapters. i have watched numerous episodes of criminal minds in the past, and just recently started the whole series over again. so, my apologies if any terminology is incorrect! i hope you all enjoy :))

p.s. - huge shout-out to my best friend @sapphicstars​​​ for always listening to my rambles & the advice along the way. thank you <3

“did you know that today is a very significant day in history?” a young man nudged his coworker, his blonde-toned brunette locks a disheveled mess, “jj, it’s august twentieth.”

a slim blonde let out an exasperated sigh, “what is so important about today?”

“in 1866, president andrew johnson declared that the united states civil war was officially over,” his voice was smooth, brimmed with confidence, “it was a new beginning for america, as the slaves were abolished, but as we all know, there was still much discourse present within the country--”

“spencer,” the blonde sucked in a breath, “there is someone else in the elevator with us. i am sure she doesn’t care about the civil war, nor the fact that it’s august twentieth. after all, it’s been over for centuries.”

“i don’t mind,” a brunette cleared her throat, fidgeting in her boots, “good morning, to you both. i’m rowan rivers.”

“rowan rivers,” the blonde’s eyes narrowed into icy slits, “i don’t know why, but that name seems oddly familiar.”

“it’s because she’s the newest member of our team,” the man cut in, his hazel eyes alight with excitement, nearly toppling the blonde over, “rowan. adaline. rivers. wow. i’ve read so much about you.”

“what did you hear about me? i’m quite curious.” a smirk painted the brunette’s lips.

“you were exceptional in your work with columbus p.d.,” he gushed, “y-you were able to infiltrate the sex trafficking rings and apprehend numerous suspects. and god, your methods are just so pristine and concise. you were able to almost completely obliterate child sex-trafficking in the city. i gotta say, i’m kind of star-struck right now.”

“reid,” the blonde’s tone was firm, “let’s not bombard her. it’s her first day.”

“i don’t mind,” rowan’s eyes shone, alight with amusement, “thank you, dr. reid. maybe we can sit down for a coffee sometime and i can share everything that i can about those cases. it wasn’t easy, but it opened new doors for me in my career. your words are too kind, though. i’m no celebrity.”

“you’re welcome,” his lips curled into a shy grin, “maybe i’ll be the one to give you a tour of our office.”

the elevator doors slid open, the sterile light cascading into the tiny space. rowan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear,  nodding to jj and reid, “after you, please.”

“she’s so polite,” jj’s words were barely audible as she mumbled to reid, “and cute.”

“she’s not cute,” reid countered, “she’s beautiful. a very beautiful, very intelligent woman.”

“well good morning,” a man strolled up to jj and reid, his bright white teeth flashing, “we got a lot of work ahead of us today.”

“shit,” reid muttered, “when’s hotch calling the meeting?”

“oh there’s no meeting,” the man shrugged, his gaze falling on rowan, “i was referring to our newbie.”

“good morning,” rowan offered him a little wave, “i’m--”

the man stepped forward, “oh, i know. you’re miss rowan rivers.”

this newcomer was handsome, an african-american man with warm, bright, mocha eyes. wrinkles etched the skin around his eyes, rowan’s interest piquing as she gazed at him. he must laugh a lot, or even smile often. therefore, he had a more playful personality. perhaps he was the jokester of the team, constantly playing pranks on other members or upholding a constant banter. his hair was cleanly shaven, the light reflecting off of his shiny scalp.

even if his arms were folded across his chest, biceps taut, constrained to the fabric of his plain t-shirt, his aura was kind, only teasing rowan in order to possibly intimidate her.

and boy, was she eager to fire back.

“does everyone know about me?” rowan huffed, her lip quivering into a pout, “i thought that i was going to be able to introduce myself but maybe i won’t have to. i’ll just be this mysterious presence for the rest of the way, lingering about. this phantom that you all seem to know already, but truly know nothing about.”

“shit,” a laugh erupted from the man’s lips, “you got me there. hiya sweetheart, i’m morgan.”

“i would have hoped to at least give everyone five fun facts about myself first,” rowan chuckled, shaking morgan’s hand firmly, “but it appears there’s been quite the buzz in the air.”

“we’re just excited to have you on board,” morgan placed a hand on her shoulder, his tone gentle, “i feel like we’ve all spent so much time around one another lately. it’s nice to have a fresh face.”

“i see that our newbie has arrived,” a new voice cut in, more distinguished, edged with a rasp.

rowan shifted, her throat tightening as an older man made his way towards the group, a smug smile plastered on his face, “h-hi.”

“well hello to you too,” the man let out a chuckle, sticking out his hand, “good morning, ms. rivers. i’m supervisory special agent rossi.”

this face was familiar. one rowan knew all too well. the infamous retired bau agent, a prolific writer and behaviorist, david rossi. even if he was older, and far wiser, he was by far the least intimidating individual rowan had met thus far. his hair was dark, strands of silvery grey prominent. he bore a quaint, kind, smile, his introduction light-hearted.

almost like a father greeting his daughter.

“good morning, agent rossi,” she returned the gesture, “i-i’ve read your book.”

“it seems as if everyone has,” rossi shot her a wink, “so, are you guys going to give her a tour or are you going to make the old guy do it? i mean, i wouldn’t mind, but i have to let hotch know she’s here.”

“hotch?” rowan’s lips parted, “there are more members of the team?”

“you haven’t even met garcia, prentiss, or hotch yet,” morgan remarked.

“and i haven’t formally introduced myself,” the blonde from the elevator piped up, “i’m agent jareau, but you can call me jj.”

rossi murmured a few words to reid before parting from the group, wandering off. rowan’s mind buzzed, anxiety coursing through her veins as jj spoke to her, the sound white noise drowning in her ears. her heart thudding against her rib-cage, palms beginning to clam up.

“i’m so sorry,” rowan placed a hand on her temple, “where’s the bathroom? i just need a second.”

jj blinked, brow furrowing, “a-are you all right rowan?”

“i just need a minute,” the words could barely make it out, the panic setting in.

“i’ll show her,” reid’s voice was hushed as he offered rowan his elbow, “it’s this way.”

roman’s lip trembled, her vision beginning to blur, “o-okay.”

step by step, reid escorted her to the bathroom, the agent even offering to come in with her. rowan accepted, allowing him to follow her into the enclosed space, locking the door behind her.

“you know,” reid cleared his throat, “it’s okay to be nervous, rowan.”

rowan shook her head, tears brimming her lids, “this… this is all so different from columbus.”

“i know,” he murmured, “but we were all nervous on our first day here at the bau. i promise that morgan isn’t that rude and that rossi isn’t a narcissistic asshat. they both come off that way, but they mean well. hell, you haven’t even met hotch yet. he can be cold, but that’s just how he is. you’ll like garcia, i have a feeling the two of you will get along.”

“reid,” rowan exhaled, his name shaky as it tumbled from her mouth, “thank you.”

“please don’t cry,” he pleaded, “profiling is in our nature. i don’t want them to overwhelm you with questions or why you may be upset. things will only get worse and i don’t want them to taint your first day.”

“i’m actually having a wonderful first day,” a giggle bubbled up, echoing off the walls, “you guys all are so welcoming. far better than how i was introduced to columbus police department. they really threw me to the wolves there. the second i set foot in that building, i was thrust into the case. i don’t mind taking things slow.”

“i’m glad,” reid beamed, offering her a wad of toilet paper, “here, blow your nose. also, pat some damp paper towels underneath your eyes. it helps with the puffiness, especially if the water is cold.”

“thank you, again,” facing herself in the mirror, rowan sucked in a deep breath, in an attempt to clear her mind, to soothe the anxiety.

“you look great, by the way. i like the docs.”

“oh,” her gaze fell to the thick black boots, the white laces and seams brighter than ever in the dim light, “i forgot i was wearing them, honestly.”

“a lot more comfortable than heels, right?”

“definitely,” rowan nodded, “my little sister let me borrow them and is never getting them back.”

“they suit you.”

“i feel as if it’s the only way i can really express myself,” rowan shrugged, “i mean, here i am, clad in my cropped dress pants and blazer, white button up freshly ironed, yet happily donning a pair of doc martens on my feet.”

“you know what they say,” reid’s eyes were warm with sympathy, “conformity is boring.”

“quite. i’m ready to meet the rest of the team.”

“good!” reid sprang to his feet, hazel eyes glimmering,  “come on, i’ll show you around.”

slipping from the bathroom, rowan clung onto reid as he strolled about, chirping greetings to numerous individuals as they passed by. the ringing of phones, the flurry of papers, and indistinguishable voices bounced off the walls, filling the space around them. the office was bustling with people, all working together for one cause.

working together to profile, pursue, and apprehend the bad guys. anyone from serial killers, to rapists, to arsonists.

some did the paperwork, while others answered the phone. some were the liaisons for the media. some were the agents. some were specialized in the technology department, but here, everyone was unified under that same singular cause.

“so here is where our desks are located,” reid’s voice flooded rowan’s ears once more, his arm sweeping out to gesture to the array of desks,  “i think we have a desk set up for you, name tag and everything.”

“we have name tags?”

“on second thought,” reid’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as they scanned the cluster, “maybe not. i’m not sure. if you don’t have a desk by tomorrow, you can always just share mine. i barely use it anyways. i’m a bit mobile during the day: floating around, listening to tapes, watching footage, bothering hotch.”

“you guys keep mentioning this hotch guy,” rowan pursed her lips, “i’m aware that he’s the leader of the team, as well as a supervisory special agent, but where is he? is he so overloaded that he can’t even bother to say a quick ‘hello’ or ‘welcome to our team’?”

“oh rowan,” reid chuckled, shaking his head, “you have a lot to learn.”

“now what is that supposed to mean?”

“by the way,” rowan snorted as reid avoided the subject, his gaze flickering over her head, “if you’re so eager to meet hotch, he’s over there.”

rowan arched a brow, swiveling on her heel. following reid’s line of sight, her breath hitched on her throat as her eyes fell on the sight of him.

he was standing near morgan and jj, a hand grasping his chin, brows scrunched together, as if he was deep in thought. his dark hair, almost an inky black, was recently trimmed, yet there was a hint of stubble that ghosted his skin. his complexion was fair, jawline framing an utterly handsome face. in the light, rowan couldn’t quite distinguish the color of his eyes. were they a deep coffee brown? a flint grey?

a jet-black suit spanned across his broad shoulders, a red patterned tie around his neck. underneath the jacket was a clean, freshly pressed white shirt, not a wrinkle in sight. his shoes were polished, clicking against the floor as he made his way over to rowan.

aaron hotchner towered over her, no trace of a smile or grin apparent. his aura exuded nothing but authority, his badge clipped to the front of his suit, file in his grasp. yet, his voice was deep, flowing so smoothly from his mouth.

“you must be agent rivers.”

rowan swallowed thickly, “yes, i am.”

his dark eyes locked with hers, his head cocked ever so slightly. her heart lurched as she distinguished the hardened chestnut hue of his irises. the emotion gleaming in their depths was unforgiving, cold and cruel.

“i don’t care if you’re fresh to the unit and this is your first day. wear a different pair of shoes tomorrow.”

“but--” rowan began, desperate to formulate some sort of response.

“hotch,” reid interjected, his tone firm, “you can’t be serious. it’s her first da--”

“and i don’t care,” rowan flinched at the venomous barb laced in the words, “agent rivers, wear a different pair of shoes tomorrow. i just received word from jj about a new case.”

“oh,” reid’s tough exterior crumbled, “well, what are we going to do about it?”

“start with a meeting,” he responded coolly, “as we always do.”

“yipee,” the reply was barely audible under rowan’s breath, hotch’s attention returning to her once more.

