#-something bad that fundamentally 'needed' to end

[strawberry-nugget]

Synopsis: Your stomach drops. Because he’s right. You didn’t mean for this to go this far—but you didn’t stop it either. And he knows it. He knew that one day you’d crack.

Pairings: Izuku x reader, married!Bakugo x reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, office sex, p in v sex, cheating (but not really, no spoilers tho), m! masturbation, sleazy-ish Izuku, talks about reader & katsuki having a baby, slight angst (for Izuku) bc of the ending, big huge plot twist, do NOT hate me for this lol. Bear with me and don’t click out😂 All characters are 20+

Izuku is out of breath. Sweating beady droplets down his face, chest, his glasses are foggy even if they’re still pushed to his forehead, one handle almost broken—he knows he’s gonna have to need a new pair by tomorrow. However with his chest heaving underneath you, he couldn’t care less.

“We—ngggggh— shouldn’t be doing this” you gasp

“Oh, oh you’re— i fffucking know”

Fundamentally, you’re right. You know it deep down, in your gut that this is sinister, evil. You're both two huge iredeemable assholes for doing this. Because there’s a small crucial detail that stalls between you right now. Katsuki is your husband. Izuku’s best childhood friend. There should be no excuse as to why he’s balls deep inside you right fucking now.

You were only supposed to drop by to try and talk to him, convince him to accept Katsuki’s offer to take that enhanced suit and be a hero again. Not fuck him like your life depends on it.

How you ended up on top of him, bouncing on his lap, his leaking dick seethed inside you in his cluttered, dim office, straddling him in his goddamn work chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is beyond both of you.

You’ve always been kind to him. Since basically infancy, you always stood up for him. Always helped him, sweet talked him. He was the only person who knew you wanted to get into UA and at one point you were the only person other than All Might who knew how he obtained his quirk. You always put yourself between him and Katsuki, often scolding the blond for his behavior, even stopped hanging out with him after the swan dive line. It was only natural that he formed a crush on you. One that he tried to hide away and shove inside himself for years.

You never told him that you’d shared your first kiss with Katsuki in middle school (and many others after that, before and after the swan dive incident), never talked to him about your first time with Katsuki in his dorm before the war. You just popped up in public together that one day in the hospital and absolutely demolished his heart. He had to be the best man at your wedding because he was your oldest friend, for both of you.

And now? Now you whimper into his shoulder as his hands crush your hips down harder, and Izuku let’s out something like a chuckle. Soft. Dry. Bitter.

“Oh, now you feel bad?” he pants, head tilting back against the worn leather. “Didn’t seem like you felt bad when you were begging for it two minutes ago.”

“Izuku—”

He cuts you off with a sharp thrust, his smirk cruel but so tired. "Nah. You don’t get to act shocked. You came here wearing that pretty little blouse. You sat on my couch like you knew I’d crack. So don’t pretend this just... happened.” His fingers tag on the ripped hem of your blouse, chuckling down on how it looks like a subtle reminder of what it once was.

Your stomach drops. Because he’s right. You didn’t mean for this to go this far—but you didn’t stop it either.

And he knows it.

He knew that one day you’d crack.

Now, your pretty pussy, the one he could only ever imagine, is taking every thrust of his cock like a champ. It’s sucking him in your saccharine walls. Snug and warm and perfect.

His hands snake up your spine, slow and possessive, like he wants to memorize the way you feel under his fingertips. Like he wants to carve you into his memory before it all goes to shit.

“I should stop,” he says. “I want to stop. But I can’t. Not with you like this. Not when I’ve wanted you longer than I’ve wanted anything.”

You don’t reply.

Both you and Katsuki have tried to push him to Ochako, given him lectures on how he should man up and just do it. And in all righteousness he should have. He thinks he ought to have accepted that you are married to his best friend for years. That you were planning an even bigger future than just your marriage. Setting up a nursery. Last week, when he visited him at UA. Katsuki told him you were trying for kids.

For fuck’s sake he should have gone for Ochako. Melissa. Anyone else but you. He should have let it go.

But no one could ever have one up on you.

Izuku has always wanted you.

It’s not just lust. It’s not just love. It’s something uglier than that. Something deeper, deformed with claws and teeth, something that’s been sinking into the marrow of his bones since he was thirteen years old. Since the first time you pulled him and Katsuki —the latter by the ear— behind the school and defended him with tears in your eyes and your fists clenched, shaking. Since he watched you break down in tears that day when Katsuki refused to walk you home and only guessed the reasoning behind it when you forgave him the next second.

He hated you a little bit for it. Hated how kind you were. Hated how much you looked at him like he was good and still chose Katsuki.

Hated how hard it was to let you go.

So now he’s fucking you like he’s punishing you for it.

Your knees are starting to burn against the office chair cushion, but you don’t dare fucking stop. Not with the way his fingers are digging into your ass. Not with the way he looks up at you—hair stuck to his forehead, forest green pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he’s watching a miracle fall apart in front of him.

You moan, and he leans forward, catches the sound with his tongue in your mouth, eats it up like it’s the last thing he’ll ever be allowed to have. His kisses burn against your mouth. And you’re still so reluctant to give in.

“I should’ve told you,” he breathes between frantic kisses “earlier”

You thread your fingers through his wet curls, yank his head back just enough to make him hiss.

“You didn’t,” you whisper.

“I wanted to,” he says, “but you looked so happy. I figured if I waited long enough, I’d stop wanting you or you’d eventually break up with Kacchan”

You clench around him without meaning to, and he shudders, desperately hard.

“Don’t fucking call him that, you don’t deserve to right now, sweetheart”

You’re right. Katsuki spent thousands on that suit because he loves Izuku dearly and here he is, fucking his wife. The wife Katsuki is so doting of. The wife Katsuki adores more than anything else. His childhood sweetheart.

Izuku’s childhood sweetheart, missed by a fraction.

You roll your hips slow, and the noise Izuku makes is practically animalistic. And fuck he feels so good inside you, hitting every spot, every curve of your cunt even with just a stutter of his hips.

Your tummy is burning, coiling internally in shapes of pleasure and you know you’re close. You shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be falling apart like this on the cock of the man your husband would take a bullet for. But your body betrays you, slick and fluttering, choking down each punishing thrust like you were made for him. Your cunt is melting in the shape of him and only him as his mushroom tip bullies the ridges of your cunt.

Izuku feels it. Hears it in the way your breath hiccups, sees it in the desperate flex of your thighs around his waist, the way your nails claw into his traps like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

He grabs your ass, drags you forward harshly and down, makes you take every inch until his throbbing tip presses so deep, you see white behind your eyelids. You practically scream at the feeling, but he doesn’t let up. Just rolls his hips again, and again, until you need to bury your face into the crook of his neck so you don’t look at him.

Still. Your moans are embarrassingly loud now, and Izuku doesn’t shush them. Doesn’t slow down. If anything, he fucks you harder, chasing the sound, dragging impossibly more out of you. One hand flies to your throat again, not choking, just holding, so you can meet his eyes—like he’s actually daring you to pretend this means nothing.

Like he wants to feel your pulse thrum under his palm, wants proof that he is inside you.

Your eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm starts to threaten to burst and he knows it. Feels it in the tremble of your core, the breathless chant of half-formed curses.

“Fuck—you’re gonna cum on my cock,” he pants, voice half-wrecked, yet still so soft and sweet. hips pistoning up his cock inside your tight cunt like a machine. “You’re gonna let me fuck you through it babe?”

You sob against his mouth, and he grins, dark and mean and aching.

Your body spasms, cums hard around him, sleek dripping down onto his balls, with a guttural moan torn straight from your sweat covered chest. He watches your face like he wants to burn it into his brain forever—eyelids fluttering, lips parted in the shape of an ‘o’, thighs clamped tight around him, pussy milking him for everything he has.

Being inside you feels like absolute heaven.

But he wants to ease you through it while he still hammers his hips inside you, opting to bring a finger in between your tight laced bodies to pinch at your clit, hard.

He watches you break and burns the image in his mind indefinitely.

Izuku sees the way your whole body jerks—twists against him, legs trembling from overstimulation as your cunt tries to push him out, fluttering with every brutal thrust. But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t slow, doesn’t even breathe right, because he’s chasing it—chasing the way you shake and sob into his freckled shoulder like you hate yourself for how good it feels.

His finger still works your clit in ruthless, tight little circles, dragging your orgasm out until it’s messy. Until it’s mean. Slick squelches between you obscenely, dripping down over his thighs and the leather of the seat. You’re trembling, shaking so hard now it’s a miracle you’re still upright.

He doesn’t care enough to slow down.

“You take it so fucking well,” Izuku mutters, breath hot and sticky against your ear, lips finding your earlobe and sucking, sinking his teeth in, his tone somewhere between awe and something condescending. “Like you want me to ruin you.”

“Bet he doesn’t fuck you like this,” he grits out, and there’s something sharp behind it—something bitter and broken and barely held together. “Bet he doesn’t even touch you like this anymore.”

You shake your head, incoherent. “He does. He’s so fucking good to me. Don’t talk about him right now. Please”

His voice is cracking now. Just a little. You wouldn’t catch it if you weren’t still so close—if his chest wasn’t rising hard and fast against yours like he’s panicking underneath it all.

“I shouldn’t have waited,” he breathes against your temple, his rhythm faltering as his cock starts to throb violently inside you. “I shouldn’t have let you go.”

Your thighs are trembling now.

The chair beneath you creaks with every movement, unstable and barely holding, but Izuku’s grip is the only thing anchoring you. His hands never stop moving—fisting the fat of your hips, sliding over your spine, branding the curve of your waist like he’s trying to leave fingerprints in your soul.

You cry out as he drives up into you again, the slick sound of skin against skin echoing off the filing cabinets and scattered gear prototypes, the whole office pulsing with heat and sweat and betrayal. He watches your body move fascinated and furious. Your blouse is a ruined thing now, hanging off one shoulder, one sleeve caught under his boot. He yanks the fabric down further until your chest spills out, and his mouth is on you instantly, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that’ll be impossible to explain later.

His teeth graze your nipple, and your hips buck. One arm snakes around your back, holding you flush, and the other slips between your bodies, hand dragging low, knuckles brushing your clit with the same reverence he used to hold hero relics in the dorms.

Except now he groans against your skin like this—you are— the holy thing.

There’s a sick rhythm to it. Something that feels too practiced, too perfect—like he’s imagined it a thousand times. In the dark, in the shower, in hotel beds in missions, while you were sleeping down the hall beside Katsuki.

The worst part is the way it feels. The way your body responds to him like it was made for this; grinding down, fluttering cunt sucking him deeper, your nails raking angry little crescents into his shoulders that make him grunt and groan.

Izuku’s head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched, throat flexing with restraint he doesn’t have the strength to hold onto.

His cock twitches inside you, and you feel it—feel the tension ratcheting up, the quiet breaking point edging closer. His stomach muscles jump under your palms, his breath coming faster, ragged, broken up by soft, desperate gasps he keeps trying to swallow down.

You don’t know what’s worse—the pleasure or the guilt.

He thrusts up harder. Sharper. There’s no rhythm anymore, just raw, primal, lust ridden drive. Like if he fucks you hard enough, the shame will burn away with it. But it doesn’t. It only gets thicker in the room. You can smell it between the sweat and the sex. Feel it in the way his fingers tremble when he presses them between your legs again, flicking over your clit with ruthless intent.

You clench around him so tight it punches a groan straight from his chest, and that’s it—he loses the very last scrap of self-control. He grabs the back of your neck, pulls you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and guilted pain. His hips stutter. Then slam again and again until the chair jerks backward half a foot, banging into the desk.

You can barely breathe. Barely think.

He’s so deep it aches. So deep it feels like you’ll never get him out again.

Izuku buries his face in your shoulder when he cums—hard, hot, drawn out and full-body. His arms wrap around you like he’s bracing for a bomb to go off, like if he holds you tight enough, maybe this moment can exist without consequences.

But it won’t.

You both know it.

Because when he pulls back—sweaty hair in his eyes, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like he’s just survived a war—he looks at you like you’ve just killed him.

His thumbs press under your jaw, your heartbeat wild against them.

“You’ll go back to him like none of this ever happened.” He pants against your lips.

You want to say no. Want to say this means something. But your mouth won’t open. Your body is betraying you in a thousand tiny ways.

Izuku’s gaze darkens.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says. “Tell me you’ll leave him.”

“Izuku, I won’t leave my husband” you speak, finally, voice as steady as you can manage and then you whisper “I love Katsuki so much”

“You’re still gonna wear his ring after this?” he asks suddenly, mouth curved in something you can’t quite read as his cock finally softens enough to slip out of you. “Gonna go home and let him kiss you with my cum still inside you?”

“—Zuku?” 

Oh the way you say his name; it’s dripping like warmed up honey from your watery lips. It makes it hard to tame the beast that growls inside him when you chant the syllables like a mantra.

He wants to—

“Izuku?” you say again, voice tilting into concern now. You reach forward to touch his hand, still pressed onto the plastic handle of the chair “You good? You zoned out a bit.”

He flinches like he’s been shot.

“No,” he says too quickly. “No—I’m. Fine. Sorry. Just—tired.”

Fuck. He blinks once. Twice. You smile at him now. Innocently unaware of what his head just made up right now.

Your legs are crossed, tucked modestly under you. Not split open over his thighs. Your shirt’s buttoned all the way up. Not ripped. Your hair is in place. There’s no sweat, no guilt, no scent of sex in the air.

“If there’s something wrong you can speak to me.”

“No it’s fine i—” he begins to speak but you cut him off, a faint, awkward smile gracing your lips.

“I really don’t mean to pressure you with the suit. But Katsuki said you’d listen to me. It’s taken such a toll on him and I can see it, he just spends all his time at home trying to do anything with his hands. He finished the nursery. Set up a whole crib too. My poor baby… he wants a kid so much and my hormonal therapy is still not even halfway through. I just figured you taking the suit would push him to feel a little relieved.”

Izuku can’t fucking breathe, but he moves from the chair to the couch by your command, struggles to compose himself as your hands cradle both of his in your grip. You’re looking at him with those big, desperate eyes, those fantasy driven parted lips. 

He gulps as he glances down at your denim skirt, when he sees your plush thighs and soft skin poke through the fabric, rubbing against each other.

For a second he’s back there, in his head. Caressing your thighs with his knuckles, eliciting the softest, most guttural and loud moans from your lips.

“And I also want you to tell him that everything will be alright. He panics every time we go to the doctor. He thinks that he’s failing to give me a baby when we both agreed we’d have one at twenty five. But this is all me, not him, I was almost cut in half during the war.” Your eyes are filled to the brim with tears that are threatening to spill as you continue speaking “Please Izuku, please, help him too, I love him so much and he keeps thinking it’s his fault.”

The room feels like it’s caving in around him. His skin prickles with sweat that shouldn’t be there. His fists curl uselessly into the couch cushion beneath him, nails biting into the fabric. He’s still half-hard under his sweats, humiliation coiling hot in his stomach, shame crawling up his spine like mold.

You’re looking at him like you always have. Gentle. Completely unaware.

Not the woman who had just fucked him senseless in his fantasy. Not the one who whispered that she’d never leave Katsuki with his cum still dripping from her thighs.

Izuku blinks. He really is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours instead of your perfect looking tear-pricked lashes or the hem of your skirt, or where your thighs kiss each other too softly for him to stand it. He inhales too fast through his nose and coughs.

And the worst thing is you’re still holding his hands because you trust him. Like he isn’t falling apart in front of you. Because you don’t feel your skin burning in his touch like he does feel for you.

“Y-Yeah,” he breathes, voice breaking against the silence. “Of course. I’ll tell him.”

Your thumbs stroke the back of his palms, soothing, smiling all the way as your face breaks in ugly tears.

Naïve. You’re so naive and oblivious. He wishes you’d stop. He wishes he could yank his hands away. He wishes he could bury his face in your lap, lift your skirt and pull your panties to the side, eat you out like he always wanted and forget all of this.

But he doesn’t move. Just lets you touch him. Lets himself rot inside your hands and the look behind your eyes.

His mind keeps dragging him back, to the burn of your thighs straddling his hips. The slap of skin. The desperate way you held his face as you came, whispering things that don’t exist outside his head. He can still feel the phantom squeeze of your cunt when you begged him to ruin you.

He shudders. It didn’t fucking happen. It never would happen. 

His best friend is probably creampieing you every single night, probably pushing it back inside, with his cock, his fingers. Whispering things to you about breeding you, giving you babies. Izuku even wonders if Katsuki fucked you before you came to visit him, if you’re walking with his cum stuffed inside you, only held back from it dripping down your thighs from the barrier of your panties.

He rubs his thumbnail to the inside of your palm, desperate for some friction. You mistake it for empathy. Squeeze his hands tighter.

“Thank you Izuku, I love him so much it’s impossible. That’s why I want you to take the suit, I just want to see him happy.”

Izuku’s heart cracks.

Because he’s selfish. Because all he wants is for you to stop talking about Katsuki. Stop crying for Katsuki. Just look at him instead. Like maybe he could give you something, even if it’s ugly and wrong and soaked in betrayal, like it could mend all those years he’s spent apart from you.

“I’ll take it,” he blurts. It comes out sharp, bitter on his tongue. You blink at him.

“The suit?” you ask.

He nods once. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

Because the guilt is white-hot behind his eyes and your words still echo in his skull ‘my poor baby… he wants a kid so much…’

A kid. A crib. A fucking nursery.

And Izuku had just imagined splitting your pussy open in his lap, fucking you like he wanted to erase the fact that you belonged—were married— to someone else. To Katsuki. His best friend.

His mind drifts again. Not as vivid this time, but still dangerous.

You smile—god, why do you always smile like that?— and lean back, nodding in relief. “Thank you. I really think it’ll help. I’ll let him know. He’ll be so happy, Izuku.”

Izuku stares at your mouth as it forms his name. Katsuki will be so happy.

The phrase alone twists like a knife inside Izuku’s heart.

Because all he can think about is how you looked when you were riding him in his mind. How you said his name, not Katsuki’s. How you clenched around him like you’d been made to.

He can’t even seem to stop himself from these monstrous thoughts.

“Does Kacchan know how lucky he is?” Izuku states quietly, one hand detaching from your grasp to scratch the back of his head. He smiles softly, yet secretly, he flexes his bicep, hoping you’ll notice.

You don’t, but your brows furrow, one quirking up, just a little thrown. “Of course he does. He never lets me forget it.”

Izuku nods again. But he doesn’t smile this time.

