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babesfirstfics · 2 years

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Let's Make this Beautiful (Beetlebabes fanfic)

Chapter 1 - Shut your Eyes tight

(TW: Domestic Abuse, Child Neglect)

[Read the Prologue here]

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Get lost in the pain

Shut your eyes tight Till you vanish from sight Let nothing remain

Not everyone was born with luck, or even with happiness in their future. That was the rule to Beej's life, ever since he was a small child.

He was born in a hell whole of a family. He never knew his father, have being abandoned before he was even born. And his mother was far from being the nature and loving type. Never so much as touching him in a way that wouldn't cause him some sort of pain. She was a bitter, drunk old woman, who was only capable to love the cheap crap booze she always drank, day in and day out.

But when you only know the worst of the world, you believe that is the norm. That every family is the same as yours. If it wasn't for the TV shows and soup operas his mom watched everyday, he would never imagine that parents could've been... kind.

He would sometimes see scenes of parents hugging their child, playing with them, and even saying that they loved them. Love? What did that even meant?

"Why do you care? You'll never experience it" his mother told him once he asked her out of pure curiosity.

For many years, Beej was fascinated by the concept of love. Was it something people didn't experience often? If that is the case, then why did the children of TV were often told such fantastical things? Was it because they were wanted?

Maybe... That made sense. After all, his parents never wanted a child, and he had the audacity to get in their lifes uninvited, so that is probably why he was unloved. Is something people need to ask for permission.

From age of 3 to 5, his nickname was parasite. Once he turned 8, he was promoted to 'Spawn'. His mother refused to call him by name.

He wouldn't even know his name was "Benjamin Lawrence Geist" if wasn't for his birth certificate, that he found throwned around in their dirty house. He would often wonder who gave him this name. The hospital?

Maybe his grandparents, if he even had any. He once dared to ask his mother about the origin of his name once, only to be shot down with another cut off response

"Hell if I know. I wasn't sober enough back then. Some nurse probably felt sorry for you. Wasn't very kin on the idea of giving you something nice so soon."

Or at all, was more likely.

When his mother wasn't passed out drunk on the couch, she was yelling, throwing plates or glass cups (and even a chair once) at his small body, hopping to hit him. It was terrifying.

Was all this abuse and mistreatment giving to him because he was unloved? He didn't even know when or how he could've asked for permission to be loved. So it got have another reason for his mother to always be so angry at him

At the age of ten, he finally putted two and two together. He realized that the fact his mother was always angry at him was because she was always wasted. Obviously right? That was the only logical reason.

Back then, he blamed the evil juice she was always chucking down as the reason she was so awful to him. And so, thanks to his childhood naivete, he hopeless thought that if he got rid of the drink, she might mellow down a bit. Pat his head instead of hitting it, or even giving him a hug, and not a smashed porcelane plate. And so, in the one of the rarest occasions that she would leave the house, he put his plan in action. He enpted each bottle of licor they had, spilling down the kitchen drain, and every beer they had in the garbage.

Later that day, when his mom couldn't find a single can of beer in the fridge, or even a single drop of licor in their bottles, she approached him in the living room, calmly and serene.

"Lawrence, what happened to my drinks? I am sure we had some when I left"

He could hardly believe, it was working already! As a small child, he never once heard her call him by name, even if it was his middle name, much less listen to her talk without shouting. That was a huge progress! Proud of himself, completely sure he saved his mother from the evil juice, he told her everything. Sure she would be happy right? Praise him for being a good kid.

Right?

"I thre' it away!" He explained excited. And as a contrast to his happiness, her response was monotone and dry.

"You did what?"

"I thre' it away!" He exclaimed once more, not caring that her response lack any positive tone "That thing was always makin' ya angry Ma! I had to do something!" Confident on his success, he rushed out to her and hugged her as thight as he could. "Is okay, we can be happy now! That evil juice is not going to mess wit' ya anymore!"

He felt her body slightly trembled, and for a second he was worried he might had upset her. But before he could even step back to see her reaction, he felt something. Big and dry hands, curling around his small body in a affectionate way.

A hug. A genuine hug. Had he ever, even had one of those? Were they supposed to feel this good? Tears slowly slipped out of his eyes, running down his round face. He didn't understand why he was crying. Something good was happening to him, he shouldn't be sad, and yet he couldn't stop the tears.

"Why are you crying Lawrence" his mom asked softly.

"I-I don't know... I am happy, but I can't stop cryin." He replied in between sobs. He had once saw a woman on TV, say she was crying because she was so happy. Maybe that is what was happening.

"You are happy? You are so happy for throwing away my drinks, that you are crying?"

At each sentence, Beej felt his mother embrace tightening more and more around him. Her long nails started to crave around his sholders, sinking in his flesh, strong enough to leave marks.

Anxiety rushed right back at his stomach. Something was wrong, and as much as he tried, he couldn't escape her grip. His anxiety soon became fear, when he felt her hot breath in his ear.

"You are such a piece of shit. You know that right, you devil's Spawn?"

And just like that, his body quickly met the hard ground, after being shoved away from her body. A new wave of pain came to his head, after hitting the ground. He felt tears form in his eyes once more, but those are the tears he was used to.

Tears of pain and fear.

"I leave you for a couple of hours, and what do you do? You mess around my cabinets, empty MY favorite bottles of gin and throw away MY best cans of beer! Do you have ANY IDEA, HOW EXPENSIVE THAT SHIT WAS?!"

Her foot met his ribcage in a powerful kick after her yell "WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?! HAVE YOU LOST THE REMAINING BRAIN CELLS YOU ACTUALLY HAD?! ARE YOU FINALLY BRAIN DEAD?!"

Each shot was accompanied with a kick on his small and fat body. Each one stronger then the last. Beej tried, and failed, to get up multiple times, but his angry mother wouldn't let him.

Her last kick was so strong, she actually manage to flip on his back. His whole body hurted, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't speak properly, thanks to his sobs.

But torture was far from over. His mother got tired of kicking him, so she started to stomp on his belly, over and over again, like he was a insect she was desperately trying to squash it dead. Air no longer ran on his little body, and he was sure he would stop breathing soon if she didn't stop. He had to make her stop:

"I'm sorry" He tired to say with the little pufs of air that he still had "I'm sorry!"

"SORRY ISN'T GOING TO CUT IT! Do you have any idea what you done?! Taking my belongs AWAY FROM ME! YOU STOLED FROM ME!! YOU ARE A THIEF LAWRENCE! A LOW LIFE CRIMINAL!"

Her foot pressed firmly and strongly against his stomach. Stomach juices went up his throat, leaving the strong taste of bile in his mouth. He messed up. He messed up big time, and now his mother will probably kill him.

"And you know what happens to criminals Lawrence?" He shaked his head in response "they get punished. Plain and simple. They disrupted the peace of someone's life. So they must be punished"

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry mam-" unable to hold in anymore, he chocked on his own puke, coughing spit everywhere

"Criminals don't get the chance to apologize" with one final kick, she let go of him, allowing him to puke his guts out, without choking.

Once he got caught up with his breath, he once again felt his mother's long nails, holding his scalp, forcing him down to the pulp of puke he left on the floor. The smell of it, and the wet sensation that met his face and mouth almost made him puke again.

He held down, afraid the pain might get worse if he puked more. His stomach hurted so bad, more than the bones of his ribs and head. Was he going to die?

"What is that, did you really puked out your food? Don't you ever get tired of being such a ungrateful person? You should know by now not to waste food Spawn! Eat this shit back up!"

She once more forced him down to the disgusting pulp in the ground, scrubbing down his face like a undisciplined dog, so he would eat back what he spilled out

"Come on! Clean it up! Are you really that incompetent you can't eat probably anymore?!"

Right here and there, Beej realized he wasn't living with a person. She was a demon, a literal demon, who only existed to see him in pain. In fact, she might have just give birth to him just so she could satisfied her sadistic desire to see him suffer. His quest for love was fruitless. There was no way he would find what many so called love, inside of his mom's heart.

This shock of reality, broke the small fragmented of hope the young boy had. He shot his eyes tight, allowing each bitter tear to get out. For a small second, he welcomed death.

After the failed attempt to "feed" him, his mom let go, leaving the house once more to buy more drinks. Curling around himself, he didn't even dare to move until he was sure his mother was passed out in the couch like she usually did. At age of ten, Beej learned a valuable lesson:

Always have booze in the house.

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soupbabe · 3 years

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Could i have hcs of the platonic!bucci gang or la squadra saving a child (the gn!reader) from a situation and after that they adopt them?

Platonic! La Squadra Takes in Child! Reader

Btw I do imagine reader to be like 10 yrs old in this!

TW maybe? Light mention of negligence on your parent's part, but it's not gone in depth

Prosciutto and Pesci were on a mission together and everything was going well till they bumped into you on their way out of your home

You were just walking home from school, confused why two men were outside of your house. Especially since the green haired one started mumbling things to the blonde, fidgiting with his hands as he talked

Prosciutto knew that the target had a kid. It was because of your father's negligence and carelessness someone put a hit on them in the first place when the police wouldn't help. But he didn't think you'd be home from school so soon

You started to panic when the two men wouldn't answer to you both and blocked the entrance to your home

Pesci was the one to ask Prosciutto if Prosciutto should tell you, automatically feeling how heavy this situation is

Prosciutto and Pesci whispered to each other before Pesci took you away from Prosciutto so he could make a phonecall. Risotto's permission is what makes or breaks their new plan

Surprisingly the man who called himself Pesci was easy to get a long with, his gentle nature made him more comforting compared to the other guy he called his "Bro"

The blonde soon joined the two of you and to say Prosciutto's skills with dealing with young children is rusty, would be a big understatement

You almost ran off when he asked you to get into their car; everything your teachers told you about street safety finally making sense inside your brain

But Prosciutto caught your arm and after 5-10 minutes of struggling, they got you into into the car and drove off to the base

I can imagine the squad's reaction to seeing you with Pros and Pesci to be one of mild confusion, but Melone is more than welcome to make you feel comfortable

He literally lifted you up and treated you like you were a small puppy he found on the street

"Oh! Look at them, aren't they the cutest thing? Why are you here out of all all places? I-" oh look at that you wiggled your way out his grip and hid behind Pesci

Having to talk with the clown dressed in black was scary, his eyes never left yours and all the information you learned was overwhelming for you (reasonably)

So your father's dead and these group of guys want you to give you a place to stay because of it. Too much for a baby brain to process

Risotto left you alone (or with Pesci if asked since he was the only one who didn't scare you at the time) to help you calm down and think things through

After some time you agreed and the hitman team welcomed you to their family

The first ones to warm up to you and make sure you feel more comfortable would be Sorbet and Gelato, Melone, and Pesci. They're experience with actually living with or raising children is low, but they're the ones to take action to get to know you and vice versa. Most likely these are the people you go to for comfort or just want to spend quality time with someone

A lot of times Sorbet and Gelato would let you join in on their spa days, where they'd paint their nails, do face masks, and get some time away from the busy base together

Prosciutto, Illuso, and Formaggio are the people who you didn't expect to get along with at first. They kind of minded their own business for the most part, but they all did small things that helped you feel more comfortable around them

Formaggio gives you full permission to play with his cats whenever you feel like it. Prosciutto always made sure to check up on you every now and then and would be the one to drive you to and from school everyday

Ghiaccio and Risotto were the ones who took the longest for you to warm up to

While Risotto was nice to you, you were just very intimidated by the look of him + how stoic he was. He radiated a lot of power and when you heard him get angry it scared you for a while

It was the same case for Ghiaccio. You asked him to help you with your homework once and he got so frustrated with how math has changed since the last time he was in school, the room got considerably colder as his voice got louder

It definitely took a while to get used to living with la Squadra, but they did everything they could to give you a normal life despite everything and gave you everything you lacked from your last family. You hold them dear to you and you've grown on them just as much

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nat-20s · 3 years

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Part 5 of Wonderful! Au. *boyband voice* banter’s back alright!

Also on AO3

~*~

Jon: Hello everyone, and welcome back to our regular format. If my husband being horribly soppy-

Martin:-hey!-

Jon: -turned you off the how, this should be a refreshing return to formula, though I can’t guarantee there won’t be further horrible soppiness-

Martin, performatively under his breath: -most people thought it was charming-

Jon: -as that tends to happen when one is recording with the love of their life. If last week’s episode is the only one that you like, too bad, I’m back in full form, and should be at least through the rest of the season.

Martin: This show doesn’t have seasons? Due to the whole lack of a narrative thing?

Jon: I was referring to spring.

Martin: Oh, right.

[A beat passes.]

Martin, flatly: Oh. Great goof hon.

Jon, smug: Thank you.

Jon, sincere: Also, before we get properly started, I did want to actually thank everyone who sent well wishes.

M artin: Yes! We got positively inundated with lovely messages, it definitely brightened both of our days. I would even say it was wonderful.

[Jon groans.]

Jon: I am..not proud of the energy we’ve created for this episode so far, and we haven’t even hit the small wonders. Speaking of, do you have a small wonder this week?

Martin: Mine’s bad action movies.

Jon: Really? I had no idea you even liked them, let alone consider them wonderful.

Martin: Okay, so, saying I like them is a bit of a misnomer? It’s more that I like what they can do more than the movies themselves?

Jon: Elaborate?

Martin: It probably comes as a surprise to no one that I’ve tried my hand at a fair amount of mindfulness and mediation techniques. I’ve found poetry and journaling have been helpful for actually processing life events and whatnot, but when it comes to giving your brain a hard wipe and reset, nothing is half as quick and effective as a shitty shoot-em-up. Somethings about 2 hours of cartoonish, pg-13 violence held together with the absolute loosest of plots brings me to a state of mental blankness that would make a monk jealous.

Jon: How have I never witnessed you doing this? When are you sneaking off to go see Micheal Tarantino or who ever films?

M artin: That’s definitely not the right name.

Jon: Martin, dear, I don’t care. And you’re dodging the question.

Martin, fond: I’m not dodging anything. Since apparently we’re getting into it, you haven’t caught me cavorting with a movie involving more explosions than character development lately because I haven’t been. Haven’t needed it, in recent years. Turns out when you’re not crushingly lonely and working a literal nightmare of job, there’s less of a drive to try and escape your own thoughts. Shocker, I know. Still, to anyone out there that feels like their brain is on fire, go try watching a fast and furious. Any of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Or even better, Chronicles of Riddick. I can’t remember a single goddamn detail of that movie, which makes it perfect for what I’m talking about.

Jon: I have the strong feeling that th is is a “mileage may vary” scenario.

Martin: Well, yeah, that’s this whole podcast. Plus, I imagine that movies like this would cause more stress to someone who cares about, say, world-building or rules consistency.

Jon: I wonder who you could possibly be referring to.

Martin: It’s a purely hypothetical person, love, don’t worry about it. Any small wonders?

Jon: Yes! Particularly relevant to the last week, my small wonder is stripping the sheets from your bed when it’s been too long between washes.

Martin: How very specific. M ost people would just say ‘clean sheets’.

Jon: Well, for one, I’m fairly certain that we’ve already covered clean sheets-

Martin: Shit, have we? Thank god other people keep track of this, otherwise this show would be unbearably repetitive.

Jon: Christ, yes. I typically check the website a good three times while prepping, and every about one out of those three times I find I’m trying to do an topic we did 30 episodes again. Anyway, um, it’s just nice, I think. When you’ve been too busy or sick or away for awhile, tossing the sheets in the wash makes a room instantly seem nicer. Of all the chores out there, this one, at least for me, has the highest reward to effort ratio.

Martin: Hard agree. Especially when the y have that slight funk of having been around to long, getting rid of that is such a relief. Speaking of, we need to change our sheets soon.

Jon: We can do it after the episode. Who goes first this week?

Martin: Considering last week was only me talking, I’m gonna say it’s you.

Jon: Alright, then. My first thing this week is Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin: Absolutely not!

Jon: Oh, you can do a whole episode on me, but I can’t do one little segment on my husband, whom I love very dearly?

Martin: Not while I’m sat here, no!

Jon: So you’re saying you don’t want me to tell the internet that your resolve to be kind even in the face of indescribable cruelty is one of the mot breathtaking things I’ve ever witnessed, or how I find it incredibly endearing when you get so emotional that your voice comes out as a squeak, or even that, on a more base level, you’re very physically attractive, and I could lose entire days thinking about your arms alone?

Martin, audibly blushing, voice the aforementioned squeak: Oh my god, Jon!

Jon, laughing: Then it’s probably for the best that my actual first thing is best friends.

Martin, peaking the audio levels: Oh you absolute bastard! Do you enjoy this? Do you get some sort of perverse sense of entertainment from riling me up?

Jon: Oh, don’t you start. As if you’re not as bad as I am. Maybe even worse.

Martin: That’s not…

Jon: Yes?

Martin: Okay. Maybe it’s slightly true. Really, what is romance for if not flustering your partner with compliments?

Jon, teasing: I certainly can’t think of anything.

Martin: Hush, you.

Jon: No, I don’t think I will.

Martin: Fine. I suppose you can tell our delightful audience about the power of friendship or whatever.

Jon: I would’ve assumed more enthusiasm, considering this segment is still, indirectly, about you.

Martin: In what way?

Jon: In the way that, to the shock of all, you’re my best friend.

Martin, pleased: Oh, is that what I am?

Jon, exasperated: Yes, dearest husband, I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Though, upon reflection, I knew you were my best friend before I knew I held romantic feelings for you.

Martin: When was that?

Jon, letting out a breath that vibrates his lips: God it was...2016? I think it might’ve literally been the day after you told me about your CV.

Martin: That early? Huh. I wonder if that’s what people were picking up when they said they we were close.

Jon: What people?

Martin: I don’t know specifically, that’s just what Daisy told me.

Jon: Daisy? When the hell-?

Martin: It...was when she was interrogating me? And, because sometimes I have to be a parody of myself, pretty much my only take away from that interrogation was “people think me and Jon are close”.

Jon: Well then. It’s not like they were wrong.

Martin, smug: No, no they weren’t.

Martin, sincere: And you’re my best friend, too.

Jon: I was certainly hoping that you’re in this relationship for more than my good looks and incredible fortune, both in the monetary and luck sense.

Martin: You say that as if you aren’t good looking, which we all know is patently untrue.

Jon: You’re biased. You’d say I was good looking if I were nothing more than some primordial ooze with thoughts about its station.

Martin: I’m being completely objective. If you were primordial ooze with thoughts above its station, you’d be the cutest ooze of them all. That’s just scientific fact.

Jon: I’m starting to think we might be insufferable.

Martin: Starting to? Might be?

Jon:…

[Jon clears his throat]

Jon: What I find wonderful about the concept of best friends is, to me, they’re the closest thing real life has to soulmates. I don’t personally believe that there’s some..grand mystic force that drives people to be tied together in the manner that narrative typical soulmates are, and if there was I don’t think it would necessarily be the kind of emotional, heartfelt bond one would hope for, but I do believe that there’s individuals that get to know one another, and because of that knowledge, they chose to stick with one another. It doesn’t have to be a romantic, which is why I say best friend rather than specifically ‘spouse’, but I would argue that the basis of a strong romance like you and I have, is very much rooted in that connection. A true best friendship is an equal partnership, and there’s a sense of..matched sensibilities and understanding that can be utterly incandescent when it happens.

I also think that having one or more best friends makes living life on a day to day basis both better and just flat easier. The dark times aren’t as dark, and the bright times shine even more. I know from my own personal experience there are events that I..that I don’t know how I would’ve made it through without you. Hell, last week my..recovery period would’ve taken much longer if you hadn’t been there.

It’s an amazing thing to have someone to share things with, both triumphs and burdens. Um, also, according to Dictionary.com, the term best friends in English has been around since the 1200s. Something about that delights me, like, yes, we’ve had this casual way of referring to a Favorite Person for roughly 800 years. That makes it a hold-out from early Middle English. I dunno, it’s one of those things that make me feel overall very charmed by humanity.

Martin, audibly smiling: No, yeah, hard agree.

Jon: What’s that look for?

Martin: Nothing. Just. I love you a whole lot, you know that?

Jon, voice soft: I may have heard you say that once or twice. Per hour.

Martin: Only that often? I really need to be more diligent about that.

[There’s a bet of silence, presumably where they’re making doe eyes at each other.]

Jon: What’s your first thing?

Martin: Oh, um, right. Rats!

Jon: The expression or the animal?

Martin: Jon, have you ever once heard me say “rats” as an expression? Obviously I’m referring to the animal.

Jon: Ah. Should’ve known, considering that what, a third?, of all your segments have been on animals.

Martin: Yeah? And? You got a problem with critters? With creatures? With lil guys?

Jon, laughing: No, no, it’s very sweet. I’m just surprised you never became a vet.

Martin: Oh believe me, I wanted to. But then I learned that it was not, in fact, a job composed entirely of getting paid to play with other people’s pets.

Jon: You had that job, though, didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning a month long stint at a doggie day care.

Martin, sighing dreamily: Best job I ever had. Too bad that place was shut down after it was revealed to be a money laundering front.

Jon: Good lord.

