iridescentprose🖉

author's note: random headcannons for luca from the bear

warnings; none, just fluff.

*header images are from pinterest and do not belong to me*

When it comes to Luca and food, dessert always comes first. He's the type of guy who would order dessert first when he took you out to dinner. He definitely serves you dessert in bed for breakfast. He always wants your opinion on a new dish he's working on, so expect to be woken up in the middle of the night to try and spoonful of something sweet.

It won't go unnoticed that you're Luca's girl. He's not super big on public displays of affection, but he will often stand close to you, arm brushing up against you in someway. When sitting next to him, he'll place his arm on the back of your chair to let other people know you're with him—be it as a friend or something more.

Acts of service and quality time are his preferred love languages. Obviously, he can prepare a dish, but he'd much rather just spend time with you in any capacity. Be it going on a walk, staying up late to watch a movie, or talking on the phone—he just wants to be present with you.

It's a given he'll be a little particular when you're in the kitchen. If you're cooking a meal, he can't help but look over your shoulder as something sizzles on the stove. He often makes suggestions, of which you take politely, though remind him (while playfully shooing him off until you're finish) that you're not the professional chef in the relationship. He'll eat anything you cook though, appreciating taking a back seat every once in a while when it comes to being in the kitchen.

If there's one thing he obviously loves doing with you, it's definitely making desserts. While you're stirring the batter, he'll reach over your head in the cabinents for other ingredients (given his taller stature) before poking your side, making you jump and shriek. The only way to get him to stop is to threaten to flick flour in his direction—he instantly surrenders, not wanting good mixing ingredients to go to waste.

Luca calls you 'love', 'babe', and 'sweetheart'.

"I'm going to kill him."

"It wasn't his fault."

"Like heck, it wasn't. You're should be glad I decided to take a stroll out of my tent today. Dufus probably would've left you sittin' there for hours."

You roll your eyes but don't disagree that you would've been stranded in the jungle for God only knows how long before help found you. After all, you didn't know the man's name and he seemed terrified about the prospect of seeing a deathly swollen ankle after you took a tumble from trying to get mangoes out of a tree. Not to mention, his sense of direction wasn't the best. You should've known better than to go marching into the woods with strangers to help them pick mangoes. "Just—can you put me down, so I can go find Jack?"

You didn't have to look up to know that he was smirking. "No can do, Hopscotch. You can barely hop around on that foot of yours and besides, Doc's a bit busy right now in the Hatch."

Before you could respond, you felt gravity lower you gently onto a makeshift blanket. You looked around at Sawyer's tent. It was homey, cozy. In the corner was a pile of books. Opposite the makeshift library was what you deemed to be his infamous 'stash' of weapons, medicines, first aid supplies, and anything else he could scavenge from the crash.

As if he caught your gaze, he quickly shuffled to the corner, blocking your view of his pile of 'lost and found'. He turned around seconds later and presented a roll of bandages in his hand.

You lifted a brow, your ankle throbbing in protest.

"Look, I ain't no doctor or nothing—"

"Clearly."

His smirk widened. "...but I do know how to take care of a sprained ankle until good ole' Doc can get a good look at it. So, either you let me help you or we both can sit here and stare at each other. Your choice."

You roll your eyes in response and he chuckles before kneeling in front of you to get work.

Cumbersomely, he wraps the gauze around your ankle, the bandage encompassing your injury firmly, but comfortable. For a moment he turns his back to you and finds a couple of folded shirts and a sandy pillow. You hiss as he lifts your foot and places it on top of the folded stack. The stack sunk under your weight, but your ankle throbbed a little less.

Sawyer gives a brief apologetic look before lifting his eyes to yours. "There. Now how's that?"

You look down at your foot and nod in approval with a slight smile. "It's...good. Good enough until Jack gets back."

Sawyer mimics your miniscule smile before turning to leave to give you some space. You quickly reach out, fingers latching onto his sleeve. His breath hitches and he stops to look over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Sawyer."

In true Sawyer fashion, he faces you, his rough fingertips finding the tip of your chin. He tilts it upwards and leans forward, this time your breath halting for a moment's time. Then, he whispers, "I knew you were going to thank me something one day, Hopscotch. But no thanks necessary."

"Squeeze my arm if you need to."

You latched onto Sayid's bicep and shut your eyes, your muscles tense. You could hear him quietly counting to three.

One.

Two.

Thr—

The adhesive bandage was ripped from your skin before he even got to 'three'. A whimper escaped your mouth and you hissed as you looked down at the damage to your skin. The wound had stopped crying red tears and was now throbbing, the flesh around it damp with sweat.

You felt a kiss on your brow. "I'm sorry, my love."

You grimaced and then looked down at the blood soaked bandage that was now lying on the ground. Sayid placed a hand over yours — the one digging its nails into his bicep— and brushed his thumb over it. You instantly released your grip with an apologetic smile.

"Don't be sorry," he said, beating you to your apology. "I didn't exactly get to 'three', did I?"

"We're even," you said with a somber smile, your fingers brushing over the imprint marks your nails left on his skin. Being stranded on the island had understandably distracted you from your bad habit. Your nails had never survived past the tips of your fingers before the crash and now, your own hand looked unrecognizable.

Sayid took your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of them. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

He sighed."I'm not so sure you'll want to speak to me after this next part."

You didn't have to ask him what he meant by that. You knew what was coming next. Sayid gave your hand a squeeze before reaching for the bottle of antiseptic next to him. You did your best to swallow the whimper climbing its way past your throat.

With Jack off on a hike with some of the others on the island, Sayid had been the next best person to change the soaking red bandages on your arm.

