#And while I do think she’s a little too robotic when dealing w patients I don’t think she’d have been in on that joke

[stuckinapril]

I think I realized how severely humor infects all spaces when I witnessed two of my coworkers at the neuro clinic I’m interning at laughing at putting in a patient as deceased

[nerv0usm3chanic]

CORRUPTION

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

--

((NOTE - This is an introduction to a new PERMANENT AU feature exclusive to nerv0usm3chanic. Please see further, generalized information regarding this AU here: X

Be advised that each of these chapters are VERY LONG. The full content will be tucked under a read more after a brief introduction segment.

DO NOT REBLOG.))

--

“Arthur...have you been feeling okay?” Vivi asked, taking a seat beside Arthur as he focused on the project before him. He’d been fiddling with robotics for a while just as a hobby, but given how long and hard he’d been working, it looked like Arthur was working on an even more vital project than any before. He was clumsy with his right hand as he set down a pair of tweezers and looked at Vivi with tired eyes and a weak smile.

“I’ve been better, Vivi.” Arthur sighed tiredly. He’d been back from the hospital for nearly a month now - two and a half months since he’d lost his arm - and the blond spent nearly every day working on an intense project. “It’s...not too easy adjusting to not having something...” Arthur admitted quietly, staring at the metal bones before him.

“Oh, jinx! I’m sorry, Artie, I-I didn’t mean-!” Vivi started, backpedaling in her sentence before Arthur reached out with his right hand and touched her shoulder. He smiled at her softly, assuring her that it was alright.

“N-no, it’s okay, Vivi. You know it’s not your fault.” Arthur said gently, reassuring Vivi that what had happened was in the past and really there wasn’t anything she could have done. Except maybe not make them go to the cave in the first place. But Arthur refused to entertain that dark train of thought...it might wake him up. “It was just...a lot of crazy coincidences.” That was something he told himself over and over, day in and day out. It helped him feel better about the absence on his left side.

“Hmmm...well...are-are things going better?” She asked, tucking her hair behind her ears, “Is it easier with your cousin and uncle taking care of things?”

“Hmm...uh, well...to a degree.” Arthur answered, turning back to his project and carefully picking up the tweezers. Even after weeks of practice, Arthur still found it hard to adjust to being right-handed...among other things. “Lucan takes care of the front of the shop and does some fixing and Uncle Lance still runs the shop as normal. I help out with checking numbers and making sure bills and such get paid. So, I’m still working. It keeps me busy when I’m not sleeping or working on this thing.”

“So this is...” the blue-hared woman started, looking at the complex assemblage of metal rods, hinges, and wires, along with a lot of other things Vivi didn’t know the particular names of.

“Yep.” Arthur nodded, using the tweezers to carefully arrange a pattern of wires to eventually lead to sensors in one of the digits. He still had a lot of work to do before he was finished with his prosthetic arm.

--

“Okay um, yeah, um hold it there, for just a second.” Arthur directed as his doctor carefully positioned the first rendition of the blond’s new left arm. Six months had passed and this was going to be the first attempt to connect the false appendage to the specialized port. In that time, Arthur had spent so much time studying and using the nearby university resources, he might as well have earned an honorary degree with what he was attempting. Arthur knew this was going to hurt and he needed his cousin and uncle for support. The pale fingers of his right hand were grasping tight to Lance’s rough gloved hand in worried anticipation.

“Just take yer time, lad.” Lance replied in the softest version of his gruff voice. He wasn’t the most comforting of individuals, but the short-statured Kingsmen was practically Arthur’s parent with how much time he’d put into raising the boy. Arthur wouldn’t have asked anyone else to be there for emotional support. “An’ don’ do anything ye don’ feel ready fer.”

“We ken always do this later if ye need ta iron out some wrinkles.” Lucan offered, giving Arthur a pat on his whole shoulder. As his cousin, it was expected that Lucan would be somewhat close to Arthur. But seeing as the two had bonded so much more closely since Lucan moved to Tempo, the younger Kingsmen might as well have been brothers. All three men looked to the doctor preparing to attach the false arm.

“I wish I could numb the pain for you, Arthur.” He murmured gently, “But this is a prototype and...we need to gauge how well the adaptor works to communicate between the wires and nerves...” The arm had been through so many tests and iterations with the help of the local university and waiting for more tests wasn’t going to work anymore.

The doctor needed results for his paper. The university needed results to keep funding the specialist and Arthur. Arthur needed results...in the form of a new left arm. The chance that there would even be any kind of re-use of his left arm again was enough to motivate Arthur for this improvement.

“I’m ready...just...be careful.” Arthur nodded, gripping his uncle’s hand tighter as the prosthetic’s port approached the adaptor his doctor had installed two months earlier. There was that ominous tingle in the back of his mind, a dark chuckle rising up from the depths as the separated parts got closer. Amber eyes widened in fear as he noticed a small flux of energy and a tiny zap between the ports now just millimeters apart.

“W-wai-!” But he was too late. A pained scream ripped free from him, lightning practically erupting around Arthur’s arm port as everyone was pushed from the blond. Arthur would wake sometime later in a hospital bed, his new arm heavy and limp. He would cry out in angered frustration, causing everyone to leave the room as he pitched anything within reach at those nearby.

He had failed...again! There was nothing this metal arm could do but sit there! It was an arm-shaped paperweight...it was just good for looking like an arm...until he made a metal finger twitch.

--

“Alright, you ready to test out that coordination, Artie?” Lewis called over the short distance between him and Arthur while Vivi and Mystery watched eagerly. Arthur was going to be practicing more refined movement with his arm, this time it was catching and throwing a ball. A simple task for many, but Arthur had been so focused on preparing his arm, working on it days and nights for months. Vivi was proud to see Arthur regaining himself; the use of his left arm being the most important thing she’s noticed.

“I’m ready!” Arthur called back, flexing his robotic hand to prepare it to catch the baseball. He’s been working on getting back to being left-handed, but had found tasks much easier to accomplish with developed skill in using both his hands. Forced ambidexrty was interesting to accomplish - and he was exceedingly proud of his abilities - but now the point was to get his false arm’s motions up to snuff.

“He’s improved so much!” Vivi says to Mystery as she watches Lewis pitch the ball gently. “I was really worried about him for a while.”

“Yeah...it was a little shaky for a while there, wasn’t it?” Mystery added, internally still angry at himself for using such drastic action. It’s been a solid 11 months since then and still-! Mystery nearly bolted and then forced himself to sit back down with a huff; he was doing his best to contain the canine urge to chase the ball. The first few volleys back and forth were fine, no trouble at all for Arthur. Mystery felt a sudden strange energy in the air as Arthur caught the ball again and perked up as he smelt a strange singe.

“That had some real pep!” Lewis laughed as he ran to catch the ball and prepared to throw it back. He was so glad to see Arthur seemingly back to himself once more. For a while, Arthur had become a near-complete hermit, forgoing any kind of social engagement to get his arm made.

Arthur himself felt almost too relieved to be able to use his arm so easily. Physical therapy with the doctors was tough and mechanical therapy with the robotic majors at the local university was a nightmare...but it was worth it to have a functional arm once again. And the grant money to develop the appendage further wasn’t half-bad either. It was exciting, thrilling even! He almost could feel the electric excitement as he-oh...oh no. Arthur caught the ball and paused his adrenaline rush as he sees electricity dance over his arm again and hears the sizzle of the tennis ball’s singing fibers in his hand. Quickly he passed the ball to his other hand.

“Ah- uh, I think th-that’s enough for now. I think the arm’s getting a little overworked. Ah, um, st-static and all that!” He gives an awkward grin to ease Vivi and Lewis’s sudden confusion. “I’m ah, g-gonna go inside and discharge.” Arthur gave an awkward laugh and scurried to get inside the mechanics shop again, his trio of friends were left worried and confused.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Arthur whispered in a hiss, glaring at his hand as a ribbon of green electricity coiled over the metal. The dark voice in his head merely chuckled as Arthur went to a specialized discharging station in his room.

‘I was bored. You live a very dull life, Kingsmen.’ The voice hummed idly, ‘If you would just allow me to take over-’

“Never! Just-just leave already!” Arthur murmured, sliding into his room and heading for the discharging rod. On the surface, it just let off static electricity. On the inside, there was a battery hooked up and storing the electricity Arthur would often unwillingly produce. He used the power to run a lamp attached to his desk.

‘If I could, I might...but at this moment, I can’t. So I will just bide my time, boy. I am very patient~. And when your friends inevitably abandon you for your behavior~.’ Arthur frowned, furious that he had to deal with this thing all the time. But what could he do? Exorcising a spirit was one thing, but he was sure this being wouldn’t let go after a few holy words, a splash of water, and some special tags.

Arthur might need to find someone who can offer more specialized help than a priest.

--

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

[ashintheairlikesnow]

A Little Brother’s Warning: Ryan Michaelson

This was a request from @burtlederp! Hope it’s what you were looking to read :)

Tagging the Danny crew: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @finder-of-rings, @whumpywhumper, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @whale-whumps

CW: Not much. Some reference to the events of So Broken and Not Broken, so you’ll need to read those before it makes much sense, probably. Discussion of violence.

"The American healthcare system can stop panicking now," Ryan Michaelson announces as he pulls aside the hospital bed's curtain with a flourish and holds up the small, surprisingly heavy black rectangle in his free hand. "The money is here."

Then he pauses, making a face at what he sees.

“You’re definitely not my brother.”

“N-No, thank God,” Nate replies, voice dry as a desert. He’s sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed and still has his jeans on from earlier, although Ryan notes with a lurch in his stomach that he can see dark spatters of blood soaked into them. Instead of a shirt he’s wearing one of those tie-in-the-back hospital gowns, pale blue and printed with tiny little flowers. “We can’t all h-h-have the misfortune.”

“I think you mean the epic good luck, thanks... besides, your weird-ass relationship with my brother would be much creepier.” Ryan recovers easily from the moment of surprise - expecting to see his tall, long-limbed brother and a shock of red hair and instead getting the shorter, more muscular, dark-haired Nate Vandrum.

“In, indeed.” Nate sighs and looks down at his hands. They’re heavily bandaged, the both of them, and Ryan swallows a little. “D-D-Danny is g-getting… he needed st-stitches on one of th-the cuts. He’ll b-b-be back in a bit.”

"And you?"

Nate shrugs. "I c-cut one hand. My b-b-bad hand is b… bruised, m-m-mostly, but I scraped the kn-knuckles, so they wrapped it up, t-too."

Ryan fights a sense of nervousness at walking into a place where Danny should be and finding him not there, shaking that off quickly enough as he pulls up one of those awful hospital chairs, designed to look like they’re padded but it still feels like you’re sitting on bumpy stone nothing anyway.

The last time he was in a hospital, Danny had pneumonia and it had been an absolute nightmare trying to deal with his terrors and trauma while Nate huddled in the waiting room, rubbing his hands together, utterly unable to do a fucking thing until Danny was sedated.

This time, Ryan walked into a room to find Nate Vandrum the patient, sitting perfectly still in a way that unsettles him. It makes him think of those nature documentaries with predators that just lie in wait. Nate is calm, placid even, his green eyes dark and fathomless.

Somehow, Ryan feels even less prepared for this.

He drops into the chair, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “So… on the phone, uh, you said you guys got attacked by someone? You weren’t… super up for giving me details at the time, so…”

Nate rolls his eyes - just barely - and Ryan fights a smile at the simple sign that he’s human. There are days Nate Vandrum feels more like a bit of stone or a robot following his brother around the world. “I w-w-was busy,” He says, not quite flat.

“Are you busy now?” He keeps the irritation out of his voice… but only just.

Nate glances down and over at him, and then sighs. His fingers twitch where they stick out from the bandages and he winces, a little. “I g-g-guess not. Someone… t-triggered Danny, at th-th-the bookstore.”

Ryan nods, slowly, hands folded over his stomach where he slumps gracefully into the chair - or at least does the best he can to slump, as the chair’s hard wooden back and awful pastel padded backing fights him every step of the way. “He triggers a lot. Less often now, and I don’t think at the bookstore in forever…”

“N-No, Michaelson,” Nate says, shaking his head. Ryan looks back up at him, noticing for maybe the first time how tired Nate looks. There are shadows under his eyes, around the bottoms of his cheekbones. He looks older than he is, and Ryan’s mocked him for it relentlessly before even knowing that he shouldn’t, but he can’t see anything to mock in that face right now. “This g-guy… triggered him on p-purpose.”

Ryan feels his heart still, for just a second, before it beats again. “On purpose? What… what do you mean, on purpose?”

Nate slumps over a little, shoulders hunching, resting his elbows on his thighs. “His n-n-name-... the guy th-that hurt D-Danny… is C-C-Connor M… Manning. He’s a p-prison guard at… at B-B-... at his p-p-prison.” He swallows, rubs at his face with one hand, and Ryan understands all at once - like cold water washing down his back - just why Nate looks so old sometimes.

It’d age anyone fast, to keep so much locked inside themselves for so long.

“Did he… he drove all this way?” Ryan’s voice drops into something closer to a whisper. “Just to, to get Danny fucked up? Did that-... that motherfucker tell him to?”

There is a rage that stirs in him at the thought, the buried anger that usually only comes out when he’s blackout drunk. He feels it inside him, pressing against the confines of his skin. His left hip starts to warm up oddly, like someone is holding a heating pad to it for too long.

“I d-d-don’t know y-yet. The cops t-t-took him in. Danny was s-s-sitting on a couch, I just… I just w-walked away for a second, Michaelson, it’s… just a second.” There was guilt on Nate’s face and in his voice, and some petty childish little voice in Ryan wanted to snap back you shouldn’t have, what were you thinking but the thing was… that was his mother’s voice. That was how she talked to Danny, about Ryan.

And he’d be damned if he was going to turn into Corrine today.

“I know,” He says instead and his voice is softer than he even meant it to be, and Nate looks up, surprised, to meet his eyes.

Honey-colored eyes (where are you from? Well-meaning people used to ask, and when Ryan would say Northern California, just like you they’d snort and then ask, with an awful subtle emphasis, no, no, where is your family from?) meet the dark, deep green.

Nate looks at him, a little stunned, and then his eyes drop back to his bandaged hands. “H-he, uh. Melody came and g-g-got me-”

“Melody? Oh, the one with pink hair. I like her. She’s an absolute doll. I went on a few dates with her a couple months back, but then, you know, Remy and I started talking more and…” He trails off. Nate’s face hasn’t changed, but somehow… Ryan catches himself anyway. “Sorry. You keep talking. I want to know.”

“Right. I d-d-don’t know what h-happened, and D-Danny’s not talking, or doesn’t kn-know… I’m not s-s-sure which. M-Melody told me Danny had l-left with some… some g-g-guy, and he looked… empty.”

Ryan nods, slowly. It’s his turn to look down at his hands. He knows the exact look Nate is describing - the vacancy in Danny’s face when he’s lost in the woods, every expression an effort laced with terrified resignation. Hunched over, making himself small, covering the parts he thinks will be hurt next. “Good of her to get you,” He offers, and Nate nods slowly.

“Right. I th-thanked her, I just-”

“I’ll thank her, too,” Ryan says, not quite a whisper.

“Good. She c-c-came with me, and we were looking ar, around but I c-c-couldn’t-... I was, was so s-s-sure for a second that I’d l-l-luh…” Nate’s voice began to shake and he puts his hands up over his face, hissing through his teeth at the pain, but he doesn’t drop them, he only presses harder, until he can calm his voice.

Ryan only watches.

“I was s-sure I’d l-lost him,” Nate finally finishes. “That we w-w-wouldn’t find him, that someone had t-t-taken him but without m-me this time, I c-couldn’t be th-there to help h-him survive it…”

Ryan swallows, hard, and sits slowly forward. When he reaches out to put a hand to Nate’s knee, the older man jumps, dropping his hands to stare wide-eyed at Ryan. “Hey. I, uh. I know what it’s like to lose him. I get you.”

Nate nods, very slowly, and then says, “When I f-f-found him, M-Manning was… c-c-cutting his, ah, B-Bram’s name for him into his st-stomach.”

