#I just feel so completely mentally and emotionally frayed

[tsfennec]

.

[prettyfilmz]

SWEET LIKE CANDY 5 • JEY USO

author's note: hello my loves! we have now reached part 5!! I am not gonna sugarcoat this.. this part is going to make you cry, rage, and question your existence (apologies beforehand😭) the good news is, the storm will pass as quickly as it came. I hope you enjoy💗

synopsis: in which a celebration at the strip club leads to the beginning of a love affair between a wrestler and a dancer.

pairing: jey uso x black fem!oc (cherise dupree aka candy)

tags: no smut for this part but still 18+ (MDNI) due to sensitive subject matters, angst, arguments, tears, talks of past predatory behaviors, grooming, financial abuse, violence, crashout jey uso™, jimmy and trinity being a good support system for our lovely couple.

word count: 6.6k words

read part one here!

read part two here!

read part three here!

read part four here!

soundtrack playlist

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Cherise’s entire world did a complete 180. Since Tremaine showed up at her door, spewing poison from his lips, his words sinking into her skin and refusing to let go.

She hasn’t been sleeping well. Barely eating. Half the time, she’s on autopilot dragging herself through her clinicals, forcing herself to smile for customers at the club, jumping at every shadow and lingering glance. Every night, she double-checks her locks, pulls the curtains tight, and sleeps with a kitchen knife under her pillow because she doesn’t trust that Tremaine won’t come back.

And Jey?

She hasn’t answered a single one of his texts or calls.

Not because she wants to cut him off, but because she doesn’t know how to talk to him without hearing Tremaine’s voice whispering in her head.

You really think he gon’ take you serious? You a stripper. You think you fit in that world? In his world?

So she’s been stonewalling. Avoiding the club on the nights Jey might show up, keeping her phone on silent during clinicals and chucking it to the bottom of her bag so she doesn’t see the “Where you at, baby girl?” texts that make her chest ache.

But tonight, she’s exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. Her babydoll feels like sandpaper against her skin, her feet are killing her, and her nerves are frayed to hell and back. She needs to get home, take a long, hot shower, and pass out for at least twelve hours.

She barely glances up when the dressing room door swings open, too busy wiping off her makeup with shaky hands. Trinity’s reflection appears in the mirror behind her, a knowing smirk playing on her glossed lips.

“Girl,” Trinity drawls, popping a bubble with her gum. “You got a visitor.” Cherise tenses, heart stumbling in her chest. “Who?”

“Who you think?” Trinity raises a brow, chewing lazily.  “Mr. Main Event, ringin’ a bell yet?”

Cherise’s stomach twists. She grips the edge of the vanity, her breath catching. “Trin, I can’t—”

“Nuh-uh.” Trinity holds up a manicured finger, her tone turning stern.  “You better go talk to that man. He lookin’ all sad and shit, like a lost puppy. Don’t make me drag you out there.”

Cherise’s mouth goes dry. Her pulse thrums painfully in her ears, a mix of dread and longing knotting in her stomach.

“Trin, I really can’t—”

“Girl, I ain’t tryna hear that,” Trinity snaps, hands on her hips.  “You got this man comin’ up to the club lookin’ for you after you been ghost for three weeks, and you think you just gon’ hide back here forever?  No, ma’am.”

Before she can protest, Trinity grabs her wrist, dragging her toward the door with zero room for arguments.

“Trin—wait! hold on—”

“Hush,” Trinity says, flipping her curls over her shoulder.  “Go handle that. I’ll cover your set.”

And just like that, Cherise finds herself stumbling out of the dressing room, heart slamming against her ribs as she scans the club for him.

She doesn’t have to look far.

Jey’s by the bar, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, those broad shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look smaller somehow.  His eyes flicker restlessly over the room, like he’s hoping she’ll pop up out of thin air, that small crease between his brows deepening when she doesn’t.

Her breath catches. God, he looks good—black tee stretched tight across his chest, camouflage cargos, chains glittering under the dim lights. But his face…

He looks worried. Confused.

Hurt.

Cherise swallows, guilt twisting in her gut as she takes a shaky step forward.

As soon as he sees her, his head snaps up, relief flooding his eyes.  “Yo, there you are, baby girl.  I been—”

“You can’t be here,” Cherise blurts out, voice sharper than intended.  “Jey, you can’t just show up at my job like this.”

Jey’s brows lift, surprised by the hostility in her tone.  “Damn, mama, I just wanted to talk. You been dodgin’ me for weeks—”

“I know, but—” Cherise glances around, her nerves fraying. “Not here.  You can’t just—shit, Jey, I told you I needed space.”

“Space?” Jey frowns, straightening. “Baby girl, you ain’t said anything. You just been ignorin’ me. How I’m supposed to know what’s goin’ on if you don’t talk to me?”

“I can’t—” Cherise runs a hand down her face, heart pounding. “Look, you need to go.”

Jey’s jaw ticks. “So that’s it?  You just done wit’ me now?”

Cherise’s breath catches, guilt flooding her chest. “I didn’t say that—”

“Then what are you sayin’, Cherise?” His voice is rough, frustrated, but there’s something raw underneath it—something that makes her throat close up. “’Cause I’m tryin’ to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything,” she snaps, her voice cracking.  “This is—shit, this is why I didn’t wanna do this. This—this whole…thing with you.”