You turned your head away and shut your eyes as he untwisted the cap from the bottle of clear liquid. You felt Sayid move your hand back to his bicep, prompting you to squeeze if it hurt. You made sure the pads of your fingers were fixed on his skin instead of your nails.

This time he didn't count. He applied the damp cloth to your skin slowly, allowing the antiseptic to seep into your superficial wound. You hissed, your fingers clamping down onto his arm as hard as your eyes were squeezed shut. White flashes of light clouded your vision as the stinging came in waves. You felt Sayid work quickly to bandage you up.

When he was done, he pulled you into his arms."

There. How do you feel?"

You winced as you moved your injured arm into a more comfortable position.

"Like I never want to speak to you again."

You both chuckled simultaneously.

"Well, hopefully you'll find it in your heart to forgive me," he said, planting a kiss on your forehead.

You smiled softly, resting your head against his chest. "How could I not?"

"I don't think you have a concussion."

You sighed in relief, your swollen eyes focused on the light drifting across your vision. You had successfully passed the brief concussion screening Jack had given you. At least there was one less injury you had to worry about.

"You got a few minor cuts, though. Stay still for me," he said, using a cotton swab to dab at your injuries. You winced as he leaned forward and gently swiped over the cuts that littered your brow and cheeks. "Any headaches?"

"No, but I feel a little dizzy," you mumbled, briefly closing your eyes as he applied liquid bandages to your cuts. "You sure I don't have a concussion?"

"You took a hard fall. Dizziness is normal," Jack said as he moved back to grab some gauze. "I'll have to monitor you closely to rule it out completely so we can't have you going to sleep tonight." He applied a thick bandage over your cheek where the nastiest cut resided. You groaned softly.

"But don't worry, you'll be fine," he said, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it gently.

Carefully, he put away his supplies, cleaning up the area around you both. He fished through one of his medical bags and found a bottle of pills. He dumped two round white pills into his palm and passed them to you, along with a bottle of a water.

"Take those."

Carefully you took the pills with two big gulps before washing them down with water. Jack took the bottle from you as you leaned back against the wall, an exhausted breath leaving your mouth. You briefly closed your eyes.

"You don't have to babysit me. I won't fall asleep. Just resting my eyes," you mumbled.

You could feel the smile in his next words: "Like I haven't heard that one before."

You scoffed playfully as he shuffled around you. By the time you opened your eyes he was sitting next to you, legs stretched out in front of him. He took your hand and fit your palm against his. You leaned your head against his shoulder.

because you refused to give him your name at first (and look him in the eye), he's forced to start talking to himself. he's devising a plan and muttering something about 'escaping' before you can't help yourself any longer:

torres is the type of guy who believes in love at first sight. hence, why he couldn't stop staring at you the moment you both came face to face on an alien ship. he's utterly speechless at your condition - how the miniscule battle scars littering your brow made you look more intriguing. he was an enamored like a lovesick puppy, but quickly pulled himself together. he asks for your name after telling his, and you can't help but avert his gaze with silence.

"if we want to survive, our best chance is to work together." back where you came from you didnt just give out your name so easily. it meant something to you. but what was a name if you weren't alive to cherish it?

torres' features flood with relief as he turns to look at you. "thank goodness! so you can understand me!"

he earns a look of amusement from you before the doors open. you, torres, and two other patrons who spoke words you didn't understand, froze as the monsters with sceptors awaited your presence off the ship.

after being escorted off the ship with metal collars around your necks, the four of you stood in the center of what looked to be an alien roman coliseum. words were translated, but you weren't listening. torres had grabbed your wrist, telling you he had a plan.

the plan didn't leave your newfound family unscathed. unfortunately, the ancient woman with braided gray hair had bought you and the others some time to escape onto a ship torres had hijacked. kenji, the man with a samuari sword, clung to what was left of his arm as you, him, and torres made a great escape.

"you're bleeding," torres voice says behind you once he's able to get the foreign vessel on idle. you don't ask how he did it—you're too busy fastening fabrics of your clothes around the stump that used to be kenji's arm.

"i'm fine," you say, just as you look at kenji and give his shoulder a squeeze. he nods in thanks and you sit on the floor of the ship, attempting to tend to your own wounds.

"let me, ma'am."

before you could protest, torres is already kneeling in front of you, offering his jacket that was on the verge of death itself.

"i don't think you told me your name, miss," he said, eyes twinkling with wonder and anticipation. his forehead, like yours, is sprinkled with sweat. red streaks and purple clouds were starting to appear on his bare arms —evidence that the skirmish had left its mark.

slowly, you took the jacket, being careful to wrap it around your shoulders, concealing your minor injuries. you didn't need the jacket to hold your wounds together, but rather to keep you grounded while being in the sky.

"[your name]", you said, daring yourself to look at him because you refused to look out the giant windows of the ship that was taking you to only God knows where.

"well...it's nice to put a name to a pretty face," torres said, patting your shoulder gently. "im glad we're alive, [your name]."

without waiting for your response, he stood and shuffled to kenji who was either muttering in pain or praying - you couldn't tell the difference.

synopsis; you can't stand it when coach harrington rubs a win in your face, so he decides to do something about it.

warning(s); nothing but absolute fluff and slight baseball terminology? my knowledge on baseball is very limited so...bear with me!

author's note; thank you for those who sent me requests! i am getting to them, expect more fics soon! God bless!

*header images do not belong to me*

It was the bottom of the ninth inning.

All three bases were loaded and your star pitcher wasn't the only one sweating bullets. You adjusted the cap on your head twice in a row, once to shield your forehead from the sun beaming down; another time to signal to your pitcher to put a little spin on it.