He should pull away. Should stand up. Should put miles between you and him and his sick, fucked-up thoughts.

But your hands are still wrapped around his like they belong there.

And Izuku, for all the good he’s done in the world, can’t stop thinking about your ring. How it glints in the warm light of his apartment like a warning. How it presses into the top of his knuckle while you hold him like this. Like a reminder that none of this is real.

You sniffle and laugh softly, like you’re embarrassed by your own tears. “Sorry, I’m being a mess.”

“No,” he croaks. “You’re not.”

But he is.

He’s a mess of sweat and guilt and hard-on humiliation. A goddamn wreck. And you’re still looking at him like he’s someone you can count on. Like he isn’t unraveling at the seams, dick so painfully hard, just sitting next to you.

“Izuku…” you say again, gentler this time, and he finally looks up at you fully. “Thank you”

Your eyes are glassy. Red around the rims. Your mouth soft. Your whole expression just open and readable. Fucking hell…You don’t even know what you’re doing to him.

“Can you tell him to come over?” What? “He’ll be so happy to hear it from you, please!” 

Izuku’s breath catches in his throat, sharp and involuntary, like your words just punched through his chest and grabbed his heart with both hands.

Can you tell him to come over?

You’re smiling now—barely, but it’s real. Your voice is trembling with hope. You’re already pulling out your phone, thumbs moving with sweet, excited urgency, like this moment might be the first crack of sunlight after weeks of thunder.

And you’re asking him—him—to be the one to bring your husband to his apartment.

You don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You don’t know that he’s imagining that same smile tilted up at him, not Katsuki. That he’s spent months biting down fantasies until his jaw ached, trying not to let them surface—but he failed today. He failed hard. And now you’re sitting here, trusting him with the one thing he wishes he could rip from the world and keep for himself.

Katsuki.

Your husband. The love of your life. The man he was supposed to be a friend to, not betray in thought, not crave his girl like something that can be stolen

He can’t even speak. His mouth opens but nothing comes out—just static, lips parted in numbness.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do, but you’re giving him grace anyway, because that’s the kind of person you are. Too kind. Too blind.

You hold your phone up to him. “He said he’ll come over if you say it’s okay. You can just tell him it’s fine—please? He listens to you more than he listens to me sometimes.”

Izuku takes the phone like it’s poison in disguise.

He stares at Katsuki’s contact name glowing on the screen.

And he wonders how long he can keep this rotting secret inside his chest before it turns him into something unrecognizable.

His thumb hovers. Then he presses the call button. The phone starts to ring, and he hates himself a little more with each pulse.

Because no matter what Katsuki says when he picks up—whether it’s relief or laughter or love—Izuku will still be the man who, just ten minutes ago, imagined fucking his best friend’s wife into an office chair and coming so hard inside her he saw stars.

And when Katsuki’s voice answers, warm and gruff, saying a small ‘hey tsuki —my moon, you call each other moon— and is positive to dropping by in half an hour to hang out, Izuku wants to die. And you’re smiling so hard that Katsuki wants to join that he wants to die twice.

You press your forehead to the back of his hand. A small, grateful gesture.

And that’s what finally breaks him. Izuku pulls his hands back slowly, as if they’ve been burned.

“I need a minute,” he mutters. Voice hoarse. Jaw tight, fingernails scratching the corner of his jaw.

You blink, taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor. “Oh. Okay—do you want me to go—?”

“No,” he says too quickly, rising from the couch. “No. Just… sit. I’ll be back.”

He walks toward the bathroom with careful, even steps. Every one of them feels like walking away from something sacred. Every one of them feels like a betrayal. And there’s nothing sacred about absolute betrayal. Just pure dirt, filth in his soul.

He closes the door behind him and presses his forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut.

And when he reaches into his sweatpants to jerk himself off with trembling fingers—still half-hard, still aching with the ghost of you—he doesn’t even bother pretending it’s anyone else.

He just bites his fist, stifles a sob, and imagines you crying out his name instead.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[polaritydisturbed]

I’ve seen some posts floating around saying things like, “Belinda was always a mom, the Doctor just corrected the timeline,” and I genuinely cannot stress enough how little that addresses the core issues people have with how her story was handled.

First of all, if that was the intention—if the idea was that Belinda was always meant to be a mother and the timeline just needed to be “set right”—they did a poor job of executing it. A twist that major, one that fundamentally alters a character’s identity or arc, requires setup. Foreshadowing. Emotional groundwork. You can’t just spring something that massive on the audience in the last five minutes and expect it to feel meaningful instead of disorienting.

And here’s the thing: Doctor Who has done that kind of plot before—successfully. A great comparison is Amy and Rory. The show literally did the “someone you love was erased from time and the universe needs to be corrected to bring them back” storyline already. And while I’ve got my own qualms with how Amy’s arc was handled overall, that particular beat actually worked.

Why? Because there were signs. The cracks in time. The missing memories. A sense of loss Amy couldn’t place. Little inconsistencies that made the audience lean forward and feel that something was wrong. Not to mention: Rory was introduced before he disappeared. We knew him. We saw his dynamic with Amy. We cared about him. We barely see Poppy in these two episodes, other than "child missing bad" we really have no attachment to her.

Now imagine if we never met Rory. If Amy had been introduced as a fierce, independent woman with no attachments, someone whose refusal to be tied down was a defining trait—and then the show suddenly revealed, in the finale, that actually she was about to get married the whole time to a man we’d never seen, and now she’s a devoted wife. No buildup. No context. Just surprise! emotional transformation. That would feel bizarre, right?

That’s exactly what happened with Belinda.

The final minutes of the finale reframe her not just as someone who once had a child, but as someone whose true self is supposedly defined by that role—and we’re meant to believe that this identity has now been “restored” to her, and we’re told it’s been restored to her as a reward. But it doesn’t feel like a revelation. It feels like a contradiction.

It’s like they wanted to write her as fierce and independent, but didn’t also want to imply that she wanted kids or thought about kids—because society still tends to associate maternal longing or caretaking instincts with weakness, or with not being a “strong” woman. So instead of exploring that complexity, they just didn’t. They wrote her as a fully autonomous character, with no visible yearning or absence, and then stapled a child onto her arc at the end.

And just to be absolutely clear: the problem is not that Belinda is a mother. You can write a fierce, independent, female-presenting character who’s also a parent. Those things are not mutually exclusive. The problem is that the story didn’t earn it.

Writers often avoid giving powerful women maternal traits because they assume femininity and strength can’t coexist—but that’s a separate conversation. The real issue here is that the show never showed us that this part of Belinda was missing. It never laid the groundwork for that emotional restoration to resonate. It didn’t feel like they revealed who she truly was—it felt like they replaced her with someone else.

It’s not that you can’t tell a story where a forgotten child or a missing family is recovered from a broken timeline. That kind of emotional twist can be powerful. But if that’s the story you want to tell, you have to earn it. You have to make the absence felt before you try to fill it. You have to let us sense the missing piece and ache for its return. Without that, it doesn’t feel like a twist—it feels like a contradiction.

And no, Poppy showing up once in The Story & the Engine is not proper setup. If this was truly the intended arc from the beginning, then it needed clues. Give us subtle signs. Let Belinda hesitate when asked simple questions. Let her glance at a photo and seem unsettled. Let her correct someone’s memory and then immediately second-guess herself. Plant a sense of wrongness in her own life that even she can’t quite name.

There’s even a interview with RTD about reshooting the beginning of The Robot Revolution to give Belinda roommates, because he thought no one would buy her owning an entire house by herself.

But if this twist with Poppy was truly planned from the start? Then leave her in that big, echoing house. Let it be part of the unease. Let there be a child’s toy tucked into the back of a drawer she doesn’t remember buying. A room she avoids, too pristine and untouched. A lullaby she hums under her breath without knowing where she learned it. Give us texture. Give us silence that feels too quiet.

Let us feel the shape of what’s missing before you tell us what it was.

That’s how you write a twist that resonates—by trusting your audience to notice the gaps, to feel the ache, and to recognize the truth when it finally appears. Not by pulling a rabbit out of a hat and calling it destiny.

[rivereverie]

I also think that fundamentally, the concept of "fixing someone" disregards their own autonomy and the (sometimes very hard) choices they make. No matter how much love and support you give someone, they're not going to change unless they choose to. And you cannot make that choice for them. This is what Astarion's story is all about. The PC influences his choices in that they show him that there is another way than the one he has lived for 200 years; they don't tell him what to do or counsel him. They stand there by his side during the hardest moment of his life and say I'm here, there is another way, and you can be something more. You can't change someone, and it's not your place to, no matter how well-meaning. All you can do is point out a better path, offer your hand, and walk with them into that brighter future. But they are the only one who can take each step. Astarion chooses to take your hand, time and again. Every time he's vulnerable. Every time he cares about another person. When he refuses Ascension. When he frees all those spawn. He stumbles and second-guesses all the time, looking longingly into the darkness behind him, but he keeps taking the next step. Always the next. Just as likely is a story where you give someone all the love and support in the world and they just... continue in their toxic ways. I'm sure we all know someone like that in real life. But Astarion is different because, like OP said, a part of him already cares, to a degree. He can be reached. If no part of him wanted to be better, then no amount of kindness would change his mind. When Astarion is given a safe place to exist, the softer sides of him come out naturally, and he reaches out on his own. I love how Astarion's spawn ending doesn't show him becoming a completely different person, even if everything has changed. He's not a soft, harmless kitten. He still has fangs, so to speak, and he's only just begun his healing journey. What the PC does in this story is offer Astarion a safe place beside them, support, and understanding. It's patience as a form of love, and I adore how their story is told. We as people do influence one another, and love does often change people, but there is no such thing as "fixing" someone, in my opinion. People like the idea that you can, because it soothes a wound within themselves. Wanting that doesn't make you a bad person (I've been there), but it's never going to actually help either of you heal. It's just another way of seeking validation in others. It is natural and good to want to help others and see them become better and thrive, but you need to understand the boundaries of what you are and are not responsible for. Making someone your pet project, intentionally or otherwise, will only end up disrespecting and hurting you both. Sorry for the ramble but this very concept has annoyed me for years and it's especially irksome when people imply it of Astarion of all people.

Here I go again, venting about the whole "I can fix him" thing that all spawn Astarion fans get accused of. But seriously—what the hell are we even talking about?

First of all, having a moral compass is not a flaw. It’s a good thing. It means you’re not a sociopath. Let’s stop promoting the idea that being a piece of shit is somehow okay—because in real life, it’s not. In the game, sure, do whatever you like and enjoy it—but that doesn’t mean it’s justifiable in the real world.

Secondly, Astarion is not some one-dimensional monster whose sole purpose is to gain wealth and power at any cost. His goal is to be safe. Period. If you didn’t get that, then you missed the entire point of the game and the character. And safety doesn’t come in just one form.

Most importantly: Astarion contains both light and darkness. It’s up to the player to bring out one or the other. This isn’t about fixing him. It’s about recognizing and valuing the qualities that are already in him, for fuck’s sake. There’s no way you could talk him out of the Ascension if he weren’t already having doubts about it! He’s meant to be ambivalent—designed that way to let different players make different choices and enjoy the journey.

And let me say this again, because it’s a hard myth to kill: rolling the dice to convince Astarion not to ascend isn’t making the decision for him. It’s cutting through the bloodlust and fear clouding his mind and saying, “Hey, babe, have you considered this, this, and that?” Nothing more, nothing less.

The person who convinces him not to ascend doesn’t change him—they reassure him. They show him a different possibility.

So no, it’s not “I can fix him.” It’s I see you.

And for the record, if you choose the spawn ending, Astarion stays exactly who he was—just with a new perspective on the world and the people in it. So what the hell was “fixed”? Nothing. He has to fix himself from that point on, using the tools he’s chosen to reclaim: connection, friendship, and—yes—some level of morality (he’s still an antihero and a vampire with needs, after all).

The Ascension literally changes him—turns him into something he’s not, into a type of unnatural vampire that didn’t even exist before. And it’s in that exact moment that he becomes a true monster with no chance of redemption—because he chooses to go from victim to predator. Once again, something he wasn’t before.

And who pays the price? Not enemies—mostly innocent people, including children who will be damned to hell for all eternity.

And for what? The gain (which, honestly, is highly questionable—and for me, not worth it) of one person. A person who, again, gains things he didn’t originally have—wealth, power, sunlight, no more hunger, etc.

So isn’t that what trying to “change” or “fix” him really looks like? Making him different? The excuse that “he was always just a piece of shit with no hope” doesn’t hold up—even if it helps someone sleep at night.

And let me be clear—I don’t give a fuck what people prefer or how they play the game. I ascend Astarion too, in some of my runs, when and how I feel like it. But seriously, this whole “fixing him” narrative? It needs to die—especially when tied to morality.

Shocking news: everyone should have a moral compass and use it. It’s not about “conforming.” It’s about the fact that without it, the world—which is already falling apart—would be completely doomed.

And by the way: the only reason some people get to ignore morality is because most of the idiots on this planet do follow it. Otherwise, it’d be absolute chaos.

[bishovapls]

Hold On - Part 8: Two girlfriends, a dog, and a secret detective business.

Pairing: Yelena Belova & Kate Bishop

Chapter Summary: In this chapter, we catch up with Kate and Yelena as they settle into their relationship and new routines. But it’s not all soft moments and quiet days; they’re diving into their first case as private investigators: a worried wife, a suspicious husband, and a shocking secret. How will they handle their very first case?

Warnings: Mental health struggles, and a small mention of Yelena’s training in the Red Room. It’s a pretty gentle chapter overall, I think. Let me know if you reckon any other warnings are needed!

A/N: Ahh, sorry this took so long to get out, I just couldn’t quite figure out how to write it. Even now, I’m still a bit ‘meh’ about it, but hopefully it is okay! P.S. No clue why they’re so horny for each other in the first half of this chapter, let’s just blame it on the honeymoon phase… and the fact that they’re both ridiculously hot.

Word count: 11,398 

Part 8 begins below the cut, you can also find the fic on AO3. I also have a masterlist.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. Part 5, Part 6, Part 7.

It had been a few months since that day with Sonya, though neither of them marked the date. They didn’t need to. It lingered anyway, quietly, and persistently in the edges of conversation and the spaces between their footsteps. 

That day had torn through Yelena like a blade, reopening old wounds and peeling back scar tissue that had long settled beneath the surface. Kate had felt it too, the helplessness of watching someone she loved fracture, and not knowing how to stop it.

That day didn’t just hurt; it shifted something fundamental, shook the foundation they’d built. But it didn’t break them; if anything, it made them closer.

Not in the way that photographs capture, not in smiles or neatly held hands, but in the messier ways, tangled limbs on sleepless nights, whispered apologies half-swallowed in the crook of a shoulder, fights that ended not with slammed doors but with silent forgiveness curling between them like breath. 

They didn’t so much hold each other as cling, as if they’d stitched themselves into each other’s skin just to keep from falling apart.

They leaned into it. Learned that love didn’t mean fixing everything, it just meant not walking away when it got hard. And slowly, something new started to grow. Not a return to who they were before, but a steady shaping of who they could be now. 

Kate started to find her footing again. She returned to Bishop Securities, not to bury what her mother left behind, but to take control of it. To reshape it into something that reflected who she was, not who she came from. 

She had picked up her bow again, too, started training regularly, sparring with Yelena, finding clarity in motion and muscle, rediscovering the fire she thought she’d lost. Somewhere in all that sweat and bruised skin, the part of her that wanted to be a hero began to stir again, not dead after all, just waiting.

Yelena found her own rhythm, not in the world she was used to, but in one she was still learning to live in. She began setting up the private investigation business, ready to use her skills in a way that made her feel powerful without feeling used. 

But more than that, she stopped seeing quiet days as failures. She let herself rest. She even started baking. At first, just to fill the silence while Kate was at work, but then it became something gentler, more deliberate. 

She learned the kinds of things Kate loved, gooey brownies, soft iced buns, and made them, quietly proud whenever Kate’s eyes lit up like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She even baked for Lucky, sweet little treats shaped like bones, tailored to his diet, labelled in ridiculous cursive handwriting.

But of course, there were still bad days. Some mornings, Kate couldn’t move. Her limbs felt too heavy, her chest too tight, her mind too loud. She’d stare at the ceiling while the echoes of her mother’s betrayal and the violence she’d endured at Fisk’s hands made the world blur at the edges. 

Lucky would curl up beside her, pressed so close it felt like he was trying to hold her together. And Yelena would be there too, sometimes coaxing, sometimes just quiet, sitting with her, brushing fingers through her hair, reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

And Yelena had her spirals, too. The memories came suddenly, sharp, overwhelming. Some days, she folded in on herself, went cold and silent. Other days, she’d lash out and push Kate away, not because she wanted distance, but because needing love still scared her more than being alone.

Sometimes she walked out with Lucky and didn’t come back for hours. And when she did return, eyes red, posture small, she looked like she expected the door to be locked. Like she thought she’d used up all her chances.

But Kate never removed Yelena’s permissions from the locks. She didn’t forget the pain, but she understood it. And Yelena never took that for granted. They learned how to help each other through it, not by fixing everything, but by refusing to leave when things got ugly.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always kind. But it was theirs. Real, raw, and shaped by everything they’d survived. Because they’d both stood on that same edge, stared into the same black, breathless void, and chosen, again and again, not to let it pull them under.

That wasn’t to say everything was heavy, either. It wasn’t. Most days, in fact, were light in a way that felt almost impossible a few months ago, gentle, steady, full of little rituals that settled into the bones like warmth. Somewhere along the line, they’d stopped just surviving and started living, quietly, carefully, in the soft spaces they’d built between the hard ones.

Some days, the loft didn’t feel haunted by their ghosts at all. Some days, it just smelled like coffee and fresh laundry and the lingering sweetness of Kate’s passionfruit shampoo, the one Yelena pretended not to use, even as the scent clung to her. “Rich people shampoo does not clean better, Kate Bishop,” she would say, nose wrinkled, eyes playful. “It just smells like it’s judging you.”

Yelena was always the first to wake. Sometimes it was habit, her body still wired by years of discipline and sharp-edged routines. Other times, it was Lucky, bouncing through the bedroom with a joyful bark and tail thudding against furniture like a drumbeat made just for mornings. 

She grumbled every time, threatened to turn him into a hat or trade him in for a quieter model, but she always got up. Barefoot, bleary-eyed, and swimming in one of Kate’s sweatshirts that hung to her knees.