Jey’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I knew this would happen,” she hisses, hands trembling.  “You come in here acting all sweet, making me think this is real, and then you disappear for three months—”

“I explained that,” Jey says quietly, his tone dropping. “I had Mania comin’ up, baby. I was busy. But I came back, didn’t I?”

“And why did you come back?” Cherise bites out, her eyes glassy.  “’Cause you missed me or ‘cause you just wanted to see if I’d spread my legs this time?”

Jey flinches, like she slapped him. “Yo, what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she spits, her vision blurring. “I know how this goes. I ain’t stupid. You saw what you wanted, came back to get it, and now you’re tryin’ to act like you care—”

“I do care,” Jey snaps, stepping closer.  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?  If I ain’t care, I wouldn’t be here right now tryna figure out what the hell happened—”

“What happened is I realized I’m not built for this!” Cherise chokes out, tears burning her eyes. “I’m not built for you, Jey. I can’t..I can’t compete with all the other girls you probably got. I can’t pretend this is somethin’ it’s not—”

“Mama, you the only girl I been thinkin’ ‘bout,” Jey exclaims, voice softening.  “I haven’t even looked at another woman since I met you.  You the only one I been hittin’ up, waitin’ on, thinkin’ ‘bout every night—”

Cherise’s chest heaves, tears slipping down her cheeks.  “You’re lying.”

Jey’s face falls, something breaking in his eyes.  “Damn, Cherise…”

Her voice cracks, her shoulders trembling.  “Please just go.”

For a moment, he just stands there, staring at her with something broken in his eyes. Then he exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“Aight,” he mutters, voice rough.  “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

♡

The drive is quiet.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet. No, this quiet is heavy and sharp, suffocating even, a thick fog that clings to every breath and makes the air feel too thin.

The sky outside is dark, the streetlights flashing past in blurred streaks of amber. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, tapping against the windshield in a rhythmic, melancholy patter that matches the hollow ache in Cherise’s chest.

Cherise’s fingers are twisted tight in the hem of her hoodie, her nails digging into the soft fabric, her knees pulled up just slightly in Jey’s passenger seat. Her eyes stay fixed on the window, but she doesn’t see the blur of streetlights and passing cars. Doesn’t see anything but the guilt clawing through her chest and the faint reflection of Jey’s profile—his jaw tense, eyes fixed straight ahead, one hand firm on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Just keeps glancing her way every few blocks, brows knit with quiet concern, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wheel.

The silence is unbearable.

Cherise swallows hard, her throat raw and aching, eyes stinging with the tears she’s been fighting back since the club. The argument replays on a loop in her mind her voice sharp and venomous, her words laced with accusations she didn’t mean, and Jey’s face when she told him she needed space. The way his eyes dimmed, something in them cracking even though he tried so hard to hide it.

I shouldn’t have said that.

But she can’t take it back.  Can’t undo the hurt she put in his eyes, the pain she heard in his voice when he relented to her demands.

Cherise clenches her jaw, blinking rapidly at the window. The streetlights blur into soft amber glows, her reflection warped and blurry, eyes too bright. She digs her nails deeper into her hoodie, willing herself to hold it together until she gets home.

But then the car slows to a stop, and she looks up, breath hitching slightly.

Her apartment building looms just ahead, the soft glow from the porch lights spilling across the cracked pavement. Familiar. Safe.

Jey pulls into the lot and shifts into park, the low rumble of the engine fading into silence. For a long, heavy moment, neither of them move.

His hand flexes over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, but Cherise can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he inhales slow and deep like he’s fighting to keep his own breathing steady.

The rain taps softly against the window, and Cherise swallows around the tightness in her throat, her voice small and shaky when she finally speaks.

“Thanks… for the ride,” she mumbles, eyes fixed on her lap.

Jey exhales slowly, the sound soft and tired. “Ain’t nothin’, mama,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm. “Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

The tenderness in his tone makes her chest ache.

Cherise glances down, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, words thick and heavy on her tongue. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.

But the words don’t come.

She can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes or the way he might look at her if she tries to explain why she’s been pushing him away.

So she just nods, fingers tightening on her bag, and reaches for the door handle.

But Jey’s already moving, pushing open his own door and circling around to her side before she can even process it. The chill night air slips into the car, cool and sharp against her warm cheeks, and Cherise blinks, startled, when the passenger door swings open.

Jey stands there, one arm braced casually against the doorframe, eyes warm and soft beneath his lashes. He offers a hand, palm up, brow quirked like he’s daring her to refuse.

Cherise hesitates, breath catching slightly. Her eyes flick from his hand to his face—open, patient, waiting for her to make the choice.

And against her better judgment, her fingers slip into his.

His palm is rough and warm, his grip gentle but firm, thumb brushing over her knuckles as he helps her out of the car. Cherise exhales, her eyes fixed on the ground, but she doesn’t pull away not even when he keeps her hand tucked in his as they walk to the building.

The silence stretches long and heavy between them, only broken by the soft scuff of their shoes against the cracked concrete. Jey’s fingers are warm, soft, wrapped firm around hers like he’s afraid she might slip away if he lets go.

The drizzle is cold, prickling her skin, and Cherise huddles into her hoodie, shivering slightly as they walk inside the building and into the elevator.