"Alright, keep your eyes on the ball, champ. Bring 'em all home!"

You cut your eyes to the enemy. He had his arms crossed and was pacing parallel to the dugout, his eyes focused on the boy at bat. Wearing a backwards cap with a miniature version of the Hawkins baseball mascot above the clasp, your enemy looked more like his team rather than the coach. (Of course, minus his looming stature and the chiseled bone of his jaw that stuck out like a sore thumb every time he gnawed on his chewing gum. )

Despite being your adversary, Coach Harrington had been the first person whose eyes didn't widen in surprise when he realized you were coaching little league. You were a rarity in your town, a black sheep of a coach. But to your surprise, Coach Harrington's his eyes, when he first met you months ago, were filled with what you could only describe as earnest curiosity. Not disgust. Not perversion. Not confusion. Just a gaze that portrayed the idea that there was no single answer to the billions of questions bouncing around in that head of his.

But that intriguing gaze was long gone—a contrast to how he was studying you now. He had completely stopped pacing and had gone quiet, his biceps taut as they remained crossed over his chest. He had stopped chewing on his gum—of which you assumed he had spat out when you weren't looking—and was sporting a subtle smirk on his lips that read, 'prepare to lose'.

You shot him your own look of determination.

In your dreams, Harrington.

You cut your eyes to the scoreboard and your heart momentarily sank. If there was ever a time you could use a miracle, it would be now.

The mere thought of Steve rubbing this win in your face—

The crack of the bat made your stomach drop as it set everything into motion:

The crowd cheered as the bases moved and the outfielders scrambled like ants. You were jumping up and down, yelling incoherently as third made it home and second was heading to third. Across the way, Steve, hands moving in a circular motion like he was trying to land a plane, kept shouting, drowning out the panic in your voice.

As the ball came shooting from the outfield, the two runners had made it to home base, leaving the third runner only a base behind. Your pitcher scooped up the ball as it rolled across the red dirt and turned to chuck it to the catcher just as the final batter approached home base.

"Safe!" The umpire declared as the stands erupted into a conglomerate of cheers and protests.

Your shoulders slumped, though you quickly kept your expression neutral as your team ran to shake hands with the winners, glum expressions resting their faces. With a sigh, you tucked your clipboard under your arm and fell in line.

"Good game, good game, good game," you mumbled as you shook each boy's hand with a genuine smile. When you got to the end of the line, your smile fell into a thin line.

"Good game, Coach Y/N. Maybe we'll go easy on you next time," Steve said, offering his hand for a shake.

You narrowed your eyes at him, being mindful of the twelve pairs of eyes watching you closely. If there was anyone who couldn't stand Steve more, it was your team.

"Don't be such a sore winner, Coach Harrington. The kids are watching," you mumbled before briefly shaking his hand with a sharp smile.

Steve chuckled and turned to say more, but you quickly diverted your attention to your team who was in need of a good peptalk.

~

After your inspiring speech, you watched as the team ran off to find their parents. The crowd was thinning, except for a few stragglers from the opposing team. You took this as an opportunity to walk toward the dugout to collect your things.

As you rounded the corner, someone grabbed your wrist and tugged you out of sight. You gasped and then sighed in relief and slight annoyance when you realized who it was.

"Good game," Steve whispered as his hands fell to your hips gently. He had you nearly trapped against the side of the dugout, away from congratulatory parents and prying eyes.

Your hands rested on his chest to keep him at bay. "What are we, in highschool? Why are you whispering?" You couldn't help but let a smile creep onto lips as he leaned forward to kiss you. You pressed your hand gently against his forehead to playfully keep him back.

"Hey, I'm just trying to keep us young," he said with a soft laugh. He took your hand off his forehead and kissed the back of it before resting it on his shoulder as if it were a mere obstacle in his way. "Besides, our teams are notorious rivals. How's everyone going to feel if they find out Coach Harrington and Coach Y/N don't actually hate each other?"

"But—"

The space between you both slimmed to none as Steve stole a peck from your lips before you could answer.

"Steve—"

He kissed you again, this time longer. With his hands around your waist and both your arms now wrapped around his neck, you forgot about the risk of your teams and their parents finding you both out.

Sneaking around the dugout to share a kiss or two with the infamous Coach Harrington felt...like the dream high school experience you never got to have. So much so, that with every passing second it was becoming more difficult to pull away from your boyfriend of three days.

"You're just happy because you won," you said, pulling away, though not without Steve attempting to chase your lips. You pressed a hand to his chest and he settled on resting his forehead against yours.

He smirked. "You're so pretty when you're being a sore loser."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Harrington," you said, your smile on full display, betraying your words. You rested a hand on his cheek, your thumb swiping at the spot underneath his eye where he had smeared some juvenile war paint.

He stepped closer, your back resting against the side of the dugout. "That smile says otherwise," he said, finding your hand and setting it on his shoulder, moving it out the way again.

"Shut up."

You stood on the tips of your toes, pecking his lips before pulling away entirely, your arms falling at your sides. Steve faltered a moment, lips slightly parted, hands loosening around your waist. He was stunned into a brief moment of silence—perhaps because you initiated a kiss first. After all, three days prior to him asking you to be his girlfriend, you had made it abundantly clear to him that you were new to being in a relationship - let alone being affectionate as such.

Using his stilled silence to your advantage, you put distance between you both, adjusting your cap tightly back onto your head. Your feet inched towards the fence nearing the front of the dugout.

"Don't be late or the deal is off," you said, picking up the clipboard you had dropped earlier. You smoothed out the pages, knowing it did little to wipe out the red dust stains.

"A bet's a bet," Steve said, stepping back to let you move. "You're gonna love the surprise, I promise." he started shuffling backwards, a lopsided grin resting on his lips.

