before he lost control




i can’t believe I used to think you were cool you’re not cool at all, Locus, you’re a huge loser oh my god

you big awkward baby i love you so much


“I don’t care,” snapped Victor suddenly, the air humming to life around them. Mitch shot forward, putting his hulking form in front of Sydney, and Victor caught himself before he lost control. All three seemed surprised by the outburst, and guilt—or at least a pale version of it—tightened in Victor’s chest as he considered the other two, the loyal guard and the impossible girl. He couldn’t afford to lose them—their help, he corrected himself, their cooperation—certainly not today, so he drew the energy back into himself, wincing as he grounded it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, letting out a low breath.

for @aristotlemendoza



Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes sat in an uncomfortable high backed chair in his brother’s drawing room. The only light source the flickering flames in the fireplace, causing the consulting detective’s face to be bathed in dancing shadows. His hands were placed together at the palms, fingertips resting on his Cupid’s bow mouth, eyebrows drawn together over his unfocused stormy blue-green eyes.

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t stop his mind from spinning. He couldn’t stop the deluge of information from spiraling nonstop in his brain. His mind palace was in shambles from the onslaught on data it had received in such a short period of time, the walls threatening to crumble, doors in danger of falling right off the hinges, files and cases in flutters of paper like flakes of snow in a blizzard. He stood at the entrance of his mind palace, staring down the hallway, watching papers blow about in an unseen wind. He knew he needed to start sorting out the mess in his head before it got out of control and he lost all form of organization, knew he should be trying to categorize the events of the last forty-eight hours, but the door at the very end of this particular corridor was calling to him.

He knew where he had to go. He knew whom he must see within the labyrinthine halls of his extensive memory. He knew he needed to open the shaking door and face her. But…

Sherlock Holmes was terrified of what he might find in his subconscious.

The door at the end of the corridor rattled violently on its hinges, the handle twisting and turning as who was behind it tried to force her way out. Steeling himself for a subconscious confrontation, Sherlock started to move towards the door, his mind altering the layout of the halls, forcing the door to meet him halfway, his hand inches from the rattling handle…

“You know you must talk to her, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice interrupted.

Sherlock came crashing back to reality, blinking the dryness from his eyes; a result of not blinking for such a long period of time. He sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“I know,” Sherlock admitted, not bothering to face his older brother.

Mycroft walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down heavily. Sherlock flicked a glance his brother’s way, noticing the dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes, the new lines that seemed to find their way onto his face overnight, and the way his waistcoat hung more loosely on him than it had before.

“However hard that must have been at Sherrinford, you must explain to her what happened. Even I know that.” Mycroft said, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Sherlock asked in a low voice, folding his arms across his chest, staring deep into the dancing flames before him.

“Explain it to her as you see fit, brother mine.” Mycroft said, staring at the flames for a moment before looking at Sherlock. “But I do suggest that perhaps you should start with the truth.”

“The truth,” Sherlock scoffed. “And how would I even begin to explain that I have a long lost sister, whose memories I repressed because she is psychotic. She has killed numerous people just for the hell of it, became best friends with Moriarty after five minutes worth of conversation, somehow snuck out of a maximum security island prison twice, tried to seduce John, and then became his therapist under a different disguise, and helped me find the most dangerous serial killer in all of London. Oh, and she killed my childhood best friend when she was a child herself, and because of the trauma, I changed my very human friend into a dog in my memories.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at the flames, his nostrils flaring with anger.

“I see your dilemma,” sighed Mycroft.

Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair with his long white fingers and leaned towards Mycroft.

“Do not pretend for one moment that you even understand feelings, Mycroft.” He spat. “You were there; you saw what Eurus did to me. To her.” Sherlock jumped to his feet and began to pace, his anger causing white hot energy to scream through his veins.

How could so much change in such a short amount of time? Sherlock thought, dragging his hands roughly through his hair. Nothing in the last forty-eight hours made sense to him. How could he go from his biggest problem being a double murder late at night, to having a psychotic sister all of the sudden?

Things were so much simpler before Mary died. Before the Culverton Smith fiasco.

Before Sherrinford.

Just a month before Sherlock’s ill fated journey to the London Aquarium, he had let himself into Molly’s flat with the intention of using her spare bedroom as a quiet place to think, when he found himself standing next to her bed. As always, Molly gave him what he needed without him having to actually ask, and he had fallen asleep with the small pathologist wrapped in his arms.

What had become the norm for them changed completely when Mary died, and Sherlock had lost John Watson’s friendship for a while. He could still remember how sadly Molly had looked at him, standing outside the Watsons’ door, holding their goddaughter. It was such a sharp contrast to the laughing, comfortable Molly that had stood beside him at little Rosie’s christening, jokingly reprimanding him for giving his phone more attention than his goddaughter.