When they reach her door, Cherise fumbles for her keys with a shaky breath, her hands unsteady, throat tight. Jey lingers just a step behind, his gaze steady, watching her with that quiet, patient warmth that makes her want to cry.

Her hands tremble so bad she nearly drops her keys, and Jey steps forward instinctively, his palm settling warm over hers.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft, thumb brushing gently over her wrist.  “S’okay, mama. Take your time.”

Cherise’s breath hitches, her eyes stinging. Her fingers fumble with the lock, her vision blurred, and Jey’s hand moves instinctively, steadying hers, guiding the key with a tenderness that makes her chest ache.

The door clicks open, and Jey’s hand falls away slowly, lingering a second longer than it needs to.

Cherise swallows hard, her throat tight, guilt twisting sharp and ugly in her stomach. Her hand lingers on the door, but she doesn’t move, can’t make herself step inside, not yet.

She sucks in a shaky breath, blinking down at her sneakers. “Jey, I..”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm. “It’s alright, baby girl.”

The gentle reassurance breaks something inside her.

Her vision swims, a tear slipping hot down her cheek, and she ducks her head quickly, wiping at it with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I-I’m sorry,” she chokes, voice cracking. “I-I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry, Jey, I—”

Jey’s hand rises instinctively, thumb brushing away a stray tear, warm and careful. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, voice soft, thumb tracing slow over her cheek. “Don’t do that, mama. Ain’t gotta apologize.”

And then, he reaches over, tugging the hood of her hoodie up over her damp curls, his fingers lingering for half a second longer than they need to.

“There,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost like he’s talking to himself.  “Can’t have you catchin’ a cold, baby girl.”

His eyes flicker down to hers, warm and honey-soft. “Take care of yourself, aight?” he murmurs gently, his thumb brushing slow circles into her back one last time. “I…I’ll be around, if you need me.”

Cherise’s breath shudders, her eyes glistening. Her fingers tighten on the hem of her hoodie, guilt twisting sharp in her chest. She doesn’t deserve this…his patience, his warmth, the way he’s still so gentle even after everything she said.

But Jey just offers a small, soft smile, his thumb brushing one last time over her cheek.

“Night, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice warm and tender.

And then he steps back, hands sliding into his pockets, lingering just long enough to make sure she gets inside safe.

Cherise watches him go, her breath shuddering, vision blurred with tears.  The door clicks shut behind her, and she crumbles—knees weak, hands trembling, guilt clawing through her chest until she can barely breathe.

She sinks to the floor, fingers clenching tight in the fabric of her hoodie, tears slipping silent and heavy down her cheeks.

Because she’s ruined it.

Because the look in his eyes said he’d wait for her as long as she needed, even if it killed him.

And God, it makes her chest ache.

♡

The fluorescent lights in the bursar’s office were harsh, too bright for the dull ache thrumming behind Cherise’s eyes. The chill of the air conditioning bit at her exposed arms, but she barely noticed, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her purse as she shifted from foot to foot.

The line moved slowly.

She shouldn’t even be here. Not really.

Rent was late. Her phone bill was past due. Groceries were low. She should’ve been saving every dollar, stretching it thin until the next shift at the club. But if she didn’t make a down payment by the end of the week, her classes would be dropped. And after everything she’d been through, everything she’d sacrificed, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.

The line inched forward, and Cherise’s stomach twisted.

She tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest, tried to ignore the ugly lump of guilt that had taken up residence in her throat since that night outside her apartment. Since Jey’s eyes, soft and warm, and the way his thumb brushed a tear from her cheek without a single ounce of judgment.

A week.

It had been a week since she’d last seen him, since she’d told him she needed space and watched him walk away with her heart still clenched tight in his hand.

Cherise’s fingers dug tighter into her purse strap, nails pressing hard enough to leave half-moon indents in the leather. Focus. She was doing this for herself, for her future.

“Next!”

She exhaled sharply, reaching the front desk.

The woman behind the counter, an older lady with kind eyes and tight gray curls, smiled at her.  "Hi there, how can I help you?"

"I’m here to make a tuition payment," Cherise said, forcing a polite smile. "For the current semester."

"Alright, sweetheart, what’s your student ID?"

Cherise rattled it off, fingers already gripping the strap of her bag like a stress ball.

She watched as the woman typed into the computer, her expression shifting as she scanned the screen.

She knew her balance was ugly—$87,350 for the rest of the semester alone, not even touching next year. There was no way she could pay all of it today, but even a partial payment would keep her enrolled, would buy her time to figure the rest out.

Then—

A small, warm smile.

"Oh, Ms. Dupree, you actually don’t have an outstanding balance anymore."

Cherise blinked. "I—what?"

"Your tuition has already been covered," the woman said, still smiling like she had just delivered the best news in the world. "For the rest of your program, actually."

Cherise felt like the floor had tilted.

Her stomach dropped. "I’m sorry, what?"

"Yes, your remaining semesters have been fully paid off. Looks like it was handled earlier last week."

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the transaction details, and Cherise’s breath hitched at the number glowing on the screen.

$965,852.

Her brain lagged. It didn’t make any sense. Usually the financial aid office would send an email in advance to let her know they’ll cover her expenses but this? It seemed way too generous. 

"Who paid for it?" she blurted out, her voice tight.