You hated surprises and Steve was well aware of this. It was why he had put the bet in place: if your team won, you chose the spot for your next date; if his team won, he'd surprise you with the date of his choice. A surprise, of course.

If there was one thing you couldn't stand more than the sight of blood, it was the stench of cold, hard whiskey. However, its presence was necessary as your boyfriend had sustained a nasty graze. You worked diligently—your hands working fast to clean up the blood and disinfect the wound, all while Jim threw back his head once and then twice. The liquid swished down his throat. He let out a hiss that made you wince.

"Sorry," you mumbled as you swiped the disinfectant clean. You grabbed some makeshift gauze—a bath rag you found on the bathroom sink that happened to be folded neatly, ready for temporary use.

"I'm not gonna die, am I?"

"Shut up." You playfully smacked Jim in the chest and he chuckled in response. "I'm not a nurse, Ellis, but I know what I'm doing," you said, tying off the rag firmly with a triple knot. "Just stop running in front of bullets, alright?"

After finishing the knot, you stood to call it quits, but a set of arms pulled you back and you were sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress again.

"Is that your way of thanking me for saving your life?" Jim said, his hold firm but playful around your waist.

Carefully, you turned around so you were facing him, being mindful of his injured arm. "That's my way of warning you, Jim. There's no sense in us being together if you're trying to get yourself killed. I can handle my own, remember?"

The both of you simultaneously smirked at the memory of your first meeting. Had it not been for Jim's quick thinking and your shooting skills, both of you might've been dead by now.

"How can i forget?" Jim said, surprising you with a quick kiss to your cheek. "But if you're coming to a gunfight, having two guns is always better than one."

You knew he was right. Ever since you stepped foot into this town you'd only been running into trouble on your own. But the moment you ran into the injured man you were currently sharing a motel room with, the burden of being on the run seemed a lot less heavy.

"I hate it when you're right," you mumbled, cleaning up the mess from patching Jim up. Once all the materials had been put away, you sank onto the bed, knees curled to your chest as your eyes were glued on the tv.

Jim groaned as he leaned back against the headboard. His hand found yours and you squeezed it gently.

Perhaps being on the other side of the law wouldn't be as bad as you thought.

Granted, you missed the safety and security of having a steady income. But the politics that came with the job, the advancement, the badge...it all felt like a waste with the blood, sweat, and tears it sucked out of you. Had it not been for Jim, life would've felt a lot more lonely.

"Thank you," you eventually whispered

Jim shifted to look at you, his thumb rubbing against the back of your hand. "For what, doll?"

author's note; duster is my comfort show.

warning(s); none, just fluff and jim ellis.

Shards of glass surrounded you and Jim as bullets intercepted the nearby window. Jim, who had shielded you from the impact, was now slowly getting up, removing his arm from around your waist. Despite the ricochet of bullets, you both took your time sitting up. It was obvious that this wasn't the first time Jim had come to whisk you away.

"My gosh, doll, you look beautiful," he whispered as he brushed away debris and broken glass from his navy blue suit. You had never seen him wear a suit before. You didn't think he even owned one.

Without so much as a warning, you stepped forward and covered his eyes both of your hands, a relaxed smile on your lips. "It's not good for the bride to be seen before the ceremony," you said, despite your disbelief in luck and superstition.

What you and Jim had could never be reduced to simply 'luck'. You two were just simply meant to be.

Surprised, Jim held up his hands in surrender and chuckled. "Well, good thing I'm not the groom...yet." You both laughed as he took you by your wrists, gently peeling your manicured hands from his eyes. He kissed your palms and the back the backs of your hands before shielding from another array of bullets.

You stumbled forward into his chest, your hands resting on the color of his suit jacket. He held you by the waist to keep you steady.

"My daddy's going to kill you, you know that, right?" You whispered as Jim fiddled around for something in his pocket.

"I've been shot by cupid seeing you in this wedding dress," he said, producing a pistol from his pocket with a wink. "So, I'm already a dead man walking."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Since when did you get so poetic?"

Another round of bullets hit the glass window, followed by shouts to open the door. You'd think your father's security would be more cautous about firing bullets within your vicinity. But you knew their long overdue vengeance for Jim Ellis outweighed their concern for your safety.

"You got iron on you?" Jim asked as he shoved you towards the back door. "Here." He pushed a pistol in your hands before you could answer.

You made sure the bullet slid into its chamber before Jim took your hand and tugged you into the back hallway.

You shuffled in front of him, ditching the heels between strides as you and Jim thundered down the hall. With one hand Jim held the train of your dress, the other clutching his gun.

"Where did you park?" You shouted over your shoulder as another round of gunfire followed by rough voices grew closer. You pushed open the exit door, fresh air hitting you both like an opponent in a boxing match.

"Over there," Jim gestured his pistol past your shoulder after a firing a couple of rounds behind you. You followed his glance across the parking lot, past a sea of shimmering shards of glass that littered the concrete, to the red Duster you had grown to love just about as much as Jim did. It was parked away from the cluster of cars, reflecting a red coat of pain from the streetlights, and a shiny new dent.

"Don't ask," Jim said, reading your mind about how he got the dent. "Just hold on tight and cover me."

You didn't time to form any questions as Jim handed you the pistol he was holding. he hoisted you over his shoulder, balling up the train of your wedding dress so he wouldn't trip, and a made a beeline over the broken glass.

With each long stride Jim took you fired both pistols simultaneously as your father's men came into view.

"You know I can't shoot to save my life," you muttered as bullets whizzed by you and Jim's ears.