She'd move through the kitchen on instinct, half-asleep, pouring food into Lucky’s bowl with one hand while yawning into the other. The dog would dance at her feet, full of unfiltered joy, and on the quieter mornings, Yelena would hum to herself without even realising. A soft, tuneless thing. A sound that only came from the feeling of safety, of peace. The kind of sound she never would’ve made in another life.

And that was usually when Kate found her. Drawn in by the sound of cups clinking or Lucky’s nails on the floor, or maybe just by the absence of Yelena’s warmth in bed. She’d wander out with sleep in her eyes and her hair sticking up in every direction, mumbling a greeting that barely qualified as English, and wrap herself around Yelena like a blanket. Her face tucked into the crook of her shoulder, her arms a sleepy anchor around Yelena’s waist.

“Come back, baby,” she’d whisper, voice still gravelly. “Bed’s cold.”

Yelena always leant back without hesitation, always pretending to sigh, always smiling anyway. “Your dog demands breakfast. I am merely his servant,” she’d reply, voice low, words wry.

Kate would grumble something incoherent into her neck, but her mouth would press a kiss there all the same, a silent thank you, stitched into the hollow of her shoulder.

They made breakfast together more often than not, too. Kate was terrible at timing the toast, and Yelena always pretended not to care that the eggs were slightly rubbery if it meant watching Kate dance around the kitchen in fuzzy socks and pyjama shorts. 

They moved easily around each other, brushing elbows, stealing bites, dropping kisses onto cheeks, lips, and foreheads as if it were second nature. Lucky hovered beneath them, a hopeful little vacuum, always ready for whatever fell.

Evenings were the best, though. The world fell quiet outside, and their little bubble of warmth stretched wide around them. Kate would curl on the sofa with Lucky sprawled across her lap, flicking lazily through TV channels until Yelena settled beside her, then across her, then all over her, limbs tangled and head tucked beneath her chin like she’d always belonged there.

They watched bad movies with half-lidded eyes and murmured commentary, soft and slurred with tiredness. Kate’s fingers would thread slowly through Yelena’s hair, and Yelena would hum in response, eyes fluttering closed like she’d never known comfort like this before.

Some nights, they danced in the kitchen. No music, just the rhythm of breath and the city outside, whispering through half-open windows. Kate would rest her cheek against Yelena’s temple, their bodies swaying in a quiet rhythm only they could hear, as if the world had stopped moving for a little while.

There was something about those moments, unguarded and ordinary, that hit Kate sideways every time. This was home. Not the walls or the furniture, not even the city itself, but this. 

She remembered what Yelena had said in the car, months ago now. That home wasn’t a place, it was the people. Back then, it had felt like a nice sentiment, something comforting in theory. But now, it made sense in a way it hadn’t before. Because this life they’d pieced together out of broken things and late mornings and quiet forgiveness…this was home.

—

The air was crisp, the kind of early spring morning where the sunlight didn’t glare but stretched itself gently across the room. The loft still held the hush of sleep, but Kate was already awake, stretched out across the bed, propped on one elbow as she scrolled through notes on her tablet. Her brow was furrowed, lips pursed in focus.

She didn’t notice Yelena stirring at first, not until her voice, low and thick with sleep, broke the silence. “Why are you up before me?” Yelena asked, her brow raised as she blinked blearily, tone mock-accusatory but soft at the edges.

Kate looked over and grinned, her smirk slow and a little smug as she bit the inside of her cheek. “Because, Detective Belova,” she said, straightening with a flourish and tossing her hair over one shoulder like it was part of a dramatic reveal, “today we have our very first client. Real case. Real people. Real... cheaters.”

Yelena let out a snort, dragging the duvet with her as she flopped unceremoniously into Kate’s lap, arms curling around her waist like she had no intention of moving again anytime soon. “Americans and their messy marriages,” she murmured, nose pressed to Kate’s ribs. “So dramatic.”

But there was something in her voice that gave her away, the faintest thread of pride, tugging at the corners of her mouth, warming her words no matter how dry the sarcasm. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, glinted with something else entirely: belief that she was finally doing something good, finally helping people. 

The rest of the morning unfolded with quiet ease, everything moving in unspoken rhythm. Breakfast was simple: eggs, toast, and the occasional shared glance across the table, punctuated by Lucky nosing insistently at their knees until Kate caved and offered him the crusts. 

There wasn’t much talking, but there didn’t need to be. Between bites and sips and the sound of the city slowly stretching awake beyond the windows, a quiet sort of anticipation simmered between them. Not anxiety, not quite. More like a current of possibility, electric and low, humming under their skin. The start of something.

Outside, the streets were still subdued, that in-between hush of early morning where most people hadn’t yet ventured out. Kate clipped the leash onto Lucky’s harness, grinning when he gave an excited bark and spun in a circle like he’d been waiting all his life for this walk in particular.

Yelena’s hand found hers without a word, fingers lacing with the ease of muscle memory. They walked side by side, feet in sync on the pavement, their voices low and conspiratorial as they meandered through half-empty streets.

“So,” Kate murmured, glancing sideways, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Do we need, like, trench coats now? Start speaking in noir metaphors? ‘It was a cold morning in the city, and her husband was a liar with expensive cologne.’ That kind of thing?”

Yelena gave a huff of laughter, quiet, genuine, and squeezed her hand lightly. “You are ridiculous,” she muttered, but her smile lingered. “But I am... looking forward to this. Even if it’s just angry spouses and sneaky photos.”

There was a small shift in her tone, just enough to catch on. Something almost hesitant. Like she hadn’t quite decided if she was allowed to feel good about it. To use those same instincts and skills, the ones she once wielded for far darker reasons, for something that might be good. Something chosen.

Kate caught it. She bumped their shoulders gently, glancing over with a smile that was less teasing now, more sure. “We’re building something real, Lena. Not just surviving. Not running. Doing something that’s ours.”

—

They reached the gym just as the city began to hum in earnest. A converted warehouse tucked between newer builds, all exposed brick, fogged windows, and old signage that barely held on to its paint. 

Inside, it was quiet, no music, no trainers yet, just the faint smell of mats, sweat, and something clean underneath, like lemon or antiseptic. Familiar. Comforting, in an odd way.

Lucky padded to his usual corner and settled down, tail thumping once in acknowledgment before flopping with a huff. Kate dropped her bag, shrugged off her jacket, already rolling her neck as she eyed the weights like they owed her money.

Kate stretched her arms overhead with a theatrical groan, her shirt riding up just enough to catch Yelena’s eye. She threw a glance at her, lips curling into a slow, teasing grin. “Alright, Coach Belova,” she teased, “you planning to destroy me today, or just stand there and enjoy the view?”

Yelena’s gaze flicked downward, unapologetically lingering before lifting back up with that familiar spark dancing in her eyes. “Why not both?” she replied smoothly, the corner of her mouth tugging into a smirk. 

Kate stepped closer, bumping her shoulder against Yelena’s with deliberate ease. “You really shouldn’t enjoy ruining me this much.”

Yelena handed over the resistance band, fingers brushing hers, voice thick with amusement. “You like being ruined, Bishop. It gets you where you need to be.”

Kate tilted her head, gaze sharp with mischief. “Pretty sure that’s usually your role, baby girl.”

For half a second, Yelena faltered, just the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth, a flicker in her eyes that betrayed the warmth in her cheeks. Then, she turned sharply on her heel, flipping open the folder she’d made and colour-coded just for Kate, hiding behind the sudden snap of professionalism. “Warm up. Now,” she said, all business. “Back and core today. Perfect form, or you’re starting over.”

Kate grinned, biting back a laugh as she took the band from Yelena, her eyes catching the faint blush still dusting those sharp cheekbones. “Mmhmm,” she hummed, falling in line without protest, partly because Yelena in trainer mode wasn’t to be messed with, but mostly because, judging by that blush, Kate had clearly won the round.

She moved through her warm-up with a casual ease, then slipped into her sets with a steady, practiced rhythm. Yelena stayed close, not overbearing, but always within reach, a quiet, grounding presence. Her gaze rarely strayed, even when she picked up her own weights. Every few reps, she’d pause to adjust Kate’s form with a soft press of her fingers between shoulder blades, or a guiding hand at the small of her back.

“There,” she’d murmur now and then, voice low and sure. “Better.” A nod. The kind that made Kate stand a little taller, grin a little wider.

They moved in sync, breath for breath, energy bright and easy between them. The workout was peppered with laughter, half-hearted groans when Yelena sneakily added extra weight to the bar, and shameless teasing when Kate dragged her feet. Sometimes they paused, just for a beat, long enough for sweat-slicked skin to meet in a quick kiss, smiles lingering as they pulled apart again.

But underneath all the playfulness, there was something else, a quiet foundation being built. This wasn’t training out of necessity or fear. It was training as healing.

For Kate, it was a reminder she was still capable, still strong, even when her mind tried to convince her otherwise. For Yelena, it was a reclaiming of control, not being used as a weapon, but choosing what her body was for, and who it was helping.

By the end, their muscles ached, and their chests rose and fell in sync, backs pressed to the mirrored wall as they caught their breath. Lucky dozed nearby, utterly uninterested in their accomplishments.

Yelena dragged her wrist across her brow, sweat clinging to her skin, breath still slightly uneven. She turned to Kate with a smile that didn’t quite mask the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “You still think we can pull this off? The PI thing?”

Kate held her gaze, heart still thudding from the workout, but steady, grounded in a way it hadn’t been for a while. “Yeah,” she said, voice certain. “I really do. This case might be small, and yeah, it’s not exactly spy-level thrilling, but it’s real. It’s ours. And it’s just the start. We’ll build something even cooler... together.”

Yelena’s fingers found hers without hesitation, a familiar warmth curling between them as she laced them together. “Then come on,” she murmured, her smile sharpening. “Let’s go catch a cheating bastard.”

—

By the time they stepped out of the gym, the city had shaken off its early chill, sunlight glinting off windshields and bouncing between buildings as the day stretched into something warmer. Both of them had that distinct, post-workout glow, skin flushed and hair pulled back, muscles aching in the good way, not the bruised-and-bloodied way they were more familiar with. 

Lucky padded along beside them, tail swinging in lazy rhythm, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Their walk back was quieter now, more settled, the streets busy with the ebb and flow of late commuters and impatient cabs, conversations bleeding out of coffee shop patios and street corners. 

Back at the loft, Lucky bounded in ahead of them like a king returning to his castle, heading straight for his plush corner of the living room where his bed, three half-destroyed toys, and an aggressively chewed bone awaited. He spun in a perfect circle, let out a deep, put-upon sigh, and collapsed like the weight of escorting two vigilante lesbians to the gym had finally taken its toll.

Yelena closed the door with her foot and leaned back against it for a second, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee grounds and the faintest trace of lavender from one of Kate’s candles. 

“Shower?” Yelena asked, her voice low and lightly teasing, already peeling off the damp hoodie as she turned just enough to glance over her shoulder, smirk in full effect, eyes glinting with mischief. 

Kate huffed softly, already tugging the elastic from her hair with a practiced flick of the wrist, letting the dark strands tumble loose around her shoulders. She shook it out with a sigh that bordered on theatrical, lips twitching as she cocked an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s either an invitation,” she drawled, eyes narrowing with faux suspicion, “or a very rude commentary on my personal hygiene.”

Yelena’s lips twitched, and she tilted her head, letting her gaze drag purposefully down Kate’s frame, which was now only clad in her tight sports bra and leggings. Her tone was lazy, smug. “Well, you are very adorable... but you smell like gym socks.”

Kate let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest like she’d been mortally wounded. “Excuse you, Miss I-Made-You-Do-Fifteen-Extra-Pull-Ups. I wouldn’t smell at all if you didn’t have some weird fetish for watching me suffer.”

“Mhmm... I like watching you do many things,” Yelena murmured, the corners of her mouth curling in that maddening way of hers, before turning and striding off toward the bathroom without another word.

Kate sputtered, half laughing, half scandalised, and scrambled after her with a shake of her head. 

They undressed without ceremony but not without intimacy, small glances exchanged in the mirror, brief touches that lingered for no reason other than comfort. The shower’s warmth hit Kate first, her breath catching with a soft, almost relieved sound as the heat sank deep into her tired muscles. Her shoulders slumped slightly, tension melting off her frame with the slow, soothing rhythm of water against skin. 

A heartbeat later, Yelena stepped in too, her arms came around Kate’s waist with a quiet certainty, firm but gentle, and she leaned in to rest her forehead against the curve of Kate’s shoulder. There was no teasing in her expression, no smirk, just a calm, quiet, like she was soaking in the moment as much as the water.

Yelena’s hands moved in slow, absent circles across Kate’s back, and Kate leaned into her touch without thinking, eyelids fluttering shut, her own hands settling at Yelena’s waist, fingertips gently grazing the skin just above her hips.

The quiet stretched comfortably. It wasn’t silence exactly; there was the sound of water, the occasional breath, the shift of skin against skin. It was peaceful. 

Eventually, Kate tilted her head slightly, voice hushed but warm as her chin dipped to brush against Yelena’s damp hair. “You’re quiet,” she murmured, not worried, just noticing. “You good?”

Yelena didn’t lift her head, but her arms tightened just a little around Kate’s waist, her fingers curling lightly against her back as she nodded. “Mhm,” she breathed, then, after a pause, she pressed a slow kiss to Kate’s shoulder. “This is good,” she added, her voice low and edged with something almost like awe. “It feels like something normal people do. Feels like home.”

Kate’s chest rose with a quiet inhale, her heart doing that soft stutter it always did when Yelena said things like that. Her arms came up, drawing her closer, her nose brushing against Yelena’s temple. “We are normal,” she said with a lopsided smile, “Absolutely, textbook normal. Two girlfriends, a dog, and a secret detective business. Just like everyone else.”

Yelena’s quiet laugh vibrated against Kate’s collarbone before she tilted her face up. Her eyes met Kate’s, open and unguarded, and then she leaned in to kiss her. It wasn’t a kiss fueled by heat or playfulness, but the kind of kiss that said Please never take this away from me.  

Her lips lingered, barely moving at first, then deepened with a soft sigh as Kate melted into her, one hand curling tighter in Yelena’s hair. 

The water poured down around them, warm and steady, but neither noticed anymore. Everything that mattered was in the way their bodies leaned, in the steadiness of their hold, and in the quiet, wordless exchange of breath and warmth that tethered them to each other, as if nothing outside the bathroom existed at all.

Eventually, they remembered the point of the shower and got around to washing, trading shampoo bottles, conditioner, and body wash. By the time they stepped out, the mirror was fully fogged, and their skin was pink from the hot water.

Back in the bedroom, Kate towelled off first, hair damp and curling as she hummed tunelessly and rummaged through the wardrobe, clearly debating her options.

Yelena watched her from across the room, one towel wrapped around her body, the other pressed to her hair. “What are you wearing to meet the client?” she asked, tone casual, though her eyes didn’t leave Kate’s bare shoulders for a second.

Kate glanced back with a smirk, voice airy. “Hmm... thinking we dress up a little. Make a good first impression.”

Yelena nodded and turned to her own wardrobe, fingers drifting over the fabrics, while Kate began getting dressed behind her. She heard the familiar sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric... and then she turned.

Her breath caught.

Kate was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of a dark navy suit that hugged her in all the right places, cinched at the waist, long lines down her legs, paired with a soft grey shirt beneath that made her skin look like satin and brought out the sharp blue in her eyes. She was sliding a watch onto her wrist with practiced ease, completely oblivious to the way Yelena had gone perfectly still.

Yelena’s voice came out faintly raspy, almost accusing. “You are trying to kill me before the first meeting.”

Kate caught her eye in the mirror, grinning as she struck a casual pose, one hand on her hip. “You act like I don’t dress like this for work, you should be used to it by now.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, the towel slipping slightly off her shoulder. “You know exactly what you are doing.”

Kate stepped closer, her movements exaggerated now, hips swaying as she reached for her earrings. “I just wanted to look professional. Is that a crime?”

“It should be,” Yelena muttered, abruptly standing and heading for her own clothes before she did something ridiculous like throw Kate up against the dresser and rip off that perfectly good suit.

She dressed up too, slightly less formal than Kate, however. High-waisted black jeans, a crisp white V-neck tee tucked in neatly, and a loose grey blazer over the top. Her signature black boots completed the look, of course. 

Kate, turning just in time to see her, froze with one earring halfway to her lobe. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her blush arrived before her words did. “Oh my god,” she muttered, clearly flustered. “Formal Lena is... oh fuck... so hot.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow as she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into place. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Kate squeaked, eyes wide, face red, hands fidgeting with the clasp of her earring like it had personally betrayed her.

Yelena’s smirk deepened, her voice came low and velvet-smooth, the kind of mock-casual that only made the effect more devastating. “You are so easy to fluster,” she drawled, taking an exaggerated step back just to admire the blush spreading down Kate’s neck.

“And this, my little hawk,”—she gestured lazily at Kate, at her undone expression —“is revenge. For always walking around looking so fucking beautiful and expecting me to function like a normal person.”

Kate let out a helpless sound and dropped her face into her hands, fingers dragging down over her cheeks with a muffled groan. “Please, for the love of God, let’s just go before I combust.”

Yelena chuckled as she scooped up her coat with a careless flick of her wrist, slinging it over her shoulder like a model in a fashion editorial, keys jingling lightly in her other hand. “Ready when you are, detective,” she purred, throwing a wink over her shoulder without even looking back, because of course she knew Kate was watching her go.

—

The café was quiet, tucked between a florist and a second-hand bookshop, the kind of place chosen with care, somewhere people could feel safe enough to talk. Kate pushed open the door, holding it just long enough for Yelena to step in beside her.

Their client was easy to spot. Mrs Barlow sat at a back booth, posture ramrod straight, a white ceramic mug clutched tightly in both hands as though it were the only thing anchoring her. Her gaze darted to the entrance the moment the bell chimed, and she watched them approach with a nervous kind of hope.

Kate offered a warm, steady smile as she reached the table, her tone calm and welcoming. “Mrs Barlow? I’m Kate Bishop. This is Elena,” she added smoothly, swapping out Yelena’s real name and sidestepping her surname entirely, just as they’d agreed beforehand.

Yelena slid into the seat opposite with Kate at her side, her American accent smooth and practiced. “Thanks for meeting us. Hope the location worked for you.”

Mrs Barlow nodded a little too quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve just... I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

Kate leaned forward, resting her arms on the table in a way that felt open but unobtrusive. “It’s completely natural to feel that way. Situations like this, they’re difficult. And brave to bring forward.”

Yelena offered a small, measured nod. “We’re not here to judge you. All we’re doing today is getting a feel for what’s going on, nothing more than that right now. There’s no pressure.”