Red.

The heat in his hip again, the bristling, boiling, coiled-up anger that Ryan wants so badly to find some outlet for. He can feel the hissing of it in the back of his mind, the simple fact that he could have ended that asshole that had hurt his brother, if it weren’t for the sense of being constricted, held in, trapped in some way he couldn’t name. By obligation, maybe, by who he was. Even if he deserved it, a Michaelson committing cold-blooded murder…  “He was what?”

Nate stares at him. “Cutting h-his… p-puppy name into him. D-Danny was… he was in th-th-the woods. He, he was… Red.”

“That… that motherfucking son of a goddamn bitch.” Ryan takes in a deep, shaking breath, aware as he does that he can hear his own voice like it’s echoing around inside his skull.

There’s a long silence before Nate’s eyes begin to widen. “R-Ryan?”

Ryan can see every detail in his skin, every single pore, the individual black hairs on his head - hints of gray, here and there, just like Danny has a little silver. They said it was from the stress, the trauma, the years of it.

Ryan can feel, he can hear the song of blood rushing through Nate’s veins as his heart speeds up, begins to pound. He’s just so fucking alive, Nathaniel John Vandrum is so alive, and suddenly Ryan thinks that most people are just so small.

So small and so full of rivers of blood and they can lie circles around the green green land but they age fast and die in the end.

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

Nate ducks his head, looks at Ryan through his hair, the way he does when he’s frightened and trying to appease - what Ryan thinks of as his Looking at Denner face. His voice shakes again, and he’s so human. “Ryan, please let go of me-... your, your eyes-”

Ryan blinks and looks down to realize he has his hand closed around Nate’s bad knee so tightly his fingernails are digging in and fuck, he needs to clip them like yesterday, they’re nearly long enough to go right through the heavy denim fabric.

He yanks his hand back quickly. “Shit, Nate, I’m sorry, I… I just-... he was cutting Red into him?”

Nate nods, silent, his eyes moving from Ryan’s face to his hands and back to his face again. There’s a wary nervousness on his face that hadn’t been there before, and he shakes himself all over. “I s-s-saw him and I asked him what he was d-d-doing and th… the next thing I know, I’m b-b-beating the d-d-daylights out of him and D-D-Danny was t-t-telling me to, to stop.”

Ryan considers this, trying to press back his anger. Someone had hurt Danny… again. Life kept kicking his older brother while he was down, again and again, and Ryan only ever stood by and watched, absolutely unable to do a damn thing. He’s been complicit in every single awful thing his mother and father had ever done, he couldn’t help when Danny went missing, he had to stand in a different room while Danny filmed his testimony because it hurt, so badly, to not be able to help.

And now… this.

In this case, he’d been at the gym when Danny was triggered and absconded with, he’d been on a fucking weight machine because it was fucking arms day when some asshole was cutting his brother up, carving that motherfucker’s stupid fucking dog name into him-

“R-R-Ryan… please, your, y-y-your eyes,” Nate says, very low, the soft submissive voice he’d only used once with Ryan before, when Ryan’s hands were about to go around his neck and Nate had started seeing things, hallucinating him as Denner and his stupid dead sister.

Nate, hands bloody and bandaged from beating the shit out of someone who had hurt Danny, is scared of him.

Ryan snaps himself out of it, pressing one hand lightly on his hip. He can’t remember exactly when it started, but he ached there all the time now when he got really, really angry… Maybe just a blood pressure thing.

“Y-your eyes g-glow when you’re ah, angry,” Nate whispers, and Ryan blinks at him. He feels a little worn out, all of a sudden, and slumps back the way he had been before.

“What?” He rubs at his temple with the palm of one hand, a headache starting to inch its way in. Dehydrated, he thinks - he hadn’t had enough water today, and he’d been at the gym when he got the call and probably hasn’t had anything since...

“Y-y-your eyes gl… glowed… You g-g-glow when you’re ah, angry. Just l-like him.”

“No, I don’t.” Ryan frowns, unsettled by the open fear in Nate’s face. Scared of him - and, no matter what he felt about Nate, he didn’t want the older man to be scared of him. “Look, you’re seeing shit, like you said. You had a freakout, you did a really good thing, you’re just coming down from it. Danny sees shit all the fucking time.”

“I’m n-not Danny,” Nate says, but he looks uncertain, now. Second-guessing himself. “I t-t-take my pills, I see Dr. Rosa, I haven’t h-had a visual one s-s-since…”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t have one today. When’s the last time someone actually attacked Danny?”

Nate doesn’t answer, but his green eyes have turned inward, and Ryan sighs, wondering how long he’ll have to sit with his brother’s boyfriend pretending to get along. There’s a long silence punctuated only by the ticking of a clock hanging off the wall over by the hospital room’s TV. Ryan can hear nurses chatting down the hall, the squeaky sound of someone rolling an IV with a bad wheel.

Somewhere, they are sewing his brother up - and Ryan quirks a hint of a bitter smile. “Hey, I should tell you something, Vandrum.”

Nate rakes a hand back through his hair - then hisses at the flash of pain.

Ryan barely hides his laugh. “Oh, no, you won’t have access to your all-time favorite nervous habit. You’re going to be a fucking mess, huh?”

Nate drops his hand, slowly, and glances down at Ryan with that same unsettled expression. Any other day, he’d snap back, have some retort, and they’d both leave feeling like they either won or at least held up their end of things fairly well.

Today…

Ryan eventually sighs. “Hey. Look. Before I’m any more of an asshole than I already am-”

“Too late,” Nate says dryly, miraculously without stuttering through the words.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Ryan rolls his eyes, and Nate cracks a smile - faint and barely there, but he sees it. Both of them slowly begin to relax. “I wanted to say… um… thanks. For going after him, for… for stopping the guy. For busting the shit out of your already-busted hand to defend my brother. All of it. I’m.. sorry I wasn’t there, to back you up.”

“You’re s-s-sorry you weren’t th-there? On our d-d-date with us?” Nate raises an eyebrow - just the one, all by itself, and it’s a skill Ryan would kill to master.

“... fuck off, you know what I mean. At least you admit you’re dating now, you gave him a ring and still didn’t admit-”

“I l-love him.” Nate cut him off, voice suddenly firm and stronger than it had been before. “Ah. We s-said it today... I l-love him.”

Ryan is silent, staring at him, and then says in a low voice, “Well I should fucking hope so, Vandrum, because otherwise you’ve been mooching off my brother’s total adoration for you for a year now. Why are you telling me something I already know?”

“Y-you knew?”

“Of course I knew. I can read people, my brother best of all, and he was in love with you a long time before I had to look at your fucking face every day while I’m trying to eat breakfast.” Ryan sighs and pulls his credit card back out, fiddles with it. It’s plain black, with the faintest shimmer if you turn it the right way under the light. He’d been so proud of himself when Dad gave him his first card attached to the family account.

What’s… what’s the limit on this, Dad?

The limit is ‘don’t do anything stupid’.

The silence draws out between them, but it’s a little more companionable than it had been before. Finally, Nate shifts around a little, and Ryan glances over at him, then at the TV, playing some kind of mindless house-hunting show. I think the last time I was in a hospital and someone wasn’t watching HGTV I was ten and it was when Danny fell out of the tree.

“Look…” Ryan clears his throat when his voice catches, tries again. “Look. I want to say something to you about this bullshit you have going with my brother. You buying him that ring, and all that.”

Nate looks at him, and something in his jaw sets. “I w-w-won’t apologize for the r-ring, Michaelson. He d-d-deserves something to r, remind him.”

Looking at Nate’s face, Ryan is reminded of the cold, hostile mask he had worn at trial, self-protective, an attempt to keep Abraham Denner from seeing him get upset. Nate had said more than once Denner fed on it, and Ryan had to admit, he did seem to leave every day energized when everyone else was exhausted. 

“I’m not asking you to apologize for the ring, jackass. I wanted to say…” He flips the card over, looks at his name printed on the back. “I just… don’t fuck it up.”

“What?” Nate blinks - this is clearly not what he expects to hear.

“Don’t fuck it up. My brother’s whole life, everyone around him wants somebody else more than him… except for me, I guess. He’s my only brother and the only one I want, anyway. But… everybody else. Mom, Dad, his boyfriends in high school and college… everyone decides they want someone else, and they fuck right off, and the universe kicks my brother in the balls once again.”

“M-Michaelson, I don’t intend-”

“Shut up and listen. I get that you two… that you figured each other out or something, up there.” Ryan waves one hand in the air, as though Canada were a mile in the air instead of several hundred miles north. “I get it. But he’s my big brother, and he’s kind of my little brother, too, now, after everything that happened to him…” He swallows, and leans forward, catching Nate’s eyes and holding them.

“Vandrum, if you fuck this up - if you hurt him, if you add one more kick to the balls for my big and little brother… please trust me that some asshole in an alley is the least of your problems. If you break his heart, I will fucking murder you.”

Nate stares at him, and then starts to laugh, leaning slowly over. He has a low, deep laugh that breaks out of him, as though he works so hard to keep it inside that he’s sort of forgotten the sound. “I h-h-haven’t been given this s-speech since I was, ah, y-y-younger than y-you. And last t-time it was his father, and h-he had a sh, shotgun.”

“I don’t have guns - not on me, anyway - but I do have the amazing superpower of being a little brother who waited four fucking years to see Danny smile again.” Ryan shrugs, holding his hands out with palms to the ceiling in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “I mean it, Vandrum. Thanks for saving him today, and… for saving him before, too, I guess. But if you fuck up and hurt him, I will definitely make your death slow and painful.”

Nate smiles at him, the scar at one corner of his mouth pulling it just slightly to the side. After a second he holds out one bandaged hand, leaning over, and Ryan meets it - not shaking, he’s too hurt for that. They touch palms, a bare brush of fingers, and call that enough. “Deal.”

“I will murder you.”

“G-Got it.”

“Very, very slowly.”

“Y-Yes, you s-s-said that.”

“With a really confusing murder weapon so the cops never know what killed you.”

“Right.”

They sit there smiling at each other until Danny comes back, pushed in a wheelchair that he looks almost comically too tall to actually sit in.

Ryan turns to look at his brother, relieved just to see the clear blue eyes. The scarring around his face, his neck, his hands and arms… all of it to Ryan is just part of who Danny is, now. He never bats an eyelash at it, it all means Danny lived, that he came home.

Nate Vandrum set a fire - and Nate Vandrum beat a guy half to death in an alleyway - and Ryan had to admit… he was maybe 10% less of an asshole than Ryan told everyone he was.

“Hey, Ryan,” Danny says, with a lopsided smile. “You came to drive us home?”

“I came to pay your medical bills, you doof.” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. Then he looks up at the nurse, flashing her his most brilliant smile. She blushes, just a little, and he reads across her face an easy enough story of how quickly she would give him her number if he asked.

Too bad, he thinks. Remy’s been calling again, and… he’ll skip the opportunity, this time. Maybe next time, though.

“Is there someone from billing I could talk to?” Ryan asks her, and watches her tuck a bit of hair behind her ear with a smile.

“You’re his brother?” She asks, head tilting his slightly.

Ryan laughs. “Yes. I’m Ryan Michaelson. I’m also the money.”

[the-wintershade]

— things ain’t what they used to be

pairing: sam wilson x f!reader x bucky barnes summary: bucky’s words get into your head and your dancing skills falter, threatening the partnership you and sam have built, but he is always there to listen and to encourage. In the process, you get closer than you thought. wc: 4.9k+  genre: angsty, flirting, deeper talks, secrets coming out

Blue Shade: series — masterlist | 03

You couldn’t let yourself be as carefree as you once were. No matter how you tried to force out Bucky’s words, they were in there, ingrained in a part of your brain that you couldn’t access or change.

It became noticeable when you showed up for class the next week.

You were stiffer, heavier on your feet, and avoided Sam’s glancing eyes more intentionally. 

You felt awful, horrible that words that should have fallen on shut ears wormed their way into your head. Like you were a pawn, a slave to his bidding. You didn’t want the words there, you wanted nothing to do with his fowl corrupting phrases of false assurance. It was like a gambit, a lure of something genuine with the price of your soul attached to it.

You didn’t want to trade anything. You didn’t want the deal, but your mind already decided for you.

And Sam was suffering for it.

The instructor seems to notice as well as she stops and frowns more than once in your direction. Steve and Peggy are dancing fabulously, but have a diminished energy, as if your change has affected them too. Natasha mouths are you okay? over her shoulder as she twists around Clint.

You try to nod and put on your best smile, but it feels plastic, robotic. It’s more done out of habit than a truthful response. 

It was always like this being with Bucky, but if that’s what it took, you would pay the price. You could go back. It could be like it used to be.

You trip over Sam’s foot for the fourth time since the class began fifteen minutes ago and a heavy sigh spreads through you, your grip loosening on Sam’s hand. He holds your hand firmer when you falter, but doesn’t move any closer. 

“You alright?” His face twists with worry and you kick yourself mentally for letting Bucky throw you off this much. “Do you need to take a break?”

Irritation bubbles in your chest at the suggestion. It’s not his fault that you’re so off your game, but you didn’t want to quit. That meant that Bucky won. That somehow he’d made you a toy to play with that remained completely obedient to his beck and call. 

“No.” You breathe, knowing that your frustration was on display despite that you’d tried to shove it down. “No, I just….” You pulled your hand off his shoulder and ran it through your hair, collecting your thoughts. Glancing down, you practiced moving in a box like you’d done before, perfectly. 

“Okay.” He nodded and moved with you. “Try taking the lead. I’ll follow you.” His gaze was gentle and patient as he waited for you to get your stance in order before moving. You took your first few steps and he mirrored you completely, easily. 

He had no problems keeping up with you and your hesitating movements. He made it look simple, like he was just breathing, and it was your turn to be in awe of him.

“What, Coffee Girl?” He smirked, the first time he’d joked around with you since class started. “Surprised that I can follow as well as I can lead?”

You closed your mouth as you looked up to him. It was that same hint of playfulness and warmth that he always showed you. It felt unfair that he was taking the brunt of your internal war and your heart squooze at your behavior. Shame flared across your features, making your skin molten. 

By the time you were ready to form an answer, you were too devastated to form words. You just kind of gave a weak chuckle and kept trying not to step on his feet.

“Alright.” He dropped your hand and created distance between you two. You struggled to adjust to the drop in temperature, feeling strangely empty and devoid of energy. Sadness threatened to envelop you at the pain you were causing. Your eyes started watering uncontrollably. 

He cleared his throat excessively loud and everyone paused. “Excuse the interruption, but I think that we all deserve a break right?” He gestured at Steve and Peggy who stopped swaying mid swing. Steve looked from Sam to you and nodded his head. He turned to the dance instructor. 

“I think a five minute break wouldn’t harm anyone.” She agreed with a slight sly undercurrent underneath that felt directed towards you in a way.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I vote for a dance break. Perhaps with a selection of more danceable music.” Sam struts over to the speaker in a way that almost broke your tight lipped frown into a smile. Almost. The jazzy funk of Marvin Gaye began spinning around the hall, changing the quiet, cautious sounds of a piano and serenading trumpet into groovy percussion and a calming guitar. 

Sam nodded his head enthusiastically while Steve laughed at his antics. His eyes glimmered with a hidden inside joke that you wouldn’t get. 

He boogies his way to Steve and Peggy who fumble around in a mess of unsynchronized tempo and jerky movements but they began to fall into this 50s inspired groove that seems to work in sync with the music. You’re surprised at their knowledge of such an older style but it’s nice to see them break out of the formality that the waltz demands.

A man who’s name you learned was Vis, short for some extensive name you weren’t really paying that much attention to, got booty bumped by a funky Sam and looked like a deer in headlights. You almost giggled then and watched as Wanda began to shake and jump around. Vis’s face turned beet red, which happened every time he was even a bit embarrassed.

After some whoops and hollers from Wanda, Vis tried to move on the beat with her, holding her hands like he needed her for balance instead of guidance. They stumble through the steps together, but at least they are having fun. Wanda’s beautiful smile warms Vis to the core; it’s easy to see.