"Well shoot to save both of our lives and I'll give you a shooting lesson later!" He called out as he neared the vehicle.

Once you were within distance of the car, you ceased fire and hopped into the back as Jim opened the door. You sprawled across the backseat, the door closing just in time for a bullet to ricochet off the paint. You sat up once the car got moving and leaned your head out the window to fire a couple more rounds as Jim slammed on the gas.

You didn't let your guard down until enemy gunfire sounded like distant fireworks.

"You alright?" Jim asked, eyes finding yours in the rearview mirror. You had let the pistols in your hands fall to the floor and you were now leaning against the window, wiping away the sweat from your forehead.

"Better than alright," you replied as Jim eased off the gas and the car began to coast. "Just tired."

"Sleep," he encouraged, a satisfied smile on his lips.

You stifled a yawn, even though you had no plans of going to sleep. You didn't want to miss the duster roaring through the quiet night nor the sound of Jim humming to himself as he drove.

"Where are you taking me this time, Ellis? Hopefully somewhere far away," you said, briefly closing your eyes to relish in the absence of your strict father and overbearing stepmother.

Jim chuckled before he turned on the radio at a low volume. You could hear the smile in his voice as his fingers began to drum on the wheel.

You stood from the couch and walked briskly to the bathroom door that had been left slightly ajar. "I'm coming in," you said as you heard a slight groan in response. With little effort, you pushed past the door and your eyes widened. "What happened?"

Awan was hunched over the sink, hissing in pain as he tried applying an antiseptic to a nasty cut and bruise that coated his left eye. One of the shelves—the one he had promised to fix—had toppled over, spilling first aid equipment all over the sink and floor.

"It's just a bruise, not a big deal," he assured you, quickly covering his eye despite you having seen the damage. He turned from the mirror and leaned against the sink, producing a pained smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Unconvinced, you lifted a brow and reached up to tug at his wrist. Reluctantly, Awan's hand fell away from his face, along with his smile.

"It looks a lot worse than it feels," he quickly said, lips moving quickly to sway you away from your scolding. "I've had paper cuts in the office worse than this—"

You gave his hand a squeeze before reaching for a nearby cotton swab. Wordlessly, Awan squeezed your hand back before sitting on the edge of the tub. He was no longer towering over you, making it easier for you to take care of him. Carefully, you began wiping at the cut right below his left eyebrow.

You worked diligently to clean the scratch as Awan told you what happened. There happened to be a nasty scuffle at the office and he happened to be in the way of a fist or two. Although you were no doctor, you didn't think he any sort of orbital fracture. Just a scar and really nasty purple bruise.

"It comes with the job," he said, his long arms wrapping slowly around your waist as he tugged you towards him. You stumbled forward, though straightened a bit as your finger slid the bandage over the cut. "No need to worry about me."

You let your defense down and looked into his eyes. "Please be careful, next time? No more fights." You stuck out your pinky, your lips turning into a slight smirk. You knew his job had been his first love and that he had no intentions of parting with it soon. After all, he sacrificed the comforts of familiarity, his family, and lifestyle to maintain it. He'd be darned to give that up over petty office tensions.

Awan's signature grin came to fruition. "No more intentional fights on my end, I can promise you that." He stuck out his pinky and wrapped it around yours.

"I love you."

Those were the first words you heard Benny say when he came crawling back to you on your doorstep in the middle of the night. He looked rough—like the wind had suckered punched him in the face and his bike had thrown him straight into the asphalt like a wild bronco.

If there was ever a time to slam the door in his face it was now. After all, he had left you high and dry without so much as an apology for taking your heart with him. It had been two weeks—fourteen days since he kissed you on your doorstep and told you he would be right back. Even though you knew he was lying—that Johnny needed him to take care of a undisclosed job—you believed him and told him to be careful.

But you were past the point of apologies now. You weren't even angry this time, just disappointed. Between him batting those baby blues and nursing a cut bottom lip, guilt crawled through your veins and straight to your heart like a cuddly rattlesnake.

"Sit."

You pointed to the couch, disregarding his revelation. he had never said those words to you before. You wondered if running right into trouble made him realize that. But your thoughts didn't linger there. Knowing that it possibly took him fourteen days on top of three months of being on and off with him to figure out you were the only constant human being in his life made you grit your teeth.

You returned in a matter of minutes with a damp rag and a glass of water. He was sitting on the couch, looking like a lost puppy. You could tell he was resisting the urge to grab the remote and turn on the tv, in hopes of enticing you to both of your favorite past time.

"I'm done for good," he said in between winces as the cloth brushed against the cut on his upper eyelid. "I won't run off anymore."

"That's what you said the last time, Benny—"

"And the time after that, I know," he agreed with a sighed, fingers itching to take hold of yours. "But I came back."

You huffed in disbelief. "After two weeks of runnin' off with Johnny." You handed him the cloth, unsure as to why you even bothered. "I want to live my life without worrying where you are."

You turned to leave, but he took your hand and squeezed it with both of his. You both were at a standstill now.

Seconds passed before he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he said, breaking the silence. "I promise."

He let go of your hand and you stood. With a final sigh, you went to your bedroom to retire for the night.

The following morning, you took your time walking into the living room after getting dressed. Sitting on the couch, remote in hand, was Benny. He looked over his shoulder.

"Good morning," he said, flashing you a tired smile.

You couldn't bring yourself to return the nonverbal sentiment. However, you uttered a reply that stunned you both:

You tore your eyes away from the blood splatter on his shoe and looked directly at the abyss of Gotham before you. You didn't flinch, didn't move from underneath the killer's arms (after all, you had heard and seen worse.) Instead you waited patiently for the truth to swallow you both in utter silence.