The slight tension in Mrs Barlow’s expression softened, her shoulders lowering a fraction. A small, uncertain smile touched her lips, as though some part of her was beginning to believe them.

Kate reached into her satchel and retrieved a leather folder, flipping it open to a fresh page. “We asked in our email for you to bring any documentation, bank statements, a timeline of events, and any inconsistencies you’ve noticed. Do you have them with you?”

“Yes, I...” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her handbag, a little tremble betraying the nerves still clinging to her composure. “Sorry. I tried to be thorough.” She pulled out a folder and slid it across. “There’s a list of nights he came home late, what he told me, where he said he’d been. His car registration, some notes on his work schedule... and I printed the last three months of credit and bank statements too.”

Kate accepted it with care, glancing through the pages as she spoke. “This is exactly what we were hoping for, it’s a strong foundation.”

Still holding her mug like it might steady her, Mrs Barlow let her eyes drop to the floor, her voice barely above a murmur. “I know I probably sound ridiculous. Like I’m reading too much into nothing. But… I don’t know, something’s felt wrong for a while now. Over a year, maybe longer. And lately, especially in the last few months, it’s just—” she hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line before continuing, “it’s worse. Different somehow. I keep telling myself I’m imagining it, but… I can’t shake the feeling. I just need to know if I’m going mad, or if… if there really is something going on.”

Yelena leaned forward slightly, her tone softened but firm, her eyes steady. “You don't sound ridiculous. When something’s wrong, most people can feel it, even if they don’t have the proof yet.”

Kate gave a small nod, her voice gentle but certain. “And hopefully, it’s nothing, some innocent explanation that just hasn’t been made clear yet. But if it’s not, we’ll find out, and you’ll have the truth. Either way, you won’t be left in the dark.”

There was a long pause. Mrs Barlow’s grip finally eased around her mug. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Just hearing that... it helps.”

Kate clicked her pen and scanned the timeline briefly. “Would you mind walking us through when things first started to feel different? Even if it seemed small at the time, anything that stood out.”

Mrs Barlow nodded, her words tentative at first, halting and uncertain, but gradually gaining confidence as she spoke. The pieces came together in slow, measured beats while her eyes flicked to Kate more than once, checking for a reaction, but found only quiet understanding.

Yelena stayed perfectly still, her attention fixed and unwavering. When details blurred or timelines overlapped, she interjected with calm, precise questions, her voice never breaking its even rhythm.

By the end, Mrs Barlow looked spent, but lighter, somehow. Like putting it into words had taken something out of her, but left her with room to breathe again.

Kate gently closed the folder, slipping it back into her satchel. “Okay. This gives us a solid place to begin. We’ll start by verifying his movements, checking timelines, locations, and patterns.”

Yelena added, “If we need anything else, we’ll reach out directly. All of this stays confidential, of course.”

“Right.” Mrs Barlow nodded slowly. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do... but it feels better already. Knowing someone’s taking me seriously.”

Kate offered a reassuring smile as she rose from the booth, smoothing her blazer. “We do. And we’ll treat this with the care it deserves.”

They shook hands and watched as Mrs Barlow walked out, her steps still slow, but no longer so fragile.

Outside the café, the air felt lighter, the buzz of the street a soft contrast to the stillness they’d left behind. Kate exhaled, folding her arms as they began to walk. “She’s holding on by a thread,” she murmured.

Yelena scanned the street without missing a step, eyes alert even in conversation. “She is. But she’s sharper than she thinks. That folder? She did her homework.”

Kate glanced sideways, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Was that a compliment? I swear you’re getting soft.”

Yelena raised a brow, her tone dry. “I am not. I just appreciate good prep. Come on, detective, let’s get started.”

And they fell into step together, their pace steady, minds already shifting into the rhythm of investigation.

By the time they reached the loft, the sky had darkened into that soft lavender dusk that always made the city feel quieter than it was. Kate was the first to kick her shoes off by the door, sighing in relief as her toes stretched inside her socks. 

Lucky bounded over with the enthusiasm of a dog who thought they’d been gone for a week, and both women knelt to fuss over him, hands scruffing behind his ears and under his chin until he flopped dramatically onto his back.

Yelena straightened first, stretching with a small grunt before tugging off her coat. “We changing?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Kate agreed as she unfastened her blazer. “I need out of this whole ‘trying to look like a serious businesswoman’ thing.”

They made their way upstairs, disappearing into the bedroom and re-emerging minutes later in mismatched sweatshirts and joggers. Kate tossed her hair into a loose bun as she padded barefoot into the kitchen to feed Lucky, while Yelena flopped onto the sofa and opened the client folder again, spreading out some of the papers.

“I’m ordering pizza,” Kate called over her shoulder, phone already in hand. “You want the usual?”

With her eyes scanning the timeline Mrs Barlow had written out, Yelena nodded absently, her voice dry but playful. “Always. And don’t forget the extra hot sauce this time, or I swear I’ll start rationing your coffee pods.”

Kate shot her a mock-offended look as she opened the food app. “That was one time, Belova. One time. Let it go.”

Fifteen minutes later, a knock from the pizza place below signalled their dinner’s arrival. Kate bounded down the stairs two at a time, and returned moments later with a stacked box and the giddy triumph of a woman who knew both she and Lucky were getting their favourite meal.

Settled in the living room, legs tangled comfortably on the same sofa, they ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, occasionally murmuring about Mrs Barlow’s notes.

Eventually, Kate wiped her fingers on a napkin and reached for her laptop, balancing it on her knees. “Alright,” she said, flicking her eyes over to Yelena as she began to type. “Let’s start with his usual excuse. ‘Working late.’ If he’s telling the truth, there should be records of him staying past hours at the office, right?”

Yelena, already leaning back with a tablet in hand and one leg pulled up beneath her, gave a little nod as she scrolled. “Da. You take their security network, see when he’s actually clocking out, and if he is showing up on any of the internal feeds after hours. I’ll check traffic data for his plates. If he’s lying, he’s got to be going somewhere.”

“Got it,” Kate replied, her fingers already flying across the keyboard as she logged into the Bishop Securities interface. She had the employee access logs for the company he worked for up within seconds, eyes flicking between names. “Okay… according to this, he clocks out at exactly five on the dot. Every day. Definitely not staying late.” Her tone was almost gleeful, eyebrows raised in triumph.

Yelena snorted, lips curling into a wicked grin as she tapped her tablet. “Amateur hour. Strike one, Mr Barlow,” her voice turning suspiciously evil. 

Kate gave her a horrified look, giggling as she pressed her hand over her chest. “Please don’t do that creepy voice again. You sounded like a Bond villain.”

“It’s part of the package,” Yelena said innocently, though the smirk lingering on her face gave her away. “Anyway. His car? On almost every ‘late night,’ he’s parked in a residential zone.”

Kate leaned over to glance at the map on Yelena’s tablet, her smile fading into a thoughtful frown. “So he’s definitely visiting someone.”

“And he’s not even trying that hard to cover his tracks,” Yelena replied, flicking her finger across the screen to pull up more timestamps.

Kate gave a little sigh, her face dropping. “Poor Mrs Barlow. This is already feeling ugly.”

Yelena nodded, her tone a little softer now. “Yeah. She didn’t deserve this. But we’re getting her the truth.”

Kate gave a quiet nod, her expression shadowed for a moment with sympathy for Mrs Barlow, but it didn’t last long; her eyes lit up again as she shifted slightly on the sofa, stretching her legs out and adjusting the laptop on her thighs. 

“Alright, next up, the gym,” she said, tapping the trackpad and pulling up a new tab with a little bounce in her tone. “Apparently, in the last few months, he started going every Saturday at noon, stays for hours... but never brings gym clothes. No bag, nothing.”

Yelena raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed as she leaned her elbow on the arm of the couch and propped her cheek against her knuckles. “Could have a locker, I guess,” she murmured, her tone dry as she tilted her head, “but unless he’s magic, those clothes have to reek by now.”

That earned a snort from Kate, who grinned as she began typing, fingers flying confidently across the keys. “Let’s find out,” she said, already accessing the gym’s security database. “Digital entry logs should tell when and if he’s showing up.”

She paused, eyes flicking across the screen as she scrolled through dates. Her lips parted slightly, then curled in disbelief. “Oh my god,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned the laptop slightly so Yelena could see. “He hasn’t swiped in since the week he signed up. Not once. His membership is basically just a very expensive lie.”

Yelena blinked once, then exhaled through her nose in that slow, unimpressed way she reserved for people who disappointed her on a personal level. “Seriously? He couldn’t even be bothered to show up and fake it?” she scoffed, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Guy’s got zero finesse. If I were cheating, I’d at least put the effort in to cover my tracks.”

Kate looked over with a mock glare, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she nudged Yelena’s ankle with her own. “If you ever even think of cheating on me, I’ll strap six different trackers to every pair of boots you own. And your knives.”

With a soft laugh, Yelena lifted both hands in exaggerated surrender, her smile bright and teasing. “Please, I would never. But hypothetically?” she added, her voice dropping to a faux-conspiratorial whisper as her eyes glinted. “I would do it so much better.”

Kate gasped, both scandalised and trying not to laugh, and gave her a little shove with her foot. “Yelena! That is not reassuring!”

Grinning now, Yelena laughed properly, the sound low and warm as she shook her head and reached out to touch Kate’s knee gently. “I’m joking, malysh (baby), ” she said softly, her voice dipping into something more sincere as her eyes met Kate’s without hesitation. “You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about. I love you.”

The moment hit Kate like it always did, disarming and unexpectedly soft. Her teasing expression softened into something gentle and open, her heart catching just a little as the words settled. It still made her melt every time, when Yelena said it like that, unprompted, certain, and effortless. “I love you too,” she whispered back, a small smile tugging at her lips even as she tried to pretend she wasn’t beaming.

Yelena’s grin widened as she clapped her hands once, the sound sharp in the soft background noise of their busy loft. “Alright, enough mushy feelings,” she declared, eyes twinkling with mischief as she leaned forward again, snatching her tablet off the coffee table. “Back to business. Cheaters don’t catch themselves.”

Kate groaned in that long, exaggerated way that suggested she was deeply put upon but also very much enjoying herself. “Ugh, fine,” she sighed, dramatically flopping her head back against the couch cushion before dragging her laptop onto her lap again. 

“Okay, phone logs. Let’s see…” she mumbled, eyes scanning lines of numbers before she tapped a few keys, running a quick cross-reference script. “Huh. Look at this, there’s a number that keeps popping up over the past two months. He makes real short calls, thirty seconds or less, but always right before he goes to the ‘gym’.”

Yelena’s brow furrowed as she flicked through her own location data tabs, jaw tightening a little. “So… a check-in? Like, ‘hey, you ready, I’m on my way’ kind of vibe?”

Kate nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she angled the screen slightly toward Yelena. “That’s what it looks like. Same number, always Saturdays, always within the hour before he disappears for hours.”

“That fits too neatly,” Yelena murmured, eyes narrowing slightly as she shifted back and pulled up the map feed again. “Hold on, let me cross-reference… okay. This is interesting. His car? It’s parked in that same residential district we flagged earlier every single Saturday, but,” she said, raising a finger as her smile grew sharper, “his bank statements show Uber charges. Like clockwork. Always around 1 p.m.”

Kate blinked, puzzled, and tilted her head. “Wait… so he drives to the house, leaves his car there, then Ubers somewhere else?”

“Exactly,” Yelena said, tapping the screen with a smirk that made it clear she was already three steps ahead. “Where is he going?”

Kate glanced down at the screen again, then back up at Yelena with a conflicted look. “We’d have to access Uber’s servers to see that. Technically, I’m pretty sure that’s, you know… illegal.”

Yelena waved her hand dismissively and leaned toward Kate with mock seriousness, eyes glinting. “It’s not illegal. It’s… a morally grey situation at most. Bishop Securities runs Uber’s backend infrastructure, right? That makes you, Miss CEO,” she said, tapping a finger to Kate’s chest, “theoretically entitled to the data.”

Kate’s eyes widened in disbelief, half appalled and half amused. “That is definitely not how any of this works!”

Yelena scoffed and rolled her eyes, already leaning over to grab Kate’s laptop. “Then let me do it. You can claim plausible deniability. Like a good morally ambiguous girlfriend.”

Kate narrowed her eyes but didn’t stop her. “Yelena…”

“Shhh, Kate Bishop,” Yelena said smoothly, already typing away as she bypassed the access walls with practiced ease. Her voice lowered in faux concentration. “I am working.”

Within moments, she let out a triumphant hum. “Ha! Look at this,” she said, tapping the screen. “Every Saturday, Uber picks him up from a specific address right in that residential district. And guess where he goes? Central Park. Every single time. Couple hours there, then right back.”

Kate’s mouth dropped open slightly, excitement bubbling up as she leaned in closer, her knee bumping against Yelena’s. “Wait, so tomorrow, he’ll be there again? In the park? Probably with whoever he’s seeing?”

Yelena gave a satisfied nod, looking smug and very pleased with herself. “Mhm…”

Kate slapped the arm of the couch with a grin. “This is so cool! Please tell me we’re gonna go and catch him in the act!”

Her voice had risen high enough to stir Lucky from his nap, the golden retriever blinking his one eye in sleepy irritation as he lifted his head from his dog bed with a soft grumble. Kate winced and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Sorry, buddy,” she cooed, and Lucky huffed, then flopped his head back down.

Yelena laughed, her smile turning fond as she glanced over at the pup. “Poor shchenok(puppy),” she said, then lowered her voice too, half whispering like a conspirator. “Speaking of… we should take him on a W-A-L-K tomorrow.”

Kate perked up, catching on instantly. “To Central Park,” she said slowly, her grin spreading.

Yelena nodded, the glint in her eyes practically feral with glee. “Just a casual stroll. Two girlfriends, walking their very good boy… and maybe taking a few photos of a cheating bastard if we happen to cross paths.”

Kate’s eyes gleamed with unrestrained excitement as she leaned over and rested her head against Yelena’s shoulder, her grin playful and full of the warm, bubbling energy of someone sitting on the edge of a secret adventure. “God, I love this,” she murmured, her voice soft with awe and just a hint of giddy disbelief.

Yelena responded with a gentle kiss pressed to the top of her head, her lips brushing against soft hair as her voice dropped to a fond whisper. “Me too, little hawk.”

They stayed curled close as they continued combing through the last of the files, cross-referencing call logs, location pins, and anything else they had, just in case something new leapt out at them. But time and again, they circled back to the same simple, inescapable conclusion: tomorrow was their shot. Central Park. Same time, same pattern. If they were going to catch him, that would be it.

Yelena was halfway through running the plan again out loud, fingers tapping a gentle rhythm on her thigh as she mentally ticked through contingencies, when a quiet yawn from Kate broke her train of thought. 

She glanced sideways and softened instantly. Kate’s eyes were starting to glaze with sleep, the adrenaline of discovery clearly giving way to the weight of the hour. Her lashes fluttered with the effort of keeping them open, and Yelena could see the faint pink flush of tiredness across her cheeks.

“Alright, milaya devochka (sweet girl), ” Yelena said gently, her voice low and coaxing as she reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Kate’s ear, “let’s get some sleep, hm?”

Kate didn’t even bother to argue; she just gave a slow, sleepy nod as her voice came out quiet and a little thick with the oncoming drowsiness. “You coming with?”

Yelena smiled at the look she gave her, those big, pleading eyes full of affection and mischief, and leaned in to nudge their noses together affectionately. “Of course I am. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, remember? I’ll just take Lucky out for a quick bathroom break first.”

Kate nodded again, this time slower, her hand brushing over Yelena’s as she leaned in for a brief, tender kiss. “Thank you, love,” she whispered, the words so soft they barely made it past her lips.

Yelena returned the kiss with a small, satisfied hum, then stood and stretched before calling Lucky over with a quiet whistle. The retriever perked up immediately, trotting over with a lazy wag of his tail as Yelena crouched down to clip on his lead and grab her jacket. 

As she slipped out the door with him, Kate padded off toward the bathroom, yawning once more as she rubbed her eyes. Once she was out of the shower, she moved through the warm pockets of light they’d left on, slipping into a clean shirt and soft cotton shorts, and made sure to leave the bedroom door open, just enough for Yelena to find her way back in without fumbling through the dark. She climbed into bed and nestled down beneath the covers, her body relaxing into the mattress as a sleepy little smile curved her lips, eyes drifting toward the door as she waited.

Yelena returned ten minutes later, cheeks flushed slightly from the cool night air, Lucky padding happily beside her. She moved quietly and began her own quick bedtime routine, brushing her hair out, pulling on her sleepwear, and dimming the hallway light before heading into the bedroom. Kate stirred as soon as she heard the soft padding of bare feet, her eyes opening just enough to track Yelena’s approach.

Without needing to say anything, Yelena slipped beneath the covers, and Lucky jumped up after her. The dog heaved a contented sigh as he flopped onto the end of the bed, curling near their legs with a thump. 

Yelena didn’t hesitate; she immediately wrapped her arms around Kate’s midsection, pulling her close and burying her face in her chest, with a quiet murmur of affection.

Kate exhaled a long, satisfied breath as she relaxed fully into the embrace, a contented hum escaping her chest as she murmured, “My favourite way to end the day…”

—

The following afternoon, Kate practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she zipped up her jacket and adjusted Lucky’s harness with an eager flourish. “This is so cool,” she mumbled under her breath, grinning to herself like a kid about to meet Santa. 

Yelena, standing nearby and slipping into her own coat with far more measured calm, watched her with an amused, fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re going to burn through your energy if you keep going like this,” she teased, nudging Kate’s hip gently as she bent to double-check Lucky’s lead. “Deep breaths, little hawk. This is just a normal day in the life of a private investigator.”

Kate shot her a playful glare but didn’t stop smiling, her hands already tugging Yelena’s into her own. “You say that, but I know you’re excited too,” she said knowingly, threading their fingers together and practically dragging her out the door.

They strolled through Central Park hand in hand, the crisp air brushing their cheeks while Lucky trotted ahead with his tail swaying like a banner. Kate scanned their surroundings with open enthusiasm, eyes flicking between park-goers and benches, while Yelena, ever the strategist, kept a quieter vigilance, her gaze sharper, more calculated.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Yelena’s posture subtly shifted, her hand tightening slightly around Kate’s as she angled her head toward a path just ahead. “Eleven o’clock. Mr Barlow,” she murmured, keeping her tone low and casual.