“you’re welcome to join us. and you better not trip on those on your way there.”

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

tagged: @sapphicstars​​ @colorlessfl0wers​​

[serialbydesign]

Defining Psychopathy

Psychopathy, often confused with sociopathy, is an anti-social personality disorder. Both mental health conditions are characterized by:

Need for violence.

Disregard for social norms, conventions, and laws.

Lack of remorse & guilt.

Deceitful nature.

However, sociopaths usually are emotionally unstable and tend to act on compulsion, lacking patience and planning. Psychopaths are attentive to details, calculated, and plan every action they intend to pursue – be it legal or illegal. Therefore, they leave few clues and take fewer risks. Over time, multiple conceptions of psychopathy developed – most of which overlap, but some contradict others.

Just like sociopathy, psychopathy can be caused by genetic and environmental factors. This means children can inherit it from the parents but also develop it during the lifetime after abuse, emotional shock, or living in an unsuitable environment. But one can also acquire psychopathy after a traumatic brain injury. It has been discovered that the prefrontal cortex is responsible for our social behavior and acquired psychopathy is often linked to trauma in this area.

Another prevalent theory states that psychopathy is genetically inherited and can be triggered by environmental factors, while sociopathy is only developed throughout life. No matter which theory we follow, Dexter Morgan is much closer to being a psychopath than a sociopath. However, he does struggle with keeping his Dark Passenger under control at times.

Dexter Morgan, The Psychopath 

Dexter Morgan is a forensic expert, but he most frequently calls himself a blood spatter analyst. Even though he commits horrendous crimes throughout the show, we root for him and find bits of ourselves in his narratives. We see how he evolves from a cold-blooded serial killer to a cold-blooded serial killer who cares about some of those around him. The personal way in which he narrates his experiences further increase the connection we feel with this character. He often contemplates on aspects of the day-to-day life using first person pronouns in plural forms, which works on our subconscious. This is one of the many techniques used by real-life psychopaths, and Dexter Morgan proves again and again that they work.

“They make it look so easy, connecting with another human being, it’s like no one told them it’s the hardest thing in the world.” – Dexter Season 5 episode 12, “The Big One”

Dexter’s sense of righteousness instilled by his adoptive father fires up conflicted feelings on his morality. On the one side, he murders people in cold blood and enjoys it. But on the other, he gets rid of “bad seeds” the justice system could not charge. Ultimately, he is saving lives while satisfying his dark passenger, being a modern vigilante.

“We all make rules for ourselves. It’s these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown.” – Dexter Season 7 Finale, “Let’s Give the Boy a Hand”

These, together with his continuous struggle to control his urges and do as little damage as possible to society, make us all feel sympathy for Dexter. Because we know the terrible things that happened to him, we understand what caused this behavior. But would he feel the same about us?

The Profile of Dexter Morgan

Dexter Morgan is persuasive, intelligent, deceitful, and a psychopath.

He killed well over 100 people (at least 134 documented cases) and shows no remorse about this – in fact, he believes he benefits society. Moreover, he likes to take trophies – a single drop of blood from each of his victims, carefully placed on a glass slide. Dexter has a ritual that is full of meaning for each of his victim’s crimes and likes to confront them and let them know he knows what they did. He feels empowered by this, he feels he finally has control.

Dexter is neat, sometimes compulsive, and likes to keep order in his life. He always plans his actions and waits for the best and safest time to make a move. This is what differentiates himself from a sociopath. He likes being and working by himself because using his “mask” is tiring. But even though he has an anti-social behavior, his social skills are way above average.

“People fake a lot of human interactions, but I feel like I’ve faked them all and I fake them very well. And that’s my burden, I guess.”

Dexter Morgan can be best psychoanalyzed using Freud’s structural model of the psychic apparatus which defines three dimensions of the mind:

The id represents our uncoordinated instincts, with a focus on pleasure and desire. The id is often associated with evil, lust, sin, and the like. The super-ego is the moralizing element, responsible for assimilating social norms and behaviors. It’s the virtuous, pure, and wholesome dimension. The ego, a realistic and rational influence on our thought process, usually mediates these two antagonizing elements.

Even though most individuals naturally balance these three dimensions, Dexter Morgan struggles do so. He spent all his life observing those around him and trying to mimic their behavior, knowing he will never act like them naturally.

Dexter’s Id

After the age of 6 years old, most individuals suppress their id and manage to focus their mental and emotional energy towards following social norms. But Dexter was not able to do so and, as a consequence, his id rules his life. Even as a child, Dexter enjoyed killing animals. In fact, taking a life is the only thing that makes Dexter feel alive. Sex does not interest Dexter, which we can also blame on the trauma he suffered as a child at a critical age for his (among others) psychosexual development.

Dexter’s Super-Ego

Dexter refers to the people surrounding him as humans, feeling detached from his own humanity. There is plenty of evidence throughout the show that demonstrate Dexter has a seriously underdeveloped super-ego if any. His adoptive father, Harry, created an artificial super-ego dimension in his mind through a few strict guidelines. However, Dexter’s subconscious never adopted them as its own and, as a result, he sometimes struggles to follow them.

Dexter does not understand religion. The only higher power he knew was his adoptive father, who also created the code. He has difficulties in developing real relationships of any nature with those around him but has gotten very good at faking them.

Dexter’s Ego

Instead of balancing out the 2 other dimensions, Dexter uses his ego to hide them from society. He goes above and beyond to hide his true self. He fights the recurrent feeling of emptiness that can only be relieved by killing.

How Dexter Morgan Came to Be a Psychopath

There are a few theories about how Dexter became what he is, but they all rely on the emotional and psychological trauma he suffered as a child.

Dexter saw his mother brutally murdered when he was only 6 years old and sat in a shipping container in a pool of her (and others’) blood for 2 days. This affected his emotional development and understanding of social norms, which he has difficulties adapting to.

Dexter understands he is a disturbed individual. But even though admitting the problem is often times the first step to resolving it, psychopathy has no cure (yet). There are no pills, vaccines, or therapies that erase traumatizing memories from our subconscious, induce empathy, or warm up a murderer’s blood.

But Dexter lacked a mother figure during his most important years, even before she was murdered. He was deprived of the warmth, closeness, and affection only a mother-son relationship would provide. Even though loving, his mother was not as present in his life as she should have been – and neither was his father. They were both addicted to drugs and involved themselves with dangerous figures, which ultimately lead to their demise. Even though a loving, caring family took him in at the age of 6, the damage was already done.

“I was there. I saw my mother’s death. A buried memory, forgotten all these years. They climbed inside me that day. And it’s been with me ever since. My dark passenger.” – Dexter Season 1 Episode 11 “Truth Be Told”

Moreover, his need for power and control were overindulged in a try to create a warm environment for the troubled child. But this only increased the distance between Dexter and humanity, between an impressionable child and his remorse and guilt.

Dexter Morgan & His Dark Passenger

Most of the time, Dexter Morgan is able to suppress his passenger. But it still needs to be let out from time to time, and when it does, Dexter refers to the process as the Dark Passenger “taking over”. He already knows that it will get out one way or the other, so he doesn’t try to fight it. In fact, Dexter finds comfort and acceptance in his Dark Passenger, the only entity that accepts him for who he is.

“I love Halloween. The one time of year when everyone wears a mask… not just me. People think it’s fun to pretend you’re a monster. Me, I spend my life pretending I’m not. Brother, friend, boyfriend – all part of my costume collection. Some people might call me a fraud. Let’s see if it will fit. I prefer to think of myself as a master of disguise.” – Dexter Season 1, Episode 4

Dexter manages to separate and balance out his natural self and the façade brilliantly. He is seen as a loving son, brother and as a reliable and helpful coworker.

The Code of Harry

Harry was more than just Dexter’s adoptive father. Together with Aaron and Deb, he was his family in the most real sense of the word.

“If I were capable of love, how I would have loved Harry.”

Since they could not stop Dexter’s urge to take life away, Harry decided to channel it. Therefore, Harry developed a code together with his therapist in which he confided about Dexter’s condition. As his father put it, the code focuses on survival and doing as little wrong to the world as possible. Dexter needs to be sure he kills the right person and to have proof for his deeds. But above all, he needs to never, ever risk having collateral victims.

Even though frustrating and rage-inducing at times, Dexter abides by the Code of Harry. However, he does take advantage of technicalities to satisfy his dark passenger at times, racing with the police and even hiding evidence in order to punish criminals himself even with his friends’ and coworker’s career on the line.

“Without the Code of Harry, I’m sure I would have committed a senseless murder in my youth. Just to watch the blood flow.” – Dexter Season 1 Episode 3, “Popping Cherry”

The Morality of Dexter

Yes, Dexter Morgan is brutal, ruthless, and cruel. Ever since Harry Morgan took him in, Dexter made efforts to comply with social norms. Even though he pretended for decades, he makes efforts to preserve appearances every day. None of the behaviors he adopted for so many years got under his skin, none of them come naturally even after all this time.

But this doesn’t mean Dexter Morgan is stone-hearted or completely devoid of feelings. After all, he does feel anger, hate, and affection and admits that he needs the people in his life. He realizes how scared he is of losing his family. 

Even though supposedly rudimentary, some of these feelings scare and intimidate Dexter Morgan because he doesn’t know how to handle them.

[laytonsartblog]

The Best of Worst Days

Economic Crisis AU

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Warning: this content has violence, poverty, guns, starvation, hypothermia, dysfunctional family themes, and dystopian themes. Read when comfortable and in a safe spot. Care for yourself.

--

Patton has a schedule he dedicates his life to.

First, to get up at five.

Then take a shower, standing in a bucket.

Why a bucket? To catch the dirty water.

After his shower, Patton will put that murky liquid into a filter to drain out all the gunk and make him and his son breakfast while he's waiting. Once he's finished with all of that, he takes the filtered water and pours it into empty water bottles and then throws them into his tiny icebox.

Proceeding is obviously to wake up his adorable little four-year-old Virgil and eat with him until it's time to go at six-thirty, and walk Virgil to his pre-k daycare with the rest of breakfast and the fresh water bottle as lunch.

From that point on it's just to get to his work at the construction site by seven and work until two pm, and pick Virgil up to bring home.

They play and eat and maybe visit the park for two hours, then Patton has to get to his other job down the block at a small crafts store by five, which is where he'll be until midnight, then walk all the way back home and fall flat on his face to sleep on the floor.

Simple, right?

Yes, well, there's this thing called sleep depriviation and insomnia that gets in the way.

When Patton wakes up as he does every day, his tired eyes make their way to the clock before bulging out of his head. It's six am.

He scrambled to get Virgil up and about. "Virgil!" Patton whispered as he gently shook his son's shoulders. "Virgil, Papa's running late for work, you need to make your own sandwich while I get ready, okay?"

Virgil merely whined and curled in closer to his thin blanket.

"Pleeeeeease?" Patton pleaded. "I know it's a bit sudden and I usually let you sleep in more, but Papa can't do everything at once, okay?"

Virgil finally sat up and groaned, wiping his eyes. "S'okay, Papa. I'll help."

Patton smiled softly as Virgil clumsily went about to his little cubby to grab a clean shirt and shorts to change into, before remembering the time and running off to change too.

Patton came out of the bathroom with his expendable construction t shirt and jeans and stared at the time; six-thirty.

"Come on, Virgil," Patton urged gently as he picked his boy up. "We're gonna need to skip breakfast today, but I'll leave you some money to get something at the cafeteria, okay?"

Virgil nodded sleepily against Patton's chest. "Okay, Papa..."

Patton sighed contentedly as he continued to hold Virgil on the rest of the walk to the daycare before placing him gently down in front of the door. He fished in his pockets for change.