"Did anyone see you?" You asked after the shuddering of his arm around your shoulders stopped.

"No."

"Then it didn't happen."

There was an unspoken rule in the Burnley Town Massive gang: if no one saw it, it never happened. It was a rule you would learn to live by until your dying breath. Given how sinister Gotham could be, you believed it was the only way to survive.

Quietly, you unfurled your fingers from your coat pocket and found Vic's bruised knuckles. You gripped onto his hand and squeezed it firmly. "I know you're not a killer," you whispered into the dense air. "You're not like The Penguin—"

"But I took something that wasn't mine to begin with," he countered, his hand struggling to relax. You knew he was getting frustrated, especially now that you had mentioned The Penguin. You never understood his unnatural allegiance to the mobster, but you never pressed for answers.

Vic tucked you in tighter to his side and exhaled. "I...I d-didn't want to do it."

"But you had to, Vic," you said, his fingers relaxing against your grip now. "You had to protect yourself."

"D-doesn't make it...doesn't make it right." He looked downwards and you both found yourselves looking at his blood stained shoe again.

"It doesn't make you the devil, either."

A slew of sirens rang out in the distance. From ten stories high, the police cars sounded like howling wolves going in for the final kill. Bodies scattered like ants as the red and blue lights overpowered the streets down below. A sharp chill sliced the air and before you could shudder, Vic was already wrapping his arm tighter around your shoulders to shield you from the cold.

"Does it get any easier?"

"I wouldn't know," you mumbled into his jacket. "After being a fraud for so long...everything starts to blur together. I've seen too much...it just all feels numb to me."

You had been on the run your entire life. So much so, that you didn't know who you were anymore. You had learned to adapt when you got recruited by the Burnley Town Massive gang. They took you in and became the devilish family you never asked for—but a family nonetheless.

Vic peeled back to look down at you, sternly. "You're not a fraud. You're only trying to protect yourself..." At the sound of the pause in his voice, you smirked.

"Says the murderer," you said without thinking.

Vic suddenly scoffed, but couldn't help but slightly smirk as you winced at your premature joke. "Too soon?"

He shook his head as if to brush this off, and tugged you back to his side. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before he placed his chin on the top of her head. You pressed your ear against his chest.

"The Fraud and The Murderer," Vic mumbled with another shake of his head, his voice becoming melancholoy again.

You smiled sadly before you closed your eyes. You were now both stained by the infectious disease that was Gotham violence. You believed he now understood that to take life was to survive in Gotham.

🏍Silence is Golden.🏍

~Benny's most attractive moments are during the times when he's not talking; when he's batting those baby blue eyes at you in hopes you can telepathically understand what he's trying to say. Of course, you're always at a loss because you're convinced that there's not a single thought behind those eyes (unless it involves you or motorcycles). He's a terrible verbal flirt—coming off a bit too strong when he tries to woo you with ridiculous pet names he picked up from around the bar. Fortunately, his actions speak louder—and better— than his words do.

When he wants you next to him, he'll slide your chair towards him so your knees are touching. If he wants to send a message to the other guys that you're with him, he'll sling an arm around your shoulder and tug you close to his side or rest a hand on your knee.

🏍What's in a name?🏍

~Benny calls you his sweetheart. It slips right off his tongue so naturally, you get butterflies every time he says it. When he calls you 'sweetheart', it's normally when he's concerned about your safety. "Sit next to me, sweetheart. I gotta keep my eye on you," or "hold onto me, sweetheart. Can't have you fallin' off the bike, now can we?" It's endearing and makes you smile every time.

🏍Like a boomerang

~As much as you love Benny and Benny loves you, things aren't always perfect. After a week or so of being together, you realize he's threatening to leave for good every other week. It's a cycle—one that took you a long time to get used to. He'd say he's leaving, you'd plead for him to stop breaking your heart, he leaves for a day or two, and before you know it you find him sitting out on your front porch waiting for you to open the door and invite him back in again. "I promise I would never leave you for good," he'd mumble into your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your waist. It isn't until he leaves the biker gang behind that you believe him.

🏍Life could be a breeze🏍

~Being with Benny is a reckless whirlwind of chaos day in and day out. On top of him leaving every other week, he's always throwing himself into pointless fights...and he's losing most of the time. He's in constant pain—of which you're always nagging him is of his own doing. If it's not his leg, it's his ribs. if it's not his ribs, it's his hand.

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart. It's just a scratch. He had what was coming to 'em," he says while you're wiping blood from his cheek.

You sigh and turn to leave him be, but he's quickly got you by the wrist and already pulling you in for a quick peck on the lips. "You forgive me?" He asks and you roll your eyes.

"No, Benjamin Cross. I don't."

🏍Trial by error.🏍

One day at the bar, Corky had the guts to ask you if you wanted a smoke. When you told him you didn't smoke, he offered you a drink instead. When you told him you had somewhere to be, he asked if he could get you anything at all.

"How 'bout you gimme ten feet, Corky?" You're shuffling backwards and crossing your arms, looking for your friend or the nearest exit—whichever came first. The last thing you wanted was for him to think he was winning you over.

"How about one?" He takes a big step towards you and his face is, more accurately, inches from yours. Before he has a chance to kiss you, he pulls back and lightly tilts your chin upwards before strutting over to his buddies, who are all laughing in the corner. He's fully convinced that this move alone—his attempt at almost kissing you— finally has you flustered. But little did he know, you had had a crush on him since the first day you've met.