Sam attempts to drag Natasha and Clint into the action but both hold up hands, clearly conveying that’s never gonna happen. He shoots finger guns at them and spins around to make a b-line for you. 

You shake  your head furiously in denial and begin to back up, but Sam is insistent and presses in closer until he’s toe to toe with you. He draws your hands into his as you take a deep breath involuntarily and shakes his hips a little, teasing you with his eyes as he pours it on thick. “Oh, mercy mercy me,” He hums showing you that he won’t back down until you join him.

You begin to giggle and he alights with color, the whites of his teeth show. He tries to tamper it though and twirls his hand around to spin you in a circle. You follow his subtle direction and pivot around his hand as the orchestral part of the song begins to take over.

He pulls you in, wiggling his shoulders and guiding you through a modified waltz that’s much less challenging and more relaxing. It’s more about moving to the beat and adding pizzazz to what’s already there. It’s fun and you're smiling in no time, Bucky’s words drifting out of your mind.

He booty bumps you. You both fall into a bundle of awkwardly spasming bodies and outburst of mirth.

Sam watches you with laughter, his brown cheeks becoming little balls of happiness on his face. His eyes drip in amusement and enjoyment. He’s the party and the entertainment all in one.

You hold on to his light even as the song fades, even as the class resumes and you’re back in his warm, safe arms again, flowing through the moves in perfect harmony. He feels warmer now, renewed at the quick break that’s brought back your smile. You feel like Bucky’s words were nothing but a terrible, horrible dream that’ll dissolve by standing next to your sun, next to your Sam.

…

Sam digs into his burger as you take a reasonable bit of your own, watching him just as he watches you. It’s not creepy or intimidating, but more of a familiar thing to do. You’ve been observing each other for some time now, soon after introductions were established, so this was nothing unusual. 

But Sam’s gaze held something deeper, a twinge of confusion and dissatisfaction wafted through his deeply colored eyes. You wanted to ask, but waited. It might not be something that you were quite ready to answer yet. You resolved to finish chewing your part of the burger and look outside at the rushing traffic, at the way the light bounces off buildings and makes the sidewalk brighter.

Sure enough, when you’re ready to reach for your drink, Sam’s question beats you to it. “What happened yesterday?”

It’s a question that he has a right to an answer, especially with how it conflicted with your dancing abilities, but you don’t want to lay too much on him. After all, these were your issues to deal with, dumping your problems on him were unfair. 

“Nothing,” You compromise, hoping that the words would be just enough to convince him that some was definitely wrong but you weren’t ready to really get into it. “Just a little tired and irritated, that’s all.”

He doesn’t like the way you sigh. His shoulders hunch a little and his eyebrows furrow closer together when he hears something that upsets him. The fact that you knew that, surprises you, but you brush it off as getting to know each other over these past few days.

“(Name), be honest with me,” He pauses, his voice softening with an edge of seriousness. “I deserve that much.”

You almost cringe. He’s right, but you still don’t really want to say what really happened. You don’t want to upset him or make him angry for your sake. That, he doesn’t deserve. You also don’t want him to take on anything. You’ll solve this.

“If I tell you,” You fiddle with your straw, leaning back in your chair like you have the winning hand in a game of blackjack. “You have to promise me, that you won’t get upset.”

He leans forward, his concern rising in his eyebrows and darkening expression. “I can do that.” He tries to smooth out the creases that formed in the last few seconds, but a few still strain against him, telling you that he’s already upset.

You sigh and mess with your fingers in your lap, refusing to look him in the eye, to watch him become disgruntled with what you’re about to say. You explain what happened when you got home, how Bucky’s arms held you restrainedly tight against him and how he tried to convince you that Sam was just trying to use you, to play you in some way.

By the time you looked up, Sam wasn’t all the way upset, his shoulders were hunched still but his eyes were wide and hurt. That damaged you the most.

He leaned back when you made eye contact and looked away, his fingers running across his chin absentmindedly. When he was ready, which took some time, he dared to gaze back at you before sitting forward. “Do you not trust me?”

What? That’s the farthest thing from the truth. Of course you trusted him, this wasn’t about that. “I trust you.” You answered with more determination than you thought you were capable of and stared him directly in the eyes as you said so, assuring him that there were falsities in your statement. You know he accepts your answer as his shoulders drop in relief. 

He looks down and takes a breath before continuing. “Then why were you all over the place today?”

You close your eyes in frustration. “Because he doesn’t know you. Because I know you wouldn’t do something like that.” You sigh and stare at the table. “I was angry that his words got to me like that. I didn’t believe for a second that the words were true, but the fact that he knows just how to get a rise out of me made me unbelievably frustrated.”

When you don’t look at him, he reaches across the table and brushes his fingers against your deathly tight grip on your cup. Your hand loosens on contact as you take a sharp breath, a flush moving to your cheeks, a shiver riverbrating down your spine. “Thank you for telling me.” He murmurs, his gaze warm and more sultry than you remember.

Your hand inches out to that lightning strike that buzzes between your hands, but you restrain yourself and let it fall open onto the table. “Thank you,” You minutely smile. “For believing me.”

“Am I stepping on anything, by inviting you to dance with me?” He looks genuinely concerned and it breaks your heart all over again. His warmth and light that you don’t deserve.

“No. It was my choice to agree to dance with you and Bucky just has jealousy problems that he needs to sort out himself.” Your jaw locks when you say the words, but you’re much calmer now. The heat that runs through your veins isn’t from anger.

Sam nods and returns to eating. You do the same. 

A question bubbles up through your chest, an idea you previously ignored but now brought to your attention through its neglect. “That day I met you at the party, why were you there?” Your eyes are guarded, but not closed. You’re concerned that it took you so long to ask.

Sam smirks and finishes swallowing before responding. “Ah, so now you ask.” 

You bite your cheek to keep a smirk of your own from capturing your face. “I didn’t realize you were actively trying to keep it a secret.”

“No, not a secret. I was just wondering when your curiosity would finally get through.” 

You only hum in response, leaning away from the table, gesturing for him to continue.

He chuckles. “I know Willow.” 

The words hit you like a train and the smile fell straight off your face. The girl that Bucky disappeared with, while you were still there. The girl that knew you and Bucky had something going on but refused to keep her hands off him. Not like he was any better.

He watched your face harden and sobered up a bit. “I also met her in college. She invited me to a few art shoes she was doing as an amature artist. I knew there was something else behind her innocence.” He leans forward and sighs. “But when I explained my obvious disinterest in her, she backed off and turned out to be a surprisingly good friend.”

Your blood sizzled, a twisting knot of hot anger coiling and moulding in your stomach. It wasn’t about Bucky, but Sam and just as the realization caught in your mind, your inklings of rage dissipated in a second. Why is it all about Sam this whole time?

You closed your eyes and unfurled your fist, the half-moons the only remnants of your restrained vexation. 

Sam’s eyes drilled into your head. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft and deep, full of worry and anxiety.

“Yep.” You grit the words out between your closed teeth, allowing the flames to sputter and fizzle out before opening your eyes again. “Just...fine.” You peel your eyes open slowly and see Sam’s frown. Your face smoothes itself at his concern. You don’t like making him fret over you.

He doesn’t take your answer as satisfactory. “I’m sorry. I forgot Willow was a sensitive subject.”

“It’s not about Willow.”

Sam’s eyes lock with yours, the fire flashes behind your eyes for a second before you look away, waiting for it all to subside. Sam gently reaches across the table to you, brushing your blazing hot hand with his cooler one, trying to get your focus somewhere else. Where physical violence didn’t sound like a bad option.

“(name), look at me.” You strain against his voice, tears of frustration building in your eyes. He grasps onto your fingers tighter and tugs gently. You look at him then. “I’m not going to press you about what’s going on between the two of you, that’s your business, but I don’t like seeing you upset.” A soft warmth unfurls in your chest, smothering the wall of pain threatening to rise.”I’m sorry for whatever happened, but I am here to support you, even if we haven’t known each other that long.”

You laugh, it’s sad and bitter, but it’s better than crying in front of him. You’ve cried enough tears already over this, you don’t need more to the bunch.

But it’s nice to know that he cares about your well being and that he withstood Willow. It makes you happier to know that Willow can’t draw in everyone.

It just makes you peeved that it all comes back to the art gallery for her, that she feels she needs to get men this way. It should be about her work. It should be about something she’s passionate about, not just for an excuse.

You sigh and smile at him. Squeezing his hand, you manage to get out a sentence quietly. “Thank you, Sam. It means a lot.”

“Always.” His are dark and warm, filled with pools of light and sincerity. It gives the confidence to return back to the way you were. You give his hand one last squeeze before you let go and return to eating. Sam hesitates a moment, making sure you’re actually okay before continuing with his meal.

After finishing your food in a comfortable silence, the gentle movement of paper and liquid traveling through straws creating a white noise, Sam asks you one more question. “I want to show you a place next time. Do you feel comfortable coming with me?”

You smirk. “Trying to kidnap me?”

“Only if you’re okay with that.”

He smiles when you answer. “I’m down. Lead the way, Captain.”

…

Dance class provides a higher charge than originally seen between the two of you. His smirk lingers in your mind, making you tingle and blush rise. These aren’t things that you can really remember feeling with Bucky, but it’s been so long, how would you remember?

It’s probably a bad thing that you can’t echo thoughts of good times with Bucky, but maybe it’s just that you’ve never felt this way about anyone else before. Maybe these feelings are new.

Sam seems to feel the same way as you do. He’s not nearly as flirty or as talkative as usual, he doesn’t crack any one liners with you nor does he twirl you into any crazy moves. He’s all poise and following the rules, but his hands wrap around yours a little tighter, you dance a little closer, and the air hums with the electricity between you.

He stares more openly when all you can do is look away and smile. 

Your steps are steadier and accurate. You don’t stumble around like you did the day before, and you and Sam move as one unit, gracefully weaving around each other, your feet like feathers spinning through the air.

The teacher smiles appreciatively at you and every other person in the class, every couple moves in sync. The whole class appears harmonious and balanced, more comfortable and less worried for your performance. It’s preferable to the rough nature of Bucky and the challenging environment of your job.  It’s comfortable and nice, a place of relaxation and peace for you. 

It’s a place to come and dance with Sam and forget everything, forget the world exists.

…

Sam’s jacket falls around your shoulders, a soft barrier against the cooling breeze of the sea. You walk side-by-side down the boardwalk, the planks clunk beneath your shoes and the breaking of small waves provides a murmur of background noise. It’s enough to create a pleasant space to take in the beauty of it all.

There’s nothing more delicate and beautiful than a beach at sunset. It’s no wonder you’re here with him; it’s oddly fitting.

“I used to come here a lot.” Sam quietly murmurs underneath his breath, just loud enough for you to hear but careful not to pull you out of your admiration too fast. “When I was in my head too much.”

You nod politely and keep watching the waves lap against the shore. You want him to continue on his own terms, you’d never force his story from him. 

He clears his throat after a beat and drifts a little closer to you. Your heat grows for a half-second. “I used to be in the army and when you come back...life just isn’t the same for you anymore.” He sighs and your heart squeezes hearing the pain and the hurt in his words. “It’s hard to adjust and when life is too absurdly mundane, I’d come here. The roar of the waves could dull some of the noise up here.” He taps against his temple and smiles to himself.

You force yourself not to touch him, but it takes immense effort and your hand itches, pulls, wrestles against your mind's commands to keep still. You sink your teeth into the side of your cheek and hum in response to him, trying to keep your eyes from locking with his.

“Is it bad now?” The words slip out as your concern for him reaches a crux and not knowing is eating up every bit of self-control you’ve built into place. Your question lingers between you two, fragile and shaky, and you wonder if you’ve crossed some horrible line that you weren’t supposed to. 

A feeling of dread wells up in your chest as he takes a while to answer, your face begins to drop and your steps falter, but then he shakes his head in disagreement. “No.” He chuckles to himself. “It’s been getting better these last few weeks.”

His smile holds a secret that is intended for you to understand, but you try not to pay it too much attention. 

“You know, if you need anything, I’m here.” You fiddle with the sleeves of his jacket as you respond. “If you can be here for me through this Bucky mess, then I can be here for your bad dreams too.”

Sam watches you unabashedly and then smiles gently. “Thank you.”

You walk together to the end of the pier and sit on the edge, your feet reaching towards the waves. The wind here is colder, more cutting and you wrap his jacket further around your shoulders. 

Neither of you speak for a few minutes, just letting the wind and the sea make a music of its own. It was this comfortability in the silence that you wish you could share with Bucky. You wish you could be beside him and feel the way you do now, safe and comfortable. You don’t have to fight against him or his antics, his cheating behavior and aggressive personality. 

You could just be. 

You could just exist in the same time and space and that would be enough for you.

And the conversation wouldn’t always drift to your mistakes and failures. It wouldn’t be made into a spectacle of hate about you living your life and trying new things.

But Sam doesn’t make you feel stupid or dumb. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re doing anything wrong.

Sam must have seen your scrunched eyebrows and critical eyes. “What are you thinking about?” 

You sigh and fiddle with the palms sprawled in your lap. “My ‘boyfriend’ as you so affectionately call him.”

“Oh.” He looks back to the waves, steadily crashing but growing in intensity. The tide must be coming in. “And how are things?”

The mood changes. He grows more reserved, analytical and objective, like he usually does whenever Bucky’s name is mentioned. Your stomach twists. You don’t want him to close off or make him feel like he’s stepped on something delicate. You don’t want to hurt him with stories about him.

But you know that if you try to shield the truth, he’ll be just as hurt. He said he’d be there. You trust him.

“Tense at best.” You conceded, face sinking in despite the gorgeous scenery.

“Hmm.” He takes a breath and looks at your hands, balled together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He nods.

“I just feel guilty around him, like I’m doing something wrong.” It wasn’t because of Sam; it was because you knew your feelings were changing and they weren’t in favor of Bucky.

“Does the dancing thing...make you feel uncomfortable?” He spares a fleeting glance at your face and you watch his calm but worried eyes move over yours gently, just testing your reaction before he reveals the depth of his.

A similar alarm echoes off in your mind that this will have to come to an end soon, that this beautiful dream will dissolve from your mind. You don’t want this to end. You don’t like the thought of not seeing him again. 

“No! That isn’t the issue. I’ve been more myself dancing with you than I have been around him.” You fiddle with your hands, a spike of anxiety rising at your confession, but you spare a glance in your direction to see him staring at you directly. A jolt flares in your core.

“That’s...reassuring.” You bump his shoulder, reminding you of how close you are. If you placed your hands on either side of your body, you’d nearly be touching. He smiles at your teasing. “But,” His tone dips to a lower pitch, a lingering sigh hinting at the transition from euphoria to reality. “As nice as that sounds, it doesn’t sound like you’re in a good spot.”

“We’re not.” Your face droops in frustration. “And I’m not sure what to do.”

He watches you for a second before he responds. “Sounds like you need to talk to him.”

When you turn to look at him again, the sun is splayed so beautifully on his features that he looks like an angel, swathed in gold and sunlight. You can’t stop staring. And even if he was embarrassed by your pointed gaze, he doesn’t seem concerned. He’s too busy gazing back at you.

You’re surprised when you start to lean in, but the thought only registers in some part of your mind that’s far away from the decision making part of your brain. What brings a present shock is the fact that he begins to lean in too.

Your temperature increases and you can feel your breath quickening, but you keep going anyway, ignoring the nagging feeling of guilt that’s increasing by the moment. Sam’s nose brushes against your own and your eyes begin to fall, but it’s as if your vision clears when your eyes shut.

You stop and he immediately follows suit.

But you take a moment to savor the feeling, being so close to him, being close enough to touch and hold. These are treasonous thoughts that carry a weight that you don’t fully understand, but it feels good. You haven’t felt this good being around someone in years, despite being with someone else all this time.

It’s horrible that you’re just starting to figure all of this out now. “Sorry.” Your whisper is jagged and breathy, but it’s all you can manage. You don’t think you have full control of your mental functions to do or explain more than that. 