"Don't worry, honey, I'll have something here somewhere..." Patton trailed off as he continued to search through his pockets for maybe even a dime, but, no, there was nothing. Patton gave up his search with a sigh. "Well, kiddo, I- I think you'll need to ask for some of your friend's extra snacks, or maybe one of the teachers to get you something because Papa doesn't- Papa doesn't have the money."

Virgil looked like his rubber duck had just been melted and Patton almost teared up at the sight. He hated having to starve his own son because he couldn't get the money.

Virgil ran up and hugged Patton's skinny legs. "Is okay, Papa, 'm okay, Papa go job," he mumbled into the cloth of Patton's jeans. "I go play now." He ran off like a wolf into the night into the daycare, rushing to play with the fun trains. A complete switch.

Patton would have broke down then if it weren't for the fact he was on the clock.

He ran to the site he was supposed to be working on, just two or three miles away. When he got there, however, his manager stood with a tapping shoe and folded arms.

"Look who finally showed up!" she snarked, red luxerious lipstick painted bright to announciate every twisted syllable.

Patton's shoulders went sky high to hide his paler-than-average face. "I-I am so sorry, ma'am," he apologized. "I didn't mean to- my son, I had to drop him off to daycare, and he was being fussy, so-"

Patton didn't like to lie, but it was the only way for him to keep the job. If she found out it was because he woke up late? A big fat 'FIRED' notice would appear in his p.o. box.

The woman sighed. Her foot stopped tapping, but her arms stayed crossed. "Listen..." she started. "You seem to work hard and you've got a kid to take care of. I get it. Times like these in this stupid country can be tough."

Patton felt some hope glimmer in his chest. Perhaps just a warning?

"But that doesn't exclude the fact you've been late four times this month, fainted twice from exhaustion, and spread the cough to my workers last winter."

Patton's heart sank back to where it was before.

"That's why... I need to let you go. It's hard work and I cannot have tardiness and exhaustion running my construction equipment."

And that's when Patton's heart went all the way down to Hell.

"You're... I'm... I'm fired?" Patton gasped out, almost as if he couldn't believe it; or rather, didn't want to.

His manager nodded. "I'm so sorry, Patton, you seem like a fine worker. You're just not cut out for working early hours on tough plaster with a kid to take care of and a whole load of sleep problems."

Patton's hands felt numb but slimy. He was sweating but he couldn't even tell if it was hot. All he felt was cold; cold dread, cold guilt, cold everything.

"I-I'm sorry, maybe I could- maybe you could move me down to textile ordering management?" Patton tried not to let that determined little speck of hope reach too high in his voice; it still strained of heartbreak either way.

Her bright red lips frowned and her mascara-covered eyes closed. "I'm sorry, Patton, but those spots are all full. If you wanted to really work there, you could be the mission boy, but that's significantly lesser pay, and may conflict with the schedule you're on."

Patton sighed, his hope and heart finally settling in a dark chasm in his chest. "Thank you for at least concerning it, ma'am, I'll- I'll be on my way, now."

With a racking breath and wobbly knees, Patton turned away and walked back home. Once through the door, he sat on the small mattress Virgil used and began to sob.

"I can't feed my child, I lost my job, and bills are coming up! What the hell am I to do?" Patton yelled as he bawled into his hands.

Every part of him screamed and ached. He needed sleep, he needed rest, he needed something to eat, he needed his child to hold dear, he just needed; but he can never have what he wants, especially like the sad sack of debt and depression he was.

Patton couldn't exactly tell how long he had cried for, but the next time he looked up at the clock, it was eight am. He figured that the library was open, so he might as well head over there for a free read to calm down.

That, and free wifi and computer access.

Patton tried to make himself not look like the outside rendition of how he was feeling on the inside as he walked along the craggy sidewalks to the nearby city library. His attempts to cover up the way his hair sagged and his eyes pulsed didn't exactly prove fruitful as people walked by in sympathy or disgust. Their reactions only made Patton's heart clench more.

After he finished his three mile walk, he practically ghosted through the library doors; he looked as much, anyway, with his pale face and sunken eyes.

The librarian from across the room lowered his sunglasses, intrigued and a little suspicious.

The depression hit almost everyone, yes, but that didn't mean that hobos possibly addicted to meth were a person Remy was begging to listen to on a Monday morning in a damn library. Remy was not awake enough to tell the raggedy middle aged patron this wasn't the back alley to sneak some crack in before making his way back on the streets to ask for a job, so Remy just adjusted his sunglasses and resumed looking up sugar daddies on his phone.

Patton ignored the stares from the young librarian and instead went to the computer, taking out his library card and typing out the number and sending it in. After waiting for what seemed like hours, the internet finally decided to load the computer up and allow Patton to search for more loan applications and job openings.

However, he came up empty handed.

The jobs either weren't paying enough, required a higher degree than a high school diploma, or were simply too far away. The loans? They would cause more debt; Patton was better off without more false promises.

There was a website Patton was interested in, though, that he found while scrolling through the Google search "friend finding": GetAlong.

GetAlong, apparently, was a free penpal website people could use do the same as texting without having to pay for it. Except, there's a twist; the people you meet are strangers. They could be from across the country, across the planet, your next-door neighbor, anyone who signs up with the site is eligible for you to meet. You could message eachother, send pictures, videos, links, live feeds, and sticker-like emoji; all within the website.

The only consolation is for it to be anonymous. The only information you can put is your first name, your age, your gender, and maybe some things you're interested in. The rest is to fill in for yourself after you meet them.

The reason Patton was so interested is because he needed someone to talk to. Sure, he had Virgil to play with on bad days, and he had his coworker Roman from the crafts store he still worked at, but other than that? No family, no friends, and no help.

Perhaps this website could at least bring him some happiness.

So Patton, with a lot more time on his hands and feeling a lot more distraught than normal, signed up.

Patton Gentile, 32, trans-male. I like knitting, snuggling up in the winter, and taking care of my son. Hope to give you a happy hello soon!

Patton stared back at the words on the screwn with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

Was this really all I needed to say? he thought. Did I need to say more, or less?

He decided to get it over with and hit send, leaving his mark on the world.

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

Taglist:

@amazable01 @vara-albion

[shimmershaewrites]

Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 25 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title:  Waltzing's for Dreamers

Rating:  PG?

Warnings:  some adult language, angst.

Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl, Sophia, OC, Lily Chambler, Meghan Chambler, Michonne, mentions of Aaron, Tara Chambler, Andrea Harrison, Andre, others. 

Author's Note:  so sorry for the delay on this story.  I've been blocked so horribly and just down in general about my writing.  This isn't my best chapter by any means, and not quite what I envisioned when I first drew it up, but words have been so hard for me to come by lately that it's a relief just to put it out there.  Enjoy anyway? 

  Waltzing’s for Dreamers

  Seven years after Vegas.  Middle of March.  The immediate aftermath of Daryl seeing Sophia again. 

      “Coming to the game, Mr. Dixon?” 

  Daryl’s still reeling.  Trapped inside one of them kaleidoscopes, inside a jumbled rainbow of colors and shifting emotions that only gets more and more distorted with each twist so he don’t answer.  Isn’t capable of it really.  Just lets the drone of the boy’s words go in one ear and out the other while he grips his steering wheel with blanched fingers. 

  “Zach.  Leave the man alone.” 

  “Yeah, Zach.  He look like he wants to watch us get our asses beat?” 

  “Who says we’re going to get our asses beat?” 

  “Coach.” 

  “Coach wouldn’t say that.” 

  “He put it in different words.  But he definitely said it.” 

  “Shut up, Jimmy.  Nobody asked you anyway.” 

  The boys argue back and forth, but it’s white noise to Daryl.  He’s lost inside his own head, struggling to put together the pieces of a long-shelved puzzle.  Just when he feels like he almost has it, has the elusive lynchpin within his grasp, the last bell rings and kids spill out of the school in every direction like ants scurrying to collect crumbs, jolting him rudely back into the moment.  “Game’s near Woodbury?” 

  “Yeah, Man.  You coming?” 

  “Dude looks like death, Gage.  Leave him alone.” 

  “Pfft.  Whatever.  Just forget it.  We’re running late as it is.” 

  Their voices fade the further they get away but his little girl’s rings loud and clear in Daryl’s recent memory.  Carol’s joins it and another small voice, a voice he doesn’t recognize but somehow knows all the same.      

  “I thought you were dead.  I thought you were dead ‘cause no way would my daddy leave me.”   

  “Sophia.  Sweetheart.  Not here.  Not now.  Your brother…” 

  Carol had frozen at his sharp intake of breath, her blue sky eyes stormy as she’d taken the small boy by the shoulders and tried to steer him away.  Tried to distract him from the train wreck unfolding before him, the screech and ear-splitting crash of their past colliding with the painful, harsh reality of their present. 

  “Nobody.” 

  That single word, cloaked in ‘Phia’s tears as it had been, still feels like a knife lodged deep in Daryl’s floundering heart.  Still echoes in his ears.  Haunts him.  But it’d been Carol’s softly uttered addition that’d twisted the knife and even now has his life’s blood flowing out of him in a painful torrent.  Has him all out of sorts and all but oblivious to the rest of the still moving world around him. 

  “Nobody that you know, Baby.  C’mon.  Let’s get you home okay?  You and Sis both.  Sophia?” 

  “Mr. Dixon?” 

  “I didn’t…” 

  “Mr. Dixon?  Can you hear me?” 

  Cool fingers circle his wrist, discreetly checking his pulse before moving to calmly loosen his death grip on the steering wheel, and the fog finally lifts enough for Daryl to focus.  Clarity sharpens his mind but also heightens the grief—and budding anger—that he feels and he turns his gaze to the woman eyeing him with muted concern.  He recognizes her as the school nurse.  Has had to send more than one of his dumbass students her way in the short time he’s been at this gig.  Seen her be friendly with Carol and knows where her sympathies lie.  Still.  He feels the overwhelming need to explain himself.  “I didn’t know.  I thought…” 

  Lily cuts him off with a subtle shake of her head and a suggestion for the young daughter that lingers uncertainly behind her.  “Meghan, why don’t you run back inside?  Grab something to drink for Mr. Dixon?  You were right.  He doesn’t look so good.”  When the little girl has scampered away and the bus carrying the baseball team is gone along with most of the cars in the parking lot, she finally speaks again.  “My sister Tara babysits for Carol.  Our daughters are friends, Mr. Dixon.  Sophia’s older, but they tell each other everything.  Any explanations you think you have for abandoning your family?  Sophia and Carol deserve to hear them from you.  Understood?”   

  A ragged sigh whistles past Daryl’s lips and he blinks against the sting in his eyes.  “’Phia ain’t in the place to hear nothing I say.” 

  Lily’s expression softens but she holds her tongue. 

  Daryl nods to himself and drums still nerveless fingertips against his steering wheel as he gazes straight ahead.  “Tell your girl thanks for me, but I got somewhere I have to be.”   

  Lily stops him with a hand on his arm and an inherent plea in the way she says his name.  “Mr. Dixon.” 

  Daryl ducks his head shamefully.  “Mr. Dixon was a man didn’t deserve to be called Daddy.  Guess I’m more like the old man than I thought.  Don’t worry.  I ain’t gonna bother them.  Got more sense than that.”  He doesn’t meet her eyes again, afraid of the pity that renders her voice a quiet murmur. 

  “Maybe she’s not ready to hear you now, but if I know Sophia at all?  Someday she will be.” 

  “Someday.  Yeah, maybe.” 

  Turning his key in the ignition, Daryl brings his old truck to life and its cantankerous rumble is so loud Lily almost has to shout to be heard. 