Jon: Martin did you...did you know it was a money laundering front at the time?

Martin:

Martin: Would it make you feel better if I said no?

Jon: Martin!

Martin: I figured it out like a week in, but, like, who cares? The pay was decent and the floor was super easy to clean, which is very much a plus for even a front of a doggie day care.

Jon: That’s...rather a lot. How about instead of getting into that any further, you tell me about rodents.

Martin: I would love to. But first, we have a shoutout!

Jon: Ooo, a shoutout. Does it specify who should read?

Martin: Let me check. It...does...not…..

...

Jon: Martin?

[A beat.]

Martin: Right! Sorry, um. This week’s shoutout is from Tim, to Danny. It says, “Danny! My favorite person who shares genetic material with me! I wanted to say thank you for your podcast obsession from 4 months ago, and specifically for telling me about these marrieds. They’ve gotten me through many a dull hour at the publishing house. Also, with this shoutout, I’ve officially gotten ahead on the Superior [Last Name Redacted] Brother scoreboard, so suck it. Love you lots, and looking forward to your visit next month, Tim.”

Jon: Oh.

Jon: Um. That’s very..sweet? I think? Mostly?

Martin: Yeah, I’d say so. Uh. We have to take a quick break because, uh, someone is..at our front door! Be back with you all in, from your side of things, just a moment.

#wonderful! au #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #>:3 #shoutouts are their versions of jumbotrons btw

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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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Amoreena | Chapter Five

Chapter Five

main summary: Heaven is a real place and it's located exactly 14.6 miles away from the FBI, Quantico Headquarters. Off behind a small park, under a fantastical willow tree surrounded by wildflowers, in every colour young minds can imagine.

Don't forget, heaven also comes with angels.

Chapter Summary: (fluff only) weekly Saturday reading only they are joined by an extra 15 lost boys, not just Spencer

Warnings (adding as they happen): fluff, hurt/comfort, depressed spencer, reader has a daughter, falling in love, strangers to lovers, library smut, oral (female receiving) lots and lots of fluff

word count: 3K

from the beginning <3

He woke up Saturday morning to the sound of a bunch of voices coming from beyond the walls of his room. Only it wasn’t his room, it was the room he slept in when he stayed with Y/N and Amoreena, he hasn’t left since he arrived on Thursday and he had no plan to either.

They still hadn’t told her about their relationship, not wanting her to come crawling into bed with her mom in the morning to find Spencer there too. She wasn’t ready to explain to Amoreena what it meant for Spencer to be in her bed, how they were in love and that she might need to learn how to knock before entering.

So he slept in the spare room, completely contently because he knew she was only on the other side of the wall, instead of 30 minutes away like she would be when he slept at his own apartment.

It had been a week since he saw them reading in the park, and now they were his family. It was incredibly fast, anyone who heard the news would say so. But that’s how his life worked, he blew through everything incredibly fast, it only made sense for him to skip every step in the book and become a stepdad overnight.

He woke up then, missing Y/N and Amoreena as he thought about the last week. Finally getting dressed and peaking outside, through the crack in the blinds, to see what was going on on the farm.

There were a bunch of men in the field with the cows dropping new cattle off in a big truck as a bunch of children ran around the yard. Y/N wasn’t kidding when she said her 7 siblings had produced 15 cousins for Amoreena to play with. Children all between the ages of toddler and 7-years-old, screaming while they ran after Rufus and the cats, it was a pure dopamine rush to witness.

He found Y/N in the living room, a book in one hand and a coffee in the other, “good morning cutie, all the ruckus on the farm wake you up?” She did her best fake southern accent as she smiled at him. Beautiful as ever in the early morning sunshine.

He nodded with a yawn, sitting beside her and snuggling into her shoulder. She placed her mug in his hands so she could wrap an arm around him and pull him in closer, letting him take a sip of coffee and become a real person again.

He noticed she was reading a book he had never seen before, reading the pages and not know the words. It was a first for him.

“What’s that one about?”

Y/N closed it to let him look at the cover. It was a hand-bound book, wrapped in green fabric that was at least 30 years old and in well-loved condition. The gold lettering reading Amoreena, along with a pressed gold rose and the author's name. He had never heard of it before.

“My grandma was an aspiring writer and the reason I love books so much, her name was Peggy and she had a dream once about a wonderful little girl named Amoreena and the magical life she created for herself. She wrote it all down and my grandpa had it typed and bound for her, she was so proud of this book,” Y/N gushed, smiling as she held it to her chest softly, thinking of all the memories Spencer didn’t know yet.

“Really?” Spencer couldn’t help but smile at her.

She nodded softly, “she loved Elton John, so much so that when my sister Ashley came out she threw her a party. Almost all those kids out there are Ashley's, by the way, she went down the adoption and foster root after I did IVF.”

She pointed out the front window at all the people gathered on her land, “Ben and Dylan dropped their kids off too while they help dad and Evan with the farm. Those are my brothers in case you didn’t know their names yet, there’s also Carver and Francis but they don’t live as close.”

Her little life was just so perfect, “did they want to come with us to read this afternoon? We need some lost boys.”

“They’d love that, are you sure you can handle 16 kids between the two of us?” she smiled, pure love spreading through her body as she held him.

“They’re not so different from psychopaths right?” He teased, watching her settle against him even more as they enjoyed their Saturday together.

“What else can you tell me about your grandma?” He snuggled into her more as he asked, wanting to know as much about her happiness as possible.

“She was always listening to music, she loved Elton's song Amoreena the most. It was the song she played for the majority of my childhood. It only made sense for me to name my little miracle Amoreena too, cause I wouldn’t have her unless nanny suggested I have a baby.”

“I would have loved to meet her.”

Y/N’s smile changed then, “she would have loved you and your big mind.”

“My mom wants to meet you and Amoreena,” he announces softly, he hasn’t really told her anything about his family yet.

“What’s she like?”

“She has schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s and she lives in a care home in DC right now, I try and see her when I can but she has her own schedule so I have to fit around when she’s having a good day,” it was hard to explain it to most people, but not to her. He didn’t feel any shame or fear in introducing them. Y/N was the most loving human, and Amoreena was just the same.

“When is she free next?” A simple question that made him feel incredibly giddy.

“Tuesday from 3-5,” he snuggled in closer to her as she wraps her arm around him.

“We’ll pick Amoreena up from school after work and take her over,” Y/N agreed, their lives intertwining like they were always meant to.

Like she was the ivy on his old cottage, she took him in and made him her own, wrapping herself all around him and never letting him go again.

He basically finishes her coffee while she holds him on the couch. The sound of the kids outside making them laugh every once in a while, dogs barking and cows mooing, the farm was alive and roaring while they enjoyed each other's company.

“Did you bring your costume for the reading today?”

He sat right up then, looking at her like she lost her mind, “of course I did, I wouldn’t have Penelope spend a week tracking down a Captain Hook costume just to forget it.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped, “you didn’t?!”

He simply nodded with a cheeky grin, “come on Tinker Bell, everyone knows she had a thing for Hook.”

“Who didn’t? He was the first and last bad boy I was interested in, I typically go more for Milo’s and Ariel’s; full of adventure and always learning something new,” Y/N teased him.

“Mhm, I always had a thing for Aladdin and Belle in search of far off lands and happy endings,” he mused, making her smile just as much as he was, “but for real it was between Hook and Wendy for my costume,” he made her laugh again, wanting to hear it for the rest of time.

“You still can, I have a blue nightgown you can borrow,” it was so easy for them to flirt, it fit into their conversation so simply it felt like they had been together forever.

He couldn’t help leaning in to kiss her, resting her back against the couch softly as she held onto him. He loved kissing her, she tasted like coffee and happiness every single time. She made the cutest sounds when they would make out like she was surprised by it or she wasn’t used to it at all.

She made him feel like he was young again like he was 21 and in love for the first time. All his trauma disappeared and that Spencer who used to stare back at him in the mirror was gone now. That guy packed his bags and left the farm to never be seen again.

Good fucking riddance is all he had to say.

He was happy, he enjoyed being happy and he was going to stay happy. It was the only goal he had going forward, and as long as he was in her embrace, surround by the laugher of her child and family, he knew it would be possible.

Amoreena came running inside then, finding the two of them making out on the couch before they could part from each other.

“Ewww!” She cried, jumping on top of the two of them and knocking the wind out of Spencer.

“Get off,” Y/N tried to speak as she was crushed by the two of them. “Mom down!”

Spencer picks Amoreena up then, taking her away from the couch and spinning her around like she’s an airplane. She cheers and cheers and doesn’t want him to put her down because it’s so fun. The next thing he knows he’s being dragged outside to twirl all the kids around like they’re Peter Pan, flying through the air on their way to Neverland.

He’s surrounded by giggles and tickles fights, he’s tackled down against the dirt as a herd of tiny children dog pilled him. Laughing until he cried, feeling more joy than humanly possible and then Y/N’s telling them all to get ready to he’d to the park.

Coming down the stairs in a pirate costume to a bunch of screaming kids was an experience and a half. Spencer couldn’t believe how happy it made them all to imagine Captain Hook had broken into the house and Amoreena, or Peter Pan as she corrected him, chased him outside with all the lost boys.

He took a moment to learn all their names, all 15 of them, however, unlike the cats, they had relatively normal people names.

Kate, Cade, Jet, Lauren, Cassie, Sara, Evan, Benny, Olivia, Jessie, Owen, Maddie, Gwen, August, and Parker, were the cutest little family of cousins. some looked like Amoreena, some looked like their own mothers, a handful of them were adopted out of the country, they were the most perfect cast of lost boys.

He's never had any cousins, no pets, no siblings. His life never felt lonely until he realized what he missed out on.

“Dad,” Amoreena whispered as she tugged on his shirt lightly, “look!”

She pointed towards the house where Y/N was standing. When she said she was going as Tinker Bell he really didn’t think she meant looking exactly like Julia Roberts at the end of Hook.

She looked magical in her beautiful white dress, curly hair with the most perfectly placed flowers and flawless wings wrapped around her shoulders. She was a vision standing on the porch, waiting for him to pick his jaw up off the floor and compliment her.

“Tink,” the words are more like air, soft and barely there.

“Is Captain Hook being nice? Or should we take him to the pond and let the Alligators deal with him?” Y/N teased, marching down the stairs and poking Spencer's chest.

“Ouch,” he teased her, holding his hand over his heart to make her feel bad.

But she didn’t, “some Pirate you are,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him before taking Amoreena’s hand and running off down the trail towards the main house, everyone following her lead.

Nanny packed enough snacks for all 16 kids, and a little extra just in case. Spencer slipped the lunch box over his shoulder and they made their way towards the adventure. Y/N pulling a wagon just in case the littlest ones didn’t want to walk anymore. It was spectacular.

Y/N stopped then, pretending to stand like an army man turning around abruptly to look at the troop. “Lost boys, are we ready?”

“Yes, Tinker Bell!” They cheered back.

“On my lead, 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4,” she marched, bringing her knees up high as they all followed her down the path. “We’re following the leader, the leader, the leader,” she began to sing.

Spencer was in awe, his heart felt like it was going to explode as he watched everyone follow her. Singing along as they marched their tiny little butts down to the park.

“We’re following the leader wherever she may go!” Amoreena yelled the lyrics back, leading the pack as Peter Pan should.

“Tee dum, tee dee, a teedle ee do tee day Tee dum, tee dee, it's part of the game we play Tee dum, tee dee, the words are easy to say Just a teedle ee dum, a teedle ee do tee day

Tee dum, tee dee, a teedle ee do tee dum We're one for all, and all of us out for fun We march in line and follow the other one With a teedle ee do, a teedle ee do tee dum”

It was like magic, they all knew the words and they sang the whole way down the path. Every verse and then repeating it. Not a single kid strayed from the path, no one complained about sore feet or hot backs, they loved their Aunty Y/N and so did Spencer.

“We’re off on an adventure, adventure, adventure,” Y/N changed the words, making him smile as she brought happiness into the world. “We’re off on an adventure to read out in the sun! Tee dum, tee dee, a teedle ee do tee day…”

Every single time he thought she had given him the best day of his life, she manages to outdo herself.

—

They barely listened to the story, it was a disaster of epic proportions but they tried. 15 kids is a lot to handle as an ex FBI agent and a librarian, they had lunch and instead ran around the field playing lost boys instead. It was still an amazing afternoon.

He was going to be covered in bruises the next morning. He had been kicked, poked, trampled, jumped on, the whole 9 yards. They were the most energetic bunch in the whole world, and then they came home to ice cream.

“Y/N,” Spencer finally pulled her aside when all the kids were preoccupied with their cold snack after a hot day.

“Yes, cutie?” It was a nickname that was sticking, much like pretty boy, and he didn’t mind it at all.

“We’re going to need more than 2 songs tonight to get her to go to bed,” he teased, stepping into that step-dad role with ease.

She couldn’t stop smiling at him, wrapping him up in her arms gently so he didn’t crush her fairy wings. “We’ll take her swimming, that’ll tire her out instead. Are you lookin’ for some alone time?”

“I love her dearly, but I can’t kiss you as much when she’s around,” he whispered before pecking her quickly and hearing the group of lost boys pretend to be sick.

“Just because he’s my dad doesn’t mean you have to be gross like your mom and dad, mom,” Amoreena’s smart mouth making them both shake their heads and laugh.

“What would you do if I did this?” Y/N teased before dipping Spencer back like a princess and kissing him, he stuck his foot out in shock as she held him there.

“Ewww!!” All the kids yelled as she returned him to his feet.

“Or this?” Y/N pulled him into another kiss, her leg popping like Princess Mia’s in the princess diaries.

Amoreena and her cousins were all screaming then, laughing at how gross their aunt and her new boyfriend were being. Used to it clearly, their grandparents were just as in love and watching from the porch as they held each other on the swing.

“I love you,” Spencer announced, loud enough for all to hear without a care in the world.

“You better,” she smiled. “I love you too, cutie,” she added before kissing him one last time.

His life felt perfectly complete.

Y/N’s brothers were incredibly kind just like her. He learned that Ashley was the oldest with 5 kids and her wife Susie, then Ben who was 46 and his wife Shannon, they had 3 kids. Dylan and Laurie had 4 and Even, her twin brother had 3.

Turns out her mom had 2 sets of twins back to back, 7 children and only 5 pregnancies. It felt crazy for him to think about having that many people in his life for his whole life, he wouldn’t have known what to do with anyone more than just his mother growing up.

Spencer helped Bob with the barbecue, they made burgers and hotdogs for all 16 of the children while they continued to run through the fields. They had enough energy to last them 5 straight days of chaos. It was amazing.

Y/N and Spencer managed to wander off while all the kids ate, sitting under a tree with their dinner so they could finally have some time alone together.

She was beautiful, sitting in the afternoon amber glow as she tried to keep her hair from blowing in her face. Tucking the strands behind her ears so she could eat her dinner in peace before spencer handed her the hair tie on his wrist. Then she got ketchup on her cheek, seemingly on purpose as she smiled at him and laughing as Spencer wiped it off with his thumb. He was so in love he felt stupid, smiling at her like he’s never seen another person before, absolutely enamoured.

“Derek and his wife wanted to come over tomorrow and have his son meet Amoreena if that’s okay?”

Her face lit up, “his son is the one named after you right? Not your godson?”

He nodded with yet another smile, his lips were going to fall off at this point. “Yeah, he’s the sweetest little guy, Hank’s never been to a farm before.”

“You tell them our gates are always own to new minds and pure hearts,” she smiled. “That’s what nanny used to say.”

He leans in and kisses her then, resting his forehead against hers as she held his cheek in her free hand, smiling ever so softly as she stared into his eyes, they didn’t need words, he knew she loved him too. A week of pure bliss had passed within the blink of an eye, and they still had forever to go.

Taglist: @shemarmooresfedora @spookyspence @spencers-dria @manuosorioh @reidsfish @mochionly (send me an ask if you want to be added to the tag list, I don't always see every reply! i love you guys thank you so much for reading)

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #amoreena

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songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

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zackcrazyvalentine · 3 years

Note

U could do headcanons of idia, azul and Kalim with a fem!s/o who doesn't like her own body because she thinks that she too thicc? Can sfw, nsfw or both. U choose

Ah, anon, you’ve asked for something that I relate to a lot Once imagined Azul reassuring me through these doubts, it was so comforting, hopefully I’ve managed to write this well!

I know it’s hard to believe when these doubts plague our minds, but you’re beautiful ❤️ We’re all beautiful 💗 And lemme tell you, these boys (the whole cast) will love you so deeply, regardless of your looks and struggles. They will do their best to try and help you when brain isn’t being the friendliest ( ◜‿◝ )

Just a small head’s up: tw // self harm In Kalim’s part. Nothing super intense, but still want to put a warning just in case

There's also some suggestive mentions, but they're small

Let’s begin!

-- -- --

☀️ Kalim Al-Asim 🦂

It takes him some time to notice, but more so because he’s carefully taking note of her behavior after it plants a seed of suspicion and worry in his mind

He wants to make sure his suspicion is right and isn’t assuming wrongly

There are two things that ring the alarm: her attitude towards food, and her (un)willingness to join him in dancing

These are the things he notices quickly due to his proclivity of throwing parties and banquets for anything

At first, he brushes off her relative shyness at the table and how she politely declined his offer to try new dishes cooked that day

I mean, it does shock him a bit, but it’s fine

Around the third time he sees this happen is when he feels unease at the negative answer, the feeling grows bigger as he watches the expressions she makes at the food and how much she’s eating

But he decides not to bring it up, maybe it was all a product of his imagination! Yeah, probably misinterpreted things!

Still, he keeps a close eye on her. He cares a lot for his beloved, wants to make sure everything is fine

Same with dancing. Kalim is a little taken aback by her declining his offer, but it’s fine at first

He tries to approach her again, a little more calm and not as enthusiastic so the spotlight isn’t on her (he sees her discomfort having others’ eyes on her), and of course respects her answer

But seeing her frown lightly while everyone enjoys a nice dance tugs at his heart

“What can I do? How do I ask her? Ah… I just want to help, she looks way more beautiful with her smile!”

He may try to hint at the topic, but does so in such a strange way it gets nowhere

It’s until he sees her pinch at her body or examine her reflection a little too strictly that he confronts her

If Kalim notices her doing any sort of harm, doesn’t matter the severity, he will shed tears and shower her with all his sincere thoughts to try and make her recover her senses

He doesn’t mind that she’s on the thicker side, he loves her just the way she is!

The dorm leader will tell her just how amazing he thinks she is

If she wants to make changes to her routine, exercise more, follow a properly made dietary regimen, he will be with her every step of the way! And more than willing to join her in the routine!

Perfect mood booster when you have to keep trying and restarting tbh

But all that only IF she wants to, if not, that’s totally fine! It’s her decision and he respects it

“[Name], what’s wrong, why are you doing that?” Kalim asked. Turns out the 2nd year came across the girl in the same lonely hall.

The [hair color] flinched at the sudden intrusion breaking her away from her thoughts. “K-Kalim! I, uh, I-!” Her hands tremble, “Did you see…?” A furious, embarrassed blush covers her cheeks.

The dorm leader approaches her slowly, going to hold one of her hands. “[Name], my sunshine… Are you alright? Why have you been holding back on things you love? The food, dancing with me…” Concern filled those round ruby eyes, “Are you struggling with something? Can I help?”

The [ x ] year looked to the ground, she felt ashamed of being caught like this.

“Hey, come on,” The boy spoke gently while entwining his fingers with hers, “It’s okay, you can look at me. I won’t judge.”

“[Name], why were you pinching your body like that?”

There it was, the dreaded question. The girl shifted around and groaned silently from how uncomfortable it felt to have her action pointed out like that.

“Kalim, it’s-”

“No, it’s not fine.” He interrupted her, a stern tone mixed with worry in his voice. “Love, my flower…”

“You’re beautiful!”

His eyes shone with love, worry and were beginning to fill with tears. “Are you having doubts about your looks?! [Name], but you’re the most beautiful out there! You-You stole my heart in under 5 seconds of interacting!!” The emotional boy hugged her, burying his face on the crook of her neck. “Don’t hurt yourself because of that! There’s better ways to deal with this!”

“Kalim, please-”

“No, Love, listen!” He hugged her tighter for a second before separating, hands on her shoulders, “Do you know how many of my family’s customers, friends and business partners are chubby?! Many! And they’re the sweetest people! So cheerful and gentle, and kind! And you’re like them! Beautiful, breathtaking, always lending a hand to those who need, and you welcomed me for me! Not for my fortune, not to take advantage… You love me, and I love you! All of you! You’re-”

“I’m so fortunate to have you in my life, [Name]... You have no idea!” The Asim heir shed a couple tears before placing a tender kiss on his one and only’s lips.

[Color] eyes let droplets fall, allowing the girl to finally shrug away the net of negative thoughts that trapped her mind. She embraced her lover, “Thank you, Kalim… You’re golden” Her voice was muffled by his chest.