Kate’s eyes darted to where Yelena indicated, and she nearly stopped dead in her tracks, jaw falling open slightly. “Is he… oh my god, is he holding a baby?” she blurted, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and outright scandalised surprise.

Yelena’s brows lifted ever so slightly as she took in the sight: Mr Barlow, dressed down in weekend casuals, was strolling along the path, cradling a small infant, no more than a few months old, in his arms. Next to him walked a woman, similarly aged, dark curls bouncing at her shoulders as she leaned down occasionally to check the baby’s tiny hat.

“Looks like it,” Yelena said simply, her eyes narrowing with interest as she watched the trio move. “Let’s stay back and observe. We should take some pictures, too.”

They settled onto a patch of open grass nearby, close enough to keep an eye on the family but far enough to remain unnoticed. Kate sat cross-legged while Yelena stretched out beside her, tossing Lucky’s ball in lazy arcs that kept the golden retriever blissfully entertained. Their eyes, however, never left Mr Barlow and his mysterious companions.

Kate squinted toward the group, her voice low and incredulous as she reached out for another throw. “He’s holding the baby like… like he’s done it a hundred times. Look, he’s even giving it a bottle.”

Yelena was already studying their posture, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pulled out her camera, taking videos and pictures. “Yes, but look at them. They’re not sitting close, not touching. He hands her the baby like it’s a handoff, not an intimate moment.” She turned her head slightly to meet Kate’s eye, her expression thoughtful. “They’re not a couple. At least… I don’t think so.”

Kate blinked, clearly not convinced. “What? How can you tell that from over here?” she asked, tossing the ball again without looking, her voice tinged with stubborn doubt.

Yelena shrugged, her tone even but sure. “Body language. No casual touches. No eye contact that lingers. Everything they do is centred around the baby. It’s efficient, not affectionate.”

Kate let out a soft huff, her arms folding over her knees. “Maybe they’re just being discreet. They’re in public, it’d be weirder if they were making out by the duck pond.”

“True,” Yelena conceded with a slow nod, “but come on, Kate. This guy couldn’t cover his fake gym visits. He’s not exactly a master of subtlety. Do you really think he’s pulling off this level of restraint now?”

Kate sighed and ran a hand through her hair, clearly torn. “I mean… maybe not. But what else makes sense? He’s kissing the baby’s head, he’s feeding it, he’s soothing it when it fusses. He’s not just playing house, he’s definitely the dad. Or at the very least, he’s in deep.”

Yelena smiled, not mockingly, but with quiet confidence as she watched him adjust the baby’s hat with gentle fingers. “Oh, he’s the dad. No doubt.”

Kate glanced sideways at her, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Then that’s worse, Yelena. That means he’s absolutely cheating.”

Yelena’s brows lifted slightly, a teasing smirk creeping onto her lips as she rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow. “You doubt me? Me? After everything I’ve shown you?”

Kate gave her a dramatic eye roll, scoffing under her breath. “I don’t doubt you, I just… I don’t get it. The pieces don’t fit.”

Yelena tilted her head, her smirk curling wider as she leaned in, eyes flashing with mischief and challenge. “Well then, how about I prove it to you?” she murmured, voice low and teasing, like she was already halfway through the plan.

Kate’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the reluctant smile tugging at her lips betrayed her fondness. “Oh no. I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to do something bad’ tone.”

With a grin that practically screamed trouble, Yelena pushed herself up from the grass without so much as a second thought. “Hell yeah, it is,” she laughed, then swiftly snatched Lucky’s ball and hurled it, too far, and far too close to the woman with the brown curls.

“Yelena!” Kate yelped, voice tight with horror as she scrambled to her feet. “Yelena, what are you doing?” she hissed, trailing after her as Lucky, delighted by the dramatic new trajectory, galloped straight for the woman. The ball landed perfectly at her feet, just as planned, sending Lucky leaping and tail-wagging all over her.

Yelena jogged over, mask of flustered panic sliding easily into place as she reached them, slipping into a polished American accent with ease. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” she gasped, clasping a hand over her chest. “My puppy’s a menace whenever he sees a beautiful woman, can’t blame him, really,” she added, voice dipping into flirtation.

Kate, frozen a few paces behind, visibly bristled. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her jaw clenched and her brows knitted in that very particular Yelena, I swear to God expression.

The woman laughed, clearly charmed as she bent to give Lucky a quick scratch behind the ears. “Oh, it’s totally fine, I love dogs, and so does our Princess, don’t you, darling?” she cooed, turning to the baby still nestled in Mr Barlow’s arms.

Yelena widened her eyes theatrically, pretending only now to notice him. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you there, I was too busy panicking over my idiot dog. I promise I wasn’t trying to flirt with someone’s partner,” she said, throwing a look of faux guilt.

Mr Barlow shrugged, utterly unfazed. “She’s not taken. Go ahead, though, as far as I know, she’s straight. Unfortunately for you.”

Behind Yelena, Kate’s expression shifted from irritation to confusion, her brows lifting as she replayed that line. Yelena, ever the professional, kept her composure smooth as silk, though internally she noted the confirmation with satisfaction.

“Well, that is unfortunate,” Yelena said with an exaggerated pout, her gaze still locked on the woman, voice dipped in something sultry and unmistakably bold. “Though, I’ve been known to change a few hearts in my time.” 

Her grin curled into something playful and wicked, flirtation dialled up just enough to provoke. She wasn’t actually trying to win the woman over, she was aiming past her, pushing deliberately at a boundary, watching for a flicker of possessiveness in Mr Barlow’s face. If they were involved, even quietly, there would be something: a twitch of the jaw, a sharp glance, a shift in posture, anything.

But instead, nothing. Not a flicker. Mr Barlow simply turned his attention to the baby, his expression softening as he gently bounced her on his hip, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in fondness. Calm. Unbothered. Entirely disengaged from Yelena’s performance.

The woman gave a small laugh, clearly flattered. “I think I’ve got competition anyway,” she said, glancing over Yelena’s shoulder at Kate.

Yelena made a grand, dismissive gesture with her hand. “Oh, her? That’s just my best friend, Kate. She gets all jealous when I flirt because I pull more women than she does.”

Kate stalked forward with an exasperated huff, her eyes narrowing. “Could you not flirt with the poor woman?” she asked tightly, forcing her tone into something light and joking. “She’s clearly got her hands full with this charming guy and their very cute kid.”

Mr Barlow lifted his eyebrows slightly. “Like I said, we’re not together,” he replied, casually offering up his left hand to view. Then, with a faint, almost embarrassed smile, he added, “I’m a married man.”

Kate blinked, visibly thrown. “But… she said our princess. That kind of sounds like—”

“She is ours,” he interrupted gently. “It’s complicated.” His expression turned solemn, a sadness creeping into his features. “Please don’t judge me. God, I know you’re a stranger, but… I feel like I should explain.”

Yelena nodded, offering a warm, non-threatening smile as if encouraging him. He glanced at the woman, who gave a small, supportive nod.

He took a breath. “Jane and I, we’ve worked together for years. A while back… my wife cheated. We separated. I was in a bad place, and Jane was just there. One mistake, and then… well, this miracle happened.” He glanced down at the baby, the fondness in his eyes unmistakable. “But I couldn’t just walk away. I wanted to do right by her, even if I’d screwed up.”

Kate’s features softened immediately, her brow knitting in sympathy as her arms dropped to her sides. The story didn’t match what Mrs Barlow had implied. 

Yelena, however, stayed in the zone. “Damn… I’m sorry. That’s a lot. Are you still… I mean, you said you’re married?” she asked gently, her voice tinged with concern, but clearly prying for more detail.

She then pretended to catch herself and gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Sorry. That was so forward. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Mr Barlow just waved it off. “No, it’s okay. Yeah, we worked things out. We’re back together. Trying, at least.” He gave a weary smile. “Though I bet you didn’t expect to learn a stranger's life story on your dog walk, huh?”

Behind her, Kate muttered under her breath, “Actually, that was exactly the plan,” just loud enough for Yelena to hear. Yelena didn’t react, though a faint twitch of amusement tugged at her lips.

“Definitely not,” she replied brightly, eyes flicking back to the baby. “Your daughter’s beautiful, though. How did your wife take it?”

That question seemed to hit differently. Mr Barlow’s gaze dropped, his shoulders tensing as he avoided her eyes. “She… doesn’t know. I keep meaning to tell her, but the longer I wait, the harder it gets. I love her. So much. I’d do anything for her, but I made a mess, and now I’m terrified I’ll lose everything.”

Yelena nodded slowly, the warmth in her eyes never wavering. “I get that. Sounds really hard.”

Just then, the baby began to fuss, her soft cries growing louder. Mr Barlow turned apologetically toward them. “Sorry, looks like someone needs a change. We’d better go. But it was nice meeting you both.” He gave Yelena a quick, genuine smile. “And good luck with the girlfriend hunt.”

As Mr Barlow, Jane, and the baby slowly melted into the dappled shade of Central Park’s sprawling trees, their voices fading into soft murmurs carried on the warm breeze, Yelena exhaled deeply. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her chest rising and falling with quiet satisfaction. 

A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she glanced over at Kate. “Well,” she said brightly, eyes sparkling with triumph, “that was productive, wasn’t it?”

But Kate didn’t answer. Not even a breath.

Yelena’s brow furrowed, a flicker of concern breaking through her confidence. “Kate?” she prompted gently.

Turning fully to face her, Yelena saw Kate standing a few steps behind, her arms crossed tightly, fingers digging into her biceps as if trying to hold herself together. Kate’s eyes were fixed on a patch of sun-dappled grass at their feet, unblinking and distant. The set of her jaw, the tight line of her lips, and the subtle twitch in her cheek all spoke volumes.

“What?” Yelena pressed again, her voice softer now, worry threading through the confusion. “Why do you look like you just bit into a lemon?”

Kate’s gaze snapped up, sharp and intense, laced with frustration and something raw and painful. “Yelena… what the actual fuck was that?” she said, voice low and brittle, shaking slightly as if holding back something fierce.

Yelena blinked, startled, the lightness draining from her expression. “Wait, are you… mad at me?” she asked, disbelief coloring her tone as she gestured vaguely toward where Barlow and the others had disappeared. “Because I flirted? Seriously?”

Without answering, Kate hurled Lucky’s worn tennis ball far across the grass with a sharp flick of her wrist. Lucky bounded after it with a happy bark, but Kate barely spared him a glance. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she snapped, voice tight, arms pulling herself into a protective barrier.

Yelena took a slow step closer and reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before gently brushing against Kate’s arm. “Malysh (baby), it was just part of the act,” she said quietly, trying to bridge the growing distance between them. “For the case.”

Kate’s eyes flashed, fierce and hurt. “You didn’t have to do it like that,” she replied sharply, voice thick with emotion. “You could’ve done anything else.”

Yelena’s head tilted, her voice dropping to a calm, reasoned tone. “Maybe. But I did what worked. I’m trained to extract information. We didn’t have truth serum or a cell to torture him in, so I used what I had, me. I tested him, I got what we needed. It was efficient.”

Kate’s face softened, the fire dimming to a flicker of pain and something much deeper. “It shouldn’t have to be that way,” she whispered, voice cracking just enough to break Yelena’s heart. “You shouldn’t have to… use yourself like that. Did you stop to think, or was it just about the case?”

Yelena met her eyes, feeling the weight of the question settle heavy between them. Her fingers found Kate’s hand, gripping it gently as if anchoring herself. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, voice small and vulnerable. “I thought it was the fastest way. It worked. I didn’t think much beyond that.”

Kate swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to their entwined hands, jaw clenched tight as she fought her own swelling emotions. “That’s exactly it, Lena. You didn’t think. You didn’t check in with me, didn’t explain what you were about to do. You slipped right back into that role they forced on you, like it was automatic. We agreed we’d use your skills differently… but this? This scares me. It feels like I’m dragging you back into something I promised I wouldn’t let happen.”

Yelena’s breath hitched as a flicker of guilt and sadness crept across her features. She lifted their hands, pressing a tender kiss to Kate’s knuckles, reverence in the gesture. “You’re not dragging me anywhere. I’m still choosing my path. This is not the past. I don’t feel trapped or dirty like before. Even if I didn’t think it through fully, it was my choice.”

Kate nodded slowly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But I hate seeing you fall into that pattern… especially now I know how it wasn't always your choice.”

Yelena stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Kate’s waist, pulling her in until their foreheads pressed together. The softness of Kate’s breath against her cheek was grounding. “That’s why it matters that this was my choice now. And you know what?” Her voice softened with a playful edge. “The look on your face when I winked at her? That was almost worth it.”

Kate snorted, eyes crinkling despite herself. “You’re an ass,” she muttered, her voice thick with affection.

“And yet you love me,” Yelena whispered, lips brushing just beneath Kate’s ear.

Kate sighed, tension ebbing away as she melted into the warmth of Yelena’s arms. “Yeah… unfortunately for me.”

They stood quietly, the distant hum of the city a soft backdrop to the pulsing beat of their hearts. After a moment, Kate’s voice came low and earnest, muffled against Yelena’s shoulder. “Next time… I want to be told. Briefed. Given a proper rundown, so I know it’s you making that choice, not the ghosts of your past.”

Yelena nodded, sincerity shining in her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

Kate exhaled slowly, a quiet breath of tension slipping from her chest as her shoulders finally, truly relaxed. Her lips curved into a small, deliberately pouty smirk as she tilted her head. “Good,” she murmured, her tone playfully sharp despite the fading remnants of emotion in her eyes. “And for the record? You’re lucky I wasn’t carrying my bow. That woman would’ve been skewered. You’re mine.”

Yelena’s laugh bubbled up, warm and low in her throat, her hand giving a gentle squeeze to Kate’s waist as the possessive edge in her voice sent an unexpected flutter through her ribs. “Come on, jealous hawk,” she teased, affection softening the words. “Let’s go wrangle Lucky, head home, write up the damn report, send it to the cheater, and then spend the rest of the day on the couch doing absolutely nothing. Da?”

Kate stepped back half a pace, eyes bright with something lighter now, and smiled with deliberate cheek. “Da,” she echoed sweetly, drawing out the syllable just enough to make Yelena flush faintly at the sound of it.

The blush coloured her cheeks with delicate heat, and she ducked her head slightly in mock protest. “I swear… I’m so glad you’re learning Russian, but even just the word ‘da’? It does things to me,” she muttered with a fond little groan.

Kate grinned, pleased with herself, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes as she took a half-step closer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Wanna hear the one I’ve been practising for weeks?”

Yelena arched a curious brow, lips parting to ask what, but then Kate said it, clearly, carefully, and confidently: “YA lyublyu tebya, detka. (I love you, babe).”

The moment froze between them, suspended like a held breath. Yelena’s eyes widened just a touch, her entire expression softening in an instant into something radiant, vulnerable, completely unguarded. She reached up to cradle Kate’s cheek, her thumb brushing lightly under her eye as a slow, aching smile curved her lips.

“YA tozhe tebya lyublyu, Malen'kiy Yastreb (I love you too, Little hawk),” she whispered back, the words reverent, tender, like a prayer offered not to the sky, but to the girl standing right in front of her.

—

Hi! I really hope this landed okay, I'm very much not used to actually trying to write people being happy lmao. If it didn’t, I’m genuinely sorry, and feel free to let me know what didn’t quite work (just, you know, kindly please, constructive criticism is fine, being an ass is not). If you did enjoy it, I’d love to hear that too, because I’ve been super nervous about this chapter (no pressure though!). Either way, thank you so much for being patient while it came together, and thanks for reading. Hope you have a lovely day!

Part 9 will be linked here when posted.

If you would like to be added to the tag list for this series, please let me know. Taglist: @sunny-poe

[sallykie]

I've decided. I don't like the HTTYD movie sequels' xenophobia era. I don't think the themes should have gone that way.

[ratkingsystem]

i dont even mean this in a catchy, buzzword way but i really do think autistics trigger the fuck out of people with NPD. it keeps being a pattern in a VERY specific type of person in my work life. a lot of ppl w NPD have a very paranoiac sense of "everyone is trying to get me and tear me down" thing that comes w the grandiosity. not just 'wow i am great' but 'i will achieve greatness and i HAVE to and it won't be okay if i don't' and the fundamental belief that people 'lower' on the social hierarchy are secretly envious and making up ways to fuck you over and take what you have (yknow, bc Everything Is About You). being allistic on top of that - assuming your experience is default and everyone knows these minor social tics & anyone who doesn't respond in kind is being minorly petty at the very least - and you have someone for whom every little autistic social mishap is triggering the "secretly hates me is out to get me is trying to signal to me that i am cringe" alarms. i will play my tiny violin here and say if they see you as hot or conventionally attractive, they WILL NOT assume you are weird or neurodivergent, not in a billion years, they ONE BILLION PERCENT WILL ASSUME it's obvious that you are trying to signal you think you're better than them. it's really sad and it's a really stressful way to live but it helped me to understand WHY this dynamic was happening

[nopeferatu]

everyones opinions are valid unless they not positive towards the things i love. in those instances, theyre WRONG

[mauxanhduong]

been thinking and i think part of the disconnect and frustration i had with gomens 2 stems from the fact that book aziraphale is very different from tv aziraphale. which is a whole other thing but i think considering that makes more sense than being like why the fuck would he do that. like by the end of s1 i’d assumed tv aziraphale had ended up where book aziraphale had with his view on heaven. but from what i’m getting he’s on his own more extended arc? to which i’m like. oh i guess we haven’t sorted it out yet but makes for some interesting thoughts about religious trauma. but that’s a different guy than i thought we were dealing with you know?

[poisonjaffas]

I literally hate how some days I just seem to wake up woth zero patience or tolerance for other people and I'm just awful to be around and I don't even notice half the time, I don't want to make my friends sad but that seems to happen the more time I spend with them and I don't know how to explain it in a way that doesn't just make me sound like a dick for no reason

[bennetsbonnet]

I came across this screenshot of a YouTube comment about Pride and Prejudice on Pinterest ↓

Ordinarily, I don't go out of my way to pour scorn on other people's interpretations, and certainly not without good reason. But this one really, really irked me.

I don't know what's more depressing; that someone interpreted Mr Darcy and Elizabeth's dynamic in this way, or that 12,000 people apparently agreed...

...because there are two major problems with this interpretation:

Firstly, Darcy is an asshole.

Secondly, he's very much not a stupid man.

This isn't just my opinion. This is canon.

Elizabeth doesn't think Mr Darcy is a terrible person because she happened to feel like it one day. Darcy gave her every reason to think he had absolutely no redeeming features. I mean, their very first interaction, before (contrary to what adaptations portray) they had even said a single word to each other, was when he insulted her.