  “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  “Gotta be.” 

  “At least stay until Meghan gets back with your drink.”

  “Done told you…”  

  “You got somewhere to be.  I know.  I heard you.  Just.  I know it doesn’t mean much coming from somebody you barely know.  But don’t hurt them even more by doing something stupid.”    

  Daryl mulls over her words.  Tries desperately to take them to heart as the truck eats up the miles between King County and Woodbury.  To push the building anger he feels away with middling results.  Welcome distraction comes when he passes an athletic complex halfway there.  Sees the King County baseball coach running practice drills with the boys before the big game and winces because he’s gotten to know the man somewhat.  Aaron’s a good guy.  Another one of Carol’s friends and coworkers.  Earnest.  Hard working.  Friendly and welcoming to a fault.  Ill-suited to coaching but out there anyway, determined to turn lemons into lemonade, to make something positive out of something negative when Daryl aches for nothing more in that moment than a confrontation and some answers.

  “Sophia.  Sweetheart.  Not here.  Not now.  Your brother…” 

  He repeats Lily’s sensible words as a mantra, even as the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.  The harder the fist around his heart squeezes, the hotter his blood starts to boil.  Her brother?  But Andrea…    

  “Nobody that you know, Baby.  C’mon.  Let’s get you home okay?  You and Sis both.  Sophia?” 

  By the time he pulls into the Woodbury parking lot, he’s at fever pitch again.  The truck has barely lurched to a stop before he’s jumping out of it and slamming the door, striding to the front entrance and a security guard that immediately diagnoses him a threat, abandoning his post to prevent Daryl from going any further.

  “Sir.  Do you have an appointment?” 

  Daryl blatantly ignores his question.  Indignantly huffs a half-truth as he deftly sidesteps the man.  Woman had been quick to shove those divorce papers under his nose. “I’m here to see my lawyer.  We go way back.  Don’t need no appointment.” 

  “Sir,” the man repeats calmly.  “I’m going to need you to stop where you’re at and show me your hands.  Keep them where I can see them while I verify a few things.  Do that and if your lawyer’s receptive to seeing you without an appointment, we’ll go from there.” 

  Sighing in resignation, Daryl agrees and holds his hands out to his sides.  “Fine.  What you need to know?” 

  “You can start by giving me your name and who you’re here to see.” 

  Some fifteen minutes later, when his anger’s cooled considerably and the pain and devastation of all he’s missed has begun to sink back in deep, Daryl looks up from the weary study of his worn boots when he hears a familiar voice.  It doesn’t belong to the person he expected or wanted to see.  Instead, it belongs to Michonne, and one look at the grave expression the woman wears has him swallowing hard because she knows.  He doesn’t know how much she knows or when she found it out, but betrayal hangs low and heavy around her shoulders too.  “She too much a coward to face me herself?”

  Michonne’s lips pinch into a trembling, disappointed frown before she sucks in a shaky breath.  Her eyes never straying from his, she addresses the guard that waits patiently nearby.  “It’s okay, DJ.  Daryl’s good people.  He’s just been hit with a bit of upsetting news today.” 

  “Sorry, Man,” DJ apologizes.  “Hope you know I was just doing my job.” 

     As soon as they’re alone, Michonne allows Daryl only a brief glimpse of the disappointed tears in her eyes before straightening her shoulders and clearing her throat.  “I understand…” 

  “No,” Daryl instantly interjects through gritted teeth.  “You don’t.” 

  Nodding to concede his point, she begins again.  “I know you’ve just been blindsided.  It’s not exactly the same, but I have too.  Be that as it may, there’s a little boy behind those doors, my little boy, and I know none of us right now understand this whole mess, but Andre?  Daryl, it makes even less sense to him.  Do you get that?  One minute his mama and Aunt Andrea were happy and laughing.  The next?  The next they’re…they’re not.”

  “I’m sorry, ’Chonne.  But…” 

  “But nothing, Daryl.”  Impassioned now, Michonne defends Andrea.  On one count at least.  “Andrea wanted to come out here.  She wanted to talk to you herself.  I convinced her not to.  Me.  Because she was the only one that could console my son.  So please.  Remember that.  Think of him before you storm in there dead set on getting your pound of flesh.  Okay?  Think of him and treat him the same way you’d treat the son you just found out about.” 

  Daryl’s throat grows tight again and the tears that had stung his eyes earlier return with a vengeance, streaming unnoticed down his cheeks.  Hoarsely, he pleads with Michonne to understand.  “My boy, ‘Chonne.  I didn’t know.  She told me, no, she let me think he died.  Even worse…I want some answers, goddammit.” 

  Michonne grabs his hand, offers herself up as an anchor of sorts.  Something steady to hang on to in the onslaught of emotion.  “And if they don’t satisfy you?  We can’t go back, Daryl.  Only forward.  What then?” 

  “Got no fuckin’ clue, but don’t I deserve the chance to figure that out for myself?  And to do that, I need to talk to Andrea.” 

  “Okay.  Follow me.  We’ll get you your answers.”   

[k-renne]

THE CSPD ANNUAL SKI TRIP

SUMMARY: You’ve had your eyes on Detective Zimmerman ever since you started the job, you’d have to be blind not to notice that handsome man. To your luck, he had his eyes on you too and he had plans to go along with it. Plans which involved getting you a private room in the ski resort to have a bit of fun with you. 

WORD COUNT: 4.3K 

WARNINGS: SM*T, Flip being domineering and filthy, maybe a little mean but not too mean. Handcuffs involved, can’t say too much cause I don’t wanna be censored

TAGS: @thecurlycaptain, @oh-adam, @dreamboatdriver, @adamsnackdriver

“I know Marnie, but I don’t ski.” You told your older coworker, who had been trying to convince you to go on the annual CSPD ski trip for the last five minutes.

“Oh sweetie, that’s okay-we’re not just there to ski. It’s about having a good time, letting yourself unwind. There’s a nice resort we get rooms in, a hot tub, it’s a great chance for you to cozy up to that detective I’ve seen you eyeing since you got here.” Marnie elbowed you.

“I have not! And I can unwind just fine on my own, besides this trip is not really in my budget-”

Marnie quickly interrupts, “That’s just fine, the girls and I already chipped in a little extra to cover your share.”

You really didn’t want to go, but you couldn’t say no to Marnie’s dazzling smile, or the money she helped so generously gather for you. “Oh alright then, I’ll go.” You sigh.

“It’ll be fun! You’ll just have to trust me.”

And that’s how you somehow ended up in the back of Jimmy’s car, squished right between Ron and the detective you’ve been crushing on ever since you got to Colorado Springs, Flip Zimmerman. While Ron had scooted over to give you the slightest bit of space, Flip’s thigh was pressed right up against yours, and it wasn’t going to budge.

To your surprise, he had been the one to offer you to ride with them, so nonchalantly that you didn’t realize what he was asking the first time. “I said you can ride with us if you’d like, leave your car at the station. It might be tight but it would save you the effort,” Flip shrugged.

You nodded and much to your protest he helped you with your bags, hand clasping down on your back and patting it lightly.

“She said yes?” Jimmy whispered to Flip.

“Yeah, and don’t smile like that. I’m trying to play it chill.” Flip whispered back.

“If you keep playing it as cool as you have, she’s gonna think you have something against her,” Ron teases Flip.

You tried not to listen to the boys as they all whispered, Sargent Trapp standing besides you and shaking his head. “Detectives,” He muttered under his breath.

Okay, so maybe it was a little suspicious that you had ended up in a car surrounded by only men. But Marnie had told you she didn’t have enough room, you were shouldering yourself to drive alone until Flip offered. It was very good timing, but you weren’t thinking about that. You were too lost in those brown eyes of his, so taken aback by his rich voice that you just nodded and went along with it all.

Your head felt all fuzzy being sandwiched next to Flip, the smell of cigarettes and cologne taunting you for the past half hour or so. You were still clutching onto the handle of your purse, nerves refusing to settle.

“Sorry sweetheart, just getting a little stuffy s’all.” Flip apologized as his arm brushed against yours, maneuvering to take of his coat.

Sweetheart...you were familiar with that term. A lot of men would use it to be condescending to you, but coming from him there was something genuine to it. Something sweet, almost like he was interested. No, you couldn’t believe it.

Meanwhile Ron was trying and failing to stifle his laughter, prompting Flip to glare at him. You eyed the two men suspiciously, about to ask a question when Jimmy spoke, “So, what’s it like working the front desk?” He asked, saving Flip’s ass by distracting you.

“It depends on the shift, sometimes it’s slow, sometimes you meet some real...interesting people.” Flip laughs at your answer.

“Oh I bet.” Sargent Trapp chimes in.

“That’s one way to put it.” Ron laughs.

“I know just who you’re talking about, I remember that one guy who was giving you a hard time. Probably on somethin’ too, just trying to get your number. And you gave him the number of the pizza joint across the street.” Flip turns to you as he speaks, a grin at the memory.

You’re taken aback, that he remembers all that and that he was there and you didn’t notice, that he was watching you. Sargent Trapp and Jimmy shared a knowing look that you didn’t catch, because Flip had told them this story a few times and others that he had gleaned from seeing you deal with folks at the front desk while he went to “get coffee”.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good trick. You just gotta hope you never see them again.” You say.

“Poor Y/N, it’s not your fault you have the prettiest face in the station.” Ron winked at you, with mock sympathy in his tone.

You heard Flip make a strange noise next to you, looking away and rolling down the window as he fumbled for a smoke. Ron was a friend sure, but something about hearing him talk about you like that made him feel jealous. Especially of the smile you gave Ron. But he sure was right, you were the prettiest thing in the station, and like any man working there he noticed.

“Hey, I’ve told you this before, she’s off limits. Don’t need any of my boys constantly making love eyes with the front desk while they gotta be working.” Trapp turns back to reply to Ron. “Just cause you’re detectives the rules still apply.”

His words put you on the spot and you try to turn your gaze to anything but his, of course you end up meeting Flip’s eyes, the fire of his lighter making his eyes glow as he looks back at you. He doesn’t say anything, taking a breath his cigarette and turning to let the smoke go out through the window. Something about seeing him smoke made you feel warm inside, the smell of it wrapping around you, mixed with his own spicy musk.

“See-Zimmerman! You’re doing it already!” Trapp shakes his head.

Flip raises his brow, still looking at you. “I’m not doing anything, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As Trapp scoffs, Flip winks at you, Jimmy snickering in the front seat as you quickly avert your eyes.

You let out a huff, this was going to be a very long trip.

It was much more obvious now that you got to the resort, just exactly what Flip was trying to pull. He was carrying your bags back into the room, insisting on doing so even when there was a perfectly good luggage cart there to assist you with your things and you could’ve managed on your own. He makes himself comfortable by laying across your bed. “Lucky you get a room all to yourself,” He rested his head on his arms crossed behind him. “A nice big bed too.” He said huskily, eyes half lidded as he looked at you.

Flip was coming on to you so strongly, it had your lips parted in surprise. You had never had a man make you feel this flustered, never enjoyed someone’s flirting this much. It had you avoiding his eyes and trying to look at anything else, of course, Flip wasn’t having any of that. In a few strides he was looming over you, “Can’t have you staring at the floor, how else am I supposed to make “love eyes” to the front desk,” Flip jested, his hand moving to tilt your chin up. “Shit baby,” His eyes softened as he looked at you, an sweet innocent expression on your face. Flip licked his lips and exhaled, his chest heaving as his thumb gently ran over your jaw.

“Flip-” You said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I have a confession to make.”

Flip nodded, hanging on to every word.