“So are you, [Name], the shiniest of all gold.” The boy returned his partner’s hug, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

A mischievous giggle left the white haired male. “Later today, I gotta kiss those pinches better!” Leaning down to her ear, he whispered, “I’ll be waiting for you in Scarabia~” And proceeded to wink once he stood up straight again.

The blush returned to color the girl’s cheeks. “K-Kalim! ...I’ll hold you to that…”

One last bright smile came to the dorm head’s face before dropping off his beloved to her class.

💀 Idia Shroud 💙

Probably the one to take the longest to notice

Mainly because he spends most time in his room, with not many face to face interactions. He does have the most irl conversations with his lover, however

Don’t take it the wrong way, but he welcomes the feeling of not having someone in his room constantly, he missed the feeling of solitude a bit…. But he only tolerates it for two days before feeling like something’s missing, something that made his happiness complete

He may even develop doubts of his own when she keeps refusing to get together

Being with a reclusive boy who sees skinny fem characters with very prominent curves in the media he consumes can be… tough

She knew Idia most definitely had a handful of fictional crushes on these gorgeous characters, couldn’t help but poke and pinch at her jiggly skin wishing it could disappear

At first, he doesn’t mind much that she opts out of his random invitations to hang out in his room after class

But then she begins dodging his floating tablet multiple times

He takes notice of the way she tries to hide herself, he’s familiar with that body language

Baggy clothes, carrying books to cover her front, picking and pulling at her blouse and skirt/shorts/pants

“Is she… hiding from me? Does she… no longer love me?”

His self doubt becomes worse when even Ortho complains about [Name] being avoidant to him

“Where did it go wrong? I-I need to see her!”

This man is shaking where he stands before the door to her room, shaking from being so out in the open to other talkative people and from the anxiety of what may happen once he knocks on the door

However, her being his lover, he’s more than willing to push aside the nerves and bashfulness to have a talk

After she speaks up what’s going on, he’s quick to quell the uncertainty building in her heart and mind

He does expect to be heard and reassured, too! After all, that period of doubts was hard on both of them

Idia can offer cute little messages littered with sparkles and adorable kaomoji to encourage her with any changes she decides to make. Both of them also naturally express their love through text more frequently (stickers come in very handy with this)

Shroud knows the feeling of insecurities, that’s the least thing he wants you to experience in your relationship. He’s a genius when inventing and building things, he will do his best to build a nice, comfortable and healthy environment, a space where feelings can flow freely through your whole relationship

“[N-Name], please open..! It’s me, I-Idia… your... “ He gulped, feeling his stomach churn with tons of doubts (and a little embarrassment due to what he would do next). “Your… hero…” The blush was very visible.

The door opened a crack, a single glossy [color] eye looked at him. “Sorry, Idia, I’m not feeling superb… Can we do this some other day?”

No cheer, no affection tainted her eyes or voice, only misery.

“No!” Shroud cleared his throat, “I mean..! No, I would very much rather we talk now… I have things to speak about. May I come in?”

The [hair color] sighed, “Idia…”

A sudden burst of confidence and bravery lit up his heart. “No, nothing of that ‘Idia...’ stuff, [Name].” Taking a deep breath, he continued: “I can see something’s wrong with you. Preventing any accidental stumbles with my tablet, and even avoiding Ortho.” He fumbled with his fingers, eyes looking elsewhere to avoid their (single eyed) stare. “And… with all this… I’ve developed some doubts of my own… W-What I mean, [Name], is…”

Amber eyes finally locked gaze with the single [color] orb. “I want to help you… I can see you’re trying to hide, hide yourself, I know that slouching and hugging yourself language.” Pale hands reached for the doorknob. “Can we please talk?”

The door closed, making Idia feel a pang in his heart that mimicked the shutting door’s intensity. While the flaming boy processed what happened, clinking metal could be heard from behind the door.

“Come in.” A low voice instructed, door held open. Startled, Idia curiously looked around before slowly stepping in.

“I apologize for making you this worried, for avoiding you so hard… Didn’t consider how you would feel from this treatment.” [Name] stated, hands playing with the hem of her long shirt after closing the door.

It was the dorm leader who signaled her to sit down next to him on the bed. “No, I get that you wanted to isolate yourself to think, I’m guilty of doing that too.”

“Speak when you feel ready.” The Ignihyde student reassured.

Silence carried on for quite a long time. All the while, Idia sneaked glances at his heartthrob, admiring the way her hair looked even when on a bedhead, a hand wandered to brush against her knee and rest on what peeked of her thigh from under the shirt.

“Why… Why would you touch someone like me?” Even the girl was startled by her shaky question, turning to look at her companion with wide eyes and ears red from shame. “I- What I mean- Please just-!”

The boy silenced her with a finger to her lips. “What do you mean? I-I long to touch you, [Name]... You’re so warm and soft… I love hugging you, and having you sit on my lap as we-”

“Play games together.” The couple spoke in unison.

“Even if I suck at them.” The girl added. “You don’t suck, you’re a nice teammate.” The 3rd year refuted. “Besides, I like coming to your rescue.”

The [ x ] year sat upright, looking at him now. “Idia, love, do you mean it? Do you truly love me even if I’m not… super thin?”

Finally he understood what was happening. “So it was self doubt about her body…” “Of course I mean it, [Name]. When I’m with you, I’m at the most comfortable and can express my emotions and needs with no fear, with reassurance that you also want to cuddle and hold me, that you love me.” His own doubt formulated a question, “...You do love me, right?”

A [skin tone] hand reached to caress his cheek, “Of course I love you, Idia. You’re my hero, aren’t you?” She giggled a little at the term of endearment. “I just… Ugh, it’s gonna sound SO dumb, but… I got a little… jealous of your anime girls…” Her forehead bumped into his shoulder to prevent him from seeing her blush.

The older Shroud snorted lightly, “My my, why was that?”

“Well, don’t you see them?! They’re always skinny with damn big boobs and round butts, and they always look so cute and sexy in anything! I-... I sometimes struggle a lot finding nice clothes that fit me well, and those may not always look super cute…”

“Okay, yeah, the characters look like that, and yes, I have a handful of favorites… But they are fictional,” His arms wrapped around the girl still hiding on his shoulder, “And you are real, very real… Adorable, attractive, amazing. [Name], you’re the person I wish to touch a million different ways. Everything that makes you you… steals my breath away all the time.” The embrace tightened, with the dorm leader nuzzling into the crook of her neck.

[Name] repositioned herself to sit on his lap, kissing all over her boyfriend’s face. “I love you, Idia, I love you so much! You’re the most handsome guy, you’re so cute and intelligent! I’m so lucky to be with you!” The female student said between kisses while the 3rd year smiled tenderly.

“Say, you had doubts too. What were they about?” The curious girl asked.

Idia was snapped to reality, hand coming over to scratch the back of his neck. “Ah… Well, guess you weren’t the only one being jealous of… anime characters…”

“Wait, you were jealous of the 2D guys I like?!”

“And the idols, artists, and all that…” He admitted.

[Name] returned to kiss his face. “Oh no no! Can’t have that! Not when I love my hero with my entire heart and will choose him over any silly little drawing or artist there is!”

The flaming haired teen captured her lips in a kiss, escalating to multiple liplocks varying in intensity, until he eventually carried her to lay her down on the mattress.

A pointed tooth smile slashed before her eyes. “Now, if you allow me, I believe there was an intimacy meter I ranked out a while ago~”

🐙 Azul Ashengrotto 💜

The one who spots it and approaches it the quickest

He allows one day to analyze his observations and obtain more information before talking with her about the issue

Azul passed through the same self doubts and loathing while very young, and with how analytical he grew to be in order to exploit people’s insecurities to strike up deals, he noticed right away

His heart breaks. Why is his darling passing through this? Why didn’t he notice any beginning signs?

“Alright then, what can I do to help her through this?” Is his immediate response to the sadness he feels

He’s more than ready to lend a hand, genuinely. This is his beloved pearl, the one he loves most, he wishes for her torment to be cut short fast

Touches on the subject once he convinces her to share a drink together once Mostro Lounge is closed. It’s just them and their thoughts in the room now

Listens attentively to everything she says

Offers tender words of comfort and firmly states his view of her, his honest feelings

“I know how you feel, I perfectly know how it feels to be disgusted with the way you look… but that can change”

May shed a tear or two as both talk about the topic. Having felt these doubts, hearing the one he cares for think so lowly of herself really hurts

Ashengrotto encourages her to go forth with a new routine if she wishes so, if not, that is absolutely fine. He loves her for who she is, any decision made is fully respected

Does make it clear the path to change isn’t the easiest, but he will be there for her always

Of course he will help her with anything, from preparing meals to selecting “beginner” exercises for a morning workout session

But most importantly, he showers her in all the praise, security and affection for her to learn to love herself truthfully

His office, his shoulder, and his arms are always open for any feelings she wishes to spill and get out

The silence was uncomfortable. [Name] knew Azul wanted to have a serious talk, something in his whole body language and energy told her of it.

She just sipped her [drink] from time to time in order to divert her attention away from her boyfriend.

Clearing his throat, the merman broke the silence: “[Name], dear, I know you’re struggling with something.” The female student became alerted by those words, looking at the grey haired with wide eyes.

“I see my suspicion is right.” Azul moved to sit beside her, “My pearl, please, you know I’m here to listen, to help any way I can.” His gloved hand tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, giving him full view of her beautiful face.

Silence prevailed again as she fumbled with the metallic straw in her glass.

“[Name],” He took her hand now, “Are you feeling negatively about your body?”

It startled her, “H-How did you know, Azul…?” Her voice was barely audible.

His expression became saddened, an upset smile graced his lips. It was his turn to look away for a moment. “Well… you do know I used to be a chubby kid, don’t you? Someone people made fun of.” A kiss was placed on the knuckles of her held hand, “I know the signs, the feeling a little too well… Just observing you for a day was enough for me to draw the conclusion.”

The [hair color] gripped his hand tightly, effectively making him look at her. “A-Azul… I… know I have no right or reason to feel this way, but-”

“No, absolutely not. You have your reasons to feel like this, and I’m more than willing to help you realize they can be overcome.” Octavinelle’s dorn leader interrupted. “Don’t invalidate your emotions, love, we all go through them… If it’s something small or big we’re fretting over, we will only realize once we process them correctly.”

The [dorm] student slid over in the booth to wrap her arms around her partner, nuzzling into his chest. “I… just think… that with your talents and intelligence, your charm and attractiveness… you can do way better than me. I-I don’t understand why you’re with me when surely there are many other better looking people than me, up here on the surface and down in the waters.”

The octomer felt his heart shatter, breath coming in shakily as he listened to her words. This reminded him of how he always feared the twins faking their friendship only to mock him later on.

“I mean, don’t you see? The rolls in my body, how I’m bigger than others… You always look so elegant and gorgeous, people must think I look so sloppy next to you. They must ask themselves how you can be with someone like me…” The nerves at the pit of her stomach made her feel fuzzy as she spoke her next question.

“Are you… with me… because I’m easy to manipulate due to these insecurities?”

That broke his heart even worse than his overblot incident.

“No, of course not!” A sob tore through him, “[Name], you’re my beloved angelfish, my one and only! I love you more than anything!” Ashengrotto buried his face on the luscious locks of [hair color] he adored, tightening his embrace.

“I-... I-I know I’m known to be a-a sneaky, sleazy bastard octopus who uses others, but [Name],” His hands went to lift her head, holding onto her cheeks while her arms remained securely around him. Glistening baby blue locked with glossy [eye color], “I would never in life use you like that.”

Blinking tears away, the girl continued. “Then why are… you…?”

“Because you’re ethereal! [Name], my whole heart is in the palm of your hands!” The 2nd year pressed their foreheads together, still keeping his hands on her cheeks. “You make me feel confident in myself, in what I do, in the future… because I know your love will be here with me, because I know I can always count on you, because you make me look forward to another day.”

Thumbs brushed away little droplets. “You make me genuinely happy and excited to know what the future holds, with your brightness and light, your love and affection, your beautiful smiles and wonderful laughs, your intellect and those random facts of strange information you say at times!” He chuckled a little at that, remembering when you once told him about [obscure thing you love]. “I love feeling your warmth beside me, your body entwined with mine as we share passion, your softness hugging me whenever you embrace me, your smooth lips against mine, your lovely hands holding me when days turn blue, your tender touch when we’re alone… The love in your eyes whenever you look at me.”

Her lips formed a shaky smile, cheeks becoming warm with every compliment. “Oh, Azul… you sweet talker of my dreams~” Both giggled at the comment.

They looked into each other's eyes for a while longer before [Name] finally closed the space between them. Deep and intensely filled with love, their breaths were stolen once they parted, but their eyes returned to look at the one they loved once more.

“Do you wish to speak to a professional about this? I think my mother still has some psych therapy friends that can help.” The dorm head spoke first, still wanting to help his girlfriend as much he could.

It took some time, for she played with the idea a little, before she made up her mind and gave him an answer.

“I will always be here for you, my beautiful pearl, don’t ever doubt that.” They shared one more kiss before he led her back to his room to spend the night.

-- -- --

EVERY WORD THESE BOYS SAID: IT’S TRUE YOU ARE A WONDERFUL PERSON, AND PEOPLE ARE DELIGHTED TO HAVE YOU IN THEIR LIVES

May you live a long, happy life full of love 💖

Thank you for your request, hope I interpreted it correctly (；・∀・) Hopefully this brings comfort to those of you who struggle with these doubts 💕

#March 2021 special #request pavilion #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #kalim al asim #kalim al-asim #kalim al-asim x reader #kalim x reader #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #idia x reader #zack writes #soul cuddle #sips teras

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galemalio · 4 years

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3 Examples of Racial Bias in Animation Storytelling

It’s not hard to grasp that a white person, while not explicitly or consciously racist in the sense we might usually imagine, is still inherently racially biased because they benefit from and grow up used to white supremacy.” - Scottishwobbly, Tumblr

This is nothing new. This is something POC (People of Color) have been talking about in separate fandoms. Nevertheless, it needs to be acknowledged by those unaware.

This article is not made to say that some of the animations that I will use as examples are bad. But in the hopes that we, as consumers and creators, will do better in the future in handling characters that are POC.

Most often, racial bias in storytelling is when the narrative treats white or light skin toned characters better than darker skin toned characters. The darker skin toned characters are often POC-coded or actual POC.

White creators often do not notice their racial bias in their storytelling as they benefit from and grow up with white privileges and white supremacy. This can also apply to light-skinned POC who have light skin priviliges.

Some of us don’t often see it but real people who relate to the characters of color do. Especially when it reflects from their experiences with racial bias, microaggressions, colorism and flat out racism.

So when they speak up, it’s important to listen to them to unlearn the racial bias we may have in ourselves.

I will be emphasizing “the narrative” for I am criticizing how the story treats its dark-skinned characters and not because I am criticizing the characters themselves.

This article is critiqued by @visibilityofcolor as a sensitivity reader once and then additions were made before publishing. If you’re looking for a Black sensitivity reader, you can contact her.

This article is a 14-minute read at average speed so buckle up. Unless you want to skip to your show mentioned below. External Tumblr Resources will be put in the reblog.

Here are three examples that I was made aware of.

Example #1: The Narrative Treats the Light-Skinned Character at the Expense of the Dark-Skinned Character

Steven Universe was one of the animations that pushed lgbt+ representation in cartoon media. However, there are narratives here and there that showed racial bias.

SU creator Rebecca Sugar was raised with "Jewish sensibilities" and both siblings observe the lighting of Hanukkah candles with their parents through Skype.[1] Rebecca Sugar also talked about being non-binary.[2]

But as a white person, she (and the rest of the SU crew) is not aware of the inherently biased values from growing up and benefiting from white privilege.

One example is the human zoo. There are people that have spoken up about this such as @jellyfax of Tumblr who pointed out that the Crewniverse mishandled a loaded topic and reinforced a white colonist propaganda where the captive humans of mostly black/brown people are naive, docile and childlike in order to subjugate the people that they colonized. .

What I’m here is how a character of color from the main cast is more obligated to the lighter-skinned character.

In the episode, Friend Ship, one fan had spoken out about how Garnet, who had been validly angry at Pearl, was compelled by a dangerous situation to forgive Pearl. Garnet is a Black-coded character. While Pearl is a light-skinned character.

Garnet was mad at Pearl for tricking her into always fusing with her. Then they were trapped in a chamber that was going to crush them. In this situation, they have to fuse in order to save themselves but Garnet refuses to because she was still angry at her.

In the end, they were forced to talk it out, for Garnet to understand Pearl’s reason for wanting to fuse with her and everything worked out well.

The narrative focused so much on Pearl’s self-worth issues at the expense of Garnet’s right to be angry.

Yes, it showed that Pearl is trying her best to make up for it but Garnet should have been allowed to work at her own anger at her own pace instead of being obligated to consider Pearl’s feelings over her own.

I wouldn’t have noticed it until someone had mentioned it. Because it was never my experience.

But it’s there, continuing the message that it’s okay to put the emotional labor on Black people and disregard their own feelings for the sake of the non-Black people who have hurt them -particularly light-skinned women.

White Fragility and Being Silenced White Woman Tears

Again, racial bias in animation storytelling is often not intentional because white creators do not experience it due to white privilege.

Without meaning to, that scene alone shows Garnet as the Angry Black woman trope that is ungrateful and rude to Pearl who then ends up in tears. Without meaning to, Pearl with her light skin, became the tearful white girl trope that had to be sympathized over.

The Angry Black Woman trope is a combination of the worst negative stereotypes of a Black woman: overly aggressive, domineering, emasculating, loud, disagreeable and uppity.[13]

The Tearful white girl trope comes from the combination of the stereotypes of white women being morally upstanding and delicate and therefore should be protected.[13]

Which, unfortunately, many white women have taken advantage of.

These two tropes are harmful to WOC (Women of Color) because they experience the "weary weaponizing of white women's tears". This tactic employed by many white women incites sympathy and avoids accountability for their actions, turning the tables to their accuser and forcing their accuser to understand them instead.

(Image by Виктория Бородинова from Pixabay)

In "Weapon of lass destruction: The tears of a white woman", Author Shay described that white tears turns a white woman into the priority of whatever space she's in. "It doesn't matter if you're right, once her tears are activated, you cease to exist." [11]

White woman tears have gotten Black people beaten and lynched such as Emmett Till. Carolyn Bryant who had accused 14 year old Emmett Till of sexually harassing her in 1955, admitted she lied about those claims years later in 2007.[15]

In Awesomely Luvvie's "About the Weary Weaponizing of White Women Tears", she states that the innocent white woman is a caricature many subconsciously embrace because it hides them from consequences. [10]

In The Guardian’s article, "How White Women Use Strategic Tears to Silence Women of Colour", Ruby Hamad shares her experience:

"Often, when I have attempted to speak to or confront a white woman about something she has said or done that has impacted me adversely, I am met with tearful denials and indignant accusations that I am hurting her. My confidence diminished and second-guessing myself, I either flare up in frustration at not being heard (which only seems to prove her point) or I back down immediately, apologising and consoling the very person causing me harm."[4]

This is not to say that all crying white women are insincere. But as activist Rachel Cargle said:

“I refuse to listen to white women cry about something. When women have come up to me crying, I say, ‘Let me know when you feel a little better, then maybe we can talk.’”[3]

One of the most quoted words in “White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism.” is this:

“It is white people’s responsibility to be less fragile; people of color don’t need to twist themselves into knots trying to navigate us as painlessly as possible.”[3]

When white women cry in defense, instead of taking accountability, People of Color are then gaslighted into thinking they’re the bad guy. This is emotional abuse and a manipulation tactic.

People of Color shouldn’t have to bend backwards to accommodate discomfited white or light-skinned people who have hurt them.

How She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (SPOP) Did It Right

Despite SPOP having good lgbtq+ representations, there are other biases in the show. Such as Mara, a WOC whose only purpose was to sacrifice herself for the white protagonist. There was also the insensitive joke in their stream regarding Bow’s sibling that perpetuated an Anti-Black stereotype which Noelle Stevenson has apologized for.[14]

But the scene I have encountered where the Black character was validly angry and his feelings were treated well by the narrative, came from SPOP.

Bow, a black character, was validly angry at Glimmer, a lighter skinned character. Glimmer made a lot of bad decisions, one of them was using Adora and their friends as bait, without their knowledge, to lure out and capture Catra.

Glimmer tearfully apologized in Season 5, Episode 4. Adora readily forgave her. But Bow didn't.

They faced dangers along the way but the story didn't put them in a dangerous situation where Bow has to forgive Glimmer in order to get out of it.

This was Glimmer's words of apology:

"Look, I know you're still mad at me. Maybe you'll be mad at me for a really long time. I deserved it. And maybe... maybe we'll never be friends like we used to be. But I'm not going to stop trying to make it better. I made a mistake with the heart of Etheria. I should've listened to you and I'm sorry. You get to be mad. For as long as you need to be. But I'm not going anywhere. And when you're ready, I'll be here."

In short, Bow was allowed to take the time to be mad and not just get over it for someone else’s sake. The story validates his feelings and he was allowed to take his own pace. That is emotional respect the story gave to him.