The woman clicked through a few screens, then looked back at her with an apologetic smile. “It appears to be an anonymous donor but..they did leave a note for you.”

Cherise’s breath caught.

The woman leaned down, rifling through a stack of envelopes behind the counter before pulling out a plain white one. Her name was scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting across the front—no return address, no sender.

With trembling fingers, Cherise took it.

She hesitated, breath shallow, and carefully slid her nail under the flap, tugging it open.

A single sheet of paper slipped out, cream-colored and soft to the touch, folded once. Her heart pounded heavy and thick as she unfolded it, eyes scanning the inked words in that same familiar handwriting.

Keep going, pretty girl. You deserve this and more.

— J

And at the bottom, sketched in careful, intricate detail, was a butterfly.

Cherise’s breath hitched, her eyes blurring, fingers trembling so bad the paper nearly slipped from her grasp. She traced the wings with unsteady fingertips—delicate, detailed, every line shaded with painstaking precision.

She’d recognize it anywhere.

The butterfly inked inside Jey’s bicep—beautiful and intricate, woven with tribal details. A reminder of transformation, of growth.

Cherise’s breath hitched.

Anonymous.

But she knew.

She knew exactly who it was.

And it felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.

The woman’s voice was softer now. "Whoever it was… they must really believe in you, Ms. Dupree.”

Cherise’s throat closed.

She barely muttered a "thank you" before turning away, practically stumbling out of the office, her heart pounding in her ears.

The door swung shut behind her, and Cherise stumbled into the nearest hallway, her back hitting the cool concrete wall.  Her breath came out in short, broken gasps, the note clutched tight in her hands, her vision blurred and swimming.

And then the tears came.

Hot and heavy, slipping silently down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. Her fingers twisted tight in the note, her eyes squeezed shut.

Why would he do this?

After everything she said—after the way she pushed him away, accused him of lying, told him she needed space—why would he do this?  Why would he give her something so precious, so selfless, and not even ask for credit?

Not even ask for her thanks.

A soft, broken sob slipped past her lips, her knees threatening to buckle.

Because Jey didn’t want anything back. He never did.

And that hurt the most.

♡

Cherise curled into the corner of her couch, knees drawn to her chest, Jey’s hoodie wrapped tightly around her body like it could somehow keep her from falling apart.

Trinity sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, watching her carefully. She hadn’t said much since she arrived, just letting Cherise breathe—because Lord knew she hadn’t been doing enough of that lately.

The only sound in the apartment was the occasional sniffle from Cherise, the soft hum of the city outside, and the rhythmic tap of Trinity’s acrylic nails against her thigh as she waited.

Waited for Cherise to talk.

Cherise inhaled shakily, staring at her hands. "He paid off my tuition, Trin."

Trinity didn’t react with shock. She had already suspected it. But now that she had confirmation, she let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "Damn."

"Yeah."

Cherise bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight. "And I treated him like shit."

"You did." Trinity’s voice wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t judgmental. Just… honest.

Cherise’s eyes burned. "I don’t even know why he would do that, Trin.  After everything I said to him, after how I shut him out—"

"Because he cares, dummy." Trinity sighed, rubbing Cherise’s back.  "Jey ain’t the type to do something for no reason. He ain’t lookin’ for credit, he ain’t tryna make you owe him. He did it ‘cause he wanted to, Cher."

Cherise swallowed hard. "I don’t deserve that."

"Who told you that?"

Cherise flinched at the sharpness in her tone. "I—"

"Who told you that, Cherise? ‘Cause I know damn well it wasn’t Jey.  And it damn sure wasn’t me."

Cherise pressed her lips together, gripping the sleeves of Jey’s hoodie so tight her fingers ached.

Trinity nodded like she had her answer. "That man got in your head."

Cherise’s whole body stiffened. "Don’t—"

"Tremaine." Trinity said his name with nothing but venom. "That bastard got in your head, Cherise. And you let him."

Cherise winced. "I didn’t—"

"You did, babe.” Trinity’s voice was softer now, but the words still stung. "And I get it. I do. You been through so much, Cher. More than most people can even imagine. You lost your mama before you even had a chance to know her. You lost your daddy before he could see you graduate. And then Tremaine? That low-life groomed you.”

Cherise flinched.

The word hit like a slap to the face.

She had never said it out loud.

Never called it what it was.

She had been young. Eighteen, fresh into the world, thinking she had all the answers. And Tremaine had fed on that. He had made her believe she was making choices for herself—that stripping was her decision, that he was just "helping" her get on her feet.

But now, looking back?

She had never been in control of it.

He had chosen her name.

He had chosen when she danced, what she wore, how much she made.

And when she had finally started standing on her own—

He took everything from her.

Trinity’s fingers squeezed her hand. "He made you feel like you weren’t worthy of love.  Like you weren’t worthy of somebody wantin’ you for more than what’s between your legs. And that’s why you keep pushin’ people away, Cher."

Cherise’s throat closed.

"It’s why you never let people stick around."

Cherise hated that she was crying now.

"It’s why the second Jey showed you he cared, you ran."

Cherise wiped at her face furiously, shaking her head. "I just—I don’t know how to do this, Trin!"