“I can’t ski.” You admitted.

“Oh...oh! I can teach you, I’ll teach you.” Flip assures.

“I don’t know if I really want to…”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Let’s get you suited up and I’ll show you the ropes.” He puts his hand on your shoulder.

You couldn’t say no to him, not when he was looking at you like that. Fuck, you were about to make a fool of yourself in front of Flip Zimmerman.

An hour later you were on the snow, barely able to stand without Flip supporting you with his hands. “Just move the skis like this,” He said gently, leaning down to speak against your ear. Your heart was beating so fast that you lost your balance, cursing as you began to slip, only to fall back into Flip’s arms. “Woah, you’re alright I got you. Just relax baby.” Flip soothed you, his hand firmly gripping your hip.

“Ooooh, are you having fun?” Marnie skied down besides the two of you, eyeing you and Flip with a knowing look.

“No.” You replied quickly.

“Yes.” Flip answered at the same time.

“Well at least one of you is having a good time,” Marnie smiled at the two of you. “Good luck Flip, you have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m honestly surprised I haven’t fallen on my ass yet.” But apparently that was too good to be true, because a few minutes later you did just that.

You made it down the hill a few times with Flip’s help, almost crashing into him one time as you didn’t quite understand how to stop yourself just yet. But, with how many bruises you had by now you were done for the day. “Flip, just go ski with your friends I need to rest.”

He protests, wanting to spend more time with you and determined to get you to enjoy skiing but Ron and Jimmy quickly pull him away, leaving you to finally take off your cursed skis.

You were left alone to your own devices for a while before Flip came around knocking again, a different flannel on this time and a bottle of beer in one hand. “Hey, shit you look cute,” He eyed you up and down, a grin on his face as he looked at your pyjamas.

“Oh uh hi Flip, what is it?”

“Don’t know why you’re up here by yourself, come on down stairs to the hot tub we’re having drinks.”

Your eyes lit up at his invitation, “Alright, just let me put on my bikini.”

Flip smirked, “Yeah, I’ll just let you do that.”

You heard laughter as you followed Flip down to the hot tub, Ron telling a funny story about some racist he arrested. You were met with greedy eyes once you took off your clothes covering your bikini, Trapp shaking his eyes at how easily the men were swayed. With all eyes on you, you felt shy. Jimmy the only one smart enough to offer you a drink.

Of course, Flip made his claim known as he sat in the hot tub right next to you, casually resting his arm over your shoulder as he lit up a cigarette. He sat without his shirt off in his boxers, the water line meeting a patch of his dark chest hair.

“This is the life,” Ron exhaled, relaxing back into the hot tub,

“Yes it fucking is,” Flip agreed, clinking his glass with Ron’s.

Eventually the party dies down, leaving you and Flip to linger around the warmth of the fire place in the late hours of the night, his arm still around your shoulder keeping you close to him. He has his flannel on now but he leaves it unbuttoned, still in his boxers as he dries by the fire. “You know, I’ve seen you look at me. Fuck, there was no way I could miss those eyes,” Flip looks at you, heat in his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” You apologize, feeling guilty at his words.

“No baby, you don’t get it. Don’t apologize to me, I’m as guilty as anyone with how much I’ve checked out your tits and ass.” Flip hums, his hand resting on your thigh. Being tipsy only made him all the more bold.

“Flip,” Your eyes widened.

“Fuck I love when you say my name,” He squeezed your thigh. He runs his hand through his hair and looks away for a moment, thinking about something.

 “Look, if I’ve been coming on too strong, you let me know. I-I’ll leave you alone. I shouldn’t even be acting like this without asking, I thought maybe you liked me too and-” You cut Flip off by kissing him.

He groans against your soft lips, grabbing the back of your head and kissing you back hard, his mustache pressing against your upper lip. His hand curls in your hair as he pulls you closer, leaning against his chest as his hand rubs up and down your back. “When I saw you in that bikini, I didn’t want to let you leave the room, didn’t want the other detectives to see how fucking sexy you are.” He rasps, a hand reaching up to grab your breast.

“Speaking of, we should probably go back there. For come privacy,” you cleared your throat, looking up at Flip.

“Of fucking course baby,” Flip pulls you up with him to stand, smacking your ass before you put on your pants.

“Ow! Flip I’m still sore.”

Flip laughs, remembering the falls. “Oh right, I’ll just be gentle then.” He says, gently rubbing your ass in his big hand. “But, I gotta know sweetheart just how rough you can take it. Because I like to have my fun.”

“I-I like it, I mean I like the idea of it. I haven’t done all too much.” You confess, cheeks feeling hot and voice weak.

Flip’s eyes light up at that, a big wolfish grin splitting his face. “Alright, I’ll start off nice and sweet with you then. How about we go upstairs, and I massage your poor, aching, little muscles.” He purrs, cornering you like a predator. Flip flicks his tongue at you, licking his mustache and laughing as you squirm.

He walks you by the waist to your room, pressing himself right behind you as you unlock your door, leaning down to softly bite your neck. “Go on now, lay on the bed.” Flip instructs, lightly slapping your ass again.

You lay on your stomach, taking off your sweater and pants and leaving yourself in your bikini. Flip hums in approval, opening up some lotion and smoothing it between his hands as he sets himself on his prime target. He tsked as he saw the bruises, “Shame really, these could’ve been in the shape of my hand.”

You let out a squeak as Flip softly grabs your ass, massaging the tender muscle under your bikini bottom. “That’s a cute little noise,” Flip grins, hands sliding in between your thighs. His hands are large and rough, squeezing your inner thighs ever so purposefully to make you wet for him.

And it’s working, even though he’s not touching where you want him to, the way he’s touching you with the rough pads of his fingertips against your soft skin, rubbing and squeezing, molding your flesh to his whim. You let out a little cry and Flip slaps your inner thigh, “Fuck baby you’re acting like a guy’s never touched you here before.”

“They haven’t really.”

Flip inhales sharply, cursing under his breath, arousal swelling within him. “Fucking missed out, these thighs would just be perfect to slide my dick between.” Flip grunts, hand reaching to rub you over your bikini.

You tilt your hips against his touch, “No, no that’s not how it works baby. You let me just take care of everything, but you gotta stay still for me.”

“I’ll try.”

“Hmm, if you think it’s gonna be that hard for you then I have a solution. I don’t think just trying will work sweetheart.” Flip teases you, his hand rubbing your back.

“Okay, what can I do?” You ask innocently. You didn’t know how this game worked, sex was pretty basic. A guy fucked you, and you pretended to cum. It wasn’t all that enjoyable, but this time was different. Flip seemed determined for you to enjoy it, even though if he just wanted to use your pussy to cum you’d let him, and make yourself orgasm once he left. You had never met a guy like Flip Zimmerman, and you were curious just what tricks he had up his sleeve.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Flip shakes his head, his boxers feeling tighter. “Too sweet in fact.” He says, as he turns you over to look at him. “When’s the last time a guy has made you cum?” Flip asks.

You’re confused at his question, pouting as you start to feel embarrassed. “Never-but that’s-”

“Unacceptable in my book,” Flip growled, caging you in as he looks down at you. His hand cups your face and he presses a kiss against your forehead, “Baby, I want you to listen to me, but not because you want me to feel good. I know what’s best for your pussy, and I’m gonna make you cum. But you gotta listen.” Metal rattles as Flip pulls out some cuffs from his flannel pocket, tilting his head at you.

You nod, and reach up your hands for him. “Just let me know if its too tight,” He puts on the cuffs, using the headboard to keep your arms up over your head. He lightly kisses the inside of your wrists before cuffing you in place.

“Now you just stay still, or I’ll tie down your legs too. Think of it as a fun little challenge.” Flip smirks, rubbing his thumb against his goatee.

His fingers deftly untie your bikini top, eyes glimmering as he brings it down to expose your tits. His hand runs up along your stomach, grabbing your breast in his hand as he lowers his mouth to your skin. He presses his tongue flat against your hardening nipple, bringing it against his lips and giving it a hard suckle, all the while he looks at you through half lidded eyes. The sound of lips against skin fills your ears as Flip kisses and sucks on your breasts, his free hand circling a thumb around your nipple as he wedges a thigh between your legs.

“Can’t keep these legs closed, makes me think you don’t want me to give your pussy any attention and we can’t have that now can we?” Flip wedges his knee higher, rubbing it against your cunt. He continues to lavish your tits, taking his time as he massages them in his hands. Getting hot he shrugs off his flannel, leaning down to press his chest against yours and kiss you, rocking against your hips as he lays in between your thighs.

You’re already so turned on, more so than you’ve ever been and you haven’t even really got to the actual sex part. You love the feeling of Flip’s weight against you, the scratch of his chest hairs against your skin, his hands groping and grabbing at your sides as nestles his face against your tits.

“Mmm I knew you’d be a good girl for me, and good girls get their pussy eaten out.” Flip lifts his head to praise you, crawling down on the bed between your legs. He places a gentle kiss on your inner thigh, before giving it a quick loving nip.

“Flip! You don’t have to do that,” You squirm, trying to close your legs.

“Oh, putting up a little fight are we? Deciding to be a brat when I’ve been, so generous.” Flip shakes his head. “That’s not very nice sweetheart.” Flip says warningly.

“I’m sorry, please I just don’t want you to feel obligated if you don’t want to,” You plead.

Flip’s eyes soften, and he sighs. “But I do want to, is that so hard to believe?”

You don’t know what to say at that, “Good, I’ve got you quiet.” He says. “Don’t test me again baby, I won’t go as easy on you.” He pinches your thigh in warning. He still had a lot to teach you, so he’d give you leeway this time, but even this display of generosity was rare for Flip. Maybe he was just in a giving mood, or aching to eat some pussy. He’d have you sit on his face if he thought you were ready for that, another day perhaps.

He noses your hip as he unties the strings of your bikini, flicking his tongue at you again once he peels back the fabric to reveal your wetness. He dives in without hesitation, dipping his tongue in your heat to gather your slick. He grunts at your taste, pressing his tongue deeper and gliding it against your walls, kissing your entrance as he parts your labia with his fingers.

He seem to know exactly how to touch you, more than any man had ever tried. He found your clit easily, kissing it as he slid a finger inside you, rough fingertips massaging your velvety walls. You rolled your hips, and he growled, quickly backing away from you.

“That’s fucking it, I told you to stay still.” Flip pins your hips easily with one hand, while the other fishes out his hard cock from his boxers. “Now you’re going to have to wait, wait till I paint these pretty thighs with my cum before I touch you again. Unless you beg prettily enough for me.” He snarls, squeezing his cock and jerking himself off before you.

Your chest heaves as you look at the size of him, his dick flushed beautifully pink, a bead of precum on the head. That sight alone makes you want to beg, because you want and need more from this man, you need all that he can give. “Oh Flip-I’m sorry I was greedy, please!”

Flip jerks himself faster, “Keep going, I need to hear more from those pretty lips greedy girl.”

“I’ve just, no one has ever done that before and it felt so good ah!” You’re cut off as Flip lifts up your thighs and hooks them over his shoulders. With your innocent little pleas it’s so hard for him not to give you exactly what you want/

“It felt good huh? Didn’t I say I know what’s best for your pussy, this pretty tight little thing.” He rubs over your entrance in emphasis, giving it a light little smack before he presses the head of his cock against you. “But, you are greedy, you need this don’t you?”

“Yes, ah-I need it!”

“Say it, tell me exactly just what you need rookie.” Flip demands, voice authoritative.  

“I need your cock, I need you to fuck me.” You plead.

With that Flip lines himself up and slides inside you, grunting as your tight cunt surrounds him. “Fuck, such a greedy little pussy squeezing my dick.” Flip growls, huffing before he begins to move.