Example #2: The Narrative Gives Better Endings or Portrayals to Colonizers than Their Victims

Avatar: The Last Airbender has handled dark themes well such as genocide, war, PTSD, disability and redemption with great worldbuilding.

However, I never noticed the racial bias in ATLA until people spoke up of the double standards in ATLA’s treatment of light-skinned colonizers compared to their dark-skinned victims-turned-villains.

The characters in question -Iroh, Azula, Jet and Hama- are all flawed and well-rounded in a believable way. But how the narrative treats them is unequal.

General Iroh is an ex-colonizer who gets to redeem himself and not answer for his past war crimes, living a peaceful life as a tea shop owner. The only reason Iroh changed was when he was personally affected by the negativity of their military subjugation -his son’s death. It wasn’t the harm of the Fire nation ravaging Earth kingdom villages or cities and affecting millions of people that opened his eyes.

Azula, the tyrannical daughter, had closure of her mother's rejection when she was a child and was able to escape imprisonment.

Jet and Hama, victims of colonization who have done bad things, did not get similar conclusions to their stories OR compensation for what they have gone through from the Fire Nation's colonization.

Jet was given a second chance but was arrested for trying to expose Zuko and Iroh being firebenders -firebenders who were their enemies for conquering their villages. Then he died from the injuries of the person who had brainwashed and mind-controlled him.

Hama was imprisoned for life.

Compared to the sins of the light-skinned colonizers, the narrative didn’t give Jet and Hama the development where they could heal from their trauma, receive compensation for what happened to them and really have a chance in life.

The dark-skinned victims of colonization just became a lesson to the viewers how they shouldn’t hold grudges for being colonized. The end. They have received consequences for their actions but there is no continuation to their stories after that.

It almost seems like the narrative is saying that because they have harmed colonizers who have no part in their trauma (and in Jet’s case, some Earth kingdom villagers), they are therefore unworthy to be given an actual chance in life.

While Azula and Iroh, who have actively participated in conquering, colonizing and attacking the Earth Kingdom itself, were.

Someone once said that if indigenous people have control over Hama’s story, it would have been done differently. But the ATLA crew are white, non-indigenous people who prioritized redeeming colonizers instead.

The narrative has also affected how the ATLA fandom thinks. If most fans are asked who they would want to be redeemed, the popular option would be Azula over Jet or Hama.

Once again, I don’t think the ATLA crew noticed it due to their racial bias. But still, the harm is done and the racially biased message is continued:

The colonizers and their descendants don’t have to make amends for the colonizers’ crimes. Or if they do, only lightly since it’s in the past (no matter how recent that past is).

The colonized who rebel will tend to hurt innocent people and then get a grisly end for getting in way over their heads.

I would venture as far as to say that the narrative may have the added subconscious desire to quiet their white anxiety on the vengeance of the colonized. As I have learned when writing about Vodou stereotypes and how they have stemmed from the history of white anxiety of Black vengeance, of Black fetishization and of dissolution of the white race through intermarriages.

In @visibilityofcolor’s blog, someone asked:

“So I saw some of the really heated debates on here and on twitter about how if Iroh and Azula can be portrayed sympathetically despite their actions then characters like Jet and Hama should've been given a chance too. Do you think that the writers understood the implications of only redeeming characters from the colonizer/fascist nation but not giving the characters who suffered because of their fascism a second chance too?”

To which VisibilityOfColor replied:

“No, because at the end of the day, the writers are white. When it comes to stuff like this, it’s no surprise when we see white writers redeem problematic characters before they actually redeem victims of those racist problematic characters. For instance, Dave Filioni, who worked on both avatar and star wars rebels, did the same thing when redeeming agent kallus who was an soldiers in the imperial army and took credit for a genocide. where as victims of the empire were still painted in negative lights. i really don’t think they understand.

They have this ‘be the better person’ view on things, which is what a lot of white people tend to emulate when it comes to people of color standing up to their oppressors. and unfortunately, these are ideas passed on to children, esp minorities. that they should forgive people and communities who hurt them and ‘be the better person’. this is why white ppl don’t need to write narratives for people of color.”

Example #3: The Narrative Favors the Light Skinned Character Than Dark Skinned Character in Similar Situations

I would like to reiterate that racial bias in storytelling is often not intentional. I am not saying the creators and the people who support them are bad people. No.

However, I encourage that once a racial bias is made known in our work, it is our responsibility to change them to stop the perpetuation of its harmful message.

Hazbin Hotel is a popular cartoon with whimsical designs and its concept opens the conversation about redemption. The creator, Vivziepop may not have noticed the racial bias in her cartoon as a white Latina [5] that grew up with and benefits from white privileges, along with the Hazbin crew.

In the Youtbe video, "Hazbin Hotel - How Art took over Writing", Staxlotl states:

“I understand that there was a lot of time and effort put into this pilot, almost three years worth of effort. But I think most of that time was spent into the art and visuals when it should’ve gone into polishing the writing in the characters.”[6]

Once again, I’m not here to critique the characters but how the narrative treats its dark-skinned characters.

The story treats Charlie, the white-skinned, “Disney-esque” protagonist princess differently from how it treats Vaggie, the dark-skinned, more outspoken and protective Latina girlfriend of Charlie who supports the princess’ cause.

In its pilot episode, both girls experience humiliation. While Charlie is portrayed by the story as someone the viewers have to feel sorry for...

...Vaggie is portrayed in her humiliation as the butt of the joke for the viewers.

While they both didn’t like what Angel Dust did, Charlie was sympathized over in the narrative as a moment...

...while Vaggie’s angry but valid callouts were dismissed and ignored as part of the comedy.

While Charlie was someone that needs to be protected in the narrative...

...Vaggie is left to fend for herself.

Again, I don’t think the creators noticed the racial bias of their cartoon. However, this racial bias is reflected in the harmful perceptions that dark-skinned women, particularly Black women and Black girls, are more mature, tougher and need less protection at a young age.[7]

This adultification bias perceives them as challenging authority when they express strong or contrary views and are then given harsher discipline than white girls who misbehave.[8] And this continues when they grow up.

In a 2017 study, Black women and girls aged 12-60 years old confirmed they are treated harsher by their white peers and are accused of being aggressive when they would defend themselves or explain their point of view to authority figures.[8]

This bias also coincides with the Spicy Latina trope of a brown-skinned, hot-blooded, quick-tempered and passionate woman.

Everyday Feminism described this trope as "Although objects of desire for many, the spicy Latina may have too much personality to handle. So much so that she is often viewed as domineering or emasculating." [16]

Sounds familiar? (Look at Angry Black Woman trope above.)

Why is it that a light-skinned character, Charlie, is allowed to be vulnerable and be sympathized while the dark-skinned Latina character, Vaggie, is mocked, dismissed and expected to tough it out?

Severina Ware had to remind the world in her article that relates to the bias against dark skinned characters:

“Black women are not offered the protection and gentleness of our white counterparts. We are not given permission to be soft and delicate. We are required to exhibit strength and fortitude not only because our lives depend on it, but because so many others depend on us. Black women should not be charged with the responsibility of saving everyone when nobody is here to save us.”[12]

As @cullenvhenan of Tumblr has said in her post:

“if you're a white creator and your brown/black characters are always sassy, reckless, aggressive or cold and your white characters are always soft, demure, shy and introverted you should think about maybe why you did that”

(Image above from Iowa Law Reviews’ “Aggressive Encounters & White Fragility: Deconstructing the Trope of the Angry Black Woman”)

Detecting Your Own Racial Bias

It would be hard. No matter how much you edit and create, you may miss it because it was never your experience.

So how do we prevent our racial bias from creeping into our creations?

Listen to POC and their feedback.

As @charishjb from Instagram has shared, here is one of the things that we can do (tumblr link here) [9]:

Consider POC voices. Listen to their experiences. Hire sensitivity POC readers. Put multiple POC voices in positions of leadership in creative projects.

Then we can stop the racial bias that perpetuates again and again in the media. I hope for that future.

#racial bias #racism #colorism #animation #steven universe #su #pearl #garnet #atla #azula #general iroh #jet #hama #hazbin hotel #hazbin vaggie #lynching mention #lynching tw #writeblr #artblr

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renegadewangs · 3 years

Text

Van Zieks - the Examination, part 11

Warnings: SPOILERS for The Great Ace Attorney: Chronicles. Additional warning for racist sentiments uttered by fictional characters (and screencaps to show these sentiments).

Disclaimer: (see Part 1 for the more detailed disclaimer.) - These posts are not meant to be taken as fact. Everything I’m outlining stems from my own views and experiences. If you believe that I’ve missed or misinterpreted something, please let me know so I can edit the post accordingly. -The purpose of these posts is an analysis, nothing more. Please do not come into these posts expecting me to either defend Barok van Zieks from haters, nor expecting me to encourage the hatred. - I’m using the Western release of The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles for these posts, but may refer to the original Japanese dialogue of Dai Gyakuten Saiban if needed to compare what’s said. This also means I’m using the localized names and localized romanization of the names to stay consistent. -It doesn’t matter one bit to me whether you like Barok van Zieks or dislike him. However, I will ask that everyone who comments refrains from attacking real, actual people.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Bring on the game's credits! BRING IT! The Resolve of Ryunosuke Naruhodo part 2 is here!

Episode 2-5: The Resolve of Ryunosuke Naruhodo, part 2

This is the first time in a while that I actually want to try other options to see what happens. The 'accusation' leads to some witty banter with a frustrated Stronghart, but 'report' is one that gets a reaction from Van Zieks himself. Ryu theorizes that 'since Klint was a well-bred and fastidious man, and knowing the end was near, he might have wanted to tie up some loose ends in all of his outstanding business'. Van Zieks immediately replies that his brother had no outstanding business.

DID I JUST GET PENALIZED BY THE DEFENDANT??? Just for implying his brother might've had some loose ends to tie up? Van Zieks really hates it when people show his brother even the slightest bit of disrespect, huh? Well, it's about to get a whole lot worse. Let's go for the confession option! Van Zieks definitely doesn't take kindly to this one.

“What are you saying? Do you even realise?! A confession...about the true identity of the Professor... That, that would mean...”

He fumbled his speech, there. We've never heard him do that before. And he's gone back to that bobbing, unsteady animation halfway into the above dialogue. Ryu insists it's the only explanation that fits. The man who murdered those members of the aristocracy wasn't Genshin Asogi at all, it was the one believed to be the fifth victim, Klint van Zieks himself.

Welp. We broke him. Stronghart remarks that Pandora's box has opened at last, making it clear he already knew what we just revealed. The gallery is outraged.

We've gone from well-bred to thoroughbred, have we? Susato feels very bad for Van Zieks, but Ryu asks himself whether such a brilliant prosecutor never suspected “what his older brother really was”. To clear up doubt further, he asks whether Klint Van Zieks owned a dog. Barok doesn't intend to dodge the facts of the situation, it seems.

Not what the concept art says, but it's possible Klint owned a different, smaller dog before Balmung. Van Zieks talks about how loyal the dog was and how it wore a jewel-studded collar which was stolen from the house “some years ago now”. This implies it was less than ten years ago, and must've been kept in the house as a keepsake even after Balmung passed away. Ryu and Susato bring up that they've seen such a collar; it was Selden's loot in case 2-2. They note the fancy B emblem on it, and this is the first time we find out that Klint van Zieks was a married man. His widow's maiden name was Baskerville. It's a little odd to me that for someone who thought so highly of his brother, Van Zieks never mentioned his sister in law before now. Conveniently, it never came up for the sake of a twist, I suppose. Either way, the emblem confirms the collar they saw was Balmung's. Ryu notes there was a considerable amount of blood on the collar (nobody washed this thing?) and while it could've come from typical hunting trips, it could just as well have been human blood. With that, the gallery begins to lean towards the truth that Klint van Zieks really was the Professor himself. Stronghart seems to have realized there's no way out of this now and announces that 'they may have the truth'.

Here comes that 'true nature' thing again, just worded a bit differently. Van Zieks doesn't intend to shirk away from it, though. He's open to the insinuation that his brother was, in truth, something truly horrible. Stronghart explains that Klint attempted to fight the growing darkness in London, only to end up being consumed by it. He also admits that after the fourth victim fell, Genshin showed up at his office, putting forth the accusation that Klint was the Professor. He didn't have any evidence and needed a warrant to get some, but Stronghart refused to anger the aristocracy based on the accusation of a visiting student, so he sent Genshin away. As a result, the man headed over to the Van Zieks mansion and Klint perished. Stronghart continues to admit that he was responsible for pinning the Professor's crimes on Genshin, right down to ordering Gregson to fabricate evidence. Sure enough, the late inspector's earlier claims ring true: it seems he did genuinely believe Genshin to be the killer, but was reluctant to falsify anything until Stronghart strong-armed him into it. The jailbreak agreement was also part of Stronghart's plan; he manipulated Genshin into agreeing by proverbially dangling his 14 year old son in front of him. Van Zieks brings up one more point: that Stronghart was the mastermind behind the Reaper organization. Not only does he admit to it, he calls it a “brilliant idea” and even takes credit for how his “minions” worked tirelessly to ensure Van Zieks was never accused of being the Reaper himself. What a smarmy bumhole. He insists it was all for the preservation of law and order across the empire, and the gallery is actually suckered into falling for this ploy. It seems as if he's going to get away with his masterminding without decent consequences. Kazuma now has one more question for Van Zieks, and it's the exact one Ryu asked himself earlier; did he never have any doubts about his brother?

“My brother's sense of justice was extremely strong. Perhaps...too strong, I observed. […] During the time of the Professor killings, my brother did not appear to be himself. But it was only once. Not more. Klint wasn't the culprit. That was my conclusion at the time. And I still believe that now. […] The third victim...was the Lord Chief Justice at the time. It was he who had recognized my brother's potential and trained him as a prosecutor. No matter what the circumstances, it's unthinkable that my brother could have killed his friend and mentor!”

So here, we learn that Klint wasn't an infallible paragon of virtue in his brother's eyes. Simply by saying that his sense of justice was “perhaps too strong”, a flaw is being brought to light. Younger Barok saw that Klint's need to ensure justice was overpowering him, and he also saw that during the time of the killings, something was off about his behavior. Enough to have the younger Van Zieks consider, for a brief time, that perhaps the Professor was him. However, the death of the third victim was like a lifeline to him, a flotation device keep him from going under- or perhaps more like a straw to grasp. It offered a sort of justification to him; a firm belief that Klint would never kill his own mentor and therefore he couldn't possibly be the Professor, and Barok was wrong to ever doubt him. However, it was just a very meager excuse to put his suspicions at ease and blind him to the truth. There are, after all, plenty of reasons why Klint would kill that Lord Chief Justice if indeed he were the Professor.

So Stronghart now tries to wrap everything up with a neat little bow, saying that's all the truth they'll be able to get from this trial and he'll present himself at the Ministry of Justice for whatever sanctions are deemed necessary. Since he's the Lord Chief Justice, I can't imagine the Ministry of Justice will give him more than a slap on the wrist. However, he says just a bit too much in his closing statement and Ryu jumps on that immediately. A third page of Genshin's will was hidden from everyone! Turns out, it was a personal message to Kazuma that they never bothered to send to Japan. Governor Caidin conveniently brought it with him and the contents are read aloud after some pressuring. With this last secret message left behind by Genshin, Ryu manages to find Klint's last will and testament hidden inside the Asogi clan's sword. GASP.

Oblivious to the shenanigans playing out in the Court Record section of the game, Stronghart once again tries to end the trial and even goes so far as to say Klint was basically insane when he took his mentor's life (to which Van Zieks objects fiercely). Ryu interjects, saying he has one more piece of evidence to present. When Stronghart calls the very notion absurd, Van Zieks once again raises an objection, pointing out that “this gentleman has an uncanny habit of producing evidence at the final hour that had escaped everyone else's attention.” Which, y'know, is true. That's how Ace Attorney works. I do want to draw attention to the fact that he said “this gentleman” as opposed to “this Nipponese” or even something like “this barrister”. He considers Ryu a gentleman now! So with that, Ryu has the opportunity to shove Klint's will in everyone's face and things escalate very quickly.

Ooh, his speech faltered again. He is shook! And it gets even better when he gets a closer look at the document.

Stronghart panics and demands Ryu hands the document over to him at once. When that fails, he even tries to forcibly adjourn the trial and get everyone to clear the courtroom. If that isn't suspicious, we don't know what is. It sure is satisfying to watch him squirm. Naturally, he can't actually put an end to the trial now- not with so many people watching, so the document is read aloud. It's revealed that Genshin challenged Klint to a duel, so that he might “depart this world with honor”. Klint goes on to write that he finds himself undeserving of this honor and that “the Japanese are a truly merciful people”. So here, already, we get the final nail in the coffin for Van Zieks's entire motivation for racial prejudice and for hating Genshin in particular. Klint never thought ill of Genshin, not even in his final moments. If anything, he was grateful for being put out of his misery and being allowed to 'depart the world with honor'. Genshin's actions were not betrayal; not ever. They were merciful. (COOL MOTIVE, STILL MURDER.) What we also learn is that while Klint did indeed take the life of the first victim on his own accord, he was then immediately identified as the culprit and blackmailed into the next three killings by someone else. You guessed it, it was Stronghart! Despite his earlier panic, he now has a myriad of justification ready, talking about how sacrifices have to be made for the sake of justice and whatnot. He also explains that he was the one who pressured Jigoku into shooting Genshin in the graveyard when Drebber showed up there. He acts like Jigoku is the only one to blame, but considering Stronghart was basically screaming in Jigoku's ear, I wouldn't be surprised if this poor man pulled the trigger by accident simply because he was startled by the shouting. Stronghart was the one who decided that Genshin needed to die and forced Jigoku to act, so Stronghart is the one ultimately responsible. Naturally, Ryu and Kazuma both attempt to argue Stronghart's justifications into the ground. At one point, Stronghart plays the victim card and asks them to acknowledge his 'struggle', but Kazuma insists that this jerk has done nothing and:

WELL. Okay. Looks like we've finally convinced Kazuma that Van Zieks is a victim in this whole ordeal, as well as someone who 'acts justly'. That's a wonderful way forward. With all this out in the open, though, Stronghart offers a literal round of applause. It's true; he's “done nothing” and “merely been surrounded by fools who've acted very rashly indeed”, which means he can't be charged with any crimes. We can't even prove he threatened anyone into doing his bidding, as he says it might as well have been “bargaining”. Thing is, bargaining with someone to end a third party's life is known as “contract killing” and is, in fact, illegal. I can't find any sources to verify whether it was already illegal in 1900 England, but I can only assume so, or people would've gotten away with murders very easily. I guess the bottom line here is that we can't prove Stronghart really did extort or pay anyone to take a life, since there's no material evidence for that sort of thing, nor anyone who can testify on it. Stronghart claims that the minutes of the trial will be heavily redacted to remove matters not related to Gregson's death, in the interest of preserving law and order, as well as to protect the queen. The gallery has now turned against us as well, chanting Stronghart's name.

Here we have a singular opportunity to deviate into the closest thing to a bad ending this game series has. Anyone who remembers the iconic 'the miracle never happen' ending in AA2, or even the bad endings in AA5 where either Trucy or Athena is implied to be killed by Aura, will be sorely disappointed by this one. First, to compare... In the standard ending, no matter how far along you've gotten in the trial- including proving that Stronghart was the Reaper- Van Zieks will still be found guilty. Stronghart will utter the words that he “would like to think however misguided, [Van Zieks] acted out of a sense of justice nonetheless”, and then pronounces the poor man guilty of crimes we've already proven were never committed by him. Now, in this slightly different ending, if you run out of all your penalty points because you fail to present Harely, the dialogue is tweaked. Stronghart declares that for the sake of justice, “the only correct course of action has been unanimously acknowledged by the clear majority here present. All mention of that which has been discussed in this courtroom today will be struck from the records. Barok van Zieks – Or should I say, Reaper of the Bailey... The heinous crimes committed by your brother, Klint van Zieks, will be lost in obscurity, this time forever. May you also find peace now as you join your sibling in the eternal darkness.”

And then, just as in the standard ending, Van Zieks is pronounced guilty and the doors slam shut. So effectively, the only real difference here is that Stronghart really rubs it in our faces that Van Zieks is taking the fall as the Reaper in the eyes of the public. He knows Van Zieks isn't the Reaper- everyone present in the courtroom knows it. However, since the entirely gallery is siding with the real mastermind, the minutes of the trial will be confiscated and destroyed so that the truth will be lost forever. Neither Kazuma nor Ryu reacts to this turn of events on-screen, which is a shame. Van Zieks doesn't fight the adjudication either, he simply accepts the verdict in silence- Hang on, where have we heard that before? Genshin? And didn't Van Zieks say that so long as his death served a purpose, he wouldn't mind dying over being called the Reaper? Stronghart certainly seems to feel that Van Zieks ought to be thrown under the omnibus and sent to the gallows for the sake of minimizing crime in London.

But we're not going to let the true antagonist of this game get away with his bullshit! Time to pull Harely's ears! Cue another (S)Holmeus Ex-Machina where it turns out the entire secret trial has been livestreamed to the Queen of England through holograms. By royal decree, Stronghart is stripped of his title and will be prosecuted for his crimes at a later time. FINAL BOSS, DEFEATED.