"I know, baby." Trinity pulled her into a hug, rubbing slow circles on her back. "You never had anybody stay before. But that don’t mean you can’t learn, Cherise. And that damn sure don’t mean you let a good man slip away just ‘cause you scared."

Cherise buried her face into Trinity’s shoulder, body trembling.

"I think I already lost him." Her voice was small, broken.

"Then go find him."

"What if he don’t wanna see me?"

Trinity snorted. "Girl, please. Jey ain’t built like that. He likes you, Cher. Hell, I think he loves you and just ain’t said it yet."

Cherise froze.

Her stomach flipped. "Don’t say that."

"Why?  ‘Cause it’s true?"

Cherise clenched her jaw. "Trin—"

"Nah, let’s be real."* Trinity leaned back, looking her dead in the eyes.  "That man ain’t lookin’ for no lil’ fling. He could have that at any time. But he chose you. He came back for you. He spent time with you. He paid your tuition without even tellin’ you. Who does that, Cher?"

Cherise bit her lip.  "Jey."

"Exactly." Trinity gave her a knowing look. "And you need to talk to him."

Cherise sniffled, wiping her face again.  "What do I even say?"

"You apologize. And you tell him what happened. No more runnin’."

Cherise swallowed hard.  "And what if he don’t want me after that?"

Trinity smirked. "Then I’ll slap the shit out of him."

Cherise let out a watery laugh, shaking her head.

Trinity squeezed her hand.  "Lucky for you… I know exactly where he is."

♡

The iron clashed and clattered with every rep, the clang of weights echoing through the empty private gym, sharp and loud against the low hum of hip-hop vibrating from the speakers.

Jey pressed the barbell back onto the rack with a grunt, his breath ragged, muscles burning, but the tight knot in his chest stayed coiled and heavy, refusing to ease.

“Damn, Uce,” Jimmy drawled from where he leaned against the bench press next to him, arms crossed. “You alright? Ain’t no way you goin’ that hard just ‘cause.”

Jey exhaled, dragging a towel over his face, jaw clenched tight. He leaned back, the metal of the bench cold through his hoodie, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice said otherwise.

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy snorted, one brow arching high.  “Aight, tell that to them weights. You been actin’ on edge all week. You gon’ tell me what’s goin’ on or you gon’ keep lyin’?”

Jey scowled, tossing the towel aside. “I said it ain’t nothin’.”

Jimmy huffed, lips quirking in a smirk.  “Uce. You can’t tell me it ain’t nothin’ if you been punching that bag over there like it’s a dude for the past hour. What’s really goin’ on?”

Jey’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing over his knees.

But Jimmy was patient. He didn’t push, just folded his arms and waited, eyes steady and knowing, like he could see right through Jey’s bullshit which, to be fair, he probably could. Twintuition and all.

Finally, Jey exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s… it’s Cherise,” he admitted, voice low, gruff.

Jimmy’s brows shot up.  “Ohhh. That explains a lot,” he said with a low chuckle. “Y’all beefin’ or somethin’? Ain’t seen her at the club in weeks. Trin said she been quiet.”

Jey’s jaw ticked. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice tight. “One minute she cool, the next she… I don’t know, she just flipped on me.  Said she needed space. That things was movin’ too fast.”

Jimmy whistled low.  “Damn,” he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly.  “And she ain’t tell you why?”

Jey shook his head, frustration simmering hot beneath his skin. “I been tryna give her space, but it don’t make no sense,” he muttered, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. “She was fine, then outta nowhere she just… shut down. Said shit that didn’t even sound like her. Like she ain’t trust me or somethin’.”

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, lips pursing. “Aight,” he said slowly.  “You sure it was outta nowhere, though?”

Jey’s eyes flicked up, narrowing. “What you mean?”

“I mean,” Jimmy drawled, lifting a brow, “you ever think that maybe she ain’t just flip out for no reason? That maybe somethin’ happened?  Or somebody got in her ear?”

Jey stiffened, something cold sliding down his spine.

He’d considered it—hell, it was the only thing that made sense. But if somebody was fuckin’ with Cherise, who? And why?

“I been thinkin’ that,” he admitted, his voice low, strained. “But I don’t know who the fuck it could be. All I know is she been different.  Jumpy.  Scared. Like she waitin’ for the other shoe to drop or somethin’.”

Jimmy hummed, tilting his head. “You try to talk to Trin about it?”

“She don’t know shit,” Jey muttered, irritation bleeding into his tone.  “She said Cherise been duckin’ her calls too.”

Jimmy blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Damn, Uce,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s rough.  But…”

“But what?”

“But maybe you gotta think about what made her like that,” Jimmy said carefully, eyes steady. “I mean, look, I ain’t sayin’ it’s cool that she went off on you, but you don’t know what kinda dudes she been with before you, uce. She a dancer. You know she done seen some grimy shit.”

Jey’s hands clenched, his teeth grinding. He knew that. Knew it from the way she flinched at loud noises, the way her eyes darted around the club, always watching, always guarded.

The way she never talked about her past.

“Yeah, I get that,” he bit out. “But damn, uce, I ain’t them. She gotta know that by now.”

Jimmy huffed. “But does she?” he challenged, lifting a brow. “Jey, I been watchin’ y’all for months. That girl likes you. But she act like somebody waitin’ around the corner to pull the rug out from under her.  That ain’t no regular trust issue shit. That’s trauma.”