He starts bouncing you on his cock, hips making your body move with each hard thrust. His pace is steady, controlled. It’s rough in its nature, but it feels smooth enough in the moment to feel good.

Flip grunts with effort and pleasure as your walls squeeze his dick, sweat forming on his brow as his hair falls in front of his eyes. “Mmm that’s it baby, relax for me, take it deeper, take it!” He groans as he gets another inch in, now almost balls deep inside you.

He’s got your thighs pressed back spread against your body, his chest pressed against your legs as he loops them in his arms, fucking you deeper in a mating press. “Fuck ah, yes baby. Pussy feels so fucking good, mmph.” Flip grunts out, his hand squeezing the top of your thigh in his grasp.

The little moans you make are music to his ears, and he lets you squirm in the handcuffs as you ache to touch him. He just lets out a throaty laugh at your struggle, making you cry out as he snaps his hips harder.

“Let your little pussy gush around my dick, come on baby cum for me I know you’re close,” Flip encourages you, lending a helping hand as he circles your clit. Your muscles tense as you moan out his name, cumming just how he asked, truly gushing in a way you never have before.

“Shit-fuck, I’m sorry Flip,” You feel embarrassed, turning your face to try and hide.

Flip pulls out and begins to stroke himself, gathering some of your mess to slick up his cock, “That’s perfectly alright baby, I think it’s fucking hot to see your pretty pussy squirt for me. Hot enough I’m gonna fucking-cum, shit!” Flip curses as he cums, right on to your thigh. He shudders as he continues to stroke himself, hot cum continuing to spurt on to your skin.

His eyes grow soft, loving almost as he looks down at you still in handcuffs. “You really are a good girl,” He muses, sweaty hand coming to hold the side of your face for you to look at him. “Hmm, I’m glad I asked Marnie to make you come on this trip. Would’ve missed out on a hell of a lot of fun otherwise.”

“Flip! You asked Marnie!”

“Yup, even pitched in for the room.” He says proudly. You’d hit him if you weren’t handcuffed, and your squirming only makes him laugh.

“Let me go detective!”

“Oooh I like when you get fiesty rookie,” Flip teases you, undoing the cuffs. “Now let me see these wrists.” He inspects the carefully, rubbing and kissing over the red marks. “At home I got some special ones for you, they have something soft so they won’t hurt you.”

“You’d want to do this again?” You ask, because you have to ask. You need to know.

Flip looks at you incredulously, “Yes, I do. Fuck Trapp’s rules, they’re a bunch of bullshit.”

He settles down on your side, pulling the blanket up over the two of you. “If I wanna make love eyes at my girl, I’m not letting him stop me.” He shook his head. And Flip Zimmerman was a man of his word, in that you were his girl and he was gonna look at you any way he felt at the station. Trapp would have a fit if he saw how Flip looked at you at home.

[collective-laugh]

Detective AU - Muriel x MC

So, because of the overwhelming support and enthusiasm found here, I bring to you the first chapter of the 40s Noir AU. I’m tagging everyone who said something (please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged). If you’d like to be tagged in the updates, please let me know and I’ll put you on my list!

I’ll be posting a masterlist of this series a few chapters down the line, and tagging all of them “detective au” followed by the character’s name. Clearly, I’m starting with Muriel, lol. 

@a-zoidberg-aesthetic @lesbiancountess @fartkittyonline @yaysam @y-all-dnt-ve @countgoatman-and-drleechboy @julians-chest-hair @softarcana @vesuviass @caterpiller-tea @zaemoultrie75901 @saltywerewolfrebel @obsessedwiththearcana

Chapter One: If I Didn’t Care

The neon sign lights up the alleyway, bringing light to the otherwise nondescript gap between buildings.

The neon lights were a pretty purple, a tiny speck aiding in lighting Vesuvia, and curled to read “Private Detective”, and just below it a separate sign advertising, “Tarot Readings” in a dark blue. Overall, it was pretty shady, and no one should want to go there willingly, as private detectives were a dime a dozen, but private detectives who also read tarot were as rare as they were dubious.

The office was tucked on the first floor of an apartment complex and alongside a building that doubled as a laundromat and a Chinese restaurant, and could be completely overlooked if you weren’t looking for it. Their office itself consisted solely of a pair of desks, each completed with a desk chair, an abundance of filing cabinets, too many ashtrays, a long stick for the resident snake to slither on, and a bohemian tapestry separating the detectives’ office from where tarot was read. Overall, it was much more inviting than initially anticipated, regardless of how decrepit the building itself was.

The Apprentice was tired - of the office, of Asra, of the damn headaches. Balancing her bag, a box of Asra’s favorite doughnuts, her keys, and a handful of files, she manages to pry the lid off her meds, downing a few pills without bothering to complain about not having any water to make the trip easier. She sighs, pausing only to look at the tacky neon lights, hoping that Asra might have lured even a singular customer in. The bitter taste in her mouth is only partly caused by the pills.

She manages to open the door with her free hand and catch it with her foot, all while balancing the monument of stuff in her hands. She sighs yet again when she sees Asra asleep behind his desk, head in his arms. She tosses her keys on his desk, effectively waking him with a start.

“I’m assuming no customers?” She scratches the back of Faust’s head, and the snake yawns, keening into her touch.

He runs a hand through his floofy bedhead, smiling fondly at his friend and coworker, “You’d assume correctly.”

She huffs out a laugh, though she was definitely far from amused by the fact that they were nearly financially destitute. She sets the box of doughnuts on his desk, patting it twice with her files, “A thank you would be appreciated.”

Asra gives a mock bow, “Many thanks, my dearest colleague.” He yawns, long and wide and she wonders when the last time he actually laid down to sleep was.

“Go get some sleep, Asra.” She sets her things down on her desk, her files teetering until they sprawl across the surface, only adding to the chaos. She just tosses her bag on top of it all, holding back a scream when it opens and the files inside flying.

Asra looks a little sympathetic, at least, “Can’t.” He glances at his wristwatch, and then sets into high gear, flitting around the room like a hummingbird, “I’ve a train to catch in twenty minutes.”

She furrows her brow, effectively confused as hell, “A train? Where are you going?”

“Nevivon.” He lets Faust slither around his shoulders, and then pulls his overcoat on, “I’ve some business to handle there.”

She only grows more confused, “Business? Business that puts money in our pockets or business that consists of you leaving me here for weeks on end?”

Again, he only looks a little sympathetic, and she’s unsure if that’s because he was hiding how bad he felt or if he was trying to emulate sympathy, “I’ll be back within the week.” She’d heard that promise before.

She sighs - realizing then that she’d been doing that a lot lately - and faces him, “You could have least told me sooner.”

Asra puts on that stupid smirk and even stupider hat, “Next time.”

And with that, he disappears onto the streets of Vesuvia, leaving her with a radio and closed cases.

She flicks the radio on, scanning until music came through and not those shows Asra listened to, and cursed under her breath when she realized that Asra took all the damn doughnuts.

If I didn't care more than words can say

If I didn't care, would I feel this way?

If this isn't love then why do I thrill?

And what makes my head go 'round and 'round

While my heart stands still?

She sighs, all but throwing herself in Asra’s chair and burying her face in her arms, willing her headache to cease and desist and for her wallet to overflow with riches.

It was an unlikely outcome, but certainly welcome at this point in her life.

She knows that she ought to get back to work, especially now that Asra and Faust have left for an indiscernible amount of time, but her head aches and she’s hungry as hell, and if Asra didn’t have to do any work, neither did she.

She wished that were true. She wished there was no work to be done and everything was easy, but, sadly, that wasn’t the case.

She yawns, and sets to gather the papers that had gone flying moments before, wishing she could just get lost in the music.

If I didn't care, would it be the same?

Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?

And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?

Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?

She hums along with the popular tune, pretending like she remembered all the words and though she doesn’t get lost in the music, it’s a pleasant distraction from just how dire her situation was. All the papers find their place back in her bag, and the radio crackles a moment. She’s terrified she’s about to lose the music, but before she can throw herself across the room to fix it, the problem gone.

She’d like to say that a cold case catches her eye, or maybe she found some cash tucked away in a pocket of her bag that she just happened to forget, but Lady Luck hadn’t blessed her that much, and thus, she was stuck in her dead end job, in a hole in the wall, with no money, no doughnuts, and little more than the clothes on her back and a radio that was on its last legs.

Things had been different before the war - hell, the war had been their peak income. People had been desperate to find their missing loved ones, or to know what their future held in store.

She gathers the last of the files, tossing the majority of them back in her bag and thumbs through a few pages of things that were most certainly not relevant to her work.

Nothing was relevant to her work anymore, and she scoffs, setting all the paper down in another undignified heap. She retrieves the newspaper from her bag, and begins her search for the wanted section. Regardless of how much she liked working with Asra, there was no possible way they could keep this up.

She circles a receptionist position, and sighs once more at the overwhelming amount of “male” positions, knowing full well there was no way she’d stand a chance against even the most incompetent man on the face of the planet.

She wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe just fall asleep for a little while, but all three seemed to be escaping her as of late.

If I didn't care, honey child, more than words can say

If I didn't care, baby, would I feel this way?

Darlin', if this isn’t love, then why do I thrill so much?

And what is it that makes my head go 'round and 'round

While my heart just stands still so much?

Someone knocks on the door, two little raps that she barely heard, and she’s almost excited for the first time in a long, long while. But, the more rational side of her takes its turn before she can read too far into it.

It was probably just Asra, holding too many things at once, and only just forgetting something he needed for his big trip. She wished it were a customer, someone who might be willing to give her enough money to buy food this month, but she was too much of a realist to expect it.

She sets the paper down and pulls the door open without bothering to greet Asra, and she’s more surprised than she ought to be to find that the person on the other side of the door was not, in fact, her boss, but rather a close friend of his.

“Muriel.” She says simply, obviously put off by the fact he was there at all. Her eyes rake over him, and she knows she ought to move out of the way so he could come in, but the initial shock of his visit still hadn’t worn off. “What’re you doing here?”

He furrows his brow at that, hands tucked in his front pockets - she notes just how massive his hands were, considering - and she worries she’s said the wrong thing already, “Is Asra in?”

She finds her train of thought, shaking her head, “No, sorry, you just missed him.” A beat of awkward silence passes, “He’d headed to Nevivon on a...surprise trip. I don’t know how long.” Something resembling pity crosses Muriel’s features, for only a moment, “Would you like to come in?”

He glances over his shoulder, and she worries that someone might be following him...and then she remembers that he’s nearly seven feet tall and could crush her head like a grape if he so pleased. No one could truly be stupid enough to mess with him.

“Come in.” She presses, stepping aside, “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

He purses his lips but doesn’t protest, bending down so he could fit inside the doorway. He stands awkwardly against the filing cabinets, clearly trying to make himself as small as possible.

“So…” She sets to work, trying to fill the silence a little less awkwardly than the radio was doing, “Why’re you looking for Asra?”

She knew Muriel, though certainly not as well as Asra knew him. They’d always been civil, but their conversations consisted solely of awkward pleasantries. He’d come all this way, though, and she was determined to help him if she could.

He ignores her question, though, and asks, “Do you know why he’s going to Nevivon?”

She shakes her head, leaning against her desk as the coffee brews, “He mentioned something about being back within the week, but you know how he is.” A week long trip could turn into two weeks, and two would turn into four, and before she knew it, she was left alone for two months.

Muriel huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “Dammit.”

She runs a hand over her scalp, mirroring his sentiments, and decides to make small talk rather than pushing him any further, “Are you still working at the Rowdy Raven?”