With Stronghart out of the way, Van Zieks has some closing sentiments to offer.

“Is that my brother left this world without a word to me.”

I can see why that might bug him. Van Zieks always looked up to his brother and shielded him from disrespect even a decade after his death, but Klint in turn didn't seem to want to leave any parting sentiments for him, not even a simple farewell. That's not the case, though! Susato points out there's actually more to Klint's will than was read aloud, so let's hear it now.

“Barok, you have always looked up to me, and now, you follow in my footsteps to become a prosecutor. It is my fervent wish that my unspeakable deeds should not hinder your advancement. I ask not for understanding, for none could understand my depravity. I ask only for forgiveness. Asogi is a fine detective, and a hunter worthy of respect. He has agreed to honour my final two wishes. The first is that this document survives. The second... I cannot commit to paper. I have confessed my sins to my wife. May she find resolution in my death. With my eternal gratitude to my Japanese friend, I rest my quill.”

Imagine how different things would've ended if the will had found its way to Van Zieks shortly after Klint's death. It would've prevented so much grief and so much prejudice, because if Van Zieks had learned that Klint still regarded Genshin with so much respect and gratitude even in this situation, he would never have blamed him for Klint's death nor considered it too great a betrayal. Everything that happened was in line with Klint's wishes. As it stands now, the words in Klint's will basically serve to scold Van Zieks for his attitude and hatred these past ten years.

Yep, there we go. The final straw. He's been truly, utterly embarrassed and made to confront his mistakes. When Stronghart explains how his ambition to become Attorney General is what prompted him to silence people like Watson and Gregson. Van Zieks asks him whether he ever bothered to count the number of brilliant people he had killed. Kind of a questionable remark, since Stronghart mostly had criminals killed. We don't even know for sure whether Watson was a good person or not; he comes across as a cowardly skeeve. I guess Van Zieks is mostly talking about Genshin, but even that is... Uh...

I received an Ask a while back, bringing up the matter that Genshin appears to be exonerated of any wrongdoing when the truth of Klint's death is revealed. That despite duels being outlawed and it being literal murder, Kazuma seems to take this truth as his father's name being cleared. Indeed, going over everything we've learned so far, it feels as if the narrative has set up both Klint and Genshin, and even characters like Jigoku and Gregson, as victims of Stronghart's manipulation. The thing is, though... Both Genshin and Klint took at least one life of their own free will, Jigoku pulled a trigger twice for the sake of his own career (and recruited someone into an assassin plot), Gregson conspired with a notorious assassin to commit over a dozen murders just because his boss told him it was the right thing to do... Feeling bad about murder or resorting to it because 'the other person is even worse and needs to be stopped' doesn't change that it's murder. It doesn't seem as if Kazuma or anyone else outright says their loved ones are absolved of any responsibility/their names are cleared, but it does really come across as if the narrative wants you to forgive them. So uh... Yes. This is something the game should have properly addressed, instead of just going 'oh, these poor people, all used as puppets by the final boss'.

Anyway, (S)Holmes takes the time to remind Van Zieks that he's the defendant in this case, not the prosecutor. Our old friend Santa Judge returns for the adjudication! Turns out, he was in the gallery all along. (Was he chanting Stronghart's name too?) He talks about how the darkness of the past ten years has lifted, in part thanks to a bright young star from the East. Awww, we've completely won over the judge! Van Zieks now also has something to add.

“I had the faintest of intimations. That if British justice, so warped and twisted over its long history, was finally to know change... This might just be the man to do it. But at the time, I wouldn't allow myself to acknowledge the possibility. I couldn't overcome my hatred of the Japanese, after the circumstances of my brother's death. Mr. Naruhodo...”

He takes a flourishing bow here, an acknowledgment that Ryu is worthy of his respect and perhaps even that Ryu is superior to him, then stands up straight again for the final whammy.

Ryu is shocked and Susato is brought to tears. We did it, y'all. We've secured the full, heartfelt apology. I'm not sure there's really anything to add to this, nor anything we could want from it at this point in time. Ryu doesn't say he forgives Van Zieks for his discourtesies, but considering how hard he worked to get this guy cleared of murder, that would feel kind of out of place. The forgiveness happened long before Van Zieks apologized, or so is the implication. (Is that the correct narrative path? Not at all, but I'll get back to that in the conclusion.) So after some more closing words from Ryu, Van Zieks gets his not-guilty verdict and court is adjourned.

In the defendant's lobby, Ryu feels a bit conflicted about how this whole thing went down. Susato tries to cheer him up by saying that everything will seem much better once he sees Van Zieks's smiling face. Indeed, in most other Ace Attorney games, this would be the point where at last, an emotionally distant defendant/witness drops their walls and allows themselves to smile (or cry). Just think of Gina, Lana Skye or even Athena Cykes when she cries tears of joy during AA5's ending. Hilariously enough, Van Zieks is not one of those characters.

This is a really fun subversion of expectations and Ace Attorney tropes. And I still believe his face got frozen like that. Even so, he's got something heartfelt to say.

“For you to have risen to the level of excellence you demonstrated today... Well, it's quite remarkable.”

Sounds like a hatchet job of a compliment at first glance, but the sentiment is there. It is extremely remarkable for a foreign exchange student who's only been in the country for about 9 months- and who only spent like 2 of those as an active lawyer- to rise to such a level that he not only uncovers the truth of the current case, but of a cold case from 10 years prior, which was part of a huge cover-up. Ryu points out that he exposed a most 'unpalatable truth' in court and that he feels as if he robbed Van Zieks of something precious. Van Zieks doesn't seem to agree. He reminisces on Stronghart's words.

“But that... That was just the feeble excuse of a coward. Only those with a steadfast eye for the truth have what it takes to fight the dark forces of crime. You made fine work of establishing that fact in court today.”

So once again, he's complimenting Ryu's courtroom performance. Not only that, but he's acknowledging (in different words) the earlier sentiment that the truth needs to come out, no matter how painful. Perhaps, indirectly, he's calling himself a feeble coward as well. Ryu and Susato are proud of Van Zieks's growth, with Susato saying that surely Kazuma would be smiling if he were here. Naturally, when he shows up at that very second, he isn't smiling at all. Like mentor, like disciple! Kazuma takes a polite bow before Van Zieks and congratulates him on his acquittal. Naturally, after watching Kazuma prosecute so ferociously for two whole episodes, that doesn't feel sincere. Van Zieks asks him whether he doesn't instead want to curse him. Kazuma apologizes for his earlier behavior, which does feel 100% sincere.

“Your father, Genshin... If I had been stronger, then perhaps... I made an unforgivable error of judgment. … I can offer no excuse.”

One more apology to add to the pile! And here we once again reach that question of whether the narrative is acting like Genshin should be absolved of all blame. In a technical sense, Van Zieks wasn't wrong to prosecute Genshin, since he did seriously murder Klint. That alone is already warranting of the death penalty, so the added crimes of the Professor on top of that don't change too much. However, I don't think Van Zieks's lines truly relate to the Professor trial itself. The error of judgment, in my eyes, can also be seen as the blind acceptance that Genshin betrayed him (as well as Klint) when there was actually far more at play. This notion that Genshin was a horrid traitor who abused their trust and hospitality was then allowed to grow into an irrational hatred which festered for a decade. Regardless of whether Genshin killed Klint, the insistence that the man's true nature was that of a monster was wrong, and I think that's what he's apologizing for. To be clear, he's not apologizing for racist sentiments uttered towards Kazuma or anyone else from Japan with these lines. This purely relates to his treatment of Genshin. However, he already apologized for his many discourtesies back in the courtroom and I think the racist outbursts were part of those discourtesies.

Kazuma says he can offer no forgiveness, which is totally fair. Kazuma isn't obligated to forgive this man. He does, however, admit that he has respect for Van Zieks, since he “fought for justice and the truth”.

Awww! Remember how in my very first 'strong thought about Barok' post, I pointed out that Barok almost appears to have been designed to be Kazuma's rival prosecutor instead of Ryu's? Yeah. Here we see it very clearly. The reconciliation conversation between these two feels like a much better resolution than the conversation between Van Zieks and Ryu.

So now Kazuma brings up that Genshin promised to do two things for Klint, but the second wasn't mentioned in the will. Mikotoba shows up to share a very heartbreaking tale about Klint's unnamed widow, the lady Zieks-Baskerville, who was hiding out in Dartmoor and passed away from childbirth very shortly after Genshin was executed. The newborn baby girl survived, though! Van Zieks blurts out that that makes no sense. “Why on Earth wouldn't Klint have entrusted the child to my care in that case?!” And that alone is already kind of tragic, but what really packs a wallop is this:

This means Klint and his wife deliberately kept the pregnancy from him. It's never explained why. Genshin showed up at the manor in the spur of the moment and Klint died that very same night, when his wife must've already been around 8 or 9 months pregnant. (she gives birth about a week or two later, after all.) Klint says that he 'confessed his sins to his wife', but that also must've been very recent, if not that very same night, since Stronghart was threatening to tell Klint's wife and brother of his misdeeds. Stronghart's hold on Klint would've weakened if he'd told her the truth months ago, which in turn implies the both of them decided not to tell Barok while she herself was still oblivious to the Professor truth. Honestly, it all feels like a vague plotconvenience.

What is explained is why the newborn baby wasn't entrusted to Van Zieks. It isn't because Klint had the amazing foresight to know his younger brother would become a salty, loner alcoholic; it's because he and his wife feared the truth of the Professor might come out. Heck, if Genshin had never been arrested for Klint's death, perhaps it would've come out for certain. “The girl would be forever branded as the daughter of the infamous mass murderer.” So the baby girl was distanced from the Van Zieks family as much as possible, with all of London unaware of her existence. This girl is, of course, Iris.

Right on cue, the Harely plushie activates to receive a call from (S)Holmes and Iris. She invites everyone over to 221B for a feast and makes sure to invite “Mr. Reaper” too. He very awkwardly declines the offer.

Humanization? Humanization! He does, however, give Iris his word that he'll present himself at 221B in the near future to express his gratitude. I think a big part of why he declined the offer was because he wouldn't feel at home during the big celebration when a whole group of people is there. He'd much rather visit Iris during a more quiet, private moment and that's sweet too. Plus, I don't think he's in the mood for a celebration, considering all the horrible truths he's learned in a single day.

So now Kazuma prepares to leave and asks Van Zieks to accompany him. The wording of “would you care to-” makes it very clear this isn't a demand, it's a very soft request that Van Zieks is free to decline. Not that he hesitates for even a second. Here's some more parting words.

“I believe... You saved my life.”

He takes a deep, flourishing bow and honestly I've lost track of how many times he's praised/thanked Ryu by now. More than Edgeworth thanked Phoenix, most likely. The prosecutor duo prepares to walk away, but Ryu calls after Van Zieks, asking him to wait. Which he does. Ryu asks him what he intends to do now.

... “Prosecutor van Zieks chooses death”??? In a way, he's thinking of pulling a similar move. He intends to publicize the full truth of the Professor, and I can only imagine that includes Stronghart's involvement in what went down 10 years ago. Maybe he'll even share the truth of the Reaper who's haunted the courtroom all these years. He believes that “once that's done, the Van Zieks family will be ostracised completely from London society.” (I don't think he means living family members, but rather, the legacy of the Van Zieks name and the rights associated with it.) So because of that, he intends to leave the capital as soon as he's free of his employment. Considering how easily this man took a five year sabbatical and adding in the fact that the Lord Chief Justice just got arrested, I expect his resignation could be as easy as packing his desk and leaving his office without saying a word. Kazuma, however, calls him a fool and a coward. He basically dares Van Zieks to keep going now that he's finally freed from the pseudonym of the Reaper. Van Zieks neither agrees with the sentiment nor shoots it down, instead saying it's unexpected to hear those words from Kazuma of all people. With that out in the open, they leave for realsies.

Just as Van Zieks doesn't attend the Baker Street party, he isn't there when Ryu's at the docks to return to Japan. I like to think Kazuma did bother to tell Van Zieks that Ryu is leaving the country, because withholding that information seems like a bit of a jerk move, but... Well. Not showing up at the docks to say some final farewells is even more of a jerk move on Van Zieks's part. Though it's possible he felt he wasn't wanted there, and may eventually ask for Ryu's address so he can write a letter (which is far less imposing than invading a heartfelt farewell with a scowling face). It's a shame, though. I would've liked to hear his thoughts on Ryu's departure.

We learn that Kazuma will “stay in Lord van Zieks's tutelage for the time being” to become a full-fledged prosecutor. Which is fine, I guess. It doesn't matter whether he's a defense attorney or a prosecutor; all that matters is the pursuit of the truth. What catches my interest is that even with all that bad blood and refusal to forgive Van Zieks, Kazuma still agrees to keep studying as his disciple. This implies to me that he sincerely doesn't believe Van Zieks to be a bad person anymore, and acknowledges he can learn a lot from this man. Which is not the same thing as being on friendly terms with him, but at the very least he's giving Van Zieks the benefit of the doubt when it comes to improving their... Well, their dynamic, I suppose I should call it.

On to the credits scenes we go! This time, Van Zieks legit does get a scene of his own, but before we address this one, I want to skip ahead real quick to Albert Harebrayne's scene.

“He sent me a very nice letter saying he'd like to show me around now that everything was settled. B-But what have I done? I was so excited, I picked this splendid hotel and now I can't afford the bill! Oh Barok! Come to my rescue again, please! I, I wish I could just vanish into thin air sometimes!”

Several things of note can be taken out of this little scene. First of all, with the Reaper nonsense behind them, Van Zieks seems to have wasted very little time with asking his best buddy to return to London for that sightseeing that was promised. Presumably, he even paid for the trip (again), since Albert still seems to be very low on money. This, coupled with the fact that Van Zieks was reading that letter with quite a bit of dedication in his jail cell, indicates to me that he's longing for the good old days, when he could smile and have friends. He's trying to return to a sense of normalcy and since Albert is still considered his closest friend, it makes sense he'd reach out to him instead of a relative stranger like Kazuma. Baby steps. Now, the fact that Albert says “come to my rescue again” sets the very clear tone that this guy believes Van Zieks has helped him before- during the trial, of course. It's another reinforcement of the notion that Albert is thankful Van Zieks chose the role of prosecutor in order to defend the teleportation theory, even if it meant that he himself would be branded a murderer. Despite his gruff exterior and blunt words, Albert thinks of Van Zieks as a sort of knight in shining armor who will come save him. … With cold hard cash, in this case, but it's the gesture that counts. Van Zieks might allow Albert to stay in his mansion instead, but it depends how high the risk of assassination is at this point in time. People are probably hating on the Van Zieks family now that the truth of the Professor is out.

On to credits scene of Van Zieks himself! We have confirmation by now that he hasn't retired as a prosecutor, since Kazuma already expressed his intent to keep studying under him. So we see Van Zieks in his office, addressing Klint's painting.

“In those days, when I was known as the Reaper, I felt your presence at my side. Once, unable to bear the burden of that grim pseudonym, I even retired from the courtroom. Despite everything, I still wear your prosecutor's badge with pride. But the darkness that beset me is no more. As you, too... Are no more.”

The first two sentences of this bit feel very disjointed and barely related to me, so I had a quick look at some fan translations. First is the sub translation on Youtube: “I could feel you standing by my side through the days in which I was called the Reaper. Yet there were times I could not bear the burden of that name, and left the courtroom far behind me.” The “yet” is very crucial, since it makes the insinuation that feeling his brother's presence was very important to Van Zieks, but the burden became so overwhelming that he retired anyway. Taisa the Gamer's script doesn't have a “yet” in it, nor any equivalent, but the sentence structure still flows well enough not to cast doubt on how he felt about Klint's supposed presence. Contrasting that, the localization's wording with “even” almost makes it seem like feeling Klint's presence was a negative thing- that he was overwhelmed by it and that this was the burden associated with the Reaper name, as opposed to the killings. Which can't possibly be right; he already admitted to us that the idea of his brother's ghost helping him was one of the main reasons he kept on being the Reaper. So long story short, the localization's take on these first two lines is a little off.

The prosecutor's badge thing, however, is spot on. Despite everything- despite the 'true nature' of Klint now exposed, Van Zieks still wears the badge with pride. We know the badge is symbolical, of course. He still believes in Klint's sense of justice and he's still going to openly admit to being Klint's brother- to being a Van Zieks. That's sweet. He goes on to say that the darkness within him is no more. To really grasp what that means, let's go back to the end of case 2-3 for a second. There, Van Zieks says that after his brother's death, he found himself in “a very dark place indeed”. In case 2-4, he mentions that he refuses to trust others to protect himself against betrayal, but has now sunk into a proverbial mire which makes it impossible to breathe. All of that is the same darkness he's referring to now, I'm sure. I don't believe depression can lift this easily; there's no way that darkness is no more. However, I think what he means to say is that it no longer has such a strong hold on him that it manifests in paranoia and irrational hatred. He has a chance now to start fresh and that's what he intends to do. He's striding away from that darkness, towards a brighter future. In order for a person to change for the better, they themselves have to want to change, and it looks like Van Zieks is all for that. Which at last brings us to the conclusion of this essay series! The conclusion, which looks back on the original query posed in Part 1, will once again include a load of screencaps. To keep the post size lighter, I'm going to put it in a separate post. I hope you'll look forward to it!

#dgs #dgs spoilers #tgaa #tgaa spoilers #barok van zieks #ALMOST THERE #HHHHHHHHH

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years

Text

Aaron Hotchner / August Part I

Request: Hotch and reader become unlikely friends after a broken doorknob brings them together, and maybe start to feel something a little more? (College AU)

Word Count: 8,224

Warnings: Fluff, angst, mutual pining, mentions of Hotch’s dad and difficult home life, Haley being jealous, a kiss (*gasp*),

He was never yours, you thought, your fingers grasping at the pen, the same hands that had held his once. You knew that, but you let him in anyway.

Into your apartment. Into your life. Into your heart.

And then you let him go.

Out of your apartment. Out of your life. Out of your heart.

You signed your name, placing it on the arrangement of fresh cut white lilies, wrapped in plastic, before handing it to the florist.

But you wouldn’t now, not again.

~~~

A knock on your door roused you from sleep. A groan on your lips, you rolled over on your bed, kicking off what remained of your thin blanket draped over you. A cool breeze rolled over you, cutting through the thick, sticky August humidity, but it wasn’t enough to lull you back to sleep. And the sharp rapping at your door certainly didn’t help. You grumbled, stuffing the pillow over your head, hoping whoever it was would take a hint.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Apparently not.

You threw yourself up, face twisted in a scowl, as your eyes flickered to your clock: 12:17 AM.

Yet another knock, and you pulled on a robe over your tank and shorts, draping it over your shoulders, “I’m coming,” you growled, and the fourth knock stopped short, and you tripped over nearly every piece of furniture in your sleep, throwing open the door, “what?”

He blinks, his dark hair as black at the night behind him, several locks falling in front of his forehead, “Sorry, I, uh—”

“Hotchner?” you tilt your head, crossing your arms, “what are you doing here?”

And it’s his turn to be confused, “I’m sorry, do we—”

He didn’t remember you — how lovely, an unwelcome interruption who doesn’t bother to learn your name. You tell him your name, and it still doesn’t register, “We’re in the same criminal justice class? The one we literally started last week?” One of two summer classes that you seriously believed that you conned into taking, all in the hopes that you would be able to finish up your degree a semester earlier. If you passed, you would be done next semester.

Red runs across his cheeks, “I’m sorry, I sit in the front, I—”

You wave him off, while fanning yourself with your hand, “I don’t care honestly, just why? Why are you here?”

A flush climbs his neck, “I just moved in next door, and I got locked out of my apartment. The door handle is rusted over, and my roommate is out of town—”

“And?” you rubbed at your brow, your manners didn’t exactly shine at 12 AM.

“Could I stay with you? Just for tonight,” he held up his hands, “we have that midterm tomorrow in Crim, and I really—”

“So you remember the midterm but not my name huh?” and the flush bridges over his nose and cheekbones, “I’m kidding Hotchner.” you scratch your head — on one hand, you didn’t want to let a stranger into your apartment, but at the same time, you didn’t want him to sleep outside his apartment, you sighed, “take the couch, but I’m locking my door, and I don’t want you disturbing me unless I’m somehow sleeping through the exam tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I—” you wave him off, “I really appreciate—”

“Just come in,” you yawn, stretching your tired muscles, still heavy with the sleep you were deprived of, but just like that, you felt your mind rouse, sleep deflating from your head in a slow leak, “ugh fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m wide awake now,” if looks could kill, you were sure your criminal justice class would be investigating Hotchner’s murder, “I have a hard time falling back asleep once I’m awake.”

He raises a brow, “I thought you were exhausted?”

“Well tell that to my brain,” you groan, collapsing in an armchair, covering your face, “now I’m going to be up until 5 AM.”

He glances at your kitchen, “How about I make us some tea?” you look up, lips twisted in a frown, “decaffeinated, if you have it?”

“Third drawer from the left,” you snuggle into the chair, hoping to lull your brain into a false sense of sleep.

His voice cuts through your haze, the familiar click of the gas burner, “Can I ask you something?”

“At your own risk,” you mumble, utterly too comfortable.

“How did you know who I was?” the sink knob squeaks as he turns it, the rush of water, the quiet hum of the water as it filled the cups he was undoubtedly rinsing now, “there must be at least fifty people in that class.”

“You make a hell of an impression, Hotchner,” you sigh, shifting in your chair, wiping the sweat from the back of your neck, “the first day of class, you argued with the professor about his opinions about criminal justice reform and the necessity of it, or as he put it, the unessential nature of it. ”

“Well, his opinion was wrong,” you laughed, eyes still very much shut, “his opinion wasn’t even based on facts, he was just dictating to us on his own notions—”

“I know, and you made sure he knew that,” you finally opened your eyes when you heard the tea kettle whistle, “that’s why I remembered your name — the way he asked you for it, and the way you replied—”

He poured the hot water into each freshly washed mug, “With hopefully with an equal amount of respect,”

“A very minimal amount,” you propped your head up on your elbow, watching him bring over the mugs.

“So an equal amount,” you take the mug from his hand, pressing it against your lips, warming your lips, chuckling, “I give respect to those who deserve it.”

“And what does that mean for me?” and he smiles.

He raises his mug, a wry smile on his lips, “Well considering you could kick me out at any point, I have the utmost respect.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the smile on your lips by taking a sip, “Smart.”