The day she had given him the note from John, had repeated John’s hurtful words to him, was the last time he had seen her sober.

The night he showed up to her flat, high from a mixture of cocaine and morphine, she had taken one look at his stubbled jaw and unkempt hair, and slammed the door soundly in his face. He had left her a note (slid underneath her door) asking to please meet him at the following address in two weeks’ time. Three days later he received a text from her. It was short and to the point, saying she would be there.

She refused to answer any of his following messages. And refused to talk to him the whole drive to meet with Culverton Smith, except her outburst when John had shown up.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! It’s not a game!” she had practically screamed at him.

He looked at her, properly, for the first time since she had slammed the door in his face. Sherlock noticed the dark circles under her eyes, how limp her hair seemed. Her face was drawn, and her nails were shorter where she had bitten them.

“I’m worried about you, Molly.” Sherlock said, looking closer at her, trying to see through the haze of the drugs in his system. “You seem very stressed…”

Molly threw him a dirty look. “I’m stressed, you’re dying!” she spat venomously.

He couldn’t resist getting a jab in, not in his altered state.

“Yeah, well, I’m ahead, then.” He said, his eyes flashing for just a moment.

The look she gave him haunted him for the next month.

All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were before, when everything was simple, and his actions went unquestioned. He just wanted to let himself into Molly’s flat whenever he felt like it, wanted to slide into her bed and wrap her in his arms and get some actual sleep. He wanted to-

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, halting in his pacing.

His outburst woke Mycroft, who had dozed off in his chair. He looked wildly around, before his eyes settled on his little brother. Sherlock was still as a statue, eyes wide.

After ten minutes of Sherlock staring unblinkingly at nothing in particular, Mycroft decided to break the silence.

“Care to inform me what I could’ve missed, that you have somehow deduced?” Mycroft drawled.

“This is my fault.” Sherlock murmured, still staring straight ahead, lost in his mind.

“Your fault?” Mycroft asked. “Sherlock, we have discussed this. This whole matter of Eurus, of what happened at Sherrinford, everything, none of it is your fault. You were a child when it started-“

“No, Mycroft! Molly! Eurus choosing Molly for her demented little game. That was all my fault!” Sherlock said, snapping his eyes to Mycroft.

Mycroft closed his mouth and looked at his younger brother with wide eyes.

Of course! Thought Sherlock. It was his own entire fault! Why else did Moriarty choose unassuming little Mousey Molly Hooper to get close to him? Why not choose John? Or Mrs. Hudson? Or even Lestrade? The answer was simple. Sherlock was always telling John that he never observed, and after all this time, it was Sherlock who chose not to observe what was right in front of his face.

Molly Hooper mattered most.

The years he had been using her flat as a bolt hole. All the years he would sprawl on her couch, or go through her fridge, or do experiments in her bathtub. All the nights they would share meals together (Molly being the only one who could actually convince Sherlock to eat on a semi-regular basis), or watch crap telly. All the days he would actually clean up after himself while he was at her flat because she liked things neat, whereas he would leave a trail of destruction at his own.

And now, most recently, all the nights he fell asleep content to just be holding Molly in his arms.

How long had the cameras Eurus used been in Molly’s flat? Half a year? A year? Two? Five? Did it really matter? One week of watching footage from Molly and Sherlock’s interactions would have been more than enough for someone as smart as his sister to deduce how he felt about her.

The one person, they thought who didn’t count, mattered most of all.

And it had been used against him.

Sherlock realized that he kneeling on the floor, not quite remembering how he ended up getting there. He looked up from his hands to Mycroft, eyes wide and full of doubt and questions.

“What do I do, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a strained voice, looking to Mycroft very much like his baby brother from childhood.

Mycroft looked back at him, and for once the older brother’s face held none of its usual contempt.

“What you must.” Mycroft replied.

The biggest of shoutouts to @forthe for making this actually readable, you are the best proof reader that has ever existed! And to @moll for her invaluable ideas, thank you for putting up with my seven million emails a day! A huge thanks to both of you for your continuous encouragement, because without your support, my writing would never see the light of day. And thank you, readers, for your continued kind words about my fics, y'all are the best!!

When Gamma got to know Private Leonard Church as “Gary” during the time loops in season 3, I wonder if he ever felt bad about the part he played in torturing Alpha into splitting. We don’t know how the AI were coerced into the task by the Director. If the AI we consider “bad” had any choice at all. 

Sigma was one of the ringleaders of the torture, but the only independent action we see him take is to manipulate Maine and try and reunite the fragments in the Meta. Maybe they all liked Alpha. 