Sam seems equally as lost because all he can do is hum in response. You know his eyes are open, watching you, waiting for you to look at him, but you can’t. Because if you do, you’ll lose all over again.

“We should get back.” He stands and only when he isn’t in your sights that you open your eyes. You notice how the ocean quieted down, the roaring in your ears in your ears isn’t as loud, how the wind has died. 

When you turn, his hand drifts in front of your face and you hesitantly reach out to take it, knowing the jolt that’s going to spike through your arm at the contact of your skin with his. It’s stronger than it’s been before, but he supports you as you stand like he didn’t feel it. 

You straighten on slightly wobbling legs, still buzzed from a second ago. Only when he’s sure that you’ll be able to walk on your own does he let go, holding on for much longer than necessary. You miss his heat right when you let go.

He treds next to you faithfully until you reach your car. You unwrap his jacket from your shoulders and gently give it back to him, thanking him for lending it to you. You prod over to him and press a feather-soft kiss to his cheek, making sure to keep it to the appropriate amount of time, but wishing you’d just let it linger a bit longer. When you look back at him, a low warm heat spreads through your stomach at the way his eyes look like pools of fresh, heated chocolate, moving in elegant swirls.

You force yourself to turn away and get into your car. You give him a small wave as you pull away and then immediately crank the AC despite it’s only 50 degrees outside. 

You can’t stop smiling, even when you make it back to your apartment.

[lonestarbabe]

Holding Out For a Hero

Chapter 1: Where Have All The Good Men Gone

When T.K. Strand was eight years old, his father died on 9/11 with the rest of his fire station, and T.K.’s life forever changed. Luckily, in his grief and anger, T.K. found music, which gave him an outlet and kept him out of trouble… at least enough to keep him alive. At the age of sixteen, T.K. was propelled into stardom and with the grief and anger still very much alive within him, he began to use drugs, alcohol, and one-night stands to cope. As one of the most popular pop stars alive, T.K. has been accustomed to screaming masses and fanatical adoration but his manager, Judd, and best friend, Marjan, seem to think T.K. needs someone to look after him. T.K. doesn’t want another bodyguard, not after the series of uptight tightwads he’s had, but when he’s introduced to buff, sweetly handsome Carlos Reyes, T.K. begrudgingly decides that he can put up with a little eye candy hanging around (but it’s not because he needs someone to look after him, definitely not…)

T.K.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” T.K. refuted, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest, but Judd gave him a sharp “don’t argue with me” look. The look usually didn’t go very far. After all, arguing was one of T.K.’s favorite hobbies. Though, he rarely took arguments too seriously. Mostly, they were just for sport, but this time T.K. knew to shut up, at least while Judd lectured him.

“Come on, this is my job to look after you. Let me do it.” Judd adjusted his wristwatch, still not used to the heavy metal Rolex that Grace had gotten him. She’d told him maybe it would him look like an actual manager because looking at Judd, you’d pick a barista from Starbucks as the talent manager over Judd.

Judd’s flannel shirt and blue jeans set him apart from not just other managers but also most of LA. Originally from Texas, Judd may have been a high-profile entertainment manager, but he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a suit to work. If you squinted, you might mistake him for a hipster, but Judd would snarl if anyone ever called him that (he had no beard or weird coffee). Lumberjack would be less offensive (again, no beard or no ax). Cowboy would be better than redneck. He might even take cowboy with pride.

While he was still very much a Texan at heart, Judd had followed his wife, Grace, out to LA so she could chase her dream of being an actress. Considering that Grace Ryder was going to be in what could be the summer’s big blockbuster, the move had paid off and things were going well for the Ryders. T.K. was just relieved that for the last five years he’d had Judd on his side. It was good to have someone who cared, even if T.K. was still a fuck up (because that was inevitable).

His former manager, Misty, had been a robotic woman who cared more about her pantsuits than her clients. At sixteen, he’d signed on with her, and from the start, she’d wanted more than T.K. was willing to give. Albums, tours, books, perfume lines, signings— she’d wanted him to do it all, but T.K. never got a moment of rest. She manipulated him and used all his youthful optimism against him. At first, it had been fun, but then it was just exhausting. Misty had cracked T.K., and she had made music a chore, but it wasn’t like T.K. knew anything else. He felt trapped. He wanted to love music again, but he knew he couldn’t do that with Misty breathing down his neck. Misty wasn’t evil. T.K. had good times with her even if he couldn’t keep up with her demands. She’d helped him start his career. She’d taken a chance on him. Nevertheless, she wasn’t good for him. She was too concerned about her own desires to pay proper attention to his. He needed someone who saw him as an actual person rather than a problem.

Now, Judd had the unenviable job of trying to piece a broken kid back together, but Judd didn’t seem too dismayed by the task. He’d been doing it for five years, after all. T.K. had come to Judd after a long search for the perfect manager, and it had been a cosmically right fit. Marjan Marwani, T.K.’s best friend, had actually been the one who had found Judd, and she still held it over his head that she had found him the best manager on the planet. He really loved his best friend even if she liked to taunt him mercilessly.  

In the time that he had been T.K.’s manager, Judd had been patient with T.K. He worked so hard to keep T.K. vaguely functional. Judd actually cared for some reason. Unlike Misty, Judd wasn’t the kind of manager in it for the money. He’d even suggested that T.K. take a break whereas other managers would have tried to keep their top-earning talent working as much as possible. Judd wouldn’t care if he didn’t get another dime from T.K., but T.K. was too stubborn and too lost to take time from the spotlight. He needed music in his life.

“All celebrities of your caliber use bodyguards,” Judd explained, his accent muted slightly by LA influences. When he went home to Austin, Judd’s voice always reverted to its original sound just like T.K. always sounded most like a New Yorker when he was in New York. “It’s a security risk to let you go running around alone. I know you like your independence, but when you have as many fans as you do, things are bound to get out of control.” T.K. suspected Judd was less worried about fans than T.K.’s behavior.

“Yeah, and I’ve had fifteen bodyguards in the past six months alone. I think that’s quite enough.” The last thing T.K. needed was another big slab of man following him around with a faintly disapproving look. His former bodyguards all tried and failed to keep a neutral expression when they worked for him. They’d been discreet, but he could always see the way their eyebrows scrunched, and lips pushed together with a nearly inaudible grunt. Even when he was drunk and higher than the moon, T.K. could see the disdain or, worse, the pity, in their eyes. He was just another teenage star turned adult fuck up. He wore the badge as proudly as he could even though he hated himself for becoming an out of control stranger.

“You know I’m not happy with your revolving door of bodyguards. It’s a major hassle, but I’d rather hunt down schmucks willing to deal with you than for you to get into trouble. Believe it or not, I prefer you alive.” T.K.’s heart flipped at the sentiment, and for whatever reason, he felt touched. The warm feeling sent a surge of anxiety through his body because somewhere along the line he’d learned concern was dangerous. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to retain his cool demeanor.  

T.K. rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” he said before he could think. The joke scratched against T.K.’s tongue like sandpaper. He hadn’t used the word dad in… well, he couldn’t even remember how long. Since his dad had died, T.K. had always the term father to refer to all dads. Dad was too personal, so he usually saved that word only for use with his own father, whose memory had become terrifyingly blurry in T.K.’s mind.

Judd grunted, an affectionate, slightly exasperated grunt. You could tell a lot about Judd’s mood based on his grunt. Grace always joked that he had a language composed all of grunts. “Someone has to look out for you.” Because your dad is dead.

“I don’t want to be protected,” especially not by his big brother of a manager.

“Yeah, well I can’t trust you to quit your self-destructive shit. Sometimes I wonder…” Judd trailed off shaking his head. His voice had quivered, softer and more hesitant.

“What? Wonder what?” He was already starting to feel defensive.

“Never mind, kid. It doesn’t matter.” Judd bit his bottom lip, knowing that he had almost said too much. His eyes were concerned, which made T.K. feel angry more than loved. He didn’t like when Judd tried to give him “much needed guidance.”

“No, tell me, what is it?” T.K. hated being coddled and kept out of the loop even if it was for his own good.

Judd looked at the picture of Grace on his desk. Emotions were more her thing. She’d be much better at this, but T.K. was worth making the effort when need be. “It’s not something you’d want to hear.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

Judd sighed, worrying that this thought would do more harm than good, but it had been growing in his mind for a while. He took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if it doesn’t matter to you if you live or die.” T.K. eyes shot up to meet Judd’s. He wasn’t sure where this conversation was headed, but he didn’t like it. Yet, he couldn’t retreat from it because he’d been the one to press Judd to tell him what he was thinking.

“I’m not suicidal.” It wasn’t like he was going to jump off a bridge or something. “I wouldn’t try to kill myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Maybe not. I’m not exactly the best person to talk about all this stuff but seems to me that you wouldn’t mind dying if it happened to you.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Judd,” but it did. T.K. knew exactly what Judd meant, and it scared him how close to the truth Judd was.

“I just think that it doesn’t scare you that one night you could overdose, and I think you’re playin’ Russian roulette with your life, half-hoping that maybe you won’t get lucky.”

“Psychoanalyzing is for shrinks.”

“Yeah, I know, but it can’t be healthy to be so unconcerned about your own mortality.”

“There wouldn’t be much I could do about it if I died, so I don’t bother worrying about it.” T.K. thought about death sometimes. He’d even imagined himself dying, but it wasn’t in a weird way he didn’t think. Everyone thought about it. Him maybe more than others.

“No, I guess not, but I’m just saying that it seems to me you’d be okay if it just ended, relieved even.”

“Not to get nihilistic or whatever, but there’s not much to live for is there? But it’s just like going to work. Each day, you just gotta do it.” Life, even the glamorous life of a superstar, could be a monotonous jumble of highs and lows, but T.K. had learned that there wasn’t much he could do about it. He had to keep trudging along even if he didn’t know where to or why.

“Man, I don’t know what to say to that, but I think you’ve got it all wrong. Life isn’t that grim.”

T.K. backtracked. “I didn’t mean to suggest it was. It isn’t all bad, really. It’s not like I always hate it or anything. I do have fun. I have my pick of men, and I get invited to lots of parties.” T.K. smirked. “I’m sure you’ve seen some of the viral videos.”

“Getting so wasted you can’t remember how many fingers you have ain’t fun.”

“You’re just lucky none of my sex tapes have been leaked, but let me tell you, they’d do real well on Pornhub.”

“Keep those to yourself. The ‘I only have six fingers’ video was enough of a nightmare.” It should have been humiliating, but T.K. had just laughed when it had come out. His management team had been clucking like hens, but something so silly wasn’t worth all that headache, so T.K. just reminded that everything that happened to him was one big cosmic joke.

“I don’t even remember that night honestly, but that’s the fun of it, Judd—forgetting all the things you normally have to remember.”

“Yeah, well, how ‘bout trying to remember a little more.  You’ll forget yourself if you’re not careful.”

“As long as I don’t forget how to carry a tune, I think I’ll be okay.” As long as he could still got on the stage and do his job, he’d be fine.

“You’re more than a singer.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be. Life would be so much better if you only had to be one thing.”

“I want you to slow down on the partying.”

T.K. laughed. “And you think a bodyguard can help me with that? Yeah, right.” T.K. didn’t believe he needed a bodyguard at all. He was a big boy, and he wasn’t going to wilt just because a crowd gathered trying to get his attention or he drank a little too much. Bodyguards were basically just pieces of furniture who turn into stone walls when danger struck.

“He’ll make sure you make it out in one piece. I’ve picked a great guy.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“I mean it with this one.”

T.K. exhaled, still not thrilled about the idea of having someone follow him around. “What’s his name?”

“Carlos Reyes, and I think he’s just your type.”

“My type?”

“Trust me. He’s the kind of guy you’d like. He’ll keep up with you.”

“Oh yeah? Another bald forty-year-old? You know that those Mr. Clean types really get me going. It would be really hot to see my reflection on one of their shiny heads. Narcissistic goals.”

“You better bet careful, T.K. One of these days someone will think you’re serious.”

“I am. That dude three, no four, bodyguards ago took me way too serious. I think he actually thought I was into him.”

“I think Aaron quit just because you kept calling him a sexy Mr. Clean.” Judd shook his head, smiling a little.

“I think that guy’s suit was glued to his body. He didn’t even try to fit in. Bodyguards should be discreet. Plus, I got homophobic vibes from him. Like the kind of guy who will say he’s fine with gay people but then ask who’s the woman in the relationship.”

“The new guy isn’t like that.”

“So, if he’s not like Mr. Clean, what is he like? Hot? Eighty years-old? An actual robot?”

Judd gestures a zip across his lips. “You’ll see his pretty face soon, Rockstar. He starts tomorrow.”

“Maybe give me a week. I need some me time before I’m shackled to a piece of meat. ”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Judd was decisive, “But no, you cannot have a week. I’ve already told him he could start tomorrow.” He left no room for arguments.

“Fine.” T.K. stood up from his chair, letting it teeter unsteadily with the force of him pushing it out behind him. The chair settled, all four legs back on the ground. T.K. took a breath. “I guess I better enjoy tonight, then, before this guy comes in to try to tame me.” T.K. winked. “Many men have tried. Very few have succeeded. Like Miley Cyrus would say, ‘I can’t be tamed.’”

“Don’t tell me you want to get on a wrecking ball for your next video?”

He shook his head. “That’s not controversial enough for my taste. Full frontal nudity or nothing. The wrecking ball would just get in the way.”

Judd didn’t feed into T.K.’s joke. He gave T.K. a firm look. “You’ll call me if you need a ride home?” Judd had long ago made it clear that he was always available if T.K. needed him, no questions asked. T.K. had never taken him up on that offer.

“I’m not the kind of fuck up who crashes his hundred-thousand-dollar car. I know to hire a driver if I’m going to drink,” among other things, “or I’m sure I’ll find a nice young man to take me home. Or old. I’m not that picky.”

Judd gave him a disapproving look because T.K. liked to jump in bed with people who didn’t give a damn about his wellbeing. “That’s what I’m worried about. One of these days the young man, or old one, won’t be so nice.”

T.K. liked that thought. Good guys weren’t his thing, after all. Sweet guys were cute, but they always seemed unobtainable, especially with how much T.K. expected of his men. He liked them tough, sometimes even mean. He liked to watch them fight for dominance. He liked to watch them puff their chests and try to pin him down. He liked to roll them over and tease them with his lips and tongue. He liked to give in just as much as he liked to resist. “Even better.”

[theblueskyphoenix]

Grid Ghost Chapter 7: Damage Control

"Time of death, 6:45 PM. Cause, cardiac arrest."

Shaylin sighed as she looked at the monitors as they read out flatlines. It was painful to look at… even if she knew it was fake.

She looked down at the young man who laid on the OR table. While he looked pale and was still she could still hear his shallow breathing just barely over the blare of the monitors.

It'll be over soon. Just hang in there a little longer.

Shaylin and the doctors brought the sheet over the young man's head.

"I'll… go tell Ms. Amara the news."

Shaylin exited the OR.

Outside, Liv was waiting, the woman sitting on a bench with her arms folded, her assistant sitting next to her, looking at something on a tablet.

Liv stood up as soon as Shaylin came close.

"What's the status of the patient?" she asked.

Shaylin frowned, a grim look in her eyes.

"Tadashi Hamada died of cardiac arrest due to unexpected complications of burn damage and his… unusual condition."

Liv frowned at this.

"I see… Shame. It would've been wonderful to look further into his abilities." She sighed. "I guess pyrokinesis is just not something meant for humans."

"I'm afraid not. The body just can't handle it."

Liv nodded.

"I would like to at least help with the autopsy. I feel I owe it to you since I promised I could help him but… seeing as he's dead, I can't in how I originally intended."

"That won't be necessary." Shaylin's eyes narrowed.

Liv's frown faded as she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

Shaylin leaned in, whispering into Liv's ear.

"You have been asked to vacate the premises immediately. We do not welcome people with god complexes like yours at our hospital."

Liv's look turned dark.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not going to ask again." Shaylin pulled back. "There's nothing of interest here for you. Leave or you will be escorted out by security. That would be such a lovely look for a CEO, wouldn't it?"

Liv scoffed, signalling for her assistant to stand.