Not only that, Darcy knew what he was doing, as this excerpt from chapter 3 proves:

'Turning round [Darcy] looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.'

Darcy wanted Elizabeth to hear him. There is no mistaking that. Yes, Elizabeth should have listened to the repeated warnings she received from others that Wickham was not all he seemed and that, perhaps, Darcy wasn't so bad... but you can completely understand why she was prejudiced against him. I wouldn't forgive someone saying something like that about me in a hurry.

There are other examples of Darcy's rudeness to Elizabeth. His tone of voice is described as 'grave' and 'cold' when they dance at the Netherfield ball in chapter 18; when he visits Hunsford Parsonage in chapter 32, he ends their exchange in a rude manner '[Darcy] experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice: “Are you pleased with Kent?”' and there are too many examples in the proposal in chapter 34, but for me the worst is, 'towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.'

If a man implied that separating my beloved sister from the man who loved her, was kinder to them both than the agony of him proposing to me... well, I don't think he would've walked away from that exchange. Elizabeth Bennet you are a better person than me.

Regarding the other point: Darcy's intelligence is never questioned. In fact, the narrator devotes time to ensuring we understand that in chapter 4:

'In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.'

Again, this man knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't sorry about any of it, and he certainly was not 'internally crying.' Mr Darcy was a conceited, spoiled rich man who needed to be made aware of his flaws and reflect on them in order to become a better person; or at least, improve enough that he ceased to give the impression that he was not, at his core, a compassionate man with many great qualities.

At the same time, Elizabeth was not a poor, innocent angel who was slighted by a man and who subsequently never did anything wrong. She didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of Darcy's unpleasantness, no; but she, too, was absolutely blind to her own flaws... until she read Darcy's letter.

I just think that if you don't grasp this fundamental aspect of their respective personalities and subsequent interactions, then how can the payoff possibly be satisfying?

Pride and Prejudice is, amongst many other things, a story about two flawed people whose love for the other shapes them into the best possible versions of themselves. It's really beautiful and it's a shame to think such a key part of it is being misinterpreted.

[teaboot]

I seriously hope you can job hop to something else cause you're not chaotic neutral man.

You're still a white Canadian whose actions and job help more the megacorps keep the status quo.

I really looked up to you but that's on me.

And yeah, I know security, cop shit and military pay good money but at the cost of my people? Fuck no.

Listen. I feel you. But there's a lot of cold, power-tripping bastards in this line of work and if I stick where I am then they don't get to have that.

I'm not a cop. I am not beholden to the justice system. Sometimes I get contracted out to people who say shit like "addicts should be put down, if you see any crackheads drag them out" and I nod and say "yes sir", and then I take their money and use it to buy those people coffee and a sandwich and tell 'em when free lunch days are at the church.

Boss sees me walking with someone and thinks I'm kicking them out, gives my boss great reviews. I'm having a great conversation with Connie, who used to by a stylist and wound up on the street after an accident that left her with chronic pain and a heroin addiction. Connie learns that there's a gap between two property lines nearby where technically nobody can call to have her removed.

There's a really sweet guy in town who's normally very nice, but sometimes flies into paranoid rage and yells slurs at people. Sometimes he forgets he's been banned from places and wanders in looking for a wife he hasn't had for nine years. Owner sends me to kick him out, and I ask "hey Mike, how are you?" And see where we are today.

One time there was a guy whose abusive ex kept following him to work, and I got to walk him to his car at the end of every day to make sure she couldn't get him alone.

Another person had a stalker who kept asking receptionists when she was gonna be there, when she was supposed to leave, if she was in today. I'd keep record of every time he came in, every time someone saw him, every time he violated his restraining order or damaged her things.

And when I wonder if I'm actually helping or not, or if I'm part of the greater problem, I remember that other people who work with me call homeless people wildlife and talk about how bad they wanna get an excuse to fight someone and I remember that I'm the one who knows where the blind spots on the cameras are, and thank God it's not him.

My position is fundamentally different from that of the military or law enforcement. I don't *need* to be buddy-buddy with most of these dickheads- I don't *need* to send people into the justice system.

I do single-person foot patrol. Nobody cares how I get the job done. They say, "Hey, faceless goon number three- make that bastard disappear" and I say "on it, boss" and give him tickets to disney world.

I once asked another guard if he knew that one of our regulars used to be an airplane technician. He said, "No, I don't talk to them". Blanket "Them". "Them" as in street people. "Them" as in addicts, or shoplifters, or ex-cons, or sex workers.

I asked why, and he told me, "it's easier if you don't think of them as people."

Anyhow, now I get calls to "watch that sketchy lady who just came in" and I say, "yes, sir" and leave her the fuck alone, 'cause that's Jolene, and people always think she's on drugs and aggressive but she's just deaf in one ear and slurs cause she has brain damage, you dickhead

so yeah, don't worry, I've spent a lot of time weighing the pros and cons of my vocation, and I still think I'd rather be in charge of my locations than someone like Darryl, who dreams of "cuffing a perp" and drives a car with Punisher decals on the hood

Also it's minimum wage but that's kinda tangential

[joy-haver]

there isn't a "kill all the ____" that will fix the problems of the world, because, 1. you probably can't. 2. if you did, more of them would probably come into existence, or 3. other people would come to fit the same social position. 4. There isn't a group of Fundamentally Bad Evil People that Cause All The Problems, because 5. Harm isn't caused by a type of person. everyone causes harm and an effective system of addressing harm has to contend with that. 6. you will end up expanding the definition of ____ to include whoever else you want to kill anyway. which will suck. 7. Destruction without building will leave nothing behind. New harms will arise. Old harms will continue. Because there is nothing to replace them. There is nothing Helpful being done. a better world isn't created by just getting rid of all the bad stuff and calling it a day. you have to actually make something that meets peoples needs. 8. structures of power and harm sometimes maintain themselves even if no one intends them to or purposefully wants them to. 9. systems of power will end up finding a scapegoat. they will convince you that some marginalized group are the real ____ and you should focus on them. and in your zeal and blood thirst you, or at least some of your allies, will fall for it. And you will commit atrocities. 10. The world that is created can only come from the world that is. And look, whatever group you are thinking of -- yes I mean them too. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers, sociopaths, nazis, billionaires, cops, you name it. Harm and oppression is far too complicated to ever be solved with Finding The Right Group To Kill. And there are lots of really great arguments to be made about why eliminationist rhetoric is ethically bad, or historically questionable, etc. I am open to that being added on and talked about too. But my point is that It Will Not Accomplish Your Desired Results. You Will Have Committed Atrocities and You Will Have Failed At Achieving Your Initial Goal.

[kashverse]

umbrellas are, without a doubt, mankind’s magnum opus. rain? blocked. sun? deflected. want to look like a brooding protagonist in a slow-motion film sequence? pop that thing open and stride dramatically.  a/n: read till the end to see choso's temu collab <3

unfortunately, this universal truth is lost on gojo, who believes his infinity is a catch-all solution to every problem in life, including weather. does it keep the rain off him? sure. does it do the same for you? absolutely not. but does he realize this? of course not. so while he’s smugly holding you close, humming some dumb love song and talking about how "this is just like those k-dramas, huh, babe?" you are actively getting drenched. fast forward two days later—you’re curled up in bed, tissues piling up like a battlefield, and gojo is wailing as if he’s the one on death’s doorstep. “my baby is dying,” he cries to shoko over the phone, who is ignoring him as she eats her lunch. it doesn’t matter that you told him it was just a mild cold. gojo is now hand-feeding you soup with the solemnity of a man who thinks he is on his last day of service. *“i should’ve—sniff—bought an umbrella.” you have half a mind to hit him with the spoon.

geto, on the other hand, is a man of preparation and, for some reason, exclusively stocks clear umbrellas. like, exclusively. open his closet and you will find nothing but a neat, borderline concerning collection of transparent umbrellas, stacked like they’re waiting for a government-distributed evacuation plan. does he use them all? yes. does he need that many? no. when you question him, he simply shrugs and says, “it’s aesthetic.” but the aestheticism fades a little when the two of you are forced to walk under the blazing summer sun, grumbling like old men because the clear plastic is offering exactly zero protection from UV rays. "we’re gonna get so tanned,” you whine. “we’ll be fine,” he reassures, though he looks about one minute away from passing out. why doesn’t he just buy a regular umbrella? you may never know.

toji, meanwhile, gives you the slow blink of a man who has never voluntarily used an umbrella in his life. if you ask him where his umbrella is, he will blink at you like a lizard sunning itself on a rock and say, "what’s an umbrella?" except he’s joking, but also not really. the thing about toji is that he fundamentally does not care about the weather. if it rains, it rains. if it shines, it shines. he has completed jobs in typhoons, sprinted through downpours to reach you in the middle of the night when you were anxious, and once walked through a literal snowstorm to buy a six-pack. weather is an inconvenience only for the weak. that is until his philosophy backfires and he ends up with a sunburn so severe he’s walking around the house hissing like a vampire, or with a cold so bad that every time he blows his nose, he sounds like a goose fighting for its life. and now he’s grumpy about it. "should’ve used an umbrella," you tell him sweetly as you rub aloe on his peeling shoulders. he grumbles something unintelligible and sulks like a big, overgrown toddler.

nanami is the only one among them who has fully mastered the art of umbrella ownership. you don’t even have to ask if he has one; the answer is always yes. he has one for every occasion. he carries a primary umbrella, a backup umbrella in his bag, and if you check his office drawer, there’s probably another one neatly folded away just in case. he whips it out at the farmers' market, during evening strolls, and most impressively, in a street fight. if you’ve ever seen a man turn an umbrella into a lethal weapon, nanami is that man. he can and will beat the shit out of someone with it. “it’s a tool,” he says simply. and honestly, who are you to argue?

choso, however, is firmly in the raincoat camp. umbrellas make his hands hurt, so he skips the struggle entirely and commits to full rain protection like a man on a mission. the problem arises when he starts browsing for new raincoats and sees children wearing character-themed ones. next thing you know, he is holding up two sanrio-themed raincoats from temu, grinning ear to ear. "they glow in the dark when they get wet," he says proudly. they allegedly glow. allegedly. you do a quick google search and find out they might actually contain enough lead to take down a fully grown man. "choso, you are not wearing that." but he already bought it. and now he’s standing in the rain, in a kuromi-themed raincoat that is possibly a biohazard, smiling like he’s the peak of fashion.

sukuna, much like toji, does not give a single damn about rain or shine. it could be pouring or blisteringly hot, and he’d still be doing whatever he wants, unaffected and unbothered. however, if the weather starts personally inconveniencing him—like preventing him from stretching out in his favorite sunspot like some oversized demon cat—he will glare at the sky itself and, somehow, it will fix itself. it doesn’t rain if sukuna doesn’t want it to. the sun won’t shine if he says so. when you ask him how he does it, he just shrugs. "i just do." you don’t push for answers. you’re a little scared to.

[samkerrworshipper]

lights are on, but nobody’s home

barca femeni x reader

it’s unedited. i’m not sorry about it, if it puts u off then soz icbf. this fic has been in my drafts since october so it was about time i finished it! combined to fics lol to get it done and its a fast paced very vague mess but have fun :) loved the idea not the execution!

warnings: kinda angsty?

Red cards exist in the game for a reason. You don’t deny that. Red cards are needed to keep people safe, to set a boundary between safe and unsafe play. But there had been something so undeniably unfair about yours.

You’d hurt somebody, you weren’t going to lie about that. It had been unintentional, but a risk you’d taken had ended up with the world’s best player being stretchered off the pitch, and for just that, you deserved a yellow. But a red, for a tackle that was mostly legal, seemed ridiculous. Tackles happened. As a defensive midfielder, it was your job to get the ball off attackers, it was your responsibility to make sure that you stopped the ball from being kicked in the direction of your keeper or down the field to another player. It was what cemented your spot in the English midfield; you weren’t just a good attacker; you were ferocious in defence. You averaged at least 5 tackles per game; it was the most crucial part of your game; it was fundamentally what made you a good footballer.

Arguing with the ref and using some particularly vulgar language definitely didn’t help your case but in your defence it hadn’t been a red cardable offence. It was all pointless though, the card had already been raised and pointed in your direction, you’d been booked, in a friendly of all games.

It was bad, you’d know that from the moment your cleats had stepped over the line, the incessant booing being directed towards you as you walked past Sarina the grim frown etched into the details of her face was enough of a sign. You were in a bad situation, but you’d just put your team in an even worse situation with a one less player on the field to continue the fight in the world cup final rematch. It wasn’t good, it was your job to make sure that your team was in the best situation to achieve success on the pitch and you’d jeopardised that. What you hadn’t realised was that action wasn’t only jeopardising your team, it was jeopardising you as a whole.

It had begun from the moment you’d gotten back to your hotel room later that night. Your teammates had focused all of their energy on trying to lift your spirits, with the game ending in a 1-1 draw, everyone was happy. The England team was your second family, and considering you didn’t play in the WSL like the vast majority of them, national team time was valuable to you. You sat next to Beth on the ride back to the hotel, happy to listen to her non-stop talking as a distraction for the disappointment that had settled inside of you. At team dinner, you sat sandwiched in between Grace and Ella; most dinners spent on your normal table, you struggled to get a word in, but it was the constant surrounding buzz that kept you out of your head and specifically off of your phone, and you were more grateful than usual that you had that. By the time you’d even made it to your room and gone through your nighttime routine, you still hadn’t checked your phone. It was only as you began to prepare yourself to get into bed that you headed towards your bag to fish it out. You climbed into bed, finally opening your phone for the first time, and instead of it having a handful of messages from your family and a sprinkle of Instagram notifications, there were thousands. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, newsforums, both English and Spanish; as you scrolled down the list, it only got bigger. All of it was the same, about how you’d ‘intentionally’ injured your own club teammate to benefit your national team, how you were malicious, how you had played beyond the line of safe play, how you deserved to be penalised, how you had ruined sportsmanship. It was never-ending, and the more that you read, the worse it got. You felt like a shell of yourself as your eyes scanned the different words; you completely dissociated it all. It felt like you were reading about somebody else, like there was absolutely no possibility that the sentences you were absorbing could possibly be about you. There was so much falsity behind all of it that it was hard to understand it. You’d played the same you always did, you hadn’t played dangerously, you’d played within the rules as you always did. Beyond that, you’d visited Aitana in the change rooms after the game, desperate to apologise and make sure that you hadn’t done any damage or hurt her in any way. Your play hadn’t been malicious, there hadn’t been any ill intention or hatred fueled behind it, even though every single article or post was making it seem that way. Aitana had come off after the clash purely as a caution, when you’d gone to see her, all she was dealing with was a little bit of inflammation. By the time you were both back in Barcelona, she’d be as good as new. Even after watching the replays, it was clear to anybody with eyes that all you were doing was fighting for the ball, the same as every other 1-on-1 battle throughout the game. Yet as soon as a spotlighted player got injured, it was suddenly a different story being told.

Normally you would shake it off, in general, you were the kind of person who didn’t get bothered by much, You were a bubbly and happy person, you were the kind of teammate who was always smiling and trying to make other people laugh. Usually, if you had a teammate who was in the same situation as you were now, you would be the one picking them up and trying to help them shake off all of this. It wasn’t normally a struggle for you to overcome a little bit of hate, but there was something so shattering about this. Whilst you still believed deep down that you’d done nothing wrong, it was hard to convince yourself of that when there were so many people who were telling you otherwise.

You weren’t the kind of person who regularly fell into the mind numbing action of doom scrolling, you weren’t big on social media in general, it was something you had to do because of your job but not much else beyond that. Yet right now it felt impossible to deviate away from it, every time you saw your name pop up again somewhere you were drawn to another dark place of the internet where you kept reading until you were mentioned or tagged in another post and your phone lit up with a new piece of media.

It was never ending, it just kept coming, and the longer you indulged in it, the sicker you started to feel. Had you done something wrong? Were you truly as malicious as everyone wrote? Were you the bad person they were painting you to be?

It was impossible to not consider that potentially everyone else was right, maybe you were the problem.

It was a good day to be roomed with Lucy, she’d been in bed before you’d even made it up to the room and asleep whilst you’d been showering. If the sounds of snoring were anything to go off of then she was long gone, which made you feel more secure as you muffled a sob into your pillow. It was going to be fine, by the time morning rolled around it would be forgotten. Or at least that was what you thought.

The convenience of playing your games in Spain was that unlike majority of your teammates, you were able to sleep in the following morning instead of flying back to their club teams. Lucy was gone long before you woke up, something you were specifically grateful for because whilst Lucy was mostly oblivious, you weren’t sure if you would have been able to hide your red eyes and puffy face. You hadn’t had much sleep, but even in the few hours that you had managed to get, the notifiations on your phone had only multiplied significantly. Every second your phone lit up again, and for the sake of your own brain you chose to switch it off completely. If you stayed in the shower a little longer because you got so lost thinking about it all that your feet started to go numb from the water pressure there was nobody around to say anything about it. If you happened to space out halfway through your skincare and accidentally spill half of your serum down the sink it was nothing a bit of water from the sink couldn’t fix. Every time you thought you’d forgotten about it all, like you’d drifted away from everything you’d read and then suddenly it all came back to you like some sick fever dream. It was the same words that kept circulating, and every time it came back to you it was impossible to just let it go.

You were half way dressed when your door was knocked on. It was what woke you up to the fact that you had absolutely no idea what time it was or how long you’d spent spaced out and in your brain.

You weren’t shocked to find Keira waiting outside your door, looking significantly more put together then you were.

“Mate, I’ve texted you about 30 times. The taxis here to take us to the airport.”

Fuck. You’d forgotten that you were taking a group taxi instead of leaving the hotel individually.

“Give me five minutes, I slept in and forgot to pack up last night.”

Keira cut you off before you continued your ramble of excuses.

“I’ll help you pack up, you focus on getting dressed and sorting yourself out, okay?”

Keira wasn’t your closest friend, she was one of the few people on the Barcelona team that spoke fluent english which grouped the two of you together. She was also one of your idols coming through as the youngest midfielder in the English and Barcelona squad. But personality wise the two of you didn’t jell, you were too energetic and a little bit too immature to buddy up with her. It didn’t change the fact that she was basically an older sister to you. She wasn’t exactly the person you’d go to for relationship advice or confess your troubling thoughts to. But she was the person you could rely on to help you in any situation without asking questions, and this really was an extension of that.

Keira made quick work of packing up your things from around your room whilst you finished getting dressed and putting your hair in a messy bun.