Gamma does seem almost fond of Church at the end, and when they speak again in season 5, although like most of the Freelancer AI, he is most on the side of his Freelancer than anyone else.


Shawn’s bad habit of being on his phone while driving can lead to some serious consequences. *Shawn Mendes was not harmed during the making of this story* GET OFF YOUR PHONE, SHAWN. This was a conversation had by myself and @anothermendesfangirl. Enjoy :-)

“Zoe!” I heard Andrew call my name.

I turned to my right, frantically looking for him in the crowded emergency room of Cedar-Sinai Hospital. Andrew weaved through the rows of seats before finally reaching me.

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice sounding almost shrill.

“He just got out of getting X-Rays done. Since he was brought in by ambulance they took him in right away,” he said.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

Keep reading

End of the Day | l.h

a/n: Here’s a thing I got the idea for listening to End of the Day by 1D. once I committed to actually finishing this I started hating it, so hopefully you guys don’t feel the same. Also it’s late now but I’d still like to ~dedicate it to @16lukes​ in honour of her birthday yesterday :-)
wc: 1950

If Luke had a dollar for every time the words ‘I’m in love with you’ had almost dripped right from his lips against your ear, he’d have enough money to buy you the world. Typical of him, the moments he felt each word bouncing on his tongue as if begging to be let out were often clouded by the consumption of too much beer.

He’d never lost control of his syllables before – not so much that you thought them more than the mumblings of your drunken best friend. Declarations of love that spilled into your ear over the phone when you were oceans apart; sentiments repeated as you pushed him into the spare bed of your parents home begging him to tell you in the morning when he wouldn’t be waking the entire house.

Keep reading


‘Where are you going?’ Scott asked as you came downstairs.

‘Uh out with Liam.’ you said.

‘Not like that you aren’t.’

‘What’s wrong with this?’ you scoffed.

You were wearing some ripped jeans, a gray t-shirt and a blue flannel over it and some combat boots. Not exactly revealing.

‘It’s cute.’

‘Oh thank you!” you smiled.

‘Too cute, Liam might get too excited and lose control.’

‘Scott I’m sure Liam can handle seeing my neck, hands and face. He wont try anything, just like he’s never lost control before.’ you said.

‘That was luck.’ Scott dismissed.

‘Scott I know you can hear me, and I can hear you too.’ Liam said from the other side of the front door.

‘Yeah, I know.’ Scott said unapologetically.

Recovery one (Closed Rp)

James was returning from his week in the mountain compound. He heard report of Grimm activity attacking the compound and went to investigate himself. Luckily he survived without any scratches. He snagged one of the warthogs and was driving home. Someone bumped his rear before getting beside him and pushing him towards the cliff. He lost control and rolled downhill.

Two days later a team of rescuers went searching for him after he went ‘missing’. They rushed him to an emergency room. The doctors updated his prosthetics and software, his left side was littered with scars, gashes, and other wounds due to the accident. He was put on critical life support, family and friends were contacted to inform them of his condition. Only Weiss came to visit.

Power Surge


This hadn’t been part of the plan.  Magnus had heard that there were several young warlocks who were being tormented by some witch hunters, evil humans playing with the children like toys, leaving them hidden and terrified.  It was one thing to mess with people who could fight back but to attack innocent children was something Magnus could not stand.  

He had been angry, so angry, when he saw what they were doing.  Now the witch hunters were no more, the children were safe with Catarina who was calling in favors to get them to safe houses, and Magnus was pacing his loft, his own magic coming off him in pulsing waves.  So much power.  He had never accessed all the power he had before but he had been angry and lost control.  Now he couldn’t get it back.  

He heard Ace coming home and turned h is head to look at him, cat eyes glowing partially with anger still, but also a plea for help, a plea to his lover to help him get back to being himself and not Asmodeus’ son.

The8 today!

“Minghao~” I called from my bedroom. I heard a small “Yes?"coming from the living room. My boyfriend was in the middle of a video game level, and having to attempted it for the past week, he believed this time he would truly get it. I stood up from my bed and walked towards him. His eyes continued to stare at the screen in front of him and his lower lip was in between is teeth. I sat on the floor beside his legs and rested my chin on the sofa cushion next to him. His eyes moved frantically and his fingers moved quickly on his controller. My head tilted slightly so I could watch his face while he played.
This happened for a least five minutes before he groaned and set his controller to the side, he had lost again. His puppy eyes met mine but his lips stayed in a pout. I smiled and said encouragingly, "Next time..” His lips formed a smile and he intertwined our finger together, “Baobei,” he pulled me up so I sat beside him, “Thanks.” He leaned down and rubbed the tip of his nose against my own. I smiled at the cute gesture and squeezed his hand tightly. He made and cute face and tilted his head, “Wasn’t it boring watching me?” I gave my head a shake and said, “It’s really interesting actually.” He blinked cutely and gave me a shy smile, “Really?” I kissed his red cheek and said, “You look so cute while concentrating.” His lips formed a pout, “But I want to be known as your cool sexy boyfriend.” I felt my lips turn up in a smile and I hugged him close, “You are.” I pulled slightly so our nose could touch, “What other cool boy named Xu Minghao can B-boy?” I cupped his cheek and stares into his large puppy eyes that stared at me in love, “And what other boy can make me feel special, safe, and beautiful?” I kissed his pink lips and pulled away, while whispering against his lips, “What other boy can be as sexy as you are without even trying?” His eyes, filled with love, widened and he tightly hugged me. “I love you so much Y/N…” He pulled back and kissed my lips lovingly. His arms tightened around me while he hugged me once more. I ran my fingers through his blond hair and smiled, “I love you too, Minghao…”