"Such an ungrateful hospital. I was only trying to help."

"You only came because it was a unique condition. You didn't care for the boy like I did. He was someone with a life that he wasn't sure he could return to. Now, that's never going to happen."

"And who's to blame for that?" Liv smirked, turning away. "Come along, Chris. We're done with this riff raff of a hospital."

Chris nodded, following after his boss.

Shaylin waited a few long minutes before returning to the OR.

Shaylin approached Tadashi quietly, shaking him gently.

"She's gone."

He opened his eyes, sitting up slowly.

"She is?"

"Yeah. And she's never coming back. You're safe now."

Tadashi sighed in relief, lowering his head.

"Yet… things are still going to be complicated, aren't they? If not more than they were before?"

Shaylin brought her arms around him, stroking his hair.

"They are… but I promise… some how, some way, we'll get you home to your family."

Tadashi buried his face into her shoulder.

"Thank you…"

Shaylin kept him close.

"Anytime, Tadashi."

Anytime.

oooooo

A freak accident… powers that developed because of said freak accident… and can't go home to family due to circumstances related to Liv Amara…

… Sheesh, is it just a hobby of hers to make everyone's life miserable?

Obake frowned as Takashi finished telling his story.

"And so… I took up a new identity, came here to Saga and have been living here ever since… The Phoenix thing didn't come till later. Never thought to do it till something happened that sparked the idea… erm, no pun intended."

"Yeah, which involved running into a fire to save the chief of the fire department." Eboni elbowed Takashi a little. "Way to make and impression AND scare the daylights out of me."

"H-Hey, it all worked out!"

"Yeah, yeah, you're an idiot but you're MY idiot." Eboni smirked. "But yeah, blah blah, hero stuff in between, he and Trina became the epic duo of Saga and I'm just their woman in the chair who keeps their tech up to snuff and make sure they ain't killing themselves."

"I see…" Obake looked to his daughter. "Anything else I should know?"

"That's pretty much it." Trina shrugged. "Not really much to add to me and Takashi meeting. It was all just stuff that fell into place with transferring him to Saga and my mom and I helping in hiding him from Liv since we're not fans either."

"Then where does this Dragoness fit in?" Obake asked.

"She just kind of came out of nowhere." Eboni held up her hands. "And that's all we got. We don't know where she came from and why, we just knew she was obsessed with Takashi's powers. Now though… seems we have a lead on the why." Eboni brought a hand to her face. "It only figures she's in cahoots with that crazy devil woman."

"And now she knows where Takashi is…" Kim lowered her head. "Which means…"

Takashi lowered his head as well.

"Liv will know too, soon…" He brought his hands to his face. "Great… just great…"

Eboni brought a hand to his back.

"Taka…"

Obake frowned at this.

He knew what that was like. He knew all too well. While it wasn't a perfect mirror… everything that was just explained to him about Takashi reminded him all too much of what happened to him.

Obake's hands gripped at his blanket.

I can't let her ruin another life. Not like this.

And especially not this one if this is who I think it is.

Obake looked to everyone in the room.

"May I have a moment alone with Takashi?"

Everyone looked at each other confused but nodded, filing out, leaving the two alone.

Takashi gave Obake a perplexed look as they stared each other down.

Obake was silent for a moment before he spoke.

"Tadashi Hamada. Robotics prodigy. Inventor of the robot, Baymax. Loving and caring older brother to Hiro Hamada. Wanted nothing but the best for his brother, knowing he could be way more than what he was before he enrolled at SFIT. Tragically passed away in an attempt to save a professor who turned out to be the one who caused the fire he died in… or so people thought."

Takashi's eyes were wide at this.

"W-What?"

"I know it's you." Obake's look was firm. "You may have omitted your old name and details but with all you said, it didn't take me long to realize who you actually were with the information I have on you. I know a lot more about you than I should but that aside…" Obake's look turned gentle. "I want to help you in dealing with this problem. I just wanted to get secret reveals out of the way."

Takashi… Tadashi was unsure what to make of what just happened.

"I… What?"

"I want to help you." Obake repeated. "I stated all that I did just as a means of getting the tension of keeping a secret out of the way. If we're going to take care of this issue it's key that we're transparent with each other. A bond of trust, if you will."

Tadashi gave a baffled look.

"Wait, wait, back up. Why do you know so much about me? Do I WANT to know?"

Obake sighed.

"I'll keep it at I was trying to manipulate your brother by any means possible to be my student, even if it meant using you somehow. Didn't work since he's too smart. Can we move on to helping you with your situation, now?"

Tadashi crossed his arms before taking a seat in the chair next to his bed.

"Yeah, though I got questions for later." He replied, before raising an eyebrow. "Got any ideas for dealing with the Dragon Lady?"

"Liv is currently too occupied with things in San Fransokyo right now, which means it'll take some time before Dragoness can get information to her. If we can intercept before she sends her anything, we can prevent Liv from discovering you're here in Saga." Obake smiled. "All we have to do is locate her hideout, capture her and destroy the evidence."

Tadashi hummed in thought.

"That could work, but she's smart. She's not gonna just show up outta nowhere… slippery too. When she's shown up at fires, she manages to get away before I can do anything." He frowned. "It'd have to be a trap basically… and it'd have to be strong bait-" He trailed off. "... No-"

"It may be the only option we have, Tadashi." Obake cut in. "However, I don't intend to throw you to the sharks without a safety net. I may not be able to do much at the moment physically but I have something back in San Fransokyo that could help, I just need someone to fetch it for me so I can make adjustments."

"If I go with Eboni into the city, we could keep under wraps and get it. I'd just need a good idea of what it is." He smiled. "Then we could bring it back here."

"I'll give those details in a moment. The main plan is this: You'll act as the bait, Dragoness will no doubt take you back to her lab, thus, we can use you as a tracker. We'll follow her back and before anything can be done, we'll apprehend her, delete the data and turn her over to the police. Simple as that."

Tadashi was still unsure… but the plan seemed airtight as far as he could tell.

And… I don't want Liv getting her claws on either one of us.

Someone has to help right?

He took a deep breath, before nodding.

"Alright… I'm in." He held up a finger. "But if I wind up dissected, I'm haunting you. Deal?"

"Deal." Obake chuckled. "I shall do my best to ensure that doesn't happen."

"Good… So… What's the thing you need?"

Obake smiled

"A robot."

[magioftheseas]

Saccharine

Summary: Junko gives Matsuda (poisoned) chocolate and Kamukura eats it. Komaeda is given too much chocolate by his classmates. Matsuda wonders about the three of them. TDP-verse. I guess.

Rating: G

Warnings: Mentions of hospitals/medical stuff. Junko poisoning chocolate in the background. Matsuda’s language.

Notes: I wanted to write something short and sweet for Valentines Day and this is what I came up with. It just kind of...ends so I guess it’s in the style of one of my ficlets, just considerably longer. Still only about 2K tho. I’ve had this idea for a while and it’s cute, they’re cute, so I was just like “eh let’s go for it”.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

“Spit it out.”

“Nnn...”

“FUCKING SPIT IT OUT!!!”

“Nnnnnn.”

“DO YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE, YOU IDIOT?!”

Matsuda cursed colorfully, squeezing the other’s face harder and still getting nothing more than that impassive expression and a rigid, stubbornly shut mouth. It was definitely, abso-fucking-lutely like dealing with either a stubborn toddler or a dumb, misbehaving animal.

“For fuck’s sake, Kamukura,” he hissed, digging his thumb into the corner of that stupid, stubborn mouth. “Come on. Spit it out or else.”

Kamukura, just to spite him, swallows. Matsuda, actually taken aback, flinched with a sharp gasp. And then, he smacked Kamukura hard upside the head. Kamukura was barely affected, as per usual.

“I do not know why you are so concerned,” Kamukura says simply. “I am immune to most poisons.”

“It’ll still make you SICK, you fucking idiot!” Matsuda screeched. “Also—what kind of fucking dumbass knowingly eats poisoned chocolate anyway?!”

Kamukura hums, rubbing his cheeks, at least.

“I was curious as to what she could concoct.”

“She’s not out of the fucking fire, either,” Matsuda grumbled before spinning Kamukura around and shoving him forward. “Come on. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Matsuda Yasuke, that will be unnecessary.”

“Did I fucking stutter, asshole?” Matsuda gave another harsh shove. “Rather than talking back like the little bitch you are, you’re going to be formulating ten-page apologies to me for the fucking trouble you’ve caused.”

“Mm...” Kamukura moved, at least. “Very well, then.”

Matsuda rolled his eyes and kept on pushing for his own sake, grumbling as he did.

Seriously, what even the fuck was that?

The worst part is that he knows how much of a fucking nightmare it’ll be telling Junko off later.

I usually just toss her chocolates because I know better but the one fucking time I neglected to do so... Dammit, did that bitch plan this or what?!

God, Matsuda was so angry he wanted to scream. But he needed to hurry because the last fucking thing he needed on his head was Ultimate Hope getting sick in the middle of the damn hallway on his watch.

Urgh. This week is already off to such a shit start.

--

It only makes him feel a little bit better when Kamukura is in a more sullen than usual mood afterwards. He’s only slightly relieved that in the end, Kamukura wasn’t all that affected by whatever the shit Junko cooked up. But he couldn’t take risks and thus, the poison had to be extracted and thoroughly filtered out, which was never a pleasant experience.

It was Kamukura’s own damn fault. Just what the hell was he thinking?

The scientists say that his thinking goes beyond human comprehension, but I can’t help but think he’s just—a fucking idiot.

Still, with how Kamukura was pouting, Matsuda supposed he felt a little bad. But only a little.

“If you wanted chocolate that fucking badly, I could’ve given you one from one of the reserve girls,” he sighed, shaking his head. “And if you were that damn curious about Junko’s then we could’ve gotten it analyzed. You really, really shouldn’t have just eaten it.”

“What would you have done with it if I hadn’t?” Kamukura asked. “Would you have simply tossed it in the trash?”

“Uh... Obviously?” Matsuda made a face. “Did you think I’d eat it out of obligation? Like fucking hell?”

“You have done unreasonable things for her before,” Kamukura pointed out and—ouch. That stung a little.

Probably because it’s true. Urgh. But...

“I wouldn’t let her poison me,” he muttered. “I’d draw a line there.”

“I see...so you do draw lines...”

“Everyone has limits, dipshit. People aren’t absolute in anything.” Yes, people are always capable, but... Seriously? Is that really what he thinks of me? Gross... I feel so gross... “I mean...”

“They say love has no limits,” Kamukura said. “That when someone is important to you that there is nothing you will not do for them.”

“Yeah... That’s a load of bullshit. No one’s actually like that.” A pause. “Oi. Are you seriously curious about that? Love?” Matsuda cringed. “I don’t love Junko. Not like that. I don’t love anyone. Not... Like that.”

Disgustingly, he can’t help but get a little flustered about it.

It’s the fault of this shitty consumerism holiday.

“Boring,” Kamukura said.

“Yeah,” Matsuda agreed lowly, head ducking further. “Super boring.”

But I guess at least I get free chocolate out of it... Even if it’s going to backfire when I refuse to buy anyone candy for White Day.

Kamukura seemed rather quiet, which wasn’t unusual and his expression was unreadable as always. His stride didn’t change, nor his posture—Kamukura Izuru really made for a convincing robot with human skin.

He might as well be that.

And yet, Kamukura just ate up chocolate that he left lying on his office desk like a child. Or a dog. Maybe a cat.

Cats are way cuter, though. But...

“If you weren’t such a weird damn cryptid who only lurked in the shadows, I’m sure you’d be given your own chocolate,” Matsuda said, huffing as he folded his arms back. “But I bet you would’ve stolen mine anyway, huh? Jerk.”

“Boring,” Kamukura repeated. “Obligation or affection—I have no need for such frivolities.”

“It’s consumerism, not necessity,” Matsuda replied. “It’s supposed to be frivolous.”

Although, sometimes there’s good chocolate to be had. Murasame has surprisingly good taste.

“Boring. So boring.”

“Yeah, yeah. Geeeez.” Matsuda groans. “God, what can even be done about you?”

--

And then, this happened.

“Matsuda-kun! There you are! Oh.” Komaeda’s once bright smile comes crashing down like weights from a snapped cable. “Kamukura-kun.” For what it’s worth, Komaeda does manager another smile, albeit one that’s stiff with unenthusiastic formality. “Greetings to you as well.”

“We don’t have an appointment today,” Matsuda said, unimpressed. “Don’t fucking tell me that your jackass classmates chased you away again.”

Komaeda shook his head with a laugh.

“Oh, no, no.” His shoulders shake and Matsuda realizes that Komaeda is holding something behind his back. “Um. I actually just got embarrassed and before I knew it, I ended up here, aha!”

Embarrassed? Hah?

Before Matsuda could ask, Kamukura speaks up.

“You were mortified by simple obligation chocolate? Is that really all it is?”

Ah. Komaeda flinched as Matsuda’s lashes lowered. So they offered him that, at least. And this guy—was still taken aback.

“U... Um...” Komaeda is still flustered, too, shifting and shuffling awkwardly. “Earlier, the girls got together and made chocolate for the class... And they didn’t forget me... I was so happy but also so ashamed for causing them such trouble...”

“Oi, oi.” Matsuda strides forward, reaching out and pulling at Komaeda’s cheeks. “Just because it’s called obligation chocolate doesn’t mean they were held at fucking gunpoint or whatever. You have no reason to feel bad, dumbass.”

Komaeda whined as he pulled.

“B-But...! Someone like me...!”

“I’ve met your fucking class, Komaeda,” Matsuda hissed. “You’re in the higher tiers, at least.”

“N-No way!”

“Haaaaah? You calling me a liar?”

“N-No!” Komaeda gasped, aghast at the thought. “N-No, no...! I... I-I... Uuu...”

Matsuda let go of him, grumbling and crossing his arms.

“Just fucking accept the damn chocolate. It’s free so what are you complaining for? You’re rich so I doubt money for White Day is even remotely an issue.”

“Aha... Haha... Receiving anything from someone like me might just be...” Komaeda trails off. “Gross...”

“You really are boring,” Kamukura remarked. “Your self-deprecation follows such a predictable and unrelenting cycle. Does it not get exhausting?”

Komaeda twitched, clearly a little irritated with how his brow pinched even as that smile remained.

“...I don’t really like sweets,” he went on, ignoring Kamukura entirely. “And they gave me quite a bit. I was thinking I’d share it with Matsuda-kun.” A pause. “But I guess Kamukura-kun can have some, too. If he wants, of course. Oh, right, Kamukura-kun doesn’t want anything.”

Matsuda snorted. Komaeda turned away with a huff, finally looking like the prissy elite he was.

...it should piss me off, but when it’s Komaeda...

“I will take some, then.”

“E-Eh?!” Komaeda jolted. “W-Wait, seriously?!”

Kamukura just took one of the chocolates from him.

“Thank you, Komaeda Nagito,” he said coolly, to Komaeda’s sputtering face. “It will be boring, I am sure, but I do appreciate it, all the same.”

“B-Buh...!”

“I guess I’ll take some, too,” Matsuda said, shrugging as he plucked up his own. “Did they give you any dark chocolate?”

“Oh, um...” Komaeda hesitates, looking down at what remained. “Actually this is...dark. Yes. I ended up with all three types.”

“Then you can keep that,” Matsuda said before turning to Kamukura. “Oi, if what you grabbed was white chocolate, you have to switch with me, got it?”

“Boring.”

“I’m taking that as an ‘understood’. Dick.”

Komaeda’s lips twisted, but Matsuda pulled him towards the patient bed so that he could sit with them, with Matsuda in-between. Komaeda blushed a little at their shoulders touching but Matsuda and Kamukura, of course, were pretty unaffected.

Externally, at least, Matsuda thought irritably. Internally, on the other hand...

It’s aggravating how he was just a little flustered at how Kamukura nibbled at his chocolate, at how Komaeda ended up chuckling before unwrapping his own.