The word landed heavy in the air, settling in the space between them like a weight.

Jey’s hands flexed, guilt churning hot and sick in his gut.

Because Jimmy was right.

Cherise didn’t just have trust issues—she had scars, old and deep, the kind you couldn’t just kiss away, no matter how bad you wanted to.

And maybe he’d been too busy wanting her to notice how much she was still bleeding. 

“Shit,” Jey muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Uce?”

Jimmy smirked, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Easy,” he said with a shrug. “You go find your girl, you tell her the truth, and you let her know you ain’t goin’ nowhere. Even if she push you away.”

Jey exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe Cherise just needed to see that he was in this for real, that he wasn’t running just because she got scared.

Before he could respond-

“Yo,” a voice drawled, smooth and low.  “Can I spot you?”

Both Jey and Jimmy turned toward the voice.

A man stood there.

Maybe early to mid thirties.

Lean build. Average height.

Something about his stance rubbed Jey the wrong way—too easy, too confident.

Like he thought he was somebody.

Jey nodded once, grabbing his towel off the bench.  "I’m good, man."

But the dude didn’t leave.

Just smirked, tilting his head slightly.  “I’m Tremaine. Y’all the Usos, huh?"

Jimmy let out a short chuckle. "Damn. We can’t go nowhere without bein’ recognized."

Jey, however, didn’t like this dude’s energy.

Didn’t like how he was lingering.

But he played it cool. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

"Man, y’all killin’ it right now," he continued, nodding. "That Bloodline run? Big fan.”

Jey didn’t drop his guard, but he responded anyway. "Appreciate it."

"You trainin’ for ‘Mania?"

"Somethin’ like that."

Tremaine let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Man, must be nice.  Bet y’all got all kinds of perks. Travel, money… women."

Jey’s expression didn’t change.  “It’s cool.”

But something about the way the dude said that statement made his skin crawl.

“Aye, you be at that club off 17th, right?” Tremaine asked casually, racking weights. “The one with all them thick-ass strippers?  You ever had that lil’ brownskin one? Candy, I think her name was…She used to be mine.”

Jey went still.

His eyes darkened.

And his fingers curled into fists.

"That so?"

"Hell yeah." Tremaine let out a short chuckle. "Back then?  Man, she was soft. She ain’t know shit about how the world worked. She just wanted to go to school, get her lil’ nursing degree, be a good girl or whatever. But life don’t work like that."

Jey stayed still, adjusting the tape around his wrist. “Word?”

"Mmm-hmm." Tremaine chuckled, stretching his arms behind his head like he had won something. "Man, that girl… whew. You seen her, right? All them curves?  She was built for this. Wasn’t even her idea to strip at first, but I knew she’d be perfect for it."

Jey froze.

"You put her onto it?" he asked, his voice even.

"Hell yeah.” Tremaine let out a short laugh. "She was young. Fresh.  Had no idea what to do with herself. But I saw the potential, y’know?  Saw what she could be. She ain’t wanna do it at first, but… all that shyness? It don’t mean shit when rent due, right?"

Jey’s knuckles cracked.

Jimmy tensed beside him. "Uce—"

Jey ignored him. "So what, you was takin’ care of her?"

Tremaine smirked. "Man, I was doin’ more than that.  I was makin’ her. Taught her everything.  How to move, how to talk, how to pull the big spenders. I even gave her that name—‘Candy’."

Jey’s jaw tightened.

"Yeah?"

"Mmm-hmm." Tremaine shook his head, grinning.  "Ain’t it fittin’?  Sweet, soft, melts in your mouth, drippin’ when you touch it…"

Jey’s vision blurred.

The restraint it took to keep his hands at his sides was inhumane.

Tremaine kept going.

Kept digging his grave.

"She used to cry about it, though," he said, shaking his head with fake sympathy. "Said she ain’t wanna do it, said she ain’t like how men looked at her.  But you know how it is. They all say that at first. You just gotta… break ‘em in."

Jey stilled.

His fingers curled into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms.

"She ain’t start feelin’ herself ‘til I taught her how," Tremaine continued, voice smug.  "Got her all comfortable. Had her thinkin’ she was makin’ moves. Even let her keep her little cut. ‘Course, I had to take mine. Ain’t fair otherwise."

Jimmy was watching Jey now.

The slight shake in his shoulders.

The way his breathing had gone shallow.

"Uce—"

Tremaine wasn’t done.

"She was real loyal at first, too," he mused, shaking his head like he was reminiscing. "Had that ride-or-die shit. But then she started getting ideas. Thought she could run shit on her own. Thought she could keep all that money she was makin’."

Jey’s breath was short.

He could feel fire curling under his ribs.

Tremaine smirked.  "So, I had to humble her. Remind her how good she had it with me."

Jey’s teeth gritted. "How you do that?"

"Oh, you’d love this one." Tremaine leaned in, like they were just two guys catching up.

Jey waited.

"You ever see a girl really break?" Tremaine asked, tilting his head.  "Not just cry, not just sniffle, but completely break?  It’s a hell of a sight, man. And let me tell you…Man, she really thought we was just goin’ out. Had her all dressed up nice, lookin’ real pretty, thinkin’ we was on some date night shit."

His smirk turned into something cruel.