Faking It Drabble #7 (Slow Burn from Dean’s POV)

He let go of her, pretending to need to stretch his back. What the hell had he just done? Held her hand and kissed her forehead? Why?

What the hell was wrong with him?

Holy fuck, her mouth. It was perfect. Hot and wet and moving so, so slowly that he was going to die. Before he knew it, he was literally begging. And he was so strung out, so desperate, that he didn’t even care. Didn’t care that he’d never begged before, didn’t care that he had never lost control with a woman.

He was always the one giving the pleasure, and he took pride in the fact that no woman ever left unsatisfied. That was what had started this whole thing in the first place. But here he was, hers for the whole day. And not only did he enjoy it, he was actually begging for it.

She pulled away just before he came, grinning at him wickedly.

Pool was as easy as breathing for him. He barely had to think as he lined up his shots, years of practice allowing him to see exactly the way the balls would move before he moved a muscle.

But who could see anything, who could line up a shot, when she was rubbing against him that way? He thought he was back in control for a moment, as he was kissing her and feeling her grind down on his thigh like she wanted to come just from that. But just as he was on the verge of losing it, she pushed him back, just like she had in the hotel room.

And then gorgeous, filthy things were falling from her mouth as they finished the pool game. She told him everything she wanted to do to him, how goo he made her feel, and how bad she wanted to watch him, to stare at him while he came.

He had never felt so wanted, and it almost broke something inside of him.

He had watched her touch herself on the bed earlier, had tasted her own flavor on her fingers. She had looked beyond hot, spreading herself out for him to look at, teasing him with what he desperately wanted but wasn’t allowed to have today. But even then, she didn’t have the look in her eyes that she had now as she watched him stroke himself.

He shivered under her gaze, and it had nothing to do with the intense pleasure he was feeling as his hand moved up and down his hard cock. It was because of the way she was watching him, like he was worth looking at.

He came so hard. So hard that he fell forward over her, wanting her with him as he trembled through his release. He caught his breath while she stroked his back and ran her fingers through his hair, praising him with her hands.

Yeah, he was in over his head.


Regardless of whether that “would you like to die again” scene was a memory or a hallucination, Arima and Haise’s relationship is still a fucked up one.

We know Arima was working with the CCG to analyze Haise’s personality and behavior in order to find the best ways to manipulate him – we saw that with Akira’s memories.

And Haise knows that if he loses control, or in general just isn’t useful to the CCG anymore (a fear he acknowledes when considering Donato in Cochlea), he’ll be killed. Probably by Arima, who was the one to take him out when he lost control before with Arima’s squad. For all their positive interactions, Sasaki knows that Arima will kill him without hesitation if he decides to.

If it was a hallucination, it didn’t come out of nowhere, and it being a hallucination doesn’t negate the horror of that scene.

Third Degree

He could only tolerate the tasteless stuff for so long. While he might not have the animal instincts of the mute, he still had a beast in him that preferred the hunt rather than simply supping on cold and bland plasma. It just wasn’t enough. Something had to be done before he would crawl the walls with hunger and lost control on the first person that walked through the safe house doors.

As he stood outside, looking upon a small house that had seen better days, he weighed the consequences of his decision. He knew the place well. It had once been the crew’s, ran by Hector and his cartel before they were betrayed, then by the Mendozas before they were handled by both the crew and the waiting police. A handful of no named thugs took over next, expecting to build an empire from the ashes.

Bain did mention about doing a sweep someday, just to get their old lab stomping ground back, didn’t he? Unfortunately they had been caught up in bigger, better things. Still, no one would bat an eye if the thugs suddenly disappeared, right?

It was an hour after dawn when the safe house’s phone started ringing. It stopped once no one answered, only to start up again. For someone to call twice within the span of a few minutes, it had to be urgent.