He nods after a moment’s hesitation, obviously put off by the fact she was trying to talk to him, “Yeah.” She turns back around to pour their coffee.

“How do you like your coffee?” She asks, pouring her own cup first.

He hesitates just a moment too long, before he finally answers, “Oh, uh...black’s fine.”

She hands him his mug, and he thanks her with a short nod. She sits on Asra’s desk, picking up a figurine she knocked over, “So...how have things been? How are you?”

He eyes her suspiciously, taking a sip of his coffee in spite of the fact it certainly wasn’t at a consumable temperature yet. “Fine.”

She arches a playful brow, blowing into her mug, “We’re trapped in social etiquette, so unless you’re comfortable with this uncomfortable chatter, I suggest we ask one another a few more questions.” His eyes dart to the door like he’s considering bolting, so she’s quick to say, “You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

He looks confused and his face is marred by a scowl, but asks, “What sort of things?”

She genuinely seems to ponder what question to ask him before settling on, “What’s your favorite color?”

“What.” He asks, in spite of the fact it definitely didn’t sound like a question.

The right corner of her mouth quirks up in a smile, “Your favorite color. What is it?” She traces a finger around the rim of her mug.

Almost immediately, he answers, “I don’t...have one.” He purses his lips, swirling his mug.

She nearly chokes on the scalding coffee, “What? Everyone has a favorite color!”

He rolls his eyes, “Well I don’t!” He takes a large gulp of his coffee, trying to hide how embarrassed he was.

They sit in tense silence for a moment, the air between them palpable as they drink their coffee before he looks back at her, chewing on his bottom lip. He swallows and says, “Green is ok.”

She smiles, bright and genuine, in spite of the headache pounding behind her eyes and around the back of her head, “Green is a good color.”

“Whatever.” He’s blushing a thousand shades of red, the blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck. “...What’s yours?”

Whether or not she genuinely cared about the color in that moment, she knew that the pretty shade of red running across his face was enough to convince her to say, “Red.”

[andrea-lyn]

Dunno if I’m doing this right but, a malex prompt: Michael did go to UNM but lost Alex the same way. Ten years later, they meet again in Roswell.

After Rosa dies and Michael takes the blame for it, he sees the way Isobel looks at him. Guilt and sympathy and a bundle of other emotions that he’s not sure he can deal with, and it never stops. “I can’t stay,” he tells Max one night, even though things are tense between them, on the cusp of Rosa’s funeral. “I can’t take the way she looks at me, Max.”

“Isobel needs us,” Max says sharply.

“If I stay, I’m gonna end up telling her,” Michael admits, and as bad as it’ll be to abandon Isobel and Max in the middle of this, he knows if he stays and Isobel finds out, it’ll be so much worse. “She’s got you. You’re the ones with the connection and maybe for a little while, it’s better if I get out of here, before I break and tell her what happened. I’m not saying I’m going forever, but I can’t stay.”

Max doesn’t look like he has the energy or the argument to convince him otherwise. He’s giving up his dream to go travel, but then, he didn’t decide to cover up a murder and earn his sister’s crushing sympathy for it.

“It’s not the first time you two were on your own. You were fine last time, too,” Michael says, trying to ignore every stinging pain that says that they don’t need him. “I’ll go to UNM,” he shrugs. “That way, I can come back every once in a while to visit. It’s a good cover, but it gives me the space I need.”

“Michael…”

“This isn’t a reward,” he guarantees, lest Max think that somehow Michael is giving himself an out. Alex is gone, Isobel thinks he killed those girls, and Max will barely look at him. There’s nothing in him for Roswell and at least if he goes to school, he might actually be good at something.

Max still looks like he isn’t convinced.

“You better come back.”

“Four years, maximum,” he vows.

He keeps true to his promise, even if he doesn’t exactly follow the normal course most students do. Four years later, he hasn’t taken a semester off and he’s loaded up on extra classes, taking night ones in addition. For all that he could have a social life, he ignores it to throw himself into school because he discovers that equations, like music, can quiet his mind.

Three years later, Michael Guerin returns to Roswell with a PhD in astrophysics and his engineers’ ring for mechanical engineering (dabbling in chemical because he needs the challenge). For a while, he teaches at the high school and moonlights at the junkyard, but then he starts hearing whispers that the government’s secretly looking into aliens through an unauthorized project.

That’s when Michael decides that “hold your enemies closer” is sound advice and puts in a job application when they start hiring science geeks.

He’s been consulting with the Air Force for two years now, with only one solid rule. He avoids Jesse Manes at all costs, even though it’s been almost ten years since the incident in the tool shed.  

He’s not sure he could avoid being arrested if he’s within four feet of the man, because his fucked up hand speaks of a lot of history, but Alex Manes’ absence from Roswell tells the rest of that story. Michael knows that Alex hadn’t decided to leave all on his own, that Jesse was the little angel and devil on his shoulder for that conversation.

Alex has been in his head a lot, lately. With Isobel talking non-stop about the ten year reunion (and Michael is just so glad that she’ll speak to him, that she looks at him and he doesn’t see sympathy in her eyes anymore), Michael can’t stop thinking about Alex.

It’s practically fate, then, what happens when he shows up to Foster Ranch to work, a few days before the reunion.

They’ve been setting up for a few tests while they work to get zoning permission on the new facility and they want Michael testing the ground and the area and he takes special notice in the tests that are being ordered by Master Sergeant Manes, looking for strange materials in the earth.

He’ll swap out the test results for some fake ones, keep the real specimens, but even now he feels smugly right that he’d made the right call taking this job. At least, he feels pretty good until he sees some of the new guys in Roswell hovering around his trailer.

The one rule of a site - stay away from Doctor Guerin’s shit, or get what’s coming to you.

“Hey!” he snaps, annoyed that a new bunch of recruits are traipsing around on his territory. He gives the CO an annoyed look, but he shrugs as if he can’t be held accountable for what these kids do, which means Michael needs to deal with this himself. “That’s my lab, you’re going to contaminate the…”

He yanks at the soldier’s arm, but when he turns him around, it’s Alex Manes.

Shit.

“Alex…”

They stare at each other for a long time. He knows all about Alex’s accident, knows about the IED, knows about his leg. He’d managed to get the reports with his clearance and while he’d begged for an assignment that brought him over there, they’d kept him here in Roswell to clear the land for their new facility, citing his desire to be close to family.

It figures that would bite him in the ass when he’d wanted to go after the only other family that mattered.

“This is yours?” Alex asks, pointing to the trailer.

“I mean, it belongs to the good ol’ US government,” Michael says, leaning forward to open the door so he can reveal the lab inside. He’s running the tests they’ve been asking for (chem tests, soil tests, and helping to plan the site), but he’s also using the opportunity to sneak in at night and get pieces off Foster Ranch.

It’s all kinds of win-win-win here.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” Alex admits. “I heard you were working with us…”

“Yeah?” Michael has had countless fantasies about what it’d be like to run into Alex again, but standing on a work site surrounded by coworkers hadn’t been in the list. He thinks that the CO would get a little pissed off if Michael backed Alex against the trailer and made out with him for the next forty minutes. “High school physics got boring, plus the job at the junkyard doesn’t exactly pay very well.”

He doesn’t think he should say, I’ve been waiting for you, I keep waiting for you to walk into a meeting room and be on my project, I’ve been needing to see you again.

Here he is, as large as life, and twice as handsome as Michael remembers him being.

“I heard you got your doctorate. I meant to send a card, but we were in the middle of the desert and…”

“It’s okay,”  Michael promises. “You don’t have to apologize, it’s just a piece of paper.”

From the proud look on Alex’s face, he clearly doesn’t think so. He’s felt this before. With Max and Isobel, he’d felt it, that gut-punch of pride when he feels so happy of his accomplishments and no matter the dark sins of his past, he’s proven that he can be something.

The moment draws on, but it doesn’t feel awkward. If anything, it’s heated, the two of them staring at each other while the world around them shrinks.

“Are you going to the reunion?” Michael asks, when the silence between them starts to feel heavy and Michael starts to think about doing things other than talking again.

“I was thinking about it, but it felt a little like adult prom to me and my history with that isn’t so great,” Alex answers over his shoulder, but he doesn’t fully turn around. “You?”

“I was waiting to see if I could find a date. I don’t know,” Michael admits, heart pounding in his chest. “Isobel’s planning it, so I probably have to go no matter what. I said I’d help with the slideshow, so…”

“It could be fun,” Alex offers.

That moment is back and the heavy heat between them with it. Michael forces himself to look at Alex’s uniform so he doesn’t do something stupid like haul him inside the research lab and break all the samples by pushing him to the table. Alex looks like he’s considering things of his own, his eyes clearly on Michael’s lips.

“I should get back,” Alex finally admits, though he sounds weirdly disappointed. “I’m just here to help see the sale of the site through, I need to be back on base.” He lingers, again, like he’s waiting for Michael to say something.

Michael wishes someone had handed him a script or something, because he’s lost.

With one last shrug, Alex turns to start making his way out, leaning heavy on his crutch as Michael watches him go.

“You’re the stupidest genius I know,” the CO mutters as he walks past, shaking his head. “Or did they not teach you Romance at UNM?”

“Fuck off,” Michael hisses, which will probably get him a reprimand later, but it does do the trick of spotlighting the very big elephant in the room he’d been missing. The reunion, the hesitation, Alex’s waiting and disappointment…

“Hey!” Michael shouts after Alex, before he can get back in the car. Capitalizing on his courage, not caring how many people are around them, he keeps going, figuring in for a penny, in for a kiloton. “You wanna be my date to adult prom? I figure, I’m this published astrophysicist with a pretty sweet gig,” he says, with a casual shrug, “I might be able to hold my own against a decorated airman.”

Alex hasn’t fully turned around, but he’s smiling a little, lips curved upwards.The sun catches him perfectly, making his skin seem to glow, more beautiful than any alien piece Michael’s hiding in his bunker.

Michael tries not to think about how he’s asked Alex in front of a shitload of people and given their history, that might be a bad idea.

Lucky for him, history isn’t repeating itself. “Pick me up at six,” Alex says over his shoulder. “I expect you in a suit, Dr. Guerin,” he adds, and even from here, Michael can see the way Alex licks his lips, like the image of Michael in a suit in his head is tasty in and of itself.

He picks Alex up at six in a suit, and he’s got a corsage with him.

“Happy adult prom, huh?” Alex jokes.

Pinning it to Alex’s flannel (because the bastard made Michael dress up and then didn’t himself), he thinks he’ll figure out some fair revenge later. “Only if we end the night better than it did ten years ago.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

[sherryscloset]

Warnings:  I have chosen not to list any warnings. Read at your own risk.  

Pairing:  Steve Rogers x reader

Words:  

   “There’s a real hottie in your section.”  Your coworker reached above you for the coffee pot.  “If he asks for your number you should give it to him.”  

   Your nerves went off.  Was this the day?  Did he find you?  You shook them down, trying to act normal.  

   “Right.”  You were trying to balance the tray of drinks for the rare family of four who walked into the diner. “Because I give it out to all the other truckers who stop in here.”  

   “Other truckers?”  She laughed. “You won’t even give it to me!  When are we going to get together for after work drinks?”  

   Another thing to worry about, people getting too chummy.  A sign to leave.  

   “Soon.”  You gave a nervous laugh as you rounded, hoisting the orange juices in the air as you went back into the crowded eating area.  

   Soon you would be gone.  Never stay in a place for longer than three months, never use your real name, cash under the table, save whatever possible.   No relationships, no attachments.  That was the advice handed to you.  It worked well the last eighteen months.  Were you getting sloppy?  Was the strange man finally him?  The tray wobbled, thinking about dropping it and running out the backdoor.  