"One of my boys was gettin’ married, so I got her a nice lil’ gig at his bachelor party. The look on her face when she walked in and saw all my boys sittin’ there, just waiting for her? Priceless." He laughed. "I never seen a girl look so fucking helpless in my life."

Jey stopped breathing.

Jimmy froze.

"She looked at me like I stabbed her in the back," Tremaine went on.  "But what the fuck was she expectin’? That was her job. Her purpose.  She wanna be a stripper, but she wanna pick and choose who she dance for?  Nah, man.  Ain’t how it works."

Jey’s fingers curled into a fist.

"She ain’t dance at first." Tremaine leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "So I had to make her. Told her if she ain’t get up and do what she was good at, then she wasn’t gon’ have a place to sleep that night."

Jey’s entire body tensed.

"She did it, though," Tremaine continued, laughing under his breath.  "Shaky as hell, but she did it. And by the end of the night?  Shit, she learned real quick. She learned how to shut the fuck up and play her part."

Jey felt his blood boiling.

But he let him keep going.

Because he needed to hear how far this motherfucker was willing to go.

"Shame, though," Tremaine said, shaking his head.  "She ain’t learn fast enough. Started thinking she was bigger than me. Thinking she ain’t need me. So, y’know, I had to remind her again.”

Jey’s chest rose and fell steadily. "And how’d you do that?"

Tremaine grinned. "Took my cut. Took her cut, too. Took all that money she was stackin’ for school and got the fuck outta there."

Jey’s fingers twitched.

"Left her with nothin’." Tremaine exhaled, shaking his head. “Told her it was what she deserved. ‘Cause, man… girls like her?  They don’t get no fairytale endings. She ain’t built for that."

Jey’s blood turned to ice.

His pulse pounded, ears ringing.

Jimmy shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between them. He knew somebody was going to be leaving on a stretcher and it sure as hell wasn’t him or Jey.

Tremaine grinned. "But damn, I do miss that body, though.  That girl was tight, boy. Made the sweetest lil’ sounds when she—"

The first punch flew.

CRACK.

Tremaine’s head snapped back, his body jerking as the force sent him stumbling.

But Jey wasn’t done.

Before Tremaine could even react, Jey grabbed him by the collar, dragging him down to the gym floor, his fists slamming into his face again and again and again.

Jimmy shouted, trying to yank Jey back.  "Uce!"

But Jey wasn’t listening.

This was beyond anger.

This was rage.

This was vengeance.

Jey’s vision was tinted red, his hands coated in Tremaine’s blood, the sound of fists connecting with flesh ringing in his ears.

“Josh, chill!” Jimmy was pulling at Jey’s shoulder now. "You gon’ kill him, man!”

"Maybe I should!" Jey snarled, rearing his fist back again.

Jimmy yanked him back, arms locked around his chest. “Joshua, enough!”

Jey struggled, his chest heaving, his blood still roaring in his ears. Tremaine gasped on the ground, coughing up spit and blood, his eye already swelling shut. Jey’s entire body was shaking. His fists ached.  His breathing was ragged.

Then the sound of a door swinging open.

"Joshua?!”

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

Jey’s head snapped up.

And there she was.

Cherise with Trinity in tow. Standing in the doorway, eyes wide, frozen in place as she took in the scene that previously unfolded.

Jey, chest heaving, knuckles bloody with a busted lip from one of Tremaine’s cheap shots he barely felt due to the adrenaline.

Tremaine, curled on the floor, bruised and broken.

Jimmy, looking exhausted as he tried to hold Jey back.

Her breath caught. "What…what the hell is going on?"

Jey stared at her, heart pounding.

Tremaine laughed, his voice wet with blood. "Damn, baby… even after all these years, you still got niggas out here fightin’ over you."

Jey snapped again, lunging forward, but Cherise moved fast.

"Joshua, no!”

Her hands caught his face.

And just like that—

Everything stilled.

His rage froze.

His breath hitched.

And all that existed was her.

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[delicatefade]

For #talktometuesday I'm v curious to hear more about corrupt Eilan is that in a world where she follows Solas and helps him bring the Veil down or something else? I love hearing about Inquisitors who turn to the dark side 😈

Aha! The turn to the dark side is full of thrashing and self delusion. Quick world state catch up. It's close to canon-ish. Solas broke up with Eilan and left to pursue his goal of tearing down the Veil to restore the world to its rightful order. Eilan stayed on as Inquisitor. The Inquisition is now a direct military and ops vehicle of the Chantry lead by Leliana with Cassandra as her hand. The Inquisition's main target is Solas. tl;dr: If you're wondering what radicalizes her.... nothing? She never agrees with Solas philosophically about the Veil or why it needs to come down. But she is so singularly focused on staying in a relationship with him, so self-absorbed in her love, that she makes a series of small, compromised decisions. Each decision feels, in that moment, absolutely human and excusable. But ultimately those decisions culminate in her corruption because they make her his accomplice. And once the deed is done, she engages in a series of mental gymnastics to live with herself and with him and her transformation from a do-gooder to a villain is complete. The slightly longer explanation below: 👇