~~~

And you soon learned Hotchner was very smart — when he touted his 100% on the exam a week later, next to your measly 98%.

“You owe me two points, Hotchner,” you would say to him, walking back to your apartment building, the humidity as thick as a fog. You tugged at your oversized shirt, hanging loosely around your torso, but somehow still sticking to your sweaty body. You felt like a drowned rat who hadn’t even had the pleasure of being in the water, “I would have gotten your score if someone hadn’t woken me up in the middle of the night.”

“Well, how about instead of talking the professor into giving you two points, how about a coffee instead?” he offers, hands in his pockets, “on me.”

You grin, “It better be.”

~~~

“FBI track?” you whistle lowly, sitting across from Hotchner in a coffee shop around the corner from your building, “some ambitions you got there, Hotchner.”

“I aim high,” he takes a sip of his drink, “What? Can’t see me as an agent?” You shrug, your eyes flickering over his form, biting your lip — well he would look good in a suit and tie, wouldn’t he? And the vest— “What are you smiling about?”

“Just imagining you as a G-man,” you admit, a grin on your lips, “let’s just say I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“And what high aspirations do you have?”

“Nothing too fancy,” you stir your drink, watching the liquid swirl, “law school is the plan, hopefully eventually landing at a corporate firm and then move into the nonprofit sector.”

“You don’t seem so excited,” you shrug.

“Not everyone has high hopes and dreams, G-man,” and he rolls his eyes, lips pressed into a purse, unconvinced, “well I would love to be a writer, but I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he raises an eyebrow, “or you’re too scared to try?”

“Cute mind games, nice try,” you sigh, eyes falling to stare at your drink again, “it’s hard to believe in yourself when you’re the only one who does, and I can barely manage it.”

He leans back in his chair, black locks falling across his forehead, “Well, how about I pick up the slack?”

“You don’t have to say that—”

“I want to,” he cuts you off, and you glance up, his gaze utterly paralyzing and earnest, that you almost want to believe and maybe you do just a little — otherwise that thump against your ribcage is something else — some other feeling you are not ready to contend with. But you don’t get the chance. He breaks your gaze to glance at the clock, and curses, “I have to get home. My girlfriend is going to be calling me soon.”

Your heart twists, but you ignore it, because this was enough — this moment was enough, “Yeah, get home quick. You gotta tell that girlfriend of yours about that grade of yours. Nothing is hotter than a nerd,”

“Speaking from experience?” you scoff, and he pauses, “can we do this again sometime? This was fun.”

It was enough, right?

You smile, “Of course.”

~~~

“Fucking fuck—” you hissed the shattered glass all over the floor, and the hot liquid splattered across the wood, “Shit.” you stare at the mess, cursing, stepping over the broken glass, as you pick up the shards with a cloth napkin, grabbing the broom and dustpan from the closet.

You sweep up the mess best you can, but now before cutting your finger on a shard, “Shit, fuck,” you wrap the cloth around the wound, digging through the drawers for a bandage. Fuck your roommate for going away for the summer, and also moving everything around while digging through the apartment for their shit. You slam the last drawer shut, no bandages, but you found a dozen condoms of varying shapes and colors — not exactly useful for treating a wound.

So either you walk down to the corner to the store with a cloth wrapped around your finger, or you could tie this cloth around your finger while you studied.

Well, you glanced at the door, there was a third option.

You and Hotchner had seen quite a bit of each other over the past few weeks— June bleeding into July — studying, watching TV, grabbing bad coffee after class. He was one of the only people in three years who had made you comfortable to be yourself — to admit to things you would have never dreamed of telling, without guarantee of a memory wipe (well maybe if he joined the FBI).

What was it about him anyway?

He opened the door, a smile pulling at his lips, before he glanced at your hand, “What happened?”

“Cut myself on some glass, do you have a bandage neighbor?” you glanced at the door knob, “I see the landlord finally fixed your door knob, so I won’t have any more late night visits.”

“Come in,” he herds you in, shutting the door behind him, “give me a second, I have to find the first aid kit.”

You grip the cloth, watching him dart around the apartment, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration — you particularly enjoyed the way his lower lip— no. No you could not do this.

“You’d think a first aid kit would be easier to find,” you call after his disappearing back, “since ‘first’ is in the title.”

“And where’s yours?” he asks, as he walks back into the living room, kit in hand, “I don’t think you’d be over here if you found yours.”

“Ah, I like the company,” he raises an eyebrow, placing the kit beside you, “plus I don’t have to use my own bandages,” you watch him grab a paper napkin, running it under water, before returning. You reach for the cloth, but he brushes you off, taking your wrist, “you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” his eyes remained concentrated, as he pulled the rag away from your finger, “it’s mostly stopped bleeding now, it’s not so deep.”

“Really, Dr. Hotchner?” and you hissed a little as he cleaned the wound, red staining the nearly translucent tissue, “did you ever consider a career in medicine?”

He clicked his tongue, his hand was so much bigger than yours, his touch gentle, sending warmth blooming up your body, “Biology puts me to sleep,” he raises his eyes, “no jokes. Plus,” he scrunches his face and pulls the napkin away, grimacing at the blood, “I don’t like blood.”

You chuckle, “Come on, Mr. FBI agent, won’t you have to deal with a lot of blood?”

His lips twist in a line, “Actually seems like I may see you in law school,”

You furrow your brow, “What do you mean?” he sighs, grabbing a bandage from the kit, peeling the backing off of it, “Hotchner—”

“Law school is a safer option. I can still put bad guys away, I can be a prosecutor, and I won’t be at risk of getting shot—”

“Bullshit,” you cross your arms, “it’s not what you want.”

“It’s not always about me—”

“This is your life,” you get up, and his shoulder sag, “we get one life, Hotchner — are you going to waste it doing what other people want?”

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps, “you should be a writer, but you’re going to law school, just like me.”

You know he’s right — you know you’re a hypocrite, but you don’t care, “Why did you change your mind?”

Your question is quiet, but heavy — it hangs in the air, in the silence, and you feel as if you know the answer already, “I was talking to Haley,” and you hold your tongue, “it’s safer if I go to law school. It’ll be better when we start our life together.”

“Hotchner—”

“That’s not the only reason,” he swallows thickly, he slumps in his chair, “my father — he—” his voice broke.

You shake your head, throat dry, “You don’t have to—”

“He abused us,” he says quietly, “He worked a lot, and if it wasn’t for that, I…” he trailed off, glancing down, “but when he was around…” he scoffed, “nothing was good enough. No one could please him, not my mom or my brother. I never tried. He didn’t like that,” he ran his fingers across his face, flinching as if he can still remember the blows, “It wasn’t long after he gave me a black eye and broke my rib that he had shipped me off to boarding school. And I never looked back.”

Your chest aches,“Aaron—”

“I want a good job, and I want a good life,” his eyes are hard when he looks up, “ I don’t want to be the kind of husband that my wife isn’t happy to see. I don’t want to be the father who isn’t there. I want to give them everything I have, and if this is what it takes…” he shrugs, biting his lip.

“I understand, I get it,” and he nods, taking your hand again to place the bandage over your cut, “But Aaron, one thing?” he smooths over the bandage with his finger, glancing up, “just don’t lose yourself along the way, okay?”

Your fingers entangle with his, he squeezes your hand, “It’s a promise.”

~~~

There’s a knock on the door, but you don’t bother to get up from your bed. Only twisting in the sheets, burying your head in the soft comfort of the pillow. And you hear the faint and familiar call of your name through the plaster thick walls and paper thin doors.

And you knew how this went.

So you rolled out of bed, stalking over to the door, but instead of opening it, you frowned at it, rubbing at your forehead, “What?”

“Some way to greet someone who brought you today’s notes and assignment,” and you sigh, opening the door, plucking the assignment from his hands, tilting your head.

“Thank you. Anything else?”

He frowns, “What’s wrong?” you sigh, shaking your head.

“You sure that you’re here to study criminal justice? Maybe you would be better off as a Psychology major,” you mutter, allowing him in, as you collapse on the couch in a huff. And you see him sit, waiting and watching, and you slump against the cushion, “what?”

“Words are dangerous around you,” he shrugs, “I’m waiting for them not to be.”

“I’m just having a bad day,” you cross your arms, words sharp, “have you ever had one before?” and then you crumple at the hurt that flashes across his face, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry — this is why I wanted to be left alone.”

And he moves, sliding in beside you, grabbing the TV remote from the coffee table, “You up for something light?” and you furrow your brow, “or we could watch what I want to watch?”

“What are you doing?”

“You clearly don’t want to talk about it, but I’m not going to leave you alone,” he shifts next to you, gaze unverring from the now lit TV, casting the contours of his face in a low light, “so what are we watching?”

He clicks on some medical drama, and you snatch the remote from him, hiding your smile from him, as your shoulder brushes his, “Not this.”

~~~

Aaron doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, but he does. When he wakes up, the sun has already peaked over the horizon, the low hum of the TV rousing him from his sleep. And he stirs, before feeling a distinct weight on his shoulder, the mumble of his name near his ear, and fingers brushing his thigh.

His eyes flutter open, and he realizes where he is.

Shit. You both had fallen asleep. His neck aches as he turns to look at you, making him pay for the position the muscles were forced to contort to the night before. He glances at you, biting his lip. You snore softly against his shoulder, lips parted. A few strands of hair fall across your forehead. He brushes them back, tucking them into place. He should move. He should wake you. But he doesn’t. He watches you sleep a moment — you were so peaceful, unlike yesterday.

There was a part of him that wished you would have told him what was wrong. Told him what was bothering you. Told him what was on your mind. Told him everything about you.

But that was normal right? Friends always want to know everything about each other? And he would consider you a close friend, right? A friend, a good friend. Just a friend.

You murmur his name again, under your breath, and he feels a small shiver run down his spine, as he shuts his eyes again, finding your hand and resting his on top.

Just a few more minutes.

~~~

“Hey Hotchner,” you knock at his door, clutching your binder to your chest, hearing only silence in return. “I wanted to give your notes back, and see you were free, open up,” still nothing, you knock harder, “come on. I know you don’t have class today, I really don’t want to go to that movie alone—” Your fist nearly collides with a person’s face as the door whips open, and you rear back, finding not Hotchner, but a very upset girl, “hi, uh—”

“Who are you?” she crossed her arms across her petite frame, her blond hair tied in a loose pony, bangs hanging loose and framing her face.

“Hi,” you say your name, plastering a weak smile on your lips — you weren’t used to this much hostility this quickly (usually at least took five minutes before someone hated you this much), “I’m Hotchner’s neighbor, we’re in the same criminal justice class. I wanted to return his notes and see if he was free—”

“He’s not,” a saccharine smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, “He’s spending the weekend with me. I’m his girlfriend, Haley.”

You nod, “He’s mentioned you before, it’s nice to meet you—”

“And you,” her fake smile informs you that it very much has not been nice to meet you, as her eyes flicker to the bathroom, “Aaron’s busy, but I’ll let him know you dropped by—” and you open your mouth, holding the notes up, “I’ll take those. Thanks again. Bye!”

The door shuts, as you stand mouth open, staring at the door.

And that was Haley.

~~~

You see Aaron the next Monday in class, as he slides in beside you, rubbing his eyes, hair askew, “What happened to you?”

“Didn’t sleep very well last night,” he mumbles, pulling his book from his bag, and you frown, opening your mouth again, only to be interrupted by your professor.

Class passes in a painfully slow haze as always, with one exception — Hotchner wasn’t taking notes. Usually each class he would be thoughtfully taking careful notes, while you scribbled every word the professor said, hoping your notes would be legible when needed later. But today, he wasn’t. Instead, he stared straight forward, his pen unmoving, lying flat against the page between his fingers, but he wasn’t looking at the professor. Not really anyway. His eyes were glazed over, his brow impossibly furrowed, expression twisted under a thick haze of anxiety and worry. Even when the professor adjourned the class for the day, he still sat, staring at the blank notebook page.

“You planning to attend the next class? Heard that Immunology is a hot ticket,” and he jerks from his thoughts, blinking as he glances around the quickly emptying classroom.

“Shit,” the expletive flies from his mouth, as he gathers his things, shoving them unceremoniously into his bag, following you out of the room as students for the next class begin to file into their unassigned assigned seats.

He doesn’t say a word as you both schlep back to the apartment building, the only accompaniment the low buzz of flies, the too warm embrace of the sun, and the silence that hangs between the two of you, much like a funeral march.

“Okay,” you said, standing in front of him, “what is going on?”

“Nothing, I’m fine—”

“So you don’t want the notes from today?” his mouth opens and closes, shaking his head, “Hotchner, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to — but I just want to know you’re okay.”

“I’m having a bad day, you ever had one before?” he echoes your words, before a smile pulls at the corners of his lips, a heavy sigh following it, but your gaze is unwavering, “You really care, don’t you?”

Your cheeks burn, ignoring the way your heart skipped a beat, helplessly exposed, scratching at your skin under his steady gaze. You hide it under rolled eyes and a coy smile, “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Friends, just friends. Because that was all you were. That was why you cared.

And you don’t notice the corners of his lips falling or the dimmed amusement in his eyes, “Of course,” he sighs, “I’m fine, just long distance with Haley has been hard on both of us.”

You nod, not bothering to bring up your tension injected meeting in the hallway, “I understand, it’s tough doing long distance,”

And you see an unreadable look cross his expression, before it’s gone in a moment, and he just sighs, “Yeah.”

~~~

Things don’t get better.

When Haley isn’t here, Hotchner is constantly on the phone. And when she is, you could hear the faint sound of yelling through your all too thin walls, until you chose to put on headphones to drown out the noise.

You don’t want to hear his heart breaking anymore than he wants it broken.

He’s quiet in class, and snapping when he’s not. He comes out less. He declines your invites. He spends most of his time on the goddamn phone.

And it stings.

You stare at the wall you share, the apartment feeling wholly emptier than it did at the start of summer. You glare at it, a cross between huff and a sigh filling the silence for a moment. How did Hotchner weasel himself into so deeply in his life that you felt his absence?

Three years at this school, and you had barely made a friend. It was hard in large lecture halls and even small classrooms lined with people who were nothing like you. It was harder when you often left class right after. It was difficult to connect to people, it was difficult to get beyond small talk. But it was never difficult with Hotchner.

Not once.

You supposed that’s what made this so difficult. And there was nothing more to it than that — right? The question lingered in the back of your mind, an unspoken thought that did not wish to be punctuated with a question mark, but nevertheless was.

It was stupid. It was so stupid. You lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, pulling a cushion over your face — hoping it would be enough to drown out the “evidence” your mind presented as signs of his affection — it wasn’t.

He stayed with you that night. Like a friend would.

He always is looking at you, longer than necessary. You’re imagining it.

He was so gentle when you got cut. You were hurt, he was trying to help.

He told you about his dad and about his dreams. Again, a friend? He trusted you, but it doesn’t mean he has feelings.

He fell asleep with you on the couch. And then went back to sleep. You paused. That was one thing you couldn’t explain.

You were awake when he had woken up, you had felt him rouse because you had already awoken yourself, his name flying from your lips without a thought when you saw him, felt his solid presence, his head resting against yours. You panicked. So you pretended to be asleep, and you felt him awake, heard his pause, felt his touch, and then felt him settle back in beside you.

But you didn’t know why.

It was easy to explain things away, it was simple — but nothing was simple when it was him. Nothing was easy.

~~~

"No I'm sure, I don't want to go to the party tonight." you waved off Alex, who still followed you instead, her arms crossed.

“You shouldn’t be waiting for him to call,” you furrow your brow, as she jerks her head toward the wall you and Hotchner shared, “you need to move on.”

“I’m not waiting, I’m just tired, and unlike you, I haven’t had the entire summer off, and just came back after a fabulous vacation,” you cross your arms, lips pursed, but you know that she sees right through you, “just go, Alex. I’ll come to the next one I promise.”

She sighs dramatically, shaking her head, "I'll see you tomorrow." The door shuts behind you and you groan.

What the fuck were you doing?

Who were you kidding? You collapsed onto your couch, facefirst into the couch cushions. You knew what the fuck you were doing — the exact thing you promised to never do, you sighed loudly into the cushion, pulling a pillow over your head — canceling any plans in hopes a guy would call. A guy — a guy with a girlfriend who he was in love with, one who didn’t give you the time of day anymore, and one who was barely a friend now.

But still, he wasn’t just any guy was he? He was Aaron Hotchner.

And that was the fucking problem.

But right now, you turned your head to glance at the clock, your main problem was that you were still conscious, and that meant it was time to go to sleep. You looked to the wall you and Hotchner shared — you weren’t going anywhere tonight, that was for sure.

~~~

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

You groan, pulling the pillow over your ears, “This is a joke, right?” and again, you are stumbling out of bed, half asleep and half blind, eyes barely open, “who is it?” But a part of you knew the answer before you even asked.

“It’s me,” Hotchner intoned, and you opened the door, frown on your lips dropping when you saw his face — even in the dark, you could see the tell tale sign of tear tracks on his cheeks, barely glistening in the dim light, “can I come in?”

You step aside, shutting the door behind you, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, and he catches a glimpse of your hands crossed across your chest. He scrubs a hand down his face as he slumps down on your couch, “I just...broke up with Haley.”

The words echo in your ears, as you gape at him, blinking, “You...what?” you shake the shock from your mind. He needs you right now. He needs your support.

You slide next to him, “I’m so sorry, Hotchner, I—” the words die on your lips, as you see him stare at the floor, his gaze blank, “hey—” He finds your gaze, his eyes glassy but somehow still so steady, and your heart stutters in your chest, “It isn’t your fault.”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” you tuck one leg under the other, one hanging off the end of the couch, “and I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone, much less Haley, intentionally.”

His expression is inscrutable as his eyes fall to his lap, his teeth grazing his bottom lip, and he looks back to you, “Are you sure?”

And the question hangs in the air — words wrapped up in meaning, tucked away behind punctuation and subtext. And he’s looking at you — a look that you can’t pin down, but it makes your heart squeeze harder in your chest and your blood turns molten in your veins. Why is he looking at you like that? And why for so long? The way his eyes linger make you want to believe — makes your foolish heart want to believe — maybe, maybe there’s something more to his question, something he’s asking you without asking you. A question within a question, that only makes your head spin and butterflies bloom in your stomach.

“Of course I am,” a statement within a statement, tentative and as unsaid as his, but the words were on your tongue like an ice cube, rapidly melting away like your hope was that maybe — maybe this was something more. But the moment is broken when he looks away, and silence encroaches once again, strangling and consuming — you have to say something, anything to break it. More than that, you needed to do something — so you said the only thing that occurred to you, “Do you want to go to a party?”

~~~

You were surprised.

And you weren’t sure by what more — the fact Hotchner agreed to go to a party on a weekday or the fact he was two shots ahead of you now.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. The blaring music shook the fraternity house to the screws and joists holding the building together. The kitchen had been set up as one giant alcohol station — bottles of every kind of cheap alcohol lining the counters and shelves, much of which Hotchner was helping himself to.

He was pouring himself another shot, and another beer into a red cup, as you watched him, eyebrow raised.

“Pace yourself,” you tell him over the music, as he downs another, no chaser, the chaser long forgotten, but Haley seemingly wasn’t by the melancholy scrawled across his face, “have you eaten a single thing tonight?”

“Isn’t the point of college parties to drink?” his words are more than a little slurred, his usual crisp intonation down for the count, and his balance was barely existent at this point, swaying as he spoke.