   It wasn’t the life you had planned for yourself, but you were more free in your time on the road than you had been the two years before.  

   You spotted the “hottie” your friend talked about.  His back was to you, short dark hair, broad shoulders.  Any sense of worry you had faded.  Wasn’t him.  

A lot of the men who stopped in here were good looking.  Ninety percent of them drove trucks back and forth across the country.  They would forget your face as soon as they left, stomachs filled with greasy food and an insane amount of coffee. He was just another.  It was the blondes that worried you.  

   Nobody questioned your secrecy until just now, most were in the same boat.  Part of you was sure one of the cooks was wanted for murder.  Your co-workers last names were Smith, Johnson, Washington, Jefferson.  A lot of presidents.  Made it hard to google Sarah Adams and get any pointed results.  

   “There we go.”  You handed out the orange juice to the road-tripping family.  “Gimme a minute and I’ll be back to take your order.”  

   Your coworker walked by, coffee pot in hand.   You handed her the tray and took the hot beverage without even asking. The solo man’s cup was spun upright and you began to fill it when you approached the table.  

   “Room for cream?”  You watched the dark liquid rise.  

   “I’d prefer a double whipped non-fat late, but I suppose cream will do.”  The voice struck a nerve in your cord and you dropped the coffee pot.  

   Everything was moving in slow motion.   You swore you saw the liquid following out, but the guest grabbed the pot in one hand while reaching out with his other and grabbing your wrist.  

   “Hi there.”  He smiled up at you.  “Have a seat.”  

   You were too numb to respond as he dragged your arm, pulling you into the booth behind him.   You started to hyperventilate, the noise of the crowd fading as your world started to spin.  

   “Don’t forget to breathe.”  Tony let go of your wrist and took a sip of his coffee.  “Not bad.”  

   You couldn’t react.  You didn’t know how to.  

   “Really, I thought this was going to taste like dirt, but there’s something so basic about it, I can’t put my finger on it.”  The billionaire took another sip.  “Did you make it?”  

   You grabbed on to the table, a shake in your body as you looked up.  Tony’s warm eyes had a hint of sympathy, but he smiled and it vanished.  

   “Is he….here?”  There was a lump in your throat, could you outrun Iron Man?

   “Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.”  Tony’s eyes dropped to the table as he grabbed a packet of sugar.  

   Escape.  You had to escape.   All the ways out you had planned in your head didn’t involve a team of superheroes.  You never thought he would involve them.  Maybe they didn’t know?  Maybe you could reason with his friend, get them to see.  Put an end to this madness, get your life back.  

   “Listen to me.”  You grabbed Tony’s hand.  “He is insane.  He is controlling and demanding and you need to help me.”

   “I know.”  Tony nodded.  “Trust me, I know.”  

   Your shoulders relaxed.  Tony knew he was insane.

“When you were in his life, you made him better.”  Tony touched your hand.  “SInce you’ve been gone.  Well, everyone else has had to deal with that side.”  

You recoiled.  

“He has saved a lot of lives.  He’s a good man.”  Tony let out a huge breath.  

“HE RUINED MY LIFE!”  You slammed the table.  “He...he picked out my clothes,  he made me quit my job,  he nit picked everything I did, he followed me everywhere, he destroyed my friendships, he controlled everything.”

“Did he ever hit you?”  Tony ran his hand over his hair.  

“What?”  You glanced over his face.

“Did he tell you what you could and couldn’t do?”  Tony leaned back in the booth.   “What was he holding over you? That you couldn’t leave?  That you ran away in the middle of the night?”

“I tried to break up with him.”  Your lip quivered.  “But he sabotaged everything, every job application, apartment,  bills.  He forced it so he was my only option.”  

That was how Steve operated.  He didn’t give ultimatums, he didn’t hit you.  He just twisted your life so you were dependent on him.  A master of emotional manipulation.  

“Well, when he had you to look after.”  Tony reached down next to him and pulled out some electronic device.  “He wasn’t so difficult to deal with, but since you left of your own free will, he has been a bit of a horror.”  

“Own free will?”  You were seething.  “I tried to leave at least ten times!  He always found a way to make me come back.  We were only together for a year,  I realized he was tricking me, messing with my mind.  I called it off then, it took me another year before I had to vanish.”  

“Vanish?”  Tony raised an eyebrow.  “Hardly.”

He tapped a button on his device.  This place barely got cell service but a screen seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Your jaw dropped as you scanned what was in front of you.  Pictures, notes, dollar amounts.  Every place you’d been the last eighteen months.  

“I...I need to get back to work.”  You started to stand, planning to sprint out the back and run until you died.  

Tony let out a whistle.  All noise in the diner stopped.  The people got up from their seats, the staff stopped in place.  All of them left the building in a neat and practiced order.  

“Sit back down.”  Tony slid the screen over, but didn’t close it.  “Don’t make this difficult.”  

“I am leaving.”  Your chest was heavy.  “You can’t stop me.”  

“No, but I can call the police.”  Tony scratched his head.  “They will be here faster than you can get outside, ready with a pair of handcuffs.”  

“I didn’t do anything.”  Your legs started to shake.  

“In the last year and a half you have committed a staggering amount of crimes.”  Tony hit his screen and they changed.  “Identity theft, tax evasion, moving stolen property over state lines, not to mention the civil liabilities from the landlords you ran out on.”  

“Bullshit!”  You hit the table.  “I used fake names, I worked under the table, I was trying to hide.”  

“Well, there’s an admission to the tax evasion.”  Tony crossed his arms and leaned back.  “I had my personal attorneys study this and find every little thing you have done wrong.  It’s all here.  Those fake names, turns out some real people have them.”  

You knew how powerful the Avengers were, you knew how rich Tony was, but you thought the only evil one was Steve.  

“With a good federal prosecutor and several amazing state’s attorneys, you will be bouncing from prison-to-prison for the rest of your life.  Would you like to have a seat now?”  Tony’s sympathy vanished.  

Yes.  You thought about life in prison.  Could you handle it?  Take it?  Would it be better than this?  

“I promise you it would not.”  Tony glared up at you.  “Now sit.”  

You crumbled back into the booth.  

“What does he want?”  You knew Tony was just the middle man. “Were any of the people here ever real?  Were you just waiting until you had enough on me?”

“Of course we were.”  Tony rolled his eyes.  “Steve found you a day after you left.  He has been trailing you nonstop.  I saw the bigger picture.  He’d convince you to come back and you would run again.  We tempted you with some major crimes by the way, kudos to you for not robbing that guy in Portland.  Those were marked bills.  Would’ve had you ten months ago.”  

“I’m going to be sick.”  You leaned over and clutched your stomach, all the precautions you’d been taking, your life.  It meant nothing.  

“Here’s what he wants.”  Tony slammed a little black box on the table.  “Not the most romantic proposal, but you know Steve.  He doesn’t want any of the dirty stuff on his hand.”  

“Oh God.”  You clutched your stomach, trying to ignore the sound of Tony opening the box.

“He loves you.”  Tony reached over the table and set it on your knee. “He will take care of you.  Your life will be better than this.”  

“He’s obsessed with me.”  You glared at him.  “That’s not love!”

“Sure it is.”  There was no humor on Tony’s face.  “Maybe not your definition.  But to him, it’s love.”

“He...he could have anyone, why me?”  Your reality began to set in and tears started to fall.

“If I had to guess,  your mind.”  

“I’m not a genius.”  You looked up at him with red shot eyes.  “I thought I was free and he, he never left me.”  

You thought back to all the good looking single guys in here asking for your number, the way your coworkers were in the same boat as you.  It wasn’t dumb luck.  It was a controlled experiment by the most powerful group in the world.

“You need to ask him these questions.”  Tony’s sympathy showed again.  “He is outside, waiting for your answer.  Take a look at the ring.  Come out with it on your finger, or else except some less-than-pleasant jewelry on your wrists.”

The sound of Tony’s footsteps and the ding of the diner bell made you sob.  There was no doubt the building was surrounded.  You had a third option, but that wasn’t in the cards for you.  

Your life with Steve flashed in your brain.  The way he looked at you, the way he sent a tingle down your spine, the way he got you to try new things, and when you didn’t like them he would stop.  He was kind, to you, but any life outside of him, that’s when he showed his true colors.  

Without opening your eyes you knew what the ring would look like.  Large and heavy, a single giant stone that people could see from yards away.  Ownership.  That was Steve.  

Which prison did you want?  

You gulped down, and looked at the box.  Your heart raced as you brought your hand to your mouth.  It was small.  It was ugly even, a single pear cut diamond in a bronze band, but your heart filled with warmth.

Different memories came forward, pretending to be a bride with a pillowcase, talking with your father about walking down the aisle, watching your mother cheers at your graduation.  The ring on her finger.  

“How?”  Your parents were dead, tragic accident, nothing was recovered.  It happened a year before you met Steve.  

The initial wave of comfort he had brought came over you again.  The way he listened, tried to help you.

“Photos.”  Nat’s voice made you jerk your head up.  “He had it recreated down to exact specifics.”  

“It's not hers?”  Your heart didn’t sink at the realization, in fact it panged with comfort.  

“He’s not a miracle worker.”  Nat slid into the booth.  “But he tries.”  

The strangeness of the last five minutes dawned on you again.  You wouldn’t go back, you slammed the ring box shut.  

“Please, we were always friends.  Get Steve to let me go.”  You bit back a sob.  “Women-to-women, you saw how bad it got and…”

“I saw a devoted man, who might not have chosen a woman who understood all his traits, but awoken something in him.”  Nat leaned forward.  “He wants you.  Only you.  I sent a few incredibly good looking guys to hit on you, and you shut them all down.  Are you sure you want anyone else?”

“I didn’t...I couldn’t...settle down.”  You took a heavy breath.  “He could find me if I built a life.  I needed to keep moving.”  

“He’s always known where you were.”  Nat smiled.  “Now make the right choice.  He’s waiting.”  

“Wait, help me?”  You looked up at her with glassy eyes as she left the booth.  

“I already have.”  The sadness on her face was too much, you started to cry again.  “We both have.”  

You didn’t take your eyes off of her as she left the diner.   The door moved in slow motion, slammed shut.  

You tried to bite back the scream, but it came out.  

The tray of orange juice hit the ground with a smash and a spill.  Everyone in the diner turned to stare at you.  Including the “hottie” your coworker warned you about.  

Tall, blonde, beautiful, controlling, manipulative, but also protective, caring, pushing, and instead of crying and running away you burst out into tears and ran toward him.  Not caring that everyone in the diner was watching.  

“I...I missed you so much.”  Steve scooped you up in his arms.  “I was wrong.  I was wrong on so many levels,  after we lost Tony and Natasha, I couldn’t lose you.  And I shouldn’t have tried to keep you the way I did.”  

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.  Warmth, home,  everything negative flushed away.  

“Hey, you gonna clean this up?”  Your coworker held the coffee pot, looking pissed off.

You looked back at Steve, who was just as stunned from the kiss as the rest of the restaurant was from the sound of you dropping your tray.  

“I’ll change.  I miss you so much.”  Steve wrapped his arms around your waist.   “I’ve been changing.  Working on myself.  I can’t believe I pushed you that hard.  I wanted to keep you safe.”  

“I’m safe when I am with you.”  There was a fullness in your heart, one you didn’t realize you were missing.  “I didn’t do anything bad.”

“What?”  Steve laughed.  “You?  This was not the conversation I was expecting. The night you left,  I just, I realized my trying to protect you was overriding everything else. My trauma was creating trauma for you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you let me.”  

“