By the time you’d made yourself look just enough presentable for the public eye Keira was done, all of your bags piled together at your hotel room door.

“I found your phone at the bottom of your bag, looks like you might want to charge it before the drive.”

Right now, your phone felt like a block of dynamite, balancing in Keira’s hand, ready to explode at any second.

“No, I just turned it off.”

You didn’t really think about how odd your words could sound until they’d left your mouth, and Keira’s eyebrows were raising quickly.

“You just turned it off?”

It’s an unusual behaviour for you, one that Keira has clearly picked up on by the tone in her voice. Your phone is practically an extension of you, the team didn’t joke about you having square eyes for nothing. Always getting people to film tiktoks or do stupid challenges.

“Yes?”

You actively observe all of the cogs in Keira’s brain turning, she looks like she has a lot to say, but then she glances down at her watch and it’s clear that the fact that you are running well behind time takes priority.

“Let’s go, the taxi is waiting.”

Keira practically pushed you out of the hotel room, all of your bags in her hands and ushering you straight towards the elevator.

As she’d said, the taxi is waiting in front of the lobby, the driver looks particularly ticked off as he waits outside the drivers side door, his foot tapping and a cigarette hanging halfway out of his mouth. Keira loads your suitcase into the boot of the car whilst you take your backpack off of her and hop into the back of the car, Keira follows and sits down across from you.

The first five minutes of the ride are silent, Keira flicks through her phone whilst you stare out the tinted window and pretend that you can see the things passing by.

“You can talk to me you know? I know we’re not exactly the closest, but I’m here for you.”

You don’t bother to look in Keira’s direction, you keep your eyes and facial expression schooled and focused on the window.

“Anything the media writes is bullshit, you ought to just ignore it.”

You wished you could have ignored it last night, when theoretically you were at your most vulnerable. Maybe if you hadn’t of read so much when you were already in a bad mindset it wouldn’t have imprinted so much, regardless it has and you can’t just ignore it.

“Kei, I’m fine. When have I ever cared what the papers write about me?”

Now, right now is when you care. It’s a fair statement though, you’ve never been affected when tabloids have written far worse things about you, when you came out and for months there was homophobic slander everywhere you looked. In the past it hadn’t been based off of facts, it had all been fictitious. But now that there is just a inkling of truth behind what’s being written it feels far more real and you aren’t sure how to get past that.

“I’m just saying that there isn’t anything wrong with being affected by it. Especially after last night, there’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

This is the trouble between you and Keira, she’s a lot more frank. In your opinion it’s a thing that comes with age, whilst she’s very happy to admit when she’s going through a hard time you’d rather cover it up with jokes and pretend that it doesn’t actually bother you. The trouble with your approach is that it only works for so long before people start to see you fraying at the edges or you completely break down from the pressure.

“Just mad I hurt your bestfriend, huh?”

The only response you get from Keira is a loud exhale, the same a mother would when her child makes a immature joke at a immature time. Immaturity is your coping mechanism, because by default people tend to be put off by it, they naturally gravitate away from it. Furthermore they gravitate away from whatever conversation or confrontation they were going to have.

“I’m not mad, I’m concerned for you and how something like this can affect a persons career.”

It’s too many feelings, to much concern, too much. You don’t deserve it and you definitely do not want it.

“I’m fine, we play football, it’s part of it all.”

You still haven’t looked at Keira but you could make an educated guess and assume that she looks deflated. It’s another reason that out of Keira and Lucy you’d always gotten along better with Lucy, you didn’t care to admit it but she knew how to get to the bottom of all of your weird cues and knew what was right and wrong to say. Keira’s too smart for her own good, and it doesn’t work on you, it never has. She’s all you have at Barca now though, besides Roebs, whose been too focused on her rehab and getting back on the pitch to be much of a friend.

“Hate shouldn’t be part of it. If you need to talk about the fact that some part of it is clearly bothering you then I’m here, anybody else on the team is here. Okay?”

You nod purely for the sake of ending the conversation, you can’ even figure out how you feel about it all, let alone trying to rationalise it with Keira. You’re upset, yet you can’t quite get to the bottom of it. You’ve never been upset before when your actions have ended in somebody else getting injured, it’s a rare occurence and when it happens you feel a little bit of guilt but usually it fades. Injury is part of the game, it happens all the time right in front of your eyes. You suppose Aitana isn’t actually injured though, she’s sore and has a low grade ankle sprain but it’s nowhere near the same as her tearing her acl or breaking a bone because of you. You just feel drained, it’s odd, you put it down to the fact that you hardly got any sleep last night but you have this underlying feeling that it’s somehow more than that, yet you have no explanation for it.

After a long break of silence Keira and yourself fall into a fairly bland conversation about the upcoming fixtures and winter break plans. It’s so evident that there is tension in every word each of you speak, like you’re both a few syllables away from saying something that neither of you want to.

Luckily Keira is a lot more cautious than most people, unlike most of you friends or teammates in general she can control herself to a respectable level and can stop herself from word vomiting emotion fueled spieles.

By the time the driver pulls up in front of your apartment building not much has been said at all, but the overarching feeling is tense, it doesn’t feel good and the mixture of it with the everything else is making you feel sick. Keira gives you a hug after helping you unload your luggage and then leaves you. You know that outwardly you’re presenting that you want to be left alone yet everything in you is being used to stop yourself from clinging onto Keira and asking her to stay with you.

Your week is a lot of the same feelings. You have two days to yourself before training starts again and the two days are spent in bed. If you aren’t scrolling on your phone andreading every single thing that has your name mentioned then you are sleeping, or crying, or lying in bed thinking about it all. Every text from one of your teammates is left unopened, none of it matters when every single waking moment of your life is being spent thinking about the moment over and over again. It’s not just your career, not just the fact that you’re going to have to sit out in the next fixture and potentially tarnish your relationship with Sarina. You hurt Aitana, you hurt your ownt teammate. Your own actions had caused harm to somebody that you cared about. Every article, tiktok, post they were all painting you in some kind of negative light, like you were a demon hiding behind smiles. It was hard not to consider the truth behind it all, had you done what you did with malicious intent?

By the time training finally rolled around you were feeling even worse than you had a couple of days ago. Even though you’d been sleeping for hours a day there wer ebig eye bags under your eyes, you were pale and looked like you were sick. It was noticed by your teammates almost immediately, you weren’t even fully dressed in the change rooms before Pina was punching on you, talking rapidly in Catalan that you didn’t remotely understand.

“Chica, you missed our games night last night. To busy sleeping off the four goals you scored over the break, no? You need to leave some goals for other people.”

You shook Pina off as quickly as you could, you had a focus for the day and that was getting all of this over with. You had a game in three days, a game that you couldn’t ruin for your team again.

“Estas bien?”

You finish pulling your training top on and sit down on the bench in front of your locker.

“Estoy Bien.”

You focus on getting a sock on each of your feet and then your boots.

“Chica?”

There is concern laced in Pina’s voice, she’s still standing in front of you. Almost everybody else has made their way out onto the pitch, leaving the two of you and a couple of stragglers behind.

“You don’t look so good chica, are you feeling okay?”

Your boots are easy enough to lace up, once you’re done you reach behind you for your jacket, not quite sure if it’s warm enough to train in just your shirt.

“Estoy Bien. Vale?”

Before Pina can ask much more, you begin to walk towards the doors of the locker room. It’s breezy enough outside that you choose to put your jumper on, as do most of your teammates.

Aitana is doing individual training, because of her ankle. Pere says that it’s precautionary.

If you weren’t already feeling like you were on the brink of vomiting then now it’s the only thing you can feel. You feel ill, you feel completely absorbed by the sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach. When Pere asks if you’re feeling alright you can’t say no, because you have no reason to feel as badly as you do. But it’s all the words, they’re spinning around in your head, every article, every single word.

It shows on the pitch, every decision, every pass, every shot, every tackle is helf back. You’re fearufl and it shows.

When training finally does finish, and Aitana is still working by herself with one of the coaches on another pitch you feel like it’s almost your breaking point. Until Pere pulls you over again and lets you know that you’ll be starting for the match on the weekend as a replacement for Aitana.

That’s your breaking point. You have nothing to say, nothing to think. You feel like a zombie as you walk towards the locker room. You sabotaged your teammate for your own good.

As soon as the team list is out that’s the only thing people will be saying, You don’t even want to think about what people will think when they see the photos of Aitana training by herself with her ankle all taped up. Whilst you were out on the pitch with all of your teammates. What was just starting to get better for you was only bound to relapse with the new information.

All of the girls notice your shift in behaviour. It’s Pina though who approaches Alexia on your third day of training back. Aitana is still training individually, purely for precaution and preservation. There are more important games then the one coming on the weekend and it’s not worth aggravating the small injury. It doesn’t feel like that to you though, and it’s been abundantly clear to everybody that something is up with you.

“Alexia, can I talk to you for a second?”

Alexia’s been talking to Irene about ….. for at least ten minutes and whilst Pina has no interest in interrupting it’s getting boring waiting around for a conversation to end that’s clearly dragging.

Alexia looks so care free, and Pina asking to talk to her shouldn’t change that, but the look that’s on her face changes Alexia’s demeanour almost immediately.

“What’s up?”

Pina looks at Irene awkwardly, like she’s not sure if the information she’s about to share with Alexia is for Irene’s ears. Irene seems to get the message, farewelling the two of them before heading off.

“I’m worried about y/n.”

Alexia’s silently been wondering whether to approach the subject. She’d thouyght about asking Keira is something had happened on England camp, considering that your particularly filthy mood had seemed to start afterwards. It was out of character for you, and originally Alexia had thought it was all part of some sort of prank plot. But as the last couple of days had passed it had become drastically clear that there was something else wrong. She’d thought it would be smarter to give you the benefit of the doubt, everyone had bad weeks. Alexia wasn’t aware of any relationships you were in but she wouldn’t have been shocked if your mood had been due to a breakup or something of similar origin.

“Ale, she’s been acting strange. She comes in everyday and hardly talks to anybody, she doesn’t joke around with use like she normally does, she hasn’t been answering our groupchat, she’s been avoiding all of our plans to hang out. Out on the pitch she’s been cautious but so unphased and she won’t talk to me or Ona or Patri or Kika or Esmee and I don’t know what to do anymore. Somethings really wrong, normally she’s so happy, I mean everyones noticed that the locker room has been more quiet. I thought it was going to pass, but she’s seemed really upset, like somethings really wrong and what’s happening on the internet can’t be helping it.”

The problem is that Alexia doesn’t disagree with anything that Pina is saying, she can’t dismiss any of it as overreaction because whether it’s been conscious or not she has noticed all of the things that she’s being told. She hadn’t yet pieced it all together as one thing but now that all the puzzle pieces are being laid out in front of her it seems impossible to ignore that it’s all coming together.

“On the internet? De qúe estás hablando?”

Alexia is the first to admit that she’s not exactly the best with technology, sure she’s got all the social media apps and Olga is constantly trying to teach her the ways of all of them but it doesn’t particularly interest her. She finds it easier to look at them as another means of work, it’s how she makes money, posting about football and endorsements. Otherwise she finds enjoyment in places besides her phone. Does it keep her slightly out of the loop? Yes. Does she have younger teammates to keep her up to date? Also yes.

“All the stuff about Aitana. I haven’t read into it much, but I know it’s not good. The media have been slaughtering her for that red card. She punishes herself enough after a bad tackle or pass, I can’t imagine what a red card would do.”

Alexia makes a mental note to look into it later but for now she knows that she needs to deescalate. Because if Pina is telling Alexia now then it’s not long before it blows up within the team.

“Okay. I’ll talk to her tomorrow after the game, if she’s still off I’ll talk to her. I’ll have a chat with Keira and ask if anything asked on camp, bueno? Whatever it is Pina, it can be fixed, all problems can be fixed. I’m sure it’s just been a rough week with all the travel and games, not everybody can adjust well, mixed with the recent fixtures it would be expected that everyone is feeling a bit more exhausted.”

It’s the rationalisation that seems to calm Pina down more, which was ultimately Alexia’s end goal. She can deal with you tomorrow but for now it’s crucial that she stops this from escalating within the team. When things spread it all becomes more drama and it’s not good, distractions are not what everybody needs leading into the next fixtures.

Alexia honestly forgets about the conversation completely. Between organising dinner the night before, stretching, spending quality time with her girlfriend and generally just getting herself game ready and in a good head space. She woke up feeling rested and prepared for the game ahead.

You however, were quite simply a mess. You’d hardly slept in over a week now, if you did sleep you woke up in a sweat after a particularly brutal nightmare, you were hardly eating because you always felt so nauseous from the anxiety and your performance on the football pitch had been dismaying.

Alexia, and your teammates, weren’t noticing the smaller things. You lived in your own apartment, in your own building. Nobody was aware of everything that was contributing to all the things that were beginning to show.

Alexia, hyper vigilant after Pina’s admission decided that she’d try and find you before everyone hopped on the bus to head to the opposing stadium, yet you were nowhere to be found. As everyone loaded onto the bus she almost missed you. Usually, you sat at the back, with the younger girls. Normally, Alexia gravitated somewhere in the middle of the bus, she was too old to be singing or messing around at the back but she liked to still be kept in the mix.

It was why she almost missed you, hunched into a seat almost at the very front of the bus.

“Chica?”

The way your whole body darted upwards as soon as you heard Alexia was another concerning thing that she was adding to a mental list.

“Capi.”

You pull your headphones off as a courtesy, but the reintroduction to the sounds of earth and the environment around you brings you right back to everything you’ve been feeling.

“Are you waiting for Kika or Vicky?”

Alexia feels like she already knows your answer, but she’s hanging on to a thread of hope that whatever Pina is feeling isn’t as bad as it seems.

“No, I need some sleep and it’s impossible to get any back there without somebody sticking something in my mouth or posting videos of me with my mouth half open.”

Alexia laughs, it’s the exact reason she can’t sit up the back anymore, it’s too much stupidity in a concentrated space.

“Ah, normally you’re more than happy to terrorize the rest of us, normalmente eres la reina de los estupidas.”

When your face doesn’t even respond slightly to Alexia and you have no witty comeback about her being boring or something else it’s another clear sign that something is up, she just can’t quite pin point what.

You’ve tuned out from her though, and as much as she is worried and thrown off, the bus is not a place to make a scene, specifically before a match. You will not take well to Alexia interrogating you and potentially causing any kind of emotional distress.

So, even though it pains her to do so, she walks on, she leaves you in the sinking ship you’re currently n in, taking on more and more water as every minute passes.

You’re at a point where you can admit to yourself that you are in no way fit to play.

You don’t want to be on the pitch, the fans don’t want you on the pitch, your teammates musn’t want you on the pitch, Pere wouldn’t have you on the pitch if Aitana was available and when you think about it the whole footballing world doesn’t want you on the pitch.

You flinch when you walk out to warm up and are met with boos, the Spanish fans are unlike all other fans, their passion is palpable and when one person starts booing everybody follows suit. It’s not even Barcelona fans, which is undecidedly worse and better. The overall impression is that you’ve aggravated the Spanish people.

It takes your teammates a couple of seconds to catch on to who it is the anger is being directed at but once they do it’s a domino affect of everybody turning to you, and then turning to each other and back to you. You try your best to not let it affect you, you’ve been booed before and have dealt with many angry fans, but when it starts to echo from the away side of the stands you honestly question if you’ve pushed yourself a little bit too hard.

Alexia regrets her decision not to say something to you when she sees the complete fear in your eyes as you look around at the crowd, who are vehemently booing you. It’s not a good feeling on any day to clearly have a crowd so against you but when you’re clearly off kilter as it is it’s clear that it all throws you off even more.

Before Alexia can think about it, she’s beelining straight to Keira.

“What happened on camp?”

Keira is just as thrown off by what is occurring as everyone else.

“England camp?”

It’s clear in the bewilderment in Keira’s face that she’s not understood what Alexia’s asking.

“With y/n, did something happen that nobody knows about?”

The booing finally comes to an end, but it doesn’t change the overall energy in which a whole crowd is sending your way.

“She was fine all camp, being an idiot with grace and beth and being her usual self. All the other games she was fine, and then after the Spain game, after the red card, she’s just been acting different. It’s like G at Man City all over again.”

Alexia understands everything that Keira’s saying, until the last sentence. Her English is pretty good, hger understanding is almost perfect, speaking less so but the last few words completely surpass her level of interpretation.

“G? Man City?”

Alexia notices you in the corner of her eye doing shooting practice, every time you miss and echo of cheers erupts.

“Georgia? Stanway? A couple of years ago, when she was young she got a stupid red card, it wasn’t pretty not dissimilar to the challenge on Aitana. Big mess with the media, got some really nasty messages.”

She doesn’t remember the moment itself, but she does remember reading something about it a couple of years ago.

“Gracias.”

You’re red hot with rage already, the crowd has you amped up. When Pere questions you in the locker room about your state of mind, you are quite literally in a blinding fury. It the kind of sadness fueled anger, youa re literally ripping apart at the seams and instead of actually feeling all of the innate anguish you are experiencing you turn it into anger.

“Why the fuck did you go to Pere and tell him I wasn’t ready to play.”

The tunnel is the only time you’ve been able to talk to Alexia, she’d been so held up with the pep talk, then talking to Pere, then giving inspiration to everybody else. But now that you have the opportunity you can’t ignore it.

Alexia’s eyes are ahead, you’re stuck standing behind her but she can hear you perfectly clear.

“After the game.”

It had taken enough effort for you to convince Pere that you were fine. You were begging for a starting spot that you didn’t even want, a spot that is actually making you feel sick to your stomach. It’s the doubt though, you doubted yourself in that stupid tackle that got you the card, so if you doubted yourself what was to stop everybody else from doubting you?

“No, what makes you think that you can talk to our coach about my game fitness without even talking to me? Do you have any respect for me at all?”

Alexia turns around, and it makes you feel slightly validated and slightly less like you’re about to punch her in the head.

“It’s not about your fitness.”

The punching in the head feeling returns pretty quickly.

“Not about my fitness? What the fuck else is it then? Just because I don’t act like a dickhead on the bus and decide to take a nap?”

Alexia gives you on final look before turning around, the look on her face only adds to your sickeningly consuming anger.

You go onto the pitch angry, which isn’t good for anything. Every time the ball lands at your feet, boos echo out. Every time you get tackled, which is fairly frequently because the opposition has chosen you as the punching bag for the game, cheers erupt. The game is easy enough, 90 percent of possession is with Barcelona, with you spot in the midfield the ball comes to you every few seconds. It’s mostly fine, for the first ten or so minutes. Until the tackles start to get rougher, and you’re mad, and the crowd is loud and everything feels so incredibly wrong.