“It’s nice,” Komaeda said. “Being together like this. It’s almost like we’re a trio of friends! Oh, but someone like me isn’t deserving of someone like Matsuda-kun as a friend.” Pause. “Also I don’t really want to be friends with a false hope like Kamukura-kun.”

“So boring,” Kamukura hummed.

“That poor attitude doesn’t help,” Komaeda huffed. “Matsuda-kun’s prickliness is cute, but you’re so dreary, Kamukura-kun.”

Matsuda nearly fucking choked.

“E-Excuse me?!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Komaeda said innocently.

“Ugh.” To forget about it, Matsuda just began wolfing down chocolate. It was sickeningly sweet. Enough to make him puke. He couldn’t get enough. “This actually isn’t half-bad. Fuck.”

“It is mediocre,” Kamukura said, popping the rest into his mouth. “However... It was made with enthusiasm.”

“Don’t fucking talk with your mouth full,” Matsuda snapped before swallowing. “That’s just rude.”

“Ahahaha...” Komaeda’s smile fades. “This really is nice.”

What’s up with that face?

Komaeda doesn’t elaborate. The one damn time Matsuda is half-itching to hear the other ramble at unnecessary length. It might be a sign of the dementia treatment working wonders in giving Komaeda a sliver of restraint and self-control, but—Matsuda couldn’t help but be seriously annoyed at how clearly deep in thought Komaeda is.

But I could probably figure it out if I really wanted to. And why should I care? I’m this kid’s babysitter, not his best friend. For him and Kamukura both... I really have my hands full...

For not the last time, he wonders if things will really be alright.

Not just for my sake but... For these two, as well. When we all graduate, will we still be together like this? Shit, gross, that’s so...sentimental.

Matsuda shook his head and finished up his chocolate.

“...so sweet it’s sickening,” he mused. “Just how I like it.”

Komaeda giggled.

“Maybe I should make you chocolate... Oh, but if I did that, you’d get food poisoning for sure.”

“Then Kamukura would love it,” Matsuda huffed. “So make some for him if you do.”

Kamukura perked up at that.

“...Komaeda Nagito’s cooking skills are incomprehensible.”

“I-I’ll look up how to make it on the internet, first,” Komaeda grumbled, a little red-faced. “I still don’t approve of your existence, Kamukura-kun, but I would rather not make you sick.”

“If you want to get your stomach pumped again, be my guest,” Matsuda said coolly.

“You really shouldn’t, though!” Komaeda exclaimed. “That’s just an unpleasant experience, Kamukura-kun!”

“...I am aware.”

“Then you really shouldn’t do it!”

After we’re done at Hope’s Peak—I wonder what’s going to happen to us?

“You both,” Matsuda said, rolling his eyes. “Are really fucking noisy.”

I guess I wouldn’t mind continuing to look out for them.

“You both really need me, after all,” he added, with that thought in mind.

Kamukura huffed, but Komaeda jumped at that.

“E-Eh?!”

[thetakenpokemon]

Interlude II - Overcoming Self-Doubt

[PoV: Chevalier]

I eye the pair of doors hesitantly, starting to regret my choice on coming here.

I thankfully managed to escape Elisabeth’s grip a little while ago and came up with an excuse to not go with her to see this cyborg, and I had to come up with another excuse for Alicia to not go along with me.

It’s...not often that I go to places by myself, especially since one of the two (especially Alicia) insists on accompanying me. I...don’t really mind it most cases, in fact I greatly appreciate it. But...what I want to do right now? It’s...something I think would be best done without them.

...

Or at least...I thought.

Before me lay the locked doors of the containment hall, where dangerous individuals are held in order to prevent them from harming others.

...

I...am really beginning to regret my decision.

The only reason why I’m standing right here is because of one person, the one my team and I defeated.

Miasma.

Even after all she did, I...still feel bad for her. I empathize with her, how her experience and fear drove her to the extremes she did. She wanted a safe place, so she began taking everything to create said safe place.

Even...if it involved taking an entire town.

...

I hug myself, feeling increasingly reluctant.

This...is probably a bad idea. No, it IS a bad idea. Why did I even think it would be good? What am I going to do? Talk to her? I’m not even good at talking with those I know well! That and she probably despises me, since I’m the one responsible for getting her captured in the first place!

Not to mention how am I even gonna get inside? Only specific people can enter and leave, so how can I even get to her?

Yeah... I should just go back and forget this entire thing... What am I even thinking? Leave it to Chevalier, thinking of the worst ideas possi-

The doors in front of me beep before suddenly opening, causing me to jump. Stepping out is are two individuals, both of which I recognize.

The taller one draws my attention first, being no other than Godrey. The Bisharp centaur stops, his eyes widening somewhat with surprise under the visor of his ‘helmet’.

The other individual is the first to speak however.

“Chevalier? What brings you here?”

That voice belongs to no other than Honora, one of the individuals responsible for rehabilitating victims of the HWDP. She is an Infernape of lean stature, her ‘uniform’ merely consisting of a two-piece outfit that share the colors of the GoT. Tucked under her armpit is a clipboard, and her expression is also one of surprise.

I...am actually kinda lucky that she’s the one to show up. While although Euterpe also works in rehabilitating hybrids, Honora specializes in dealing with ‘unruly’ hybrids, like...Miasma. And...she’s also one of the approved people to enter and leave the containment hall freely.

But... Why do I feel that I’m not so...lucky?

“Come now, Chevalier. There is no need to be silent.” Godrey chuckles before taking a step forward. This makes me flinch, my wings instinctively wrapping around me.

The Infernape raises a hand before the centaur, making him pause. She then looks at me with a soft smile. “You are not in trouble, Chevalier. But if I may ask, why are you here?”

I...really wish I was small now, small enough to disappear.

“I...” I start weakly, not sure on how to even speak. “I...w-w...” I could only glance helplessly at the hallway behind them, not sure on how to voice out what I wish. I...don’t normally have this much difficulty talking to other guild members, but...being suddenly caught in this situation... I...don’t know what to do... Normally I would rehearse this scenario over and over until I have at least an ounce of confidence, but to have it suddenly thrown at me?

I...feel very lost...

She glances behind her before looking at me again, however she doesn’t seem to understand due to the confusion on her face. “It’s okay, Chevalier. Why don’t we all walk together? That way you can speak when you’re comfortable enough.”

The two just begin to walk towards me, but I immediately throw my hands up. “N-NO!” I shout, surprising both them and myself.

No, I can’t let them walk away, otherwise the doors will close. And if the doors close, it...will make asking them even...more difficult for me.

Come ON Chevalier, SPEAK!

“I...” I start, my face tensing under the mental strain of forcing myself to talk. “...n-need to go in there.” With a hand I weakly gesture to the hall behind them.

The two balk at me, Godrey however is the quickest to recover. “Absolutely not!” He says sharply. “Dear Chevalier, I don’t believe you understand-”

Honora once again raises her hand, but this time glares at the centaur.

I found myself hiding my face again with my wings, caused from Godrey’s outburst. I grit my fangs, despising myself for how weak willed I am.

“Why do you want to go in there, Chevalier?” Honora asks quietly, making me slowly open my wings to look at her.

Her face is as calm as ever, her smile sweet and understanding. She’s looking at me patiently, waiting for me to respond when I’m ready.

This makes me grit my teeth more, frustrated at my difficulty in saying even a simple sentence.

I’m not in trouble, they’re not mad at me. They just want to know why I’m here, and why I want in there. It’s an understandable curiosity, I don’t blame them for wanting to know.

But...why...is...it...so...DIFFICULT?!

COME ON!

SPEAK!

“I...need...to...” I say through gritted teeth, almost physically fighting to let those words out. “...see...Miasma.” My legs suddenly feel weak, making my knees wobble as I try to hold myself up.

I...did it...

The Infernape opens and closes her mouth, genuinely surprised. Eventually she places her free arm on her hip, her expression becoming contemplative.

Godfrey turns his head somewhat, his eyes narrowing a tad. “If...I also may ask...” He begins, this time more slowly and calmly. “Why do you wish to see her?”

I shrug my shoulders, only to immediately wince afterwords. No, I can’t act like I don’t know. Otherwise they won’t let me.

I...need to tell the truth.

...

No matter how hard it is.

...

I breathe in sharply, gritting my teeth again. “To...see if she’s...o-okay...” I let out, my voice strained.

The two blink again.

“That...is very thoughtful of you, Chevalier.” Honora says quietly, yet her smile grows unsure. “However...I don’t think now is the best time.”

I feel my breath catch in my throat. “W-Why?” I stutter.

“Let’s just say...” Godfrey responds lowly. “The girl is not in the best state of mind.”

Is this it then? I won’t be able to see her?

...

I clench my hands into fists.

No... Stay strong, Chevalier. Keep pushing.

“I...still want to...s-see her.” I press, my body shuddering as the words leave my mouth.

The two share a glance. Eventually Honora looks at me, her body tensing slightly. “Well...” She starts, but eventually said tension leaves her form with a sigh. “Alright, Chevalier. You can see her.”

I suddenly feel as if a weight just left my shoulders. However before the feeling fully sets in, Honora continues.

“But...you need to be careful.” She warns me. “She is...very upset, understandably so. So if she doesn’t react well when she sees you, just...” She mulls over the next set of words carefully before continuing. “...don’t take it personally, okay?”

I nod my head uncertainly. “O-okay...”

Godfrey shakes his head, muttering quietly about how ‘this isn’t a good idea’. Regardless the centaur backs up into the hallway before turning around. Honora follows after him, beckoning me to follow.

Even though I finally got what I wanted, I still hesitate as the two walk down. In the end, I’m still unsure with the whole thing. But...there’s no backing out now.

Mentally steeling myself I walk through, entering the gigantic hall.

The ‘containment hall’ is lined with thick metal doors, designed to keep its occupants inside. If...I remember correctly, there’s thankfully only a few people being held here. Most cases those in these cells are HWDP hybrids who are far too violent to go with ‘standard rehabilitation procedures’, the best examples being the two newest Hybrids: Rook and Miasma.

I’ve heard only a little bit on that draconic Bisharp hybrid from the Floral Triad, but...he’s not what I’m here for.

As the two of us walk past the numerous doors, something ahead of us makes me freeze.

Standing guard next to one of the cell doors is a machine, specifically a robot.

Said robot possesses a tall, thin body with two arms. One arm ends in a rifle-like gun with an ammo-belt that feeds into the weapon, on the other arm is a smaller gun that possesses needles that occasionally crackle with electricity. The machine has four spider-like legs at its base, and its ‘face’ consists of a pair of cameras that occasionally refocus.

I...recognize that machine, there used to be a few of them located at the HWDP facility I was contained.

I...also watched them brutally kill a Hybrid that tried to escape them.

Why...

Why...is it here?!

Honora seemed to have noticed that I wasn’t following them, my expression being like a Deerling in headlights.

“It’s okay Chevalier, it won’t hurt you!” She says quickly, snapping me out of my fear-induced stupor.

With a shaky hand I point at it. “W-Why is that thing h-here?!”

“We took it from one of our raids on an HWDP facility.” Godfrey responds to me. “Worry not, Chevalier. Jarvis controls it.”

That...is...actually a lot more assuring...

Jarvis is a Hybrid like me, and he’s...very good with technology...

So if the Porygon-Z hybrid is controlling it, then...it...should be...safe?

Honora looks at the machine, her expression turning to disgust when her gaze focuses on its weapons. “I still think the thing should’ve been destroyed.” She mutters. “Evolutia is no place for such death devices.”

The machine suddenly turns its gaze to the Infernape, making her flinch as the barrels of the weapons point at her general direction. Nothing comes from it however, since the machine resumes its sweeping scans.

“I share the same sediment.” Godrey nods in agreement. “Yet...it does have its uses, such as guarding this chamber without the need of other men and women.”

Honora rubs her eyes with her fingers. “Yeah... Regardless, Miasma’s cell is a little further down. Let’s keep going.”

The two continue forward, walking past the machine.

I still eye the machine warily. An inner, less rational part of me is wondering if it’s suddenly open fire on me the moment I walk into its field of view, DESPITE the reassurance that Jarvis is controlling it. I grit my teeth and forcefully push said feeling away, knowing that I’m just making myself look like an even greater idiot at this point.

Taking in another breath I hurriedly follow after them, trying my best to not look at the machine.

As I walk past it, through the corners of my eyes I notice it turn itself completely around...as if to make sure that its weapons aren’t pointing at my direction.

...

I stop, my fear replaced with confusion as I look at it.

It...didn’t do that with Honora and Godrey, why is it doing that with me?

The machine turns slightly, using the edges of its cameras to gaze at me. Using its body it gestures with its weapon towards the direction where Honora and Godfrey went, as if urging me to follow them.

...Jarvis?

Seeing the realization on my face, the machine merely bobs itself on its four legs slightly before continuing to urge me to follow.

At this point...I couldn’t help but smile, for the first time I’ve decided to come here.

Feeling much better than I originally was, I quickly follow after the two.

...

Thank you Jarvis...

[nadoblabla]

About Me

I bet you already knew from my Twitter (twitter.com/elnado108) that I posted shits on daily basis. Recently, or maybe should I say "usually" , my tweets consist of rage, sadness, questioning myself, questioning the world, practically self doubt and self loathing almost all the time.

Finally, I snapped. Even Twitter can no longer support my overwhelming feelings. "Feelings? Why you use Twitter for feelings?" That's probably what logical people said. Yes, I can use Twitter for good purpose, to share interesting and useful stuffs, knowledge, information, etc. Then what? You see, I am a logical person too. In fact, I use logic almost all the time in real life, so logic that I start to doubt and questioning human nature and their beliefs (I still belief in Allah SWT as God, I simply question the system itself). Then after all these logic starts to bored me and problems come and go, I finally need to rest. I realize I have no one to share all of the pain and happiness other than myself.

Can't believe what I just wrote? First, let's put "parents" and "God" out of equation. Let's become an egoistic being and focus on me for a while. Focus on you. Focus on one single entity, yourself. Try, try to understand my point of view. Let's analyze the last sentence in my last paragraph.

"I realize I have no one to share all of the pain and happiness"

Yes. Let's analyze it (or let me analyze myself) using 5W+1H.

1. What do you mean by you have no one?

-> I do have friends. Most of them are men. I don't have that kind of charm like some of my friends (unsurprisingly, they all are extroverts) that can talk their way with girls, without making myself weird or vulnerable.

As a man, 22 years old, in a third world country that is closer than ever to conservatism, it is very difficult for me to share my problems with my peer. Toxic masculinity, or to put it simple, expectation for a man to always be strong, independent, having huge willpower, and never put themselves in a sentimental/emotional position in front of public. How many of you that told your friends to "don't cry! Boys don't cry! Steel yourself! These are nothing, there are worse things out there!" ?? Even in my campus, my department, my close friends circle, it still happened most of the time. Not only men, most women here expect the same thing. There is nothing wrong with being a tough guy. But it is impossible, yes I declare it with all money on the table, it is IMPOSSIBLE for any human regardless of gender to be tough and badass all the time 24/7. Now when I became vulnerable, when I am down, when I am sad, where should I go? To whom I should talk to?

TLDR, my friends, which almost all of them are male , can't accept my ramblings. Most of them simply give "logical" answer, like how men should, without understanding the underlying problems. The psychology part. The feeling part. Is my logical capacity is too low that I need to ask for others logical answer to my own life? HELL NO. Like I told you from the beginning of this post, I do think logically. And I am fucking bored with it, because no matter how hard I toughen myself up, no matter how delicate my problem solving skills, LOGIC can't solve it. Still not understand what I meant? Huft. It's easy. Every logical answer that most of my friends gave me is something that I ALREADY think about/consider/act upon it. It's not a new or brilliant answer that I looking for.

In the end, I have no one. I do have one/two women that probably can solve my problems, but they've been listening to my problems all these times, that it is simply sickening for me to keep asking for their help.

"Why not solving it yourself?" Some of you may ask.