🏍Going down the highway.🏍

Being with Corky felt like going down a highway at full speed without a care in a world. You both were always laughing; living in your own little world while everyone seemed to be passing by. There wasn't a moment that went by where your boyfriend wasn't close to you in some way. He wasn't afraid to pull you to his side or even you have you sit in his lap when everyone was enjoying each other's company. You both are always in the corner of the room snickering at everyone else or something the other said.

🏍He thinks you're pretty.🏍

Corky calls you an assortment of pet names that are not limited to some variation of doll, doll face, pretty, baby, sugar. You told him you weren't a fan of pet names, so he stuck with 'doll face' just to tease you. Your harmless glare only made him laugh.

Of course a little blood and a couple of loose teeth on the ground didn't bother you when you were watching the Vandals from a distance alongside their wives.

Unfortunately, you were a little too close for comfort this time when the first punch was thrown and Kathy, Gail, and Betty were nowhere in sight.

Scrambling from the wooden picnic table, you sidestepped two drunken bikers tussling with Johnny on the ground. The two assailants wore colors you didn't recognize.

"You dumb pieces of—"

A breeze of nicotine rushed past you, making you stumble. His slew of insults got lost in the sound of violent grunts that took place behind you.

You opened your mouth to tell Benny to watch it, but you quickly shut up, knowing that your words would get lost in the wind as he headed straight for Johnny's rescue.

You couldn't have been more grateful for leaving your secluded spot at the picnic table just in time for Benny to tackle one of the bikers on top of Johnny, and throw him onto the wooden surface. Thankfully, you turned your head just in time to hear Benny's knuckles crack against the man's nose.

"Y/N!"

You lifted your head upwards, narrowly missing Wahoo and Corky as they drunkenly ran past you to help Benny—who was most likely getting himself killed because of his recklessness. You shielded your eyes from the sun and sprinted towards the voice that called out your name.

By the time you reached the pickup truck, Danny had his hand extended towards you. You took it, and he carefully pulled you up onto the bed of the truck, sweat sprinkling his forehead. Once he was sure you caught your footing, he released your hand and you took a seat on the blanket that was sprawled beneath you.

"I didn't know you liked seeing 'em fight up close," Danny joked, readjusting the strap of his camera around his neck. He pointed the silver lens at the mob that was now forming around the area where you were once sitting.

"I don't," you said, eyes going to the side of his face and then to the commotion from afar. You brushed the dirt and loose pieces of grass from your palms before sitting on the side of your knees folded under you.

Although you didn't care much for any of those Vandals, you only stuck around because the Wives were the only friends you truly had. The only thing setting you apart from them was the fact that you weren't married to one of those brutes in a matching leather jacket. (You weren't married at all, to be frank.) But this fact didn't bother you. In fact, you had no intention of ever wanting to marry a Vandal for the sake of them either getting killed on their bike or cut by somebody's knife. You simply enjoyed their company because it was must better than being alone.

But your dislike for some of the Vandals didn't outweigh your distrust for Danny.

Perhaps it was his probing questions towards you and your friends, or that invasive rectangular box with a lens that hung around his neck. Regardless, you didn't trust him fully. Either that, or he intrigued you and you didn't want to admit it entirely to yourself.

"How come you're not out there helpin' them?" You asked in between the clicks of his camera. "Don't know how to fight?"

You knew the answer to this, but you just wanted to shake off the embarrassment of nearly getting in the middle of a breakout fight.

"I'm not much of a fighter," he said with a chuckle, a look of amusement passing over his features. "I prefer to be behind the camera instead of in front of it."

"Well, I prefer there not be a camera in the first place."

"Is that why you won't let me take a picture of you, Y/N?"

You turned to look at him, your cheeks getting warmer than the sun beating down on you both. He was looking straight ahead, seemingly satisfied with the pictures of sweaty, bloody men rolling around in the dirt. He grinned when he finally looked at you. "You're camera shy. Is that why you won't let me take your picture?"

"I'm not shy. I just don't like my picture taken, that's all," you said, defensively.

"Well, do you like taking the pictures?" He got off his knees and sat next to you, removing the camera from around his neck.

You shuffled, putting a bit of distance between you. "I've never tried." You shrugged carelessly, finding this conversation to be pointless and ridiculous.

"Maybe you'll like being behind the camera, then."

Before you could respond, Danny placed his camera in your lap. "You look through that little square there," he said, pointing to the back of the camera, "and make sure it aligns just right. Then you pull this lever back and press that button at the top to take the picture."

You looked down at the camera in your hands before looking at Danny with a lifted brow.

He chuckled softly. "Come on, try it." He took the strap of the camera and carefully draped it around your neck, his fingers lightly brushing the little hairs there. Quietly, he demonstrated on how to hold it up to your face and you reluctantly mimicked his movements. "Now, just find something interesting."

You took a breath and let your eyes sweep over the picnic. The fight had settled down and the boys were separating to their own corners. Some went to wrap their arms around their wives as if they had won the battle. The beers were flying left and right and the bikes were roaring in the distance. Perceptively, you panned the camera all the way around until you landed on the photographer himself. He was busy tinkering with his portable microphone.

At the sound of the click, he looked up as if surprised to be the subject of your aperture.

"How does it feel to be the one in front of the camera?" You grinned, playfully.

"Still nothing compared to being behind it," He smiled back before hopping off the bed of the truck. "But since you took my picture, you know what that means, right?"

He offered his hand to help you down. He slid off the truck with his ease and released his hand before smoothing out your shirt.

"What?" you asked, removing the camera from around your neck and handing it to him.

"That I get to take a picture of you" he insisted, kindly. "Just one, I promise. If that's okay."

You crossed your arms as if to mull it over before rolling your eyes. "Fine. Just one. But I don't know how to pose or anything."

"Just be you," he said, setting down his portable microphone. He put the camera around his neck and lifted it up to his face, waiting to take your picture.