It’s working you up at a fast rate, then the ball lands at your feet for the 50th time in the match already, and without even looking up at your defender, who three seconds before was standing right in front of you, her studs are placing themselves directly into your calf. It’s not a comfortable feeling, to put it lightly. You manage to clear the ball before you’re on your back, clutching at your leg and trying your best to breathe as the crowd cries out, your opponent mutters something aggressively in spanish and your teammates argue with the referee.

It’s all too much. Your just angry, and upset. Not even at your defender or at the tackle, just at all of it. You think in a roundabout way that this is all karma, that this is your punishment for whatever you did to anger everyone and yourself. You’re tired and fed up and want it all to go away.

You want to sink into the grass of the pitch and just disappear, it would make your life so much easier if in this moment you could just disappear and not face any of the stuff that is happening.

Then there are hands on you and you’re reminded that it’s nowhere near that easy.

“Estas bien? Necesitas la medica?”

You force yourself to stand up, push through, get it over with. You need to prove everybody wrong.

Whether you can see it or not, you are spinning out. Everybody else can see it, you’re frantic, timid and shaken. Patri is the one to put her hands on your shoulders and steady you before you try to return to play.

“You need to go off.”

Twenty minutes have passed, you aren’t going to force a sub when it is unnecessary.

“I’m fine.”

Patri shakes her head, in the same way Irene or Marta would when they are being tough.

“You are not okay, and you need to go off before something worse than that happens.”

You shake Patri off, and when she tries to come back you give her a shove.

“I’m fucking fine. I know when I can and cannot play.”

Like every other attempt that’s been made to try and stop you, she just frowns and walks away. The ref gives you a once over before allowing the game to return to play.

It’s not fine, nothing is fine. Your defender continuously gets away with dangerous tackles that should be continous yellow cards, the crowd is getting to you with every passing second. By gods grace three goals are scored in a few minutes, not only does it silence the opposition it puts you at ease a little bit. For the most part, you’re doing okay, or as okay as possible.

Until it gets to a corner.

There is two minutes of stoppage time, which have well and truly been used up. The corner is going to be the last play and it’s impact is not super important but the pressure is still there. You end up sandwiched between the two centre backs, and for whatever reason when the boot releases off of Patri’s foot from the corner instead of running to make room like you’re supposed to, you are yanked directly to the ground, with two boots stepping directly onto your legs.

It’s not agony, it’s definitely not good but you’re spending more time trying to not cry and collect air then focusing on everything else.

You can’t breathe, and you physically can’t stop the sob that leaves your mouth, it’s pathetic but it’s been building and you can’t stop it.

You don’t bother with listening to the call, or letting your teammates help you up or worrying about the play. The whistle has blown and you have one mission, to go anywhere away from people. You force yourself to stand up even though your back hurts from falling flat on it and your thighs hurt from being stomped on, and walk off.

Pere and the bench are still waiting in the dug out, normally you’d hug or talk or anything but right now the only thing on your mind is getting away, because if you don’t then what is now only tears is going to turn into a full panic attack. You’re working simply off of pure instinct, you have the shutters on and the only thing you are focusing on is your end goal and getting there. When you get to the changing rooms it’s empty, you bee line straight through to the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall before you actually let yourself think beyond the orders that have been set out in your mind.

Like everyone had said, you aren’t ready. You are living with the knowledge that because of your actions, your stupid actions you are being given a spot and opportunity that you didn’t deserve, you got it purely based off of the fact that you injured one of your teammates. Now you can’t even live up to the expectation of being a replacement.

The feeling that was initially what you had thought to be anxiety sickness builds up and all of a sudden you’re grateful your in the bathroom because within a couple of seconds you are kneeled on the floor letting your whole stomach contents out. It’s not a good feeling, you’ve been slowly descending towards rock bottom for days now but you’ve come to the realisation that this is it, this is your lowest point. Every time you think about the pitch you subsequently think about the crowd which leads you to think about everything happening inside your phone and then the sick feeling is back full force. The you think about Aitana, her ankle, her spot, her training, everything. All of that combined and all you can do is cry, it’s the only emotional outlet that you have enough energy for. You’d love to be able to punch something or throw something but you don’t have the energy, you’re running off of no sleep, hardly any food and now the fatigue of playing a half of football.

“Chica, can you open the door?”

Truthfully there are not many people you want to see in this moment or really ever again but Alexia might be at the top of the list. You’d been a little bit star struck when you’d gotten to Barcelona, you were an up and coming and to be on a roster with the best midfielders in the world was something you were in awe of. You were still slightly in awe of the fact that you were sharing a bench with two ballon d’or winners.

“I’m fine.”

You force yourself to stay as silent as possible even though it’s hard with the constant sobs building up inside of your chest.

“Please open the door.”

You’re at rock bottom and even if you try to swim out you’re going to need some help at some stage you suppose.

As soon as you open the door there is a resounding gasp, you close your eyes to keep a little bit of your inner peace whilst Alexia steps into the stall and locks the door behind her. There is just enough room for her to squeeze down on the floor next to you so she does without any hesitation.

“I don’t need you telling me that you were right to question me playing and that it was a bad idea, I’m already aware.”

You’re not sore from the match and yet everything hurts, you actually feel like your limbs are slowly being ripped off of your body and everything is being split open.

“I wasn’t going to say that, I was going to ask if you’re okay.”

It’s a complicated question.

“Physically yes.”

Your eyes are still closed, if you look at Alexia then suddenly this all becomes a whole lot more real.

“Mentally, emotionally?”

Just the question is enough to essentially demuzzle you, everything you were doing to stop yourself from crying out fails, and you start sobbing, in the loudest and ugliest way possible.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Alexia bunches up jext to you, slings an arm around your shoulders and brings you in closer.

“Don’t apologise when you didn’t do anything wrong, even if everyone else is making it seem like you did.”

Deep down you do believe you did something wrong, you don’t exactly know what but you must have, you must have done something because why else would all of this have happened.

“I hurt Aitana, I took her spot, I sabotaged her.”

The crying is cathartic, you’ve been crying for days but in an unemotionally detached way to expel some of the depression instead of actually feeling it.

“No you didn’t. You mis-timed a tackle that ended in a very minor injury. Football is a game of injuries, it happens. I don’t care what you’ve read online or what you’ve heard, the facts are simple. Anyone on our team or the england team can tell you that. Nobody blames you for what happened, not even Aitana. So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

It’s easier to blame yourself you think.

“Everybody hates me, all I’m getting are messages about how I deserve to die and how people wish I’m never able to have kids or that I get injured as payback.”

Alexia’s deep breath makes you feel queasy all over again.

“What we’re going to do is delete all of your social media apps for the next few weeks, nothing is going to make people stop being putas, si? So for your own sake you’re going to delete all of them, turn all of your comments off, turn your messages off. There is nothing more important then your peace of mind, once that’s gone then this happens. You deserve better than this, you deserve to feel better than this. You also deserve to have fun and enjoy being a part of this team, nobody thinks you sabotaged Aitana, nobody blames you. You are just as welcome here as you were before the break, you are just as valued here as you were before the break. This stupid situation is not worth your health, si?”

You wipe away some of your tears, even though they’re still coming and nod.

“You deserve better, and until people realise that we need to focus on making sure that you know that.”

You feel specifically worthless, and it’s completely your own doing.

“Now, we need to get up before my legs go to sleep and my old body is stuck on the floor in here. Not everybody has young bones like you kids.”

You flush whatever parts of your stomach decided they wanted to resurface and force yourself to stand up, but as you do so the realisation that you are midway through a match comes back and all off a sudden you feel the need to sit down again.

“I told Pere to take you off for the rest of the game, I was coming off anyway, managing minutes. You can get dressed or shower, or do whatever you need to do and then we’lltalk a bit more about how we can turn this around. I’m serious when I say that the main focus is you right now and supporting you.”

You ignore the fact that nothing was ever mentioned about Alexia managing minutes and just accept that it’s a pointless argument and you don’t exactly mind her company right now. It’s nice to know that there is somebody shining a light for you at the end of the tunnel.

[the-knight-of-the-stars]

Are we gonna talk about how that finale entirely erased any conversation about class divisions or are we too focused on ships?

Are we gonna talk about how Caitlyn for a good chunk of the season willingly enforces violence and opression against the lowest class, no doubt directly causing more deaths and suffering, and she is forgiven by the narrative without any meaningful reflecting?

Her great moment getting together with Vi is right after she JUST had a conversation with Jinx where we see she STILL doesn't recognize any class bias she clearly has, insted making it about HER.

Her and the other enforcers are treated like noble heroes in the final battle, all the blame put on Ambesa. Vi's happy ending is getting into a relationship with the exact type of person who perpetuated all the suffering she endured as a child.

Are we gonna talk about how Jayce never leaves his privilege pedestal, never actually reflects on how he was also enforcing violence to the people of the undercity and living on his bliss of progress at THEIR expense?

Jayce, who got help on every step of the way to get to where he is, who wasn't disabled, who never lived the kind of poverty or class obstacles Viktor did, who never recognized the harm he enabled and was complicit to, HE was the one to tell Viktor "People build their own destiny." and "There is beauty in imperfection" ?????

Not to mention the whole bit where he implies Viktor did all that because he wanted to "eradicate what he thought was weakness"??? Didn't we stablished Viktor wanted to HELP THE PEOPLE FROM THE UNDERCITY TO HAVE BETTER LIFE CONDITIONS?? don't try to gaslight me.

I know this is just a TV show, but I need to remind everyone that what perpetuates opressive, discriminatory and violent systems as long and as deeply as they do is indiference. Is turning your head and enabling others to stay ignorant.

Edit: You guys are misunderstanding me. And I admit it is probably my fault, I wrote this high with emotion I wasn't as eloquent.

Jayce's exact choice of words or his time living in the alternate world is nowhere near my point.

My point is, that the narrative is establishing that the privileged character, is the one that has to show (and is quite literally, textually, always the one to show) the underprivileged character that "he was looking at life the wrong way." Forgetting that Viktor's journey of feeling powerless was greatly influenced by the fact he was poor and from the undercity.

That's what I meant by it erasing the part of the plot about class systems. In the end, the story only requires Jayce to understand Viktor's struggle on a superficial level, but the text never recognizes that it as the product of a deeply rooted SYSTEMIC ISSUE. One Jayce and even Viktor on some level, benefited from and perpetuated.

Understanding Viktor still doesn't give him any moral ground, and nobody ever challenges him on that because the story isn't interested in that anymore.

And the same with Caitlyn. She knows what she did what's wrong, fine, she feels bad. Like I said, she still has a class bias, and no character challenges her on it again because the story derails to magic and fighting and whatnot.

The plot just forgets (or ignores) that layer of the story despite it being so prominent up until now.

And ignoring the class discussion does a disservice to every single character because they were initially built on it. You can see it in how they lose the essence they had on s1.

I know y'all love the characters and want to empathize with all their motivations, okay? But the fundamental issue is that characters also represent things, and more so in a story as political as this one. We also have the right to point out that the show told us they represented something and then abandoned that narrative.

What do I think they could have done differently? If I tell you scene by scene we could be here for an entire year. The gist of it is: I think they should have stuck to the character themes they already had established.

Vi as someone fiercely loyal to the undercity beyond her relationship with Powder/Jinx, and being "cursed" by the role of the older sister. Jayce as someone with good intentions but who is ultimately limited by his blind idealism. Mel as a cunning politician who thinks she is on the right path because she isn't violent like her mother, not realizing she is still perpetuating it. Caitlyn as someone kind and compassionate who realizes the institutions she believed in are fundamentally flawed, and because of the way they are built will never be on the side of kindness. Etc, etc.

None of that gets any meaningful resolution.

I am glad if you liked it, or got something from it, you are entitled to your opinion.

I wanted to say this because I was angry, and still am. Because there was so much incredible potential, and honestly, to me, it feels like the writers chickened out on actually saying something in the end.

That's all I have to say about that.

[moonshynecybin]

hi, i hope this isn't weird but you're like a motogp scholar to me and i have a question bc i can't really find an answer; do you know of the medical specifics of marc's arm injury? like ik what happened but i haven't been able to find an article beyond oh he broke it. like is there a reason it's so bad and why he had to get multiple surgeries for it? like was it crushing nerve ends, grinding cartilidge, etc? tysm if u decide to answer

the best and most direct source for this is gonna be marc marquez all in. they’ll show you the bone scans and walk you through the rotation of how it healed and some info about the other surgeries etc but theres also a lot it leaves out about BEFORE that surgery so i'll try and help out. HUGE caveat that i’m not a doctor but the GENERAL info goes like this:

jerez, july 2020: marc fractures his right humerus after the tire of his bike hits it during a highside near the end of the race. he flies to barcelona, gets one million nails and a plate put in himself by perennial motogp bone saw doctor xavier mir, and hopes to show up the next week to race four days after surgery (also in jerez #covid)… at the time its all kinda standard if like. a lil crazy but he is honestly really flippant about the whole thing you get the sense that (like others before him) he kinda thinks what he’s doing is badass. i mean he’s postin this shit on instagram like LOOK AT MEEE

anyways so he is declared fit to ride (NO RADIAL NERVE DAMAGE YAYYY), the test for which seems to be doing decline porno pushups with his cock out. and it’s all kinda like. well this is a short, 13 round championship year, so every race counts and marc has just won four championships in a row (6 out of the last 7 years!!!) and has something fundamentally wrong in his brain. marc voice well yeah jorge lorenzo came back after collarbone surgery in 2013 and it depleted him for years but im different. im better. PLUS it’s alex’s first year in the premier class (also at factory honda which is a can of worms we shant get into) so he’s not as involved in monitoring his insane older brother as he is post-arm saga bc he has shit to do and marc hasn’t missed a GP due to injury at this point since his first bout of diplopia in 2011. hes broken his leg a few weeks before the season before and been fine. marc is marc. so he’s gonna try and race.

anyways! that doesn’t happen lol. marc DOES go out for all the practices (the death nell.) but it’s p clear that the arm is fucking busted. he stresses the injury the fuckkkk out (probably where the bone gets rotated? unsure) and then goes out for one lap of quali and can’t do it anymore, pulls out then and there and is like okay. i’ll rest on it

august 2020: now here’s where i’m like hm. because according to MARC, he is a perfect angel doing PT until he randomly opens a glass sliding door one day and the arm rebreaks (SHOULD be kinda impossible with all the hardware in him lol). i frankly suspect that he was also doing motorcross training to put more stress on it bc he mentions that his people have had to remove the wheels from his personal bikes to stop him from training before (to be fair i think this was during the shoulder rehab he was doing during the 2019/20 winter) and like. you don’t get that kinda policing from the guys who love you without some previous behaviors lmao. also literally he was posting himself doing weight training on that arm on tiktok the day before as evidenced below. i digress but the bone is broken!!! and he gets more surgery from dr. xavier mir. and oh boy does it heal wrong

so there’s not a lot of updates in this time bc marc is like. in his cave in cervera rehabbing like wow what a setback gee i sure can’t wait to be back on my bike… like i don’t think it had really set in that this was a lifelong injury yet. and unforch in december it’s revealed that the fracture is not healing, and he needs further surgery. this time he nixed dr mir and went to a specialist clinic in madrid (that’s partly why he moved there !!)

the clinic also discovered there was a previous infection in his bone, which probably halted the healing process further. it should be noted marc does not go to dr. mir for surgery anymore, which genuinely could mean absolutely nothing. he stayed in the hospital on iv antibiotics for ten days

after this and a LOT of time in the sling (12 weeks is best practice who knows what marc practice is lmao) he comes back to motogp in april of 2021 for the portuguese grand prix, with the stated goal of building up strength in his arm and evaluating where he’s at, which tells you how hard that last surgery was on him. in 2021 i think it starts to set in that this isn’t going to go away, and during this whole year and the next he’s in clear pain every time he’s on the bike AND the bike is kinda bad so its just awful hell lol. like yes he does win a few races but he cries every time and you can tell its really getting to him. this is the period that alex talks about where the pain is the worst, and marc is being mean to everyone around him, and he’s taking a lot of painkillers and complaining about having pimples/losing weight on instagram and generally having a miserable time. he calls this period "a nightmare" all the time

okay now we fast forward until 2022. marc has moved to madrid to get a girlfriend to see his bone doctor more. and the pain is NOT stopping. and the bike honestly sucks so hes not winning AND he just had a diplopia relapse so whats the POINT. and he's suffering and can feel the time in his career ticking downward like sand slipping through an hourglass and he goes to the all or nothing nuclear option and reaches out to the mayo clinic in the USA to see a specialist and see if he can do anything for him, disregarding the rest of the 2022 motogp season. and the specialist says yeah. we took a 3D scan of that bone you just spent a year of your life healing and it looks BUSTED AS HELL. truly from the stress he put on that thing while it was still healing it rotated 34 degrees and THATS part of why it hurts so much. its why he has no strength in his elbow, why he can’t brace anything with it, why his range of motion is so limited, why he can’t open a bottle of water by himself. it’s really degrading his quality of life, and most important to marc: its fucking with his riding lol.

and this doctor says well we break the bone again, rotate it back normally, and see how it goes. it could give you less pain and more ability to brake into corners. it could ALSO end your career. and marc sees the bone scans and agrees to surgery p much immediately. and he gets mayo clinic surgery in minnesota and takes hot girl instagram pics outside because of course he does. the craziest part of this article is when the surgeon says marc has "a great capacity for sacrifice"

and he gets another badass scar and thats where we are today! as to where the arm is now. well he says its isnt a normal arm but its more "uncomfy" in day to day life. i dont believe him but thats fine. like he DOES do a lot of maintenance on the arm i think thats fair to say. he has a limited range of motion. mat oxley says he'll wait until he thinks no one is watching and look like hes in pain when hes in the paddock. his gq interview w "essential things" included a massage gun and PT rubber bands. he stretches it out before races p extensively. he has a PT gurney in his living room. idk, he contradicts himself on this fairly regularly in order to suit his rhetorical needs at a given time, but im inclined to believe that hes in a LOT more pain than he lets on, he just also has more mobility to do sports things (his base level on his hierarchy of needs) and is in a lot less pain than he was in 2022. i think theres also a point that marc brings up in the documentary here that should be noted-- he emphasizes that he didnt do this to improve his quality of life (alex is the only one who mentions this actually, and HE makes a deliberate point to) but instead that he did it so he could win. i'd invite you to do with that information what you will !!!

sources: x, x, x, x, x, x