Next time you are in a deep shit, even if that shit is your own mind, you may fuck yourself. Or you know, you may just kill those psychiatrist and therapist , or blow up psychology department in uni. The next time you meet someone with certain psychological disorder or mental problems, why don't give them a fucking AAA robot that can solve their problems with 100% accuracy. Or maybe, you are weak in science and start to spewing God this and that, you know what? You may be right. Try to ruqyah all of mental patients in mental hospital, give me shoutout if they are "cured". Better quit reading this post rather than trying to give your "number one answer to everything" answer to me. You are not my friend. You are not even on my level, you are low and don't even have rights to see me. Begone.

2. With whom you want to share your pain and happiness?

-> Is it obvious? Human. People that can connect with me not only on logical level , but also understand my feelings. Men and women are all the same. As long as you are not gay.

DISCLAIMER - Skip if you don't want to see me reasoning with SJW feminist gay activist liberals

"Wait! Why gay? You hate LGBT?" Even if my head is full of desire for freedom and happiness, I still can't tolerate LGBTQ++ or whatever that shit is. I do share values with both liberalism and conservatism (in this case, Islam and eastern culture). In short, I trust my own judgement and I don't want to put myself under liberalism/conservatism. I need to be higher than that.

3. Why you can't share with no one?

-> It sounds impossible. No one? For real? I can simply talk to strangers and explain to them all of my life and problems, can I?

If you look back to question number one, you already know the answer. But I do have additional things, that I want to... Add.

It's because even if I do have people to share, people/I might not have enough time. I am busy. Fifth year student in a top 5 campus in Indonesia. Then, even if somehow two/more unique individuals managed to find time to talk, do they actually care?

Several weeks/months ago I have another episode of depression. I share with one of my friend. A woman, as expected. Because man don't have time for these shits. That woman is actually a good woman. But sadly, she is bad in terms of talking on a deep, understanding level. Except when she talk about her love interest. When I shared with her about my personal problems, she seems "fine" until I slip a little detail about her crush, then the whole topic shift to satisfy her desire. It's okay, it is understandable. But at that moment, when I truly need help and in a 100% serious mode, she simply change the whole topic, disregarding the previous conversation completely, not even bothered to talk about it again until I decided to tease her about it. In the end, it will hurts more if the person that I try to trust with my vulnerabilities is simply a wrong, don't-give-a-damn person. In fact, being fake itself is already disgusting.

Yes. I need someone who actually care. Care doesn't mean they instantly become a mother figure. Let's put another example. Back when I was with Nita, she did care. She looked for me when I am missing, she noticed something different in me, she listened attentively. Oh you think I haven't moved on huh? In high school , I spend much of my time with no girlfriend. But I do have friends who missed me when I am gone. Or even if they too are busy with their life, when I am back, they are curious with me.

Now? I no longer have those attention. No warm welcome I always got (not always but yeah) when I entered the class like I used to be in highschool. No more stupid random calls. Indeed, today it's not that bad. But for some reason, I crave for human emotions. Sadness, happiness, love,hate, etc. My life is not like hell now, but it's like a calm water. Nothing happened. Nothing. Nihil.

4. When is all of these happened?

-> By the time problems hit me + the 8th semester (now I am on my tenth). It hits really hard due to my procrastinate habit plus loneliness that happened since I no longer have classes.

If you notice, actually I knew the problems within me. In the last paragraph, I mention "procrastinate". So yeah, stop thinking "Ah now you already understand the problem, why don't you act!". I am too genius. I simply want to talk.

5. Where...

-> err actually I dont know how should I analyze it with "where". So skip this W. 

6. How you deal with this, until now?

-> With all of my previous answers, I decided to share it via social media. I KNOW it is spam for some people, I KNOW it is uncomfortable for some, I KNOW it is weird and shameful for me,but what choice do I have? I also plan to do charity stuffs, because I find happiness in other people happiness. Hopefully I am not BS-ing.

It's either I talk/write, or I die of suicide. You think there is another way? Remember, that I ask you readers to put away parents and God, since I believe it is something that I alone should think about, and I am not in the mood to listen/read any kind of suggestion that "use" those things.

But if for some reason you do think there is another way, give me a comment or shoutout.

Meanwhile I know most of you do not know me deeply. I put this introduction at the last paragraph, as a sign of gratitude for your patience and willingness to read this post.

My name is Liu Nado. I am a student in Mechanical and Biosystem Agricultural Engineering department in IPB, Indonesia. I am 22 years old. Male, straight, combination of both Chinese and Lampungnese. Probably ugly, but probably I am smarter than the average human. 170cm tall, 70 kg weight. I am INTP-T, based on 16personalities.com

Thank you for reading my posts. I hope we can be friends. Even if not, if you know someone who are in these situations like mine, please. I beg you. Do not leave them alone. All they need is a place to share. A person to understand.

Oh yeah... I haven't tell you about the problems right? I don't want to make people bored with long wall of text, so I will write about it tomorrow/next time. In the next posts, I will explain to you the trigger of these unnecessary dramatic depression stuff. It might not be the biggest problem I got, but it is the one that push the correct button within me. A "self-destruction" button.

Of course, all of those cocky attitude of mine is just for a joke.

[terresdebrumestories]

Chapter 9/24: Shatter

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU SERIES: SEADLA Verse, version 2.0 RATING: Mature WORDCOUNT: 3 822 PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark, Loki, Anansi, Coyote, Nick Fury, Tony’s therapist and the rest of the avengers in the background. GENRE: Breaking points. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Mentions of suicide and generally low self esteem (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come). SUMMARY: In which Tony should probably have watched his mouth, but then it would only have delayed the unavoidable.

DEDICATION(S): As always, to the first version’s readers, to the people who leave comments on the fic three years after its last update, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.

SEADLA ON TUMBLR: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8]

“I’m not sure what to do about my friend,” Tony admits almost before he sits down for his first session after the Big Bang.

 It’s a bit of a liberation to say it—allows him to release tension he’s been trying hard not to think about for the past week.

The thing is, this thing with Lorna—it’s starting to feel very date-like. Tony tried to think about it from another angle, told himself this is a normal friendly thing to do—going on outings, giving each other support and weird gifts and spending who knows how much energy in magic just so you can see the beginning of life together. But, well. It didn’t work.

And the thing is, even if Tony manages to get his own brain under control—even if he’s just being confused over nothing and he really isn’t interested in being anything more than friends with Lorna, who’s to say she feels the same? It’s not that Tony really think he’s irresistible, but Lorna is a complicated person and she’s proven she could go for the most unexpected moves already, what if, for some reason, she starts feeling different about Tony?

 “In what way?” Maybe-Kevin asks, and Tony groans.

 Before he went to therapy—before he thought he’d ever need it, before he really believed in it—if you’d asked him how it worked, he’d have expected the patient to be this pathetic, permanent mess always on the verge of collapsing in tears. He’s learned better since then—although he’d be lying if he said he’s happy about the knowledge—and while the emotional mess part of things is familiar to him by now, it’s not exactly an accurate reflection of his existence.

When he started thinking about this—when Pepper put her foot down and forced him to get some kind of help—he sort of expected whoever would be in charge of his case, he more or less would be attending a class. He’d sit in an impersonal office and be expected to be quiet while some schmuck told him how to deal with his life, his problems, his emotions.

He loathed the idea, of course.

 As it turns out, though, the actual practice of therapy is both a lot less frustrating and a lot more so. He’s not expected to sit down and let people do what needs to be done here—it’s a relief, really. After years and years of following Stain’s instructions only to discover the guy wanted him dead in the end, after years of waiting for Pepper’s instructions to decide on anything—whether he followed them or not—it’s nice to have a space where the expectations he has to meet are kept to a minimum.

On the other hand, now he’s got to figure things out for himself, without guideline or instruction manual and, much like inventing a whole new world of robotics or creating a new chemical element, it’s grueling, hard, occasionally mind-numbingly dull work. Who knew being your own person—knowing what you want, what you need, what you’re going to do, and whether and how these three things overlaps—took so much effort?

 “I...kind of wanted to kiss them last week.”

 Only for a moment, a simple impulse easily contained to that one second between the moment Tony said goodbye and the moment Lorna turned away and left in a flash of green light. It was still there, though, and Tony hasn’t been able to think of anything else for most of the week.

 “Okay,” maybe-Gavin says with a nod that doesn’t completely conceal his surprise, “and how do you feel about that?”

 In all honesty, Tony was kind of hoping he’d get his answer here—he can probably figure things out himself, but it would be nice, sometimes, not to have to do so much soul-searching to get it. It’s probably what normal feels like. ‘Normal’, for better or for worse, has never really been him, though, so Tony sighs and tries to sort his own thoughts out before they tumble out of him.

The thing is, he does better with clear lines. His relationship to Pepper was—is—a constant stream of what-are-we-s, where do we stand with each other, where do we want to go, what do we want to do. Every day came with its lot of surprises and Tony liked it that way—loathes the idea of routine with a fiery passion—but underneath it all, the whims and caprices and fights and abrupt changes, there was always this certitude that Pepper was there for Tony and would continue to be there, just like he’s firmly decided to always be there for her, sloppy as the results may be.

 Lorna isn’t even Lorna all the time. She’s a woman and then a man and she could probably be someone in between if she wanted. She’s there for Tony, but sometimes she isn’t and she doesn’t sound concerned about it—she gets him and she’s helping him through one of the roughest patches of his life in a way no one else manages despite their best effort, but when Tony talks about the other things he does—his projects for Stark Enterprise, the latest progresses in robotics, the occasional reports on charity work—Lorna’s interest turns from earnest to polite, like she couldn’t be less concerned about the work of Tony’s life.

There’s no labels with Lorna, and that’s liberating—that means Tony doesn’t have to conform to the expectations that come with them—but then there’s also no certitude with her, and that is surprisingly terrifying.

 “I don’t know,” Tony says at last, figuring the answer to his therapist’s question as he talks, “I—we haven’t really defined our relationship at all. I don’t even know if they think we’re friends or...I don’t know. And I mean, it’s great that we’re...flexible, I suppose? But it also means I don’t know where the limits are. I don’t know if I’d be jeopardizing something if I indulged in the impulse or—or even just talked about it.”

 He thinks there’s a friendship to lose there. Hopes there is. But there’s no telling, really, and Tony wishes—not for the first time—people could be as simple as machines.

Machines—robots, even Jarvis—they don’t ask for more than you can give. They don’t give you the disappointed puppy face Tony has seen on Steve far too many times, don’t sigh in despair and worry like Rhodey has from the very beginning of his relationship with Tony, and they certainly don’t splutter the way Pepper does when she’s too flabbergasted for words.

(Machines have never pushed Tony away without looking at him, sighing about being busy and for the butler to remove the nuisance in the same breath.)

 “So,” maybe-Rodin starts, carefully filling the silence that follows Tony’s words, “am I correct in understanding that you’re frightened at the idea of losing that friend, should you try to redefine your relationship?”

“Yeah,” Tony mumbles, studiously avoiding the therapist’s eyes, “something like that. I just don’t want to mess up.”

 Tony has a grand total of seven friends—four he created himself, two of the most long-sufferingly loyal people on earth, one who’s been a central point of Tony’s daddy issues since long before they met, and another who mostly started talking to him because Tony reminded him of his brother.

Plus, of course, said brother—sister, sibling, whichever Tony is supposed to use—who is a great support but may or may not be a friend in the end.

Excepting the four non-biological ones, they’ve all gotten more trouble than anything else out of their acquaintance with Tony—it’s a miracle they haven’t left already, one he’s keenly aware of. What happens if Tony messes things up with Lorna, babbles about it to the wrong person—or one too many times, or in the wrong way—and throws things in jeopardy there as well?

 “I just wish Loki wasn’t such a complicated person,” Tony sighs, “or that I was better at dealing with it, I don’t know.”

 Truth be told, it’d be nice if Tony were a nicer, worthier person to be acquainted with—he wouldn’t be worried about Pepper deciding this...thing...with Loki is the final straw, or about Thor refusing to talk to him over some kind of backward standard he may or may not have. If he were a better person, he wouldn’t have to be worried about ending up alone again, stranded in his life the way he was at MIT, except this time there would be no Rhodey to take pity on him and rescue him from his own foolishness—no Pepper, no Thor, not even Fury to pick him up and help him sort through his own mess.

Then again, if he were a better person, maybe Tony wouldn’t have to deal with that kind of problems to begin with—would deal with his own mess instead of imposing them on his friends. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough to keep them around, but at least he wouldn’t be gambling with his life—his place with the Avengers, his place in society at large, everything he’s ever created—for someone as volatile as Loki.

 “Shit,” he admits, the word ringing loud after the too-long silence, “I don’t know what to do about this.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know!” Tony repeats, because that’s not for lack of trying to think about this rationally. “I don’t want people to be mad at me—not that friend, not my other friends—and I don’t want to ruin anything and I just—I don’t know. I have no fucking clue what I want to do. I just want things to be simple.”

“That’s understandable,” maybe-Bradin replies with a tense little smile, shoulders oddly stiff for a phrase he’s probably heard ten thousands of times before, “but I’m sure I’m not teaching you anything when I say that interpersonal relationships are never simple.”

“I’d settle for not disappointing anyone,” Tony mutters as he buries his face in his hands.

“Alright. Who is it you think you may disappoint?”

 Well, that’s the million dollars question, isn’t it?

It could be Howard—both experience and therapy have proven Tony isn’t quite done trying to organize his life according to his father’s wishes—or supposed wishes—though he does the opposite of that as often as he respects his father’s legacy, if not more so. It got quite apparent in his relationship with Pepper, too. Tony loved her—still does, even—of course. He’s an ass, but he’s not that far gone, thank heaven.

Dating her, though, would have been the perfect mix of satisfying his father—she’s smart, charming, charismatic, sensible—and making him despair—she is, after all, from a lower class family. No, it wasn’t Tony’s primary motivation which, let’s not lie, was a relief to confirm a few sessions back, but that doesn’t mean he never thought about it—or hated himself for thinking about it—even while they were dating.

 That’s not what’s happening with Lorna, though, at least Tony doesn’t think so. With Pepper, there was always a dimension of need in their relationship, on his side more than hers. Again, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her, but it does mean Tony made decisions he probably shouldn’t have made—decisions that were definitely not fair to her.

With Lorna, for better or for worse, Howard Stark doesn’t compute—might as well not have existed at all, really. Going out with her, whether their outings are dates or not, or if they’re something in between, is actually more of a pickle in relation to the other Avengers—what would they think, after all, if they learned Tony has been spending time with their most recurring foe? They wouldn’t understand—would they even try to understand what this means to him? He’s not sure, and quite frankly he doesn’t want to risk it.

 Part of him—a tiny, shivering part of him that doesn’t quite dare push the words out of his mouth—wonders, though, if maybe this time he’s mostly afraid of to disappoint himself.

 {ooo}

 He comes out of the consultation without a clear idea—or even a fuzzy one—of how he wants to handle the Lorna situation, but he does feel lighter and half-resolved to just wait and see.

He pushes his concerns at the back of his mind—not that different from what he does in ordinary situations,although this time he has to make a conscious effort for it instead of just assuming fate, in the form of Pepper and (or) Rhodey will take care of it.

 Of course, the downside is if—when?—he fails, he’ll have no choice but to shoulder the blame for it but, he supposes, you can’t have everything.

 He finds Lorna waiting for him on the sidewalk, messy braids tumbling over a small, three-quarters vest in gold cotton and a shiny green dress that sways in the gentle breeze. Tony’s lips curl into a smile when he notices a black feather hanging from her hair, and he compliments her for it before he asks:

 “What are we doing today?”

“Culinary experience,” Lorna replies, the tip of her hair brushing past her shoulder blades when she turns around without waiting to see if Tony follows.

 He doesn’t particularly mind, and simply smiles when they teleport into a cramped space between two white stone walls blackened by time. Lorna must have messed with some kind of timeline, too, because it’s already dusk when they step out into a larget street and all but stumble on the Eiffel Tower, scintillating with white lights.

 “Is today a holiday?” Tony asks, but Lorna shakes her head.

“It’s an hourly thing. I can’t always take you to the most spectacular times.”

 Tony thinks of absolute silence and light coursing through his body and nods, even as he follows Lorna toward the tower. They bypass a host of tourists milling around the neatly-trimmed grass, trees planted in a straight line on either sides, and fall in line for the elvators.