You sighed and hoisted yourself on the tail-end of the bed of the truck. You crossed your legs and set your hands in your lap. Just as you were about to look directly at the camera, Betty had called your name from afar, waving you over. The camera clicked as you looked over Danny's shoulder as the group migrated to a small bonfire.

"Perfect," Danny said, looking down at his camera. He glanced behind him as the group formed before looking back at you. "You look great."

You hopped off the truck. "But I wasn't ready," you said with a slight laugh, knowing he had caught you off guard just as you had done him. "I wasn't even looking."

"The most beautiful pictures are the candid ones, Y/N." His smile lingered before he bent down and picked up his equipment. Slowly he turned to join the rest of the group surrounding a small fire.

It took you a moment as the butterflies in your stomach began to flutter about. The smile on your face stuck like glue and all of sudden you were unsure of what to do with your hands.

The sound of laughter and the consistent thud of footsteps coming up the stairs made you groan. Although you'd much rather stick to your hermit agenda, you promised your parents you would keep the door to your room open, ensuring that your younger siblings and their friends didn't burn down the house without you knowing about it.

Hunched at your desk, you were busy with your nose in a book until a sudden incessant taping at your doorway got a little too annoying for comfort.

"Nice Van Halen poster."

"That's Bauhaus, idiot," you said, while your heart began to drum in your ears. You kept your back turned to him, eyes trained on the same sentence you had been reading ever since you heard Harrington's voice from downstairs. "What are you doing here, anyway? I don't remember Lucas inviting you over."

You heard him shuffle across your room —over to the poster with four Caucasian men clad in grey suits and dark sunglasses. You heard your bed creak, followed by an exaggerated sigh. You looked over your shoulder.

"Steve—"

"How come you don't have a picture of me on your wall?" He's lying in the center of your bed, legs hanging off the edge while his eyes are fixated on the Bauhaus poster above your headboard.

You sighed and shut your book before swiveling to face your boyfriend. "Because I'm not a psychopath...and last I checked, you can't carry a tune to save your life, Harrington." Abandoning your book, your walked over and grabbed his wrist, initiating a game of tug of war with a weak start.

Steve chuckled as he sat up, his body flopping forward like a limp noodle as he gave into your lack of strength. "Hey, hey. What's the rush? We're not going to get caught. Your parents aren't here."

"Yeah, but Erica and Lucas are. We'll be over before we've even started—"

You shook your head, a hot flash rising to your cheeks as the word 'dating' got stuck in your throat.

The word made you cringe. It made feel you like were in one of those lovesick romance movies whenever you said it. An unfamiliar queasiness rose in your stomach as Steve rose an eyebrow.

Crap.

You had been caught.

"What was that?" Steve stood up straight, towering over you, his features laced with an alert sense of curiosity. He had stepped forward now, nearly trapping you between him and the wall. You still had a hold on his wrist. "I didn't hear that last part, Sinclair. 'We'll be over before we've even started...?'"

You rolled your eyes. "Cut the crap, Harrington. You know what this is," you hissed under your breath, eyes darting to the open door that could expose your secret any minute.

"Yeah, but I don't think I've ever heard you say it out loud before," he said with an amused grin on his lips. A tendril of his hair loomed over the center of his forehead. You resisted the urge to brush it back into place. Now wasn't the right time for that.

Now wasn't the right time for whatever this was.

"If you don't get out of my room, you're not going to live to hear me say it."

With a small grunt, you pulled him by the wrist, guiding him to the threshold of your door. He's stumbling behind you, stifling a laugh and purposefully dragging his feet until they reach the creaky floorboards of the hallway. You then maneuver around him, taking your place in front of your door as you wait for your boyfriend to retreat back down the stairs.

But as smooth as a criminal, Steve turns around, arms braced against the doorway, feet locked into place. He has no intentions of moving until he gets what he wants.

"Harrington," you whisper, lowering your voice as you both were now in closer proximity to the stairs and Erica's room down the hall.

"Sinclair."

Seconds of silent staring pass before you sigh in defeat.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

"But, I'm your idiot," Steve says, his face lingering close to yours. He's wearing a contagious smile that has somehow slid across the thin space between you and jumped on your face. "Now, are you going to repeat what you said earlier or am I going to have the privilege of properly introducing myself to my future in-laws?"

Crossing your arms, you lifted your chin and narrowed your eyes. He always found a way to have the upper hand, even if it made him look dangerously stupid. But as dangerously stupid as the thought of Steve introducing himself as your boyfriend to your parents and siblings was, you couldn't stop your lips from twitching upwards.

"I said," you started, your voice getting lower which each word, "If my brother or sister finds out that you're in my room, we'll be over before we've even started dating for a month."

You swallowed your embarrassment, your eyes falling to your shoes as the word tumbled out of your mouth. Steve had asked you officially to be his girlfriend only two weeks ago and you still couldn't admit out loud that you were dating him. Let alone in secret.

Having Lucas and Erica find out before your parents would be an never ending nightmare. Your parents had forbade you from dating until you had finished school. Thankfully, you only had a few more months and then —and only then—did you plan on making your relationship with Steve known to your parents.

"See?" Steve said, tilting your chin upwards. "Was that so hard?"

But before you could say 'yes' with gritted teeth, Steve had pecked your lips, leaving you speechless.

"I'll see at Family Video on Friday?" He whispered, already backing away from you as laughter came from the room right down the hall.

"Uh, yeah," you said, trying to keep your head straight. "Family Video. Friday," you confirmed long after he had vanished down the steps.

You leaned against your doorway, massaging your temples as you fought the smile on your lips.