“To drink, not to leave in a body bag,” you say, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, and to your surprise he doesn’t brush it off — no, his hand rests over it, holding it there. His eyes flutter shut, as he leans against your hand and his, “You alright there?” your cheeks burn as his eyes open again, his gaze intense and steady, and you see something you hadn’t seen before — a look that you can’t decipher.

“Let’s go,” he says suddenly, his hand around your wrist now, dragging you through the kitchen and the throng of people in the house.

“Where are we going?” you call over the roar of the party, but you don’t know if he even hears you, his head still turned as he weaves through the crowd, and up the stairs, until he pulls you into an empty bedroom, the door shutting behind you. Moonlight streams in from the window beside the bed, what little light illuminating his figure in the inky black between the shutters, “Hotchner, what is—”

“I just wanted to say sorry,” he shakes his head, sitting on the bed, gaze dropped to his feet, “sorry for pushing you away. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t want to— I just—”

“It’s okay,” you find your way to his side, the creak of the bed beside him making him look to you, “It happens. You were going through something. I’m not mad—”

“You’re important to me,” he shakes his head again, insistently, “I shouldn’t have— I was a fucking ass, I just—”

“Hey, I know you’re a fucking ass,” and he scoffs, “who’s the bigger fool? The person who’s an ass or the person that’s friends with him?”

“I always knew you were a nerd, but Star Wars, really?” he grins, elbowing you, “you are full of surprises.”

“Takes a nerd to know a nerd,” and he leans back, palms splayed against the bed, “I am a person of many facets.”

“I know,” he whispers, finding your gaze in the dark, “And that’s what I love about you.”

You blink, your heart stuttering in your chest, “Hotchner—”

He leans forward, his fingers cupping your cheek, his eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes and back again. He’s so close, you can see his eyelashes flutter as he stares at you half-lidded, the heat from his body radiating off of him, as his chest nearly brushes yours now, “I’ve wanted— I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, his words sending warmth blooming across your cheeks — his scent consumes you — pine, musk, and mint, your breath stolen by his words — ferreted away in the night that covers you both.

“Please,” you whisper into the night, and when his lips brush yours, you wonder if it is real. Or a dream of your own design in the dark. But no, it’s real as the forehead that brushes yours after he parts a moment, “Aaron,” you sigh against him.

Your lips find his again, noses brushing, and he lingers this time — more sure, but still hesitant. Just as hesitant as you are. He’s sweet on your lips, sliding against yours softly, his thumb brushing at your cheek, before your fingers knot themselves in his hair, deepening the kiss. You want more, you need more. And you hear him moan against your lips, a deep rumble that sends a shiver up and down your body.

Then his tongue runs across your lips and you taste it — the alcohol on his lips, and you remember — Haley, the drinking, everything — it had been just to get over her.

And your palms press against his chest, stopping him, his quiet pants still warming your lips, “I can’t do this.”

You couldn’t be his rebound. Not after all of this. Not after what you felt for him, what you still felt for him. You didn’t want to be something he’d used to forget, something he’d want to forget. You couldn’t be his second choice. You deserved more. You wanted more.

But you also wanted him.

A moment passes, another, and he pulls back, “I understand,” he nods, “I’m sorry if—”

“Don’t be sorry, you didn’t—” you cut off, “I’m sorry if I—”

“You didn’t,” he rises slowly to his feet, rubbing at his eyes, “let’s go home?”

The walk home was in silence, which was somehow more eruciating than the two hour of constant, deafening music you had just endured. Your head throbbed, and whether it was from the alcohol, the music, or the night — you glanced at Hotchner — that was up for debate. Your nausea burned at your throat in time with your headache hitting a crescendo —- just not at this particular moment.

“Good night,” were the only words he managed when he dropped you at the door, stumbling into his own apartment. And you only realize as you slide into bed that you realize you didn’t explain why you couldn’t — why you couldn’t kiss him. But with your face pressed against the cool pillow, the memory of his lips on yours lingering, and the siren song of sleep, you couldn’t dwell on it.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the sandman’s embrace too tempting. There was always tomorrow.

~~~

Or maybe there wasn’t, you realized as you stepped out of your apartment, at least, not a tomorrow that included him. After pacing for an hour, convincing yourself to talk to him — to say something about last night — after you had re-lived that kiss a dozen times, after you practiced what you were going to say to him, and after you realized he was worth the risk.

But you weren’t to him.

But Haley was.

Her lips pressed against his, right where yours were last night, her bags dropped beside their feet. His arms winded easily around her waist, comfortable and familiar, pulling her somehow impossibly closer than she already was. Her fingers cupped his cheeks, evidence of tears gliding down her cheeks. He inhales her breath, as they part, murmuring things only the other can hear, until your door bangs against its frame, still helplessly open behind you.

Their eyes snap to you, and you have to tuck away the hurt and pain quickly — quickly, your lips somehow finding itself in a small smile, even as your heart splintered to pieces in your chest.

His mouth opens silently, eyes painfully wide a moment, while Haley greets you with a smile, your name from her mouth painful to your ears, “It’s so nice to see you again. Aaron told me he wouldn’t have been surviving class without you.”

Painful because you can’t hate her, painful because it isn’t her fault, painful because maybe in another life you could have been friends, painful because you had to fall for her boyfriend — “Of course,” you manage to find your voice, “someone has to keep their head on straight.”

And you had to.

“I keep mine on,” he withers under both of your gazes, “sometimes.” His eyes linger on you a moment too long, but Haley doesn’t seem to notice, instead, stepping over her bags, and pulling you aside a moment.

“I just wanted to apologize for how I acted before,” she shakes her head, “me and Aaron have been having a hard time lately, and I think I took it out on you — but we’re okay now. I just don’t want any bad feelings between each other because I know you’re a good friend to him.”

Friend, the word rings in your ears, “Of course,” friend, and you wonder if your ears are bleeding by now, “we’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

You find him unable to meet your eyes, his stare fixed on Haley instead.

Of course.

You were just friends after all.

~~~

You don’t see him much after that.

And you prefer it that way.

There was only one more class before the final, and you arrived late, slipping into the back of the lecture hall, tucked away — out of sight.

You left before it ended, sparing one last glance at Hotchner.

Out of mind.

The exam rolls around soon enough, the study period relatively short for summer courses, and you find yourself packing as you finish studying. But still, your mind drifts to him in between moments of taping up boxes and trying to remember the answers you scribbled on the back of flashcards. You would have been studying with him — he would have quizzed you while you boxed up your kitchen, he would have teased you for your barely legible chicken scratch, and he would have been here.

But he wasn’t. You folded the flaps of yet another box down, tape gun in hand, pressing it to the lip of the box.

Out of sight, the rip of tape across cardboard, But was he out of mind?

~~~

“You’re moving?” he catches you moving boxes out of your place, the van you rented outside, sticking his head out of his apartment, his brow furrowed.

“I am,” you continue down with your boxes, and he moves forward to help you, but you brush by him, heading down the stairs, “I got it, thanks.”

But he doesn’t let you go, “I thought you still had another year left—”

“I’m finishing a semester early,” you reply, opening up the trunk again to place the two boxes in the back, “and next semester I’m studying abroad. That’s why I did summer classes.”

“Studying abroad?” he blinks, “when—”

“I’m going home for two weeks, and then I’m flying to Switzerland,” the thump of the boxes is loud in his silence, as you slide them into place, “that day I wasn’t doing well— It was because I had gotten rejected from the program. My financial aid hadn’t pulled through,” you pull the trunk closed again, locking it, before brushing past him and trudging up the stairs again, “But last week, my financial aid office helped me to find a private lender. So I’m going.”

You hear the slow clunk of his shoes following you up, as you grab another two boxes, and you finally glance at him, finding his lips in a thin line twisted in something resembling a smile, “Congratulations, I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” you nod, bite your lip — biting back the words burning on your tongue — hauling the last two boxes into your arms. You try to slip past him again, but he grabs a box from your hands.

“At least let me help you with this,” at least let me do this if not anything else — unspoken words lingered in the air, his fingers grazing yours as he took it, hefting it with relative ease.

“You know, I’m happy for you too,” you say when you slide the box into place, after unlocking the trunk again. His brows knit together, and it’s not from the strain of carrying your things down the stairs, “I mean it,” and his eyes meet your gaze — you see too many emotions to pull them apart — sadness, regret, worry — and a few you don’t care to pick apart. It doesn’t matter now, “for you and Haley, it’s great you worked it out. You’re good together.”

And you know it’s true. He’s happy, lighter than he had been for weeks, but now, his shoulders seem so heavy, weights pressed upon the corners of his lips and against his brow.

“We are,” he shakes his head, sighing, “I just wanted to say s—”

“We’re good,” you cut him off with a small smile, and you shut the van up, locking it. You turn back to him, only to find his lips pursed, glancing between you and the van, “I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning, so this isn’t goodbye. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

He chuckles, “Intent on dragging this out?”

“I’ll never make it easy for you, Hotchner,” your hands slip into your pockets, walking back up to your apartment, adding, “but you’ll always have my respect and my friendship.”

“I know,” he says softly, over the low buzz of the hallway fluorescents, “you’ll always have mine too,” he frowns, looking at your door and his, a question on his lips.

“I should get to bed early,” you turn to unlock your door, “I’m leaving at 7 tomorrow.”

“Right,” he shakes his head, stepping back, before sparing one more smile, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I should too — you don’t mind if I say goodbye tomorrow right?”

You shake your head, “I expect it, bright and early,” and he rolls his eyes, “Good night Hotchner.”

“Good night,” he says your name, and even as you shut the door behind you, you love the way his mouth curls around your name — achingly and annoyingly perfect. And you remember what else he could do with those lips, how your name felt whispered against your own lips —

And you remember who those lips would be kissing for the foreseeable future — at home, at their engagement, at their wedding. You catch yourself, heart twisting unto itself, and you had almost forgotten that it was broken — for a moment.

And you know — you know then that you can’t say goodbye to him.

Not in person.

Because you wanted him still, despite it all. And wanting was enough — for a time. But now wanting only hurt because you were wanting what you would never get. You wanted him — but he was never yours to begin with, was he?

He wasn’t yours to lose — but you did.

And he would lose you too.

~~~

Aaron had woken up on time.

He woke up before his alarm went off, eyes fluttering open to sunlight streaming in his bedroom window. And he tossed off his sheets, rubbing at his eyes.

He couldn’t be sad — he was happy for you.

You were graduating, you were moving on, you were doing something you always wanted to do. He sat up, throwing his legs over the bed, pressing his fist to his lips, elbow digging into his thigh. He only wished he was brave enough to go after what he wanted.

What he wanted, his eyes drifted to the picture of Haley on his bedside table, did he even know what he wanted?

He slips out of bed, brewing two cups of coffee — knowing you would be on the road for quite a while. He still had some time before you were leaving.

He opens his apartment door, finding your apartment door open. The landlord pokes his head out, “Hey Hotchner, that doorknob treating you well?”

Aaron raises an eyebrow, “It’s fine, what are you doing?”

“Just going over to see what the damage is and if I’m going to be returning that security deposit or not,” he fussed over the clipboard in his hand, pulling the pencil from behind his ear, “looks like the apartment was in relatively good shape so guess I’ll be mailing a check.”

“Mailing?” Aaron blinks, and the landlord tilts his head.

“How else do you suppose I give something to a tenant who has already moved out and split?” In that moment, he brushes past him, peering into your empty apartment — the only things left were those of your roommate’s, “Left about an hour ago in a rush, couldn’t even wait for me to do my walkthrough.”

He was on time, he was early even, he stepped downstairs to only find the truck long gone.

But he was still too late.