It’s a pity, really, that today isn’t a holiday—Tony liked the idea, for one, and besides he feels like doing something festive with Lorna just now. He’s not sure what, or why, exactly—just that he’s in a good mood and a little giddy and, well. He might as well enjoy it.

 Together, they wait their turn before they can climb up to the second floor and the restaurant there, called La Tour D’Argent. It’s posh, with an old-money feeling that Tony doesn’t see all that often, used as he is to the newest, shiniest establishments he can find. The view, perched above the Seine and the city lights coming to life, is nice though, and Tony is pleased when Lorna steers him to a table by the window.

Two men are already seated. One, clearly of Native American descent, gives a wolfish smile to the waitress, ocher skin stretching to bare sharp white teeth and a hint of gum as he readjusts the a leather vest on the back of his chair, hair as black as his eyes carefully braided at the back of his neck. Across him, cheekbones just as high but skin the darkest shade of black Tony has ever seen, the other man stretches in a blood-red suit, golden-red eyes shining under the scarification marks standing above his eyebrows. His hair, short cropped, curls tight above his skull, and when he smiles it looks almost too wide for his face.

Tony looks at the men as they bicker, apparently busy comparing a heavy silver ring and what looks like a fang on a leather cord, as if the two pieces of jewelry were even truly comparable.

 Tony frowns as he and Lorna approach their table, something about the way red suit’s fingers move, a little too shaky—a little too fast—tickling at the edge of his brain, until the long-haired man turns his wolfish grin to him.

 “Ah,” he says with a look of intense satisfaction, “if this isn’t my favorite atheist in the world!”

“Oh,” Tony realizes, sharp and a little embarrassed at the lateness, “Coyote? Anansi?”

“In the flesh,” Anansi says as he takes a cocktail from their waitress, “you don’t look very different from what I remember.”

 Tony frowns at Anansi’s brief hesitation, until it occurs to him that, while they first met two weeks ago as far as he’s concerned, both gods probably took the long way back—or forward?—to the here and know. If anything, he should probably be flattered to be remembered for that long, even if he can’t help but wonder if there was anything beside his atheism that secured his spot in the others’ memories.

He doesn’t let himself dwell on the question too much—doesn’t want to open the can of worm wriggling under the desire to know what the two gods think of him—and tries to keep his expression pleasantly neutral as he sits down. At least now he knows tonight is definitely not a date, and can act accordingly. It’s easier, at least.

 “Neither do you,” Lorna replies when Tony is a little too long to answer, “but then we didn’t exactly come here to compare wrinkles, did we?”

 “Of course not,” Anansi agrees, “but it’s fun to tease.”

 Lorna smiles, something dagger-sharp and flashing like a jewel, and Tony tries very hard not to think of the stories he heard of Norse Gods drinking mead from human skulls.

 {ooo}

 “We needed the faith that came with it,” Lorna finishes with a shrug, “that doesn’t mean we always enjoyed it.”

 Somehow, despite Tony’s best effort to pretend there’s nothing odd about his current company—or nothing odder than usual, at least—the conversation derived from where the four of them traveled to when, and then it somehow took a dive for the frankly theological, leading tony to learn more about human sacrifices  than he ever thought he’d know.

 “Are you kidding me?” He asks, incredulous, “You’ve got the power to create entire worlds and destroy them in the blink of an eye, and you’re trying to tell me you couldn’t refuse human sacrifices?”

“And who,” Coyote asks with an edge to his voice, “do you think created us?”

 They’ve left the restaurant by now, wandering the city streets without aim, occasionally pausing to look at an interesting building or a fountain...or, in this case, for Tony to stare at Coyote like he’s just grown a second head.

 “Who did what now?”

“Create us,” Anansi repeats with a loose shrug, posture far too relaxed for the bombshell he just released.

“I...I have no idea,” Tony admits.

 He has, he realizes, just sort of assumed the Gods appeared one day, fully formed and potent. Who was there to create them if they created the world, after all?

 “Humans did,” Lorna says.

 Something brief and tight-looking flickers across Coyote and Anansi’s faces, like revealing a secret one is slightly embarrassed by...or afraid of, maybe.

 “Human faith created us,” Lorna continues, “it shaped us. The stronger the faith, the harder it is to resist its pull—to defy its expectations. We were created in your image—we feel things the same way humans do, but at the same time—well. We do have to conform to what you are expecting to see.”

“That means,” Anansi continues when Tony fails to come up with a properly understanding expression, “that if the majority of our followers think we gain power from human sacrifices, we can’t just decide to get it from smoked pepperonis instead.”

“Oh.”

 There isn’t much more to say—not much more to express the surprise and disbelief—in response to that, and Tony is about to leave things at that when he remembers a conversation not so long ago—a story of Asgard, and how it used to be.

 “That’s what you meant when you talked about taking your freedom, right? You meant when people stopped believing in you.”

“Yeah,” Coyote agrees with a painful-sounding yawn, “now we can live our lies more or less as we want, so long as you remember us. If you forgot we’d be toast, but in the meantime, well. We can change things.”

 Tony watches Lorna’s face shift through sadness, fear, relief and a warm sort of determination as Coyote speaks, eyes rimmed with a thin line of tears.

He hasn’t studied any text about Thor or any other Asgard resident—didn’t have any interest for it before, and figured he’d get the intel from the source after he met Thor. As it is, he’s got no idea what’s in store for them—how much of what he heard is in keeping with sacred texts and how much is brand new, but it doesn’t really matter.

He knows what it’s like to feel like your entire life has been scripted out for you.

On instinct, Tony loops an arm around Lorna’s shoulder and pulls her closer to him, Coyote and Anansi chuckling when it only serves to highlight their height difference in a way that, Tony can admit, probably wouldn’t look very flattering for him on a magazine cover. It’s a good thing that’s not his main concern right now.

 He lets Lorna bend to rest her head on his shoulder, presses her closer to him, and is surprised to feel Coyote and Anansi join the improvised hug pile after a few seconds. The whole thing is a little too warm for the weather and stains his armpits with sweat, but if this is the price to pay for that kind of comfort, well.

Surprised as he is, he’s still ready to pay it.

 {ooo}

 Tony is practically singing when he reaches the tower—hums through his elevator ride and all but bursts into the room as soon as the doors open to let him out. Even Thor’s absence—after he left with the shortest note about family matters on Tuesday—doesn’t bother him, that’s how good his mood is. He whistles his way through the corridors, half-ready to dance in celebration of whoever knows what, until he steps in the kitchen.

 The whole team—minus Thor—has gathered there with somber faces and solemnly squared shoulders. That, in itself, would be enough to set Tony on edge—is more than enough to raise the hair at the back of his neck—and Fury’s presence stabs at his nerves like a chainsaw on metal.

His stomach doesn’t entirely drop until he realizes Bradin-Kevin-Gavin is all but hiding in the corner, bouncing on the balls of his feet with jittery movements. That’s when panic settles in.

 “So,” Fury says, arms crossed over his chest, “I hear you have a thing going with Loki.”

[kbaldwin0609]

‘The Bachelor’ Episode 6 Recap: The St. Thomas Date Massacre

Warning: This recap contains spoilers for Episode 6 of The Bachelor.

Boy, this “to be continued”/ rose ceremony at the beginning of the show stuff is getting old. Enough — okay, Team Bachelor? Thanks.

This week’s “already in progress” episode begins with the “ladies” at the hotel, waiting for the Suitcase Ninja™ to come and fetch the eliminated woman’s bags.

And when the PA with the two-toned hair removes Taylor’s suitcase, the women are surprised — but not all that upset. (“Corinne’s coming back!” cries Josephine happily.) “It must be a shocker for her,” notes Jaimi. Which is a perfect segue to…

“Can we talk?” Taylor asks the flustered Bachelor, who of course has no option but to say, “Um… sure.” Once outside, Taylor says everything she should have said during the swamp date — namely that Corinne grossly misrepresented their conversation and that Nick needs to open his eyeballs. “I’m not the only one saying this about Corinne,” notes Taylor. “Vanessa literally told you that she would give you back your rose if this is what you were looking for.” Nick, who looks genuinely scared, gives Taylor the old “I hear what you’re saying, and I believe that you believe it’s important” response (long live Bobby Hill), and then sends Taylor on her way.

And with that, he and Corinne go back to making out.

“I do see a lot of potential in Corinne,” says the Bachelor. “And that’s very much worth exploring.” I think we all know what Nick means by “exploring”: Corinne’s going to make it to the overnight dates, isn’t she?

Sure. But maybe use one of those lives to tend to that hair, okay?

Rose ceremony time! And honestly, “ladies,” why are you so surprised that there’s no cocktail party? Time’s a’wastin’! Robot roll call: Kristina, Raven, Vanessa, Danielle L., Jasmine, and Whitney (WHO?) will join Corinne, Danielle M., and Rachel in the next round. Alas, this means we’ll be saying goodbye to Alexis the “aspiring dolphin trainer” and Nic Cage phobic — at least until Bachelor in Paradise. We must also bid farewell to Jaimi (didn’t love the dress, but definitely there for that purple lipstick and matching nail color) and Josephine. Adios, chicas.

And we’re off to St. Thomas! And you know what that means: Nick gets to break out yet another tank top!

The “ladies” helpfully remind us that there are still three women out of the remaining nine who haven’t had one-on-one dates yet: Jasmine, Kristina and Whitney (who?). So when Nick arrives via puddle-jumper, which woman will he whisk away for a romantic island adventure? Поздравляю, Kristina! You’re up. (Sorry, Jasmine.)

“I kind of had a feeling,” says Kristina, when Nick asks if she expected to get the one-on-one date. Yes, gurl — you own your fabulousness! The duo jets off to the Annaberg Ruins, where they sip beer and enjoy a little get-to-know-you chat. We learn that Kristina has 9 siblings — 8 from her adoptive family and one sister who still lives in Russia. “I’m gonna work really hard to knock down these walls that Kristina has up,” notes Nick, who adds that he has “very strong feelings” for the Russian beauty.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Team Bachelor trolls Corinne by sending a nice old lady named Lorna in, ostensibly to take care of all the women — but we only see her tending to Corinne.

Honestly, I hope production gave her a huge tip.

At dinner, we finally get to hear more about Kristina’s backstory — and it’s a doozy. Let’s listen in:

She goes on to say that she was in an orphanage “within weeks,” and that her mom — who has since passed away — never came to visit her at the orphanage. After seven or eight years, Kristina was adopted by an American family — a happy thing, yes, but she was heartbroken to say goodbye to the kids she grew up with at the orphanage. “Leaving all of them behind, knowing I won’t ever see them again… I think at the time that’s why it was so hard.”

Oh man, I need a minute here. Nick does, too.

Of course Kristina gets the date rose — AS WELL SHE SHOULD. (And by the way, Team Bachelor, if you need a candidate for the next Bachelorette, keep this formidable woman in mind, okay?)

Group date time! Rachel, Raven, Vanessa, Corinne, Danielle M. and Jasmine meet Nick at the pier for a catamaran ride to Abi Beach. (This means, by the way, that Whitney (WHO?) and Danielle L. have inexplicably been assigned to a two-on-one date, but more on that later.)

After a few island cocktails, Nick the “drunk little baby dinosaur” is clearly feeling no pain.

The “ladies,” however, are pretty deep in their feelings. Jasmine remains bummed that she has yet to get any real “quality time” with Nick, and it’s having a less-than-stellar effect on her judgment.

Meanwhile, Danielle, Rachel, and Vanessa have slowly come to the realization that competing for a man on TV is both undignified and an inefficient way to find a mate. “The fact that I have to go through these next few weeks having to deal with all the competition and all the gossip and all the talk and the other one-on-ones — it’s so f***ing annoying,” says Vanessa tearfully.

And now Danielle’s crying, too! I guess the combination of hot sun, deep-seated insecurities, and a s**t-ton of alcohol does not a great group date make. “It’s pretty much a disaster,” admits Nick. “It almost feels like a wasted day.”

And so, our Bachelor heads into the evening cocktail party fully resolved to “pick up the pieces” from the craptastic beach party. He apologizes to the “ladies” and promises that he’ll be giving each of them some “quality time” over the course of the evening. Well strap in, pal, because it looks like all the women want to use their alone time to complain about how awful the day was. Rachel even goes so far to warn Nick that she was on the verge of leaving the show.

As for Jasmine, she’s completely spinning out — ranting to the other women about how she wants to punch Nick in the face for not giving her the “validation” she so deserves. “How patient can you f***in’ be?” she snaps. “I’m gonna tell him, straight to his face: ‘Don’t you DARE overlook me!'” Sure, that’ll end well.

When the Bachelor finally pulls Jasmine aside for a chat, she launches right in with her complaints. “I like you a lot. I really do,” she tells Nick. “But in a way it’s like, I just feel like maybe I’m being overlooked… I’m here, do you not see me?” She goes from defiant to earnest to weepy to weird, and by the time she “playfully” chokes the Bachelor, you can tell he’s ready to end this non-relationship post haste.

“I didn’t have the best conversation with Jasmine,” notes Nick, in the understatement of the night. “In fact, it was actually a bit awkward.” So he gently informs Jasmine that he’s not feeling it, adding, “It might be time to say goodbye.” You think? Farewell, Jasmine. We’ll probably see you in Paradise — but for your sake, I hope not.

The next day, it’s time for the surprise two-on-one date. Like all the viewers, both Danielle L. and Whitney (who?) want to know why they’ve been chosen for this dubious honor. “Whitney and I don’t have any animosity between us,” notes Danielle sadly. But when the time comes, neither Danielle nor Whitney asks Nick to explain himself (as far as we know). It’s also hard to glean any clues from the Bachelor: Nick tells Whitney that she’s a “calming person” for him to be around, while Danielle tells him that she wants to be “the last person at the end of this.”

Hearing this, Nick now seems to have the “clarity” he was seeking. He excuses himself from Danielle and heads over to the beach bed where Whitney is reclining alone. You can guess what happens next.

Whitney makes a half-hearted attempt to change his mind — “You think that Danielle L. is ready for a relationship?” — but Nick stands firm. He gives Whitney a hug goodbye before exiting the situation with Danielle the only way he knows how: via helicopter. Say it with me one last time, rose lovers:

Not to say that Danielle L. has officially “won,” however. Over dinner, Nick is clearly ambivalent and a little distant as he half-heartedly reminisces with her about their one-on-one date. “It does seem like forever ago, doesn’t it?” he mumbles tellingly. It seems our Bachelor is looking for a “raw” love — one where “we love everything about each other, the good and the bad” — but to be honest, Danielle L. seems more flash-frozen than raw. And once she professes that she’s “falling in love” with Nick, he knows what he has to do.

A tearful Danielle wonders if she got the boot because she “wasn’t perfect,” which is a sad but expected sentiment from a reality TV dating show contestant. A tearful Nick, meanwhile, is starting to shame spiral about his chances of finding “love,” a concern he feels he should communicate to the women immediately.

“I really want this to work out,” says Nick between sniffles. “But I want it to be real and I want it to be right. And, you know, right now I just feel, like, terrified that it’s not gonna happen.” Team Bachelor wants us to believe that Nick ended this little speech with “So, I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” but at this point I think we can all recognize a Frankenstein-ed soundbite when we hear one.

Even so, Nick’s tearful visit rocks the “ladies” to their core.

  They wipe away tears and wonder aloud if their 15 minutes of fame — I mean, chance to find love — is about to come to an abrupt end. Unlikely, but we’ll have to wait until next week to find out how Nick decides to proceed — as well as whether he’ll take Corinne up on her “platinum vagine” offer. In the meantime, rose lovers, I want to hear from you. Do you think Nick actually sees a future with any of these women? Did you ever expect Nick to cry so much? And is there anything more cruel than giving someone gross chocolate? Post your thoughts now! And be sure to check out Chris Harrison’s exclusive behind-the-scenes blog here. See you next week, friends.

The Bachelor airs Mondays at 8 p.m. on ABC. Watch clips and full episodes of The Bachelor for free on Yahoo View.