Always too late.

~~~

But always wasn’t always forever.

“Hey, stranger,” you nestled the phone between your cheek and your shoulder, hands full with a bread dough you were currently trying to knead for its next proof, “it’s been a long time—”

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what, Alex?” her voice grows quiet on the phone, “what’s wrong?”

“You know how I’ve been organizing in preparation for the reunion in a few months?” and you lick your lips, moving to wash your hands.

“Yeah, you told me about that and said on uncertain terms could I refuse to attend, unless I’d like to risk certain bodily harm,” you shook your head, “I didn’t forget, so is that what—”

“It’s Haley, Haley Hotchner?”

You pause, “Yeah Hotchner’s gi— wife?”

“She died, just a week or two ago,” her voice falters, “I just heard about it from Paul, do you remember him? He was in your poli-sci class. He’s in the FBI too. I wanted to get Aaron’s information, and he told me it probably wasn’t a good time. And I pressed him and then….”

“Oh my god,” you rested your back to the counter, “How did she—”

“He didn’t get into details, but it was pretty fresh it seemed like. He’s still on leave, and the funeral is soon.”

Your hands shook, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind returned to that summer — his smile, his laugh, his touch, his care — “When is it?”

She says your name slowly, “Why?”

“I have to go,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “I have to go see him.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagines #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x oc #criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds fanfiction

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stina-is-a-punk-rocker · 3 years

Text

jacqueline wilson’s ‘love lessons’

tw: abuse, pedophilia, characters making Bad Decisions, long unnecessary spiel about my childhood like I’m running a recipe blog

It’s funny how loads of the authors who helped shaped me into the vaguely humanoid being I am today have names beginning with the letter ‘J’; Judy Blume, Jeff Kinney, John Green, J.K. Rowling (yikes, I know) … and Jacqueline Wilson.

I’ve never owned a Jacqueline Wilson book of my own; they were always borrowed from a friend, or from a friend of a friend, or from a friend of a cousin- you get the gist. Her books, for me, come with an entire aesthetic: something reminiscent of yard sales, and reading under the covers with a flashlight, and being lulled into a false sense of security by the deceptively innocent Nick Sharratt illustration on the cover until someone’s best friend gets mowed over.

So I knew what I was getting into when I picked up Love Lessons. I knew this was going to be Fucked Up; and boy, was I right.

(Here’s the part where I warn you about spoilers.)

From an abusive dad to creepy child predator teachers to slut-shaming and victim blaming, this book has it all.

The main character is Prudence ‘Prue’ King, who is homeschooled at the beginning of the book, along with her sister, Grace. Their parents remain rooted in the early twentieth century, and are very strict about- well, everything. No TV, no computers, not a single mobile phone in the house; their clothing worse than the orphans’ from Annie; and their father remains distinctly distrustful of modern institutions like the school and the hospital; and so on, and so forth.

Daddy King suffers a stroke, and has to be taken to the hospital. Meanwhile, Mrs. King (a floppy, spineless woman who lives in fear and awe of her, frankly horrid, husband) sends the girls to school, behind the then invalid Mr. King’s back. Cue Prue and Grace being the freakshows of the school, with their strange clothing and overbearing mother.

Grace manages to make friends, but Prue remains alone. The kids are dicks, the teachers are dicks… well, all of them but one. And that’s the art teacher, Mr. Raxberry (I just couldn’t get over that name; it seems like something you’d name a mythical plant from Pixie Hollow or some shit. I’m assuming it isn’t an actual name, since the spelling & grammar check on my computer doesn’t seem to recognize it), or Rax, as he’s called.

Oh, yeah; Prudence’s favorite subject in school is art, and she’s a whiz at it. This is relevant, because reasons.

And here’s where stuff gets murky. Prue develops a crush on Rax- which is perfectly normal. I’m definitely no stranger to it; I’ve had crushes on my teachers, my mum admitted she used to think one of her professors was cute. And yeah, as I grew older, I grew out of those crushes and now have a markedly more refined taste in men (unless he’s 5’ 7’’, born in ’97 and named Bang Chan, I don’t want him); and my mum married my dad, so I’m assuming she did, too. Admittedly, now that my dad teaches at a university, it’s icky to think that there might be students who have crushes on him- but I digress.

My point is, loads of us have liked our teachers. But I doubt the majority of us have acted on it.

And Prue actively showing her interest in Rax isn’t the worst part. That’s a spot reserved for Rax reciprocating her feelings.

Guess Ezra Fitz and Ms. Grundy (yes, I watched Riverdale; please don’t cancel me) have a new addition to the Creep Club.

The age of consent in the UK is 16, if I’m not mistaken. Prue is 14. She’s just barely become a teenager, and she’s being preyed upon.

Because that is what Rax is. He’s a predator; he preys upon this vulnerable girl who’s never been in a relationship before- hell, she’s never even had friends- her father’s abusive, so she obviously doesn’t have the best experience when it comes to men- she’s unpopular at school, with the students and staff alike- and he lures her in. I don’t care how bloody nice he is to Sarah, or what a good dad he is (well, he’s really not, seeing as he cheated on the mother of his children WITH A BLOODY FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD CHILD)- the guy’s a fucking pedophile.

I was staunchly stuck at a yellow light with him; like, sure, maybe Prue thinks he’s flirting with her- maybe she’s looking at this all wrong, she doesn’t know how relationships work- see, he drew a picture of Sarah, too, in his secret notebook- Prue’s just reading into this too much- up until he says he loves her.

Dude. Humbert fucking Humbert. She’s fourteen, for Christ’s sake, and you’re married. You have two children. She’s a child. She’s probably closer to your son’s age than she is to yours.

(This is the part where I bury my head in my pillow. And scream. Extensively, and with passion.)

The book does make some genuinely good commentary on slut-shaming and victim blaming and abusive parenting. And on one hand, I can see why so many people find issue with the romanticization of the when I kissed the teacher trope- but I can defend it, too.

The book is in Prue’s perspective. She thinks she’s in love with Rax, so obviously, she’s not going to throw in some valuable moral at the end- because she’s too young and inexperienced to think otherwise. And sadly, there are loads of instances of child abuse that go unreported because the victims just don’t know better.

What I have issue with is how the school dealt with it, ultimately. Prudence, a child, has to deal with the consequences of the actions of a literal child predator. Sure, Rax ‘clears his name’ by cooking up some bullshit story about how it was only a crush and he didn’t encourage it, but you’d think other adults would know better and, oh, I dunno- dig deeper into it, instead of blaming it on a child?

“She says you told Mr. Raxberry you loved him and he held you in his arms and fondled you.”

Which Prudence denies, because, again, she doesn’t know better. She then goes on to say that they did nothing wrong. To which the adult speaking to her, in this case, the principal, Miss Wilmott, goes on to say:

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true… I feel that there are some aspects of your friendship that could be considered inappropriate.”

FYI, lady, he kissed her- multiple times (not that kissing her once makes him any more redeemable), and told her he loved her, and admitted to fantasizing about running away with her and leaving his family behind. Fun fact: do you know Prudence is underage?

You’d think that Miss Wilmott would maybe give this whole fiasco a favorable ending, but it turns out she listens to school gossip;

“I haven’t been at all happy with your attitude. You don’t seem to understand how to behave in school. I’ve heard tales of unsuitable underwear and then a silly romance with one of the boys in your class. I feel that in the space of a few short weeks you’ve made rather a bad name for yourself… I don’t know whether you intend to be deliberately insolent but you certainly come across as an unpleasantly opinionated and arrogant girl… I can’t help feeling that you’ll be much better off elsewhere. I shall try hard to engineer a suitable transfer to another school.”

And then she comes out with this gem:

“If you won’t leave, then I shall have to ensure that Mr. Raxberry finds another position.”

“No, you can’t do that! He’s a brilliant teacher.”

“You should have thought of that before you started acting in this ridiculous and precocious manner. If I were another kind of headteacher, I would have Mr. Raxberry instantly suspended. There could even be a court case. He would not only lose his job, he could find himself in very serious trouble. Did you ever stop to think about that?”

Girlboss, gaslight and gatekeep. The fucking trifecta.

Also, by ‘another kind of headteacher’, does she mean the kind of headteacher WHO DOESN’T LET CHILD PREDATORS ROAM FREELY WITHIN THEIR HALLS?

This bitch is out here blaming a child, a literal child, for the crimes of an adult man.

The only time Prue seems aware of the fact that Mr. Raxberry is actually a very shit person is her immediate thoughts that follow after she tells Miss Wilmott she’ll take the fall;

I so wanted to save darling Rax- and yet why hadn’t he wanted to save me? Had he told Miss Wilmott it was all my fault, that I’d got a ridiculous crush on him, that I’d made ludicrous advances to him? … I wanted to tell this horrible, patronizing woman how hungrily he’d kissed me, but I couldn’t do it. I loved him. I had to help him.

NO, SWEETHEART; YOU MOST DEFINITELY DO NOT.

And maybe I’m going overboard with all these excerpts, but here’s what Rax has to tell Prue, after school, following her expulsion:

“I let her think the worst of you, the best of me, just to save my skin. I said it was ridiculous talking about a love affair between us. I said you simply had a crush on me, and that I was just trying to be kind… You were brave enough to stand up to me and force me to acknowledge the truth… I love you… That’s why I had to take a risk and see you this one last time. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care… Every night when I close my eyes, I’ll think of us together in this car and how badly I wanted to drive off with you. I’ll imagine us walking hand in hand at the water’s edge… I wish I wasn’t such a coward.”

(I burrow into the pillow further. I’m trying to suffocate myself.)

And that’s where I think Wilson went wrong. Sure, Prudence getting expelled for something that was completely out of her hands is unfair, and horrible, but it’s real. That shit can happen.

What’s bad is showing Rax in a positive light after all that. If only Wilson had written Rax to not be the Romeo he thinks he is. Make him ignore Prudence, throw her under the bus in front of her face, instead of this star-crossed lovers bullshit it’s made out to be. Show your younger audience that Rax is not a good man. I’ve got a little over two weeks left for my twentieth; I can see why this is unacceptable. But I was a little younger than Prue when I watched Pretty Little Liars, and my only gripe with Aria dating Ezra was that Noel Kahn was so much cuter.

It shows when you scroll down the Goodreads reviews; you’ve got adults giving it one or two stars, and teenagers giving it four or five, with their biggest complaints being, “but Toby was cuter!!!”

Other non-pedophilia related complaints regarding the book include: Prudence being unlikable- which I didn’t really notice, considering she reacted to some people way better than I would’ve, even at 19 (which probably says a lot more about me than it does about Prue, but oh well). Still, Prudence obviously isn’t the most prudent of people- and again, she’s fourteen. Look me in eye and tell me you weren’t an arsehole at that age (unless you’re fourteen now, in which case, I assure you that you’ll look back on yourself someday and go ‘wtf was I thinking’). Bringing up Toby’s dyslexia in an argument was low, though.

There were people who thought the Kings’ almost-Amish lifestyle was exaggerated and unrealistic, but I assure you, it may very well be real. There are 8 billion people on the world- it’s fair to assume that several of them are complete weirdos.

Grace was a sweet character, and I adored her with every fiber of my being. As were her friends Iggy and Figgy. Honestly, I would’ve loved a book about Iggy, Figgy and Piggy’s (mis)adventures too.

#love lessons #jacqueline wilson #teacher #teacher crush #teacher x student #anti ezria #ezria #pretty little liars #aria montgomery #ezra fitz #when i kissed the teacher #book review #books

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i-am-infinite · 3 years

Text

Guilt (Part 1): The Rescue

(Din Djarin x ForceSensitive!Fem!Reader)

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Slight Chpt 12 and 13 spoilers. Read at your own risk.

Description: Moff Gideon has found someone else to run his experiments on and word gets back to Din. Will he take his son far away and try and find somewhere safe? Or will the guilt of an innocent being put in his son’s place eat away at him? (No Y/N or ___ used)

Word Count: Slightly over 4K

Warnings: Mentions of blood and needles. Broken glass. Fainting. Blood loss. Canon type violence. Possible bad writing (first fic pls go easy on me). If I’m missing anything please let me know, I’ve never done one of these before.

A/N: This is my first fanfic I’ve written so it might be really bad but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head so here it is. I also made up a planet/system and don’t know if star wars has alarm clocks but i wrote it in anyway. I also wrote this in Word first and then realized I couldn’t copy it over so I tried my best to type it over in here.

Normal. That is what was used to describe your life. Nothing out of the ordinary. Life wasn’t boring per se, but it definitely wasn’t compelling enough for your tastes. Studying to be a healer help keep it somewhat interesting but not enough.

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz. Crust littered eyes creak open as your face unsticks from the textbook scattered across the desk. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz. Your stiff neck cracks as you finally sit up. Fell asleep studying again. You loved learning about healing, you really did. But the long nights and barely sleeping was enough to make your head explode. Looking over at the clock with bright red numbers blinking at you. 8:15.

8:15! I’m late! You think as you force yourself awake. No not again! Being a student means you need to do hands on hours down at the nearest medcenter. All the late night studying also means that you oversleep most days. Grabbing your work bag filled with a change of clothes, in preparation of these events, you run out the door.

Your feet hit the wet cobble stones as it echos through your little part of the city. Vendors lining up the street ready to start their days. Passing the shop you went to yesterday, your mind too preoccupied to notice that it’s empty today. You know that theres is a faster route to the medcenter, but is it a path you really want to take today? Dark and windy path that you can barely see five feet in front of you on mornings like this. Too foggy and muggy for your liking. You’d rather stick to the main road where there’s people, where if anything were to happen, people would see, they would know. Regardless, it shaves fifteen minutes off your commute. You loathe having to be late for another shift. Making the sharp turn in between tow booths, you pace quickens to get through as quickly as you can. While not having much visibility, you swear you can see a pair of eyes in the dark. Has to just be my imagination, you convince yourself, I just need to keep going. It’ll be fine.

Footsteps echo behind you. Hands grab your shoulders. A scream rises in your throat, but no sound comes out. Everything goes dark when you feel something hit the side of your head.

Sigh. “Grogu get back in your seat.” The little baby waddles down off the controls and into his father’s lap. “Not what I meant,” Din grumbles with a smile hidden under his helmet. He grabs Grogu by his little robe and places him in the seat to his right and tells him to buckle up as a holo comes through from Greef Karga.

“Mando, we’ve just got word that Moff Gideon might have been seen in the Braic system. It looks like they found a substitute for the baby for the time being. I would use this time to go find a hide-out and lay low. He could still come back for the little one. Be well,”

Din goes to start the ship and find coordinates to stay out of trouble for a while when he hears the baby whine. Looking back at his adoptive child, all Din can see is Grogu, then a nameless kid, lying unconscious on a metal table, trapped underneath a contraption. Din starts breathing heavy and feeling sick that he ever gave his son up to those Imps. All he can hear is the beeping of the machine he’s hooked up to. Anger boiling back to the surface as he hears himself yell at the doctor all over again in his memories. No, he tells himself, He’s here with me. He’s fine. He’s safe. He shakes himself out of it and goes to fly the Razor Crest off planet.

Before he even gets off the planet, all Din can think about is that innocent person in his son’s place. They were going to kill Grogu, just for his blood for their experiments. Din can’t bring the kid anywhere near those people, he can’t risk losing his family, not when both of them have formed such attachments to each other. But he can’t stop thinking of this person who is in the that position now. He should’ve made sure Gideon was dead. Because of that now more people are going to get hurt.

Without thinking he turns on his holo already asking, “Where is he taking them?”

Feeling groggy with heavy eyes, you are able to open them just a bit to a blinding light. Reluctantly closing them again, you lift your arm to rub your eyes, but only they don’t move. What? The rest of your senses start coming back and you can feel the cool metal against your back, the same metal wrapped around your wrists and your ankles attached to the table. Finally bracing the light and opening your eyes, lifting your head slightly off the table and oh no the room is spinning now. There is an IV in your arm drawing your blood out into some odd machine, explaining the dizziness. Second time in two days you’ve had to deal with your own blood.

Walking through the shops on your one day off, you pick up a flower hair pin. The glasswork is so intricate and entrancing, you can’t help but turn it over and over in your hands. A pearl bead sitting in the center of iridescent gray and white petals. Placing it back in its place, your had scrapes against another glass design that is not yet finished, slashing open your palm. “Oh, dear let me help you with that,” the lady running the stand says. She looks you with her white hair barely covering her forehead. Tattoos liter her arms. A design peaks your interest as you swear you know but can’t quite place.

“It’s fine, I can take care of it myself,” you state already inspecting your hand. No shards in it so thats good.

“Oh no I insist. It happened at my booth, let me help clean it,” she declares taking your hand in her own. It feels like she squeezes the wound causing you to wince in pain slightly. Knowing she should just be cleaning it and wrapping it, you’re a little confused. Maybe she just doesn’t know how to tend to these sort of things, not wanted to embarrass her at her stand, you keep quiet. She finally gets a clean rag to help blot away at the blood on your hand. You didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it appears she has put it in a bag to the side.

“I don’t have any gauze to help wrap it up,” the stand lady says.

“Oh, don’t worry, I have plenty of my own,” you mention, “It will be fine until I make it back to my place.” Smiling you walk away. Without looking, you can feel her move the piece you cut your hand on into the bag. Must just be because it’s a dangerous piece, you think, not knowing there’s still some of your blood on it too.

Closing your eyes again, you try to wonder why that is so significant to you right now. It was a harmless thing in passing, so why is it at the forefront of your mind? You are strapped to a table and all you can think about is that little cut you got the day prior. If your head didn’t feel like it was a spinner top right now, you would have laughed. Opening your eyes again you see men all in white armor and helmets guarding the door to your room, while a man in a white coat is working on the machine where your IV is attached. I thought the empire was dead. The same symbol that keeps going through your mind is the same one sewn into the man’s white coat. Your breathing gets shallower as you feel the panic rise in your chest. I’m never getting out of here, you realize as your vision becomes black once again.

You’re losing a lot of blood. You know that. You can feel it when noise wakes you up and your eyelids feel like lead. All the noise is muffled, as if you’re underwater. Frankly it feels like you are. It would be so easy to let the waves of darkness just wash over you right now, to let the water take you under. No, you can’t give up the fight and drown into unconsciousness just yet. You force yourself to stay awake.

Barely getting your eyes open, bright red lights flood your vision. You imagine you’re still in bed, or at least asleep at your desk, with the alarm clock blaring, not here with blaster fire. Wait, blaster fire? You attempt to turn your head to the side to look, or to dodge, you aren’t to sure in your current state. The fast action causes you to feel like you’re spinning, or it might be the room, either way your eyes can’t focus on what is going on. Closing your eyes again to make it stop, you hear voices surrounding you. They sound so far away at the moment but finally, after what feels like ages, one voice sounds clearer.

“Please help us. Help us get out of here. Her m-counts aren’t nearly as high as the child’s. They’re demanding more blood. She’s already lost 2 liters, I don’t know how much longer she can last.”

Child? They wanted to do this to a child? You’d choke down a sob if you could just thinking of that poor baby. What did he even say about what-counts? What the hell are those? All these questions are making your head spin more and more. Taking most of your energy to open your eyes, you’re met with a chrome stormtrooper trying to unbind you. Wait no, not a stormtrooper. You’ve heard stories about him and his people. What were they called? For the life of you, you can’t remember right now.

“You’re going to need help getting her out of here,” you realize that the man in the whit coat was the one who spoke before and is now pleading with the metal man, “Please Mandalorian take me with you and I’ll help you get her out of here.”

That’s it. He’s a Mandalorian. He gets your wrists free as the doctor takes the IV out. Pushing off the table to sit up, the world starts spinning again. You don’t even realize you’re about to hit the table again until the Mandalorian grabs your shoulders to keep you semi-upright. You hear some sort of static come from his helmet. “Fine.” he grumbles, “help me get her out of this thing.”

With a flip of a switch, the rest of your body is free from restraints. Eager to get out of there, you swing your legs over the edge of the table, hands finding the arms of the Mandalorian with his hands still on your shoulders. Nauseous and woozy, you try to use the cold metal of his pauldron to ground yourself, to get the room to stop spinning. He can see you start to sway and wraps his arms around your waist as he lowers you from the table. Your feet hit the floor and black dots start to cloud your vision. Blood pounding in your ears trying to tell you to stop and lie back down. Muffled voices come from beside you again as you feel another arm wrap around you from the other side. Your feet dragging against the floor as both men on either side of you go towards the door.

You feel the heavily armored man to your left let go. Eyes that are still fuzzy and unfocused sort of see him peak out the door with his blaster drawn. He leaves the room and all that can be heard is the pew pew pew of blaster fire. Vision start to come back the tiniest bit, you can see him standing in the door way waving his hand as to say Come on.

The three of you hurry as fast as you can down the corridor to get to an exit. Lots of twists and turns, just for you all to come up at a dead end. So much for rescuing, you think to yourself as the doctor still holding you up, leans you up against a pillar as the two of them survey the situation. More of the Mandalorian assessing the situation and the doctor just frantically pacing back and forth.

Sitting down now that the adrenaline of being kidnapped and “rescued” die down, you feel your breathing getting shallower and harder to breath. Eyelids getting heavy again. You just want to lay down and go to sleep, hoping that will fix things. Starting your descent from your upright position to close your eyes, two hands grab your shoulders and jerk you up. It takes a second to realize this modulated voice was talking you you. “Hey, you got to stay with me now,” he pleads, one hand going to the side of your face. Pain spreads across your features due to being struck there earlier, a bruise starting to form in its place. Pulling his hand away like seeing the your face contorted burned him, he continues, “I’m going to get you out of here, you just have to stay awake.” You open your mouth to speak, but your throat feels like it’s filled with sand from Tattooine, so you just weakly nod your head yes. “Okay good,” the shiny man says after letting out a deep breath.

Still holding your shoulders, he helps you stand up and tells the doctor to take you and go further down the hall. Taking something small and circular out of his belt and placing it on the far wall, he speed walks back toward you two. It starts blinking red as his arms come and cage both of you in. Peeking over his shoulder, you see the wall disappear. Well explode, but one second ago it was there and now it’s not. When the explosion first rings in your ears, you reflexively reach out for the Mandalorian’s arm and feel him tense under your touch.

When he deems it safe to move again, letting go of his arm, he hops over the rubble to the outside world, blaster drawn. Looking out you think it looks like a desert, but one you’ve never seen before. You have no idea where you are, even what planet you are on. You eyes go to where the chrome man is stalking towards. It seems he found two speeder bikes that the troopers use, sans the troopers. Your feet hit the gravel and you realize you aren’t wearing shoes anymore. How long was I out? You begin to question when you see a stormtrooper take aim at your rescuer. Right when he pulls the trigger, you reach your hand out and scream, “NO!”

You could’ve sworn it was going to hit him. It should’ve hit him. But at the last second it bent and went in another direction. You knew stormtroopers were bad shots, but nothing like that has ever happened. The Mandalorian whips around at your scream and shoots the trooper down. He goes back to what he originally planned to do, but not without turning to you. You see his chest plate heave up and down a few times before turning back around. After a beat, the only sound you can hear is the Mandalorian starting up the speeders and your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The doctor helps guide you to the bikes and as you’re about to get on behind him, the Mandalorian picks you up bridal style and sits on his own respective bike. You make a noise of discontent at the sudden action and are then seated in front of him, yet again caged in by his arms with your legs draped over one of his. You can hear him breathing through the modulator as he states, “Just in case you pass out again. Can’t have you falling off the back of the bike.” You go to adjust how you are sitting when he takes off.

Gasping in shock, you hug your arms around his neck with you head in his cowl as you take panicked breaths. His hand touches your back as you hear him shout over the noise of the engines, “Put your legs around me, you’re slipping off.” He holds your waist as you sling your right leg around and hook it with your left one behind his back. Not the position you thought you’d end up in as a blush creeps up on your face, but neither the less here you are. His hand lets go of your waist and back to the handlebars as he steers.

Suddenly getting the feeling like you’re being followed, you say into his neck cowl, “Go left!” You don’t know why, but you just get a gut feeling to go that way. He follows your lead, not without a brief hesitation. The doctor follows on his speeder in the same direction. Finally looking up you see two stormtroopers in the distance. I wish their speeders would just stop or something, you plead with yourself and you think back to what happened with the blaster. Testing the waters, you unhook one of your hands from Mando’s neck and hold it out and... nothing. Okay focus, you close your eyes and picture their speeders stopping, or malfunctioning, or anything at this point.

The sound of a crash comes ringing into your ears. Opening your eyes, you can see the troopers flip over their handlebars as if their engines just died. You slightly chuckle to yourself as your eyelids feel heavy again. You try to get them to stay open, but sleep just feels so much better at the moment. And with that, you’re out like a light.

Din feels you go limp against him. His arm once again going to grab you by your waist to keep you in place. He wills his speeder to go faster, to get back to the Razor Crest sooner as he’s panicking thinking he somehow made the situation worse. He exposed you on the bike by having you sit like this. Your arms, legs, and head were all exposed to possible blaster fire. Have you been hit? He heard a crash but couldn’t look back without moving you more, risking leaving you more unprotected. His blame for himself spirals as his grip on you grows tighter. He can’t explain why he’s so distraught over a stranger, but still every time he blinks, he swears he sees back on that table. The next time he swears he sees his son on that very table again. First he gave the kid up to those people, now he didn’t finish Gideon off and let you, an innocent stranger who he is now clutching onto for dear life, get in the crossfire. Too many people have gotten hurt because of this. Because of him. He needs to make it right.

Finally Din and Dr. Pershing arrive at the Razor Crest where Din is already lowering the hatch and carrying you in. Kicking some crates together, he gently lowers you down onto this makeshift bed. He uses his thermal setting to see your body temperature, to see how you are recovering from the blood loss. He isn’t thrilled to see it still low, you were getting your energy back slowly before, along with more body heat, bit not enough to Din’s liking. Turning his helmet to Pershing, the doctor says, “She’s going to need more blood.” Din, already standing ready to run out and get some, not even knowing where or how to do that, is stopped by Pershing telling him that he’ll go get it, that it would look less suspicious. Agreeing, Din sits by your side while using his comm-link to tell Greef that he could bring Grogu back to the ship. How Din always finds someone to babysit still surprises him.

You wake up with a start. Eyes not yet adjusted to the lights overhead. Looking down you can see an IV in your arm again. Now towards the side, you can see the same doctor from before asleep up against a wall. Please tell me it wasn’t a dream, tears well up in your eyes as you think you’ve made the whole thing up to cope. It wasn’t until you felt your hand come to wipe away your watery eyes that you realized it just might not be a dream. The IV isn’t taking blood this time, it’s giving it.

Finally looking around, you realize you’re on a ship that feels like it’s moving. Confused by this, you try and sit up. Not nearly as dizzy as before, you slowly swing your legs off the wooden crates you’re lying on. Noticing your still barefoot as a chill gets sent up to your spine by the cold metal floor, you grab your IV bag off what appears to be just a hook poorly attached to the ceiling. You venture around the small area of the ship, noticing there isn’t a lot besides these boxes and what appears to be two storage type of units. You don’t even tempt to look in, too intrusive. You do however see a ladder going higher up on the ship. Taking the IV out and ripping a piece of your shirt off to wrap around your arm for pressure, so you can use both hands to climb, you start your ascent up.

Once you finally reach the top, you hear cooing? Didn’t that doctor say something about a child earlier? Looking forward into the cockpit, you see your savior flying while looking to his right at one of the co-pilot chairs. Clearing your throat to get his attention, two little eyes peer at you from the seat. A bright smile appears on this little green things face and you can’t help but stifle a laugh because its ears are the size of his body.

Distracted by this cute baby, you don’t notice the way the Mandalorian swivels his chair to face you. Finally looking at the man who saved you today, your breath hitches. You don’t know how to thank him for what he did, so you sort of just stand and stare for a second. He stands up and lightly grabs your arm with your homemade bandage on it. Tilting his helmet to the side you hear static coming from it. Did he just sigh at you? “You were supposed to keep it in your arm,” he finally states, with a tinge of annoyance.

Eyes not wanting to meet the T of his visor, you direct your gaze to the ground. “ I jus- I-,” you stammer, not able to find the right words. “Thank you.” It comes out more hushed than you’d like, but he still hears you. He just gives you a slight nod before releasing his arm and heading back to his seat. All your muscles turn to stone as you stand there not knowing if you should leave or not, until he cocks his head towards the seat to his left. On shaky legs you find your way to the seat. Before even sitting down fully, the little green child is already trying to get into your lap. Giggling to yourself you let him up onto your lap.

Once you do the strangest thing happens. You can feel what he’s thinking, his emotions, his past. How he was trained with the special abilities, much like the ones you just displayed before. How he was scared and in hiding until the man sitting in front of you found him. How he thinks of him as a father, his dad. Your chest tightens at that one. Still confused as to why the same people who wanted this child, Grogu, for his powers, also wanted you, you pull him to your chest to comfort you both. You finally speak up again and ask, “Did they want me because I might have the same abilities as this one?” You meant it to sound strong, but it just came out sounding weak.

Without looking at you, the Mandalorian replies shortly after a pause, “Yes.” You swore you can see his grip tighten on the ships steering as he says that. Turning to the two of you finally, he says in the sincerest voice you’ve heard out of him, “They wont get to either of you again. I can promise you that.” Your chest swells at this statement and Grogu looks up at you with a smile as if he felt the way your heart fluttered. You wish you were the one wearing the helmet right now because you can feel your cheeks heat up. To ease the situation in the best way you can, awkwardly, you clear your throat before asking, “So where are we headed now?”

Swiveling back in his chair to hit a few buttons, you’re confused not knowing what they are supposed to do until he pulls up a map and points a place out. He tells you that he’s going to drop off Dr. Pershing at one of the squiggles you see and then try and figure it out from there. “So, I guess thats where I get off too?” You meant it to come out more as a statement than a question, but after what you just went through, you’d rather not be left to fend for youself.

“If that’s what you want,” he finally utters after a while. “ But they’re not going to stop coming after you. Either of you. It might be safer for you to stay here with me, us.” The last part comes out so quiet, it’s almost as if he didn’t want you to hear, out of fear of your response.

Trying to not answer too quickly, you take a deep breath and finally say, “Yes. I’d like that a lot.” With a curt nod, he turns back around. Warmth fills your chest yet again at this stranger’s kindness. It’s just because I have the same abilities as his child, you try to convince yourself. But deep down you’re hoping it’s more than that. The child in your lap grips your fingers tightly and coos, as if he’s trying to tell you your hopes might not be too far off.

Oh, it’s going to be an interesting adventure with these two, you smile to yourself.

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