Eilan corruption arc. The story starts six months after Trespasser. Eilan and Solas were a couple and very much in love. She is convinced that if she could just find him and reason with him, he can be persuaded from his destructive path. She dreams about him, finds him that way (dream magic!) He's actually thrilled by this turn of events. For him, it represents the possibility that she might change her mind and join him. He also wants this to end with his lover Eilan at his side. What a dream! They both ignore the elephant in the room for a while, just enjoy being together and pretend they aren't at odds. But as he gets closer to his goal, she starts getting desperate and leaks some of his secrets to Dorian so that power players of Thedas can perhaps oppose Solas a little longer. But she never actually gives up any critical information that would help Solas' enemies stop Solas once and for all. That would be a step too far. Her heart isn't there. Dorian, and others, doubt Eilan's loyalties. She had said she is Team Modern Thedas, but her actions speak otherwise. Dorian in particular feels betrayed by her. 😟 Meanwhile she's arguing with Solas all the time, their relationship is frayed very badly, she acts out, but he will not be dissuaded. He is convinced she will prefer life as an elf without the Veil and their lives will be better. He is also hoping that removing the Veil will make all elves immortal again. Fingers crossed, vhenan!!! You and me forever!!! Finally, when Solas does take down the Veil, Eilan against all odds shows the fuck up and does have a way to stop his ritual. Bruh, it won't even kill or wound him. It is like, the perfect Solavellan gotcha: stop the ritual without hurting Solas? Wow, the dream. SHE STILL BACKS OFF!!!!! She's too in love to disappoint and hurt him (emotionally) this way, and will absolutely choose him over the world (as her friends had accurately accused!!!) Sure, she gives herself a little mental band-aid about it, she reasons her decision not to stop Solas from *checks notes* destroying civilization as millions of people know it is about, uh, "having faith in him." Nah, dawg, it's toxic, obsessive love. That story is completed and published. Comes in at just under 30k. Read it here -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/38774526/chapters/96954213 I am working on the sequel which covers the first 3 years after the Veil falls. The draft is currently at 65k words. In that fic, the consequences of the apocalypse are dire!! A little worse than Solas expected. You know. For consistency. Eilan, at first, is not coping well and says ugly things to Solas. But in order to cope, she has to compartmentalize. Also, she's essentially in the most privileged position in all of Thedas at that point, and shielded from most horrors.

Meanwhile we see Solas start to have doubts about his choices re: the Veil (both putting it up and taking it down). His self-doubts start to eat at him and it is Eilan who builds up his confidence again. She's a playwright and writes literal propaganda to retell history where Solas is the singular greatest Byronic hero of all time. She tells him that what he did was right and good. Does she actually believe that? Doesn't matter! And not really? Look, they need to live. Here's what she does start to believe: Some people just matter more to world history, you know? 😉 And her turn to villainy is complete without ever, even once, having a god damn point. She just wants her love. I might write a part 3 where we see Eilan at her happiest. She and Solas are married, have kids, and the ugly past feels distant. In that story they learn that actions have consequences and the misdeeds of the past catch up to them both.

[generallypo]

in all sincerity, kim dokja makes me happy and he deserves to be so too :^(

incoherent yelling and sobbing under the cut. these fEELINGS will not be contained aaauuunnghhh. 

------

anyway i binge-read all 500+ chapters of ORV this week and i honest to god feel bad for this -- completely! fictional! aghhhh -- guy. in case you haven’t figured it out, the following is some spoilerly shit

i went in expecting a fun, brainless power trip fantasy for dudes with an isekai addiction. instead, it turns out ORV is actually a gigantic, self-deprecating prank on the entire genre itself. kdj plays more into the sad -- if high-functioning-- clown trope than the sexy, edgy, chuuni bastard type i was prepared to laugh at. there were -- gasp! -- female characters with personalities! parents (aka ADULTS who act like ADULTS) who actually survive and feature prominently! adorable children! a real sexy, edgy bastard! a power trio with amazing fashion! sexual tension and bickering! friendship! life and death bonding! 

*breathes in deeply* fouND FAMILYYYYYYY.

like, yeah, the plot around the first few arcs seems a little aimless, but the buildup is worth. the world-building is pretty decent. there’s discernible effort put into the fight scenes, and i can appreciate that. but -- but! what i stayed for were the characters -- namely, the fantastic OT3 of KDJ, HSY, and YJH -- who come together despite their initial rivalries and end up saving each other’s asses, like, every other day. granted, the other characters don’t get as much focus, and they do fall into certain character tropes.. 

but a trope done well is nothing i would gripe about. every significant character in ORV has a coherent, and more importantly, respectful take on their respective trope. maybe it’s because sing-shong is actually a married couple, but all the interactions between even minor characters are a convincing blend of awkward rambling, suggestive humor, sharp remarks, and casual banter. in other words, this cast of mostly working adults (plus a teen and two kids) talks like working adults. the relationships built throughout the story are, frankly, some of most realistic of its genre. sing-shong has managed to craft a dynamic that undoubtedly brims with fluffy fondness all around, but also drips with sarcastic tension, with unspoken urgency, with a wariness that softens into sincerity over the course of many, many chapters. it’s the kind of progression that makes even stock characters read like more than just the 2-bit villain or comrade or love interest. here, we have relationships both straightforward and not, strained or otherwise, romantically-oriented as well as decidedly the opposite -- and then numerous others scattered along the spectrum with the freedom to shift either way. 

it’s also an interesting point of note that our MC kdj actually does not end up with a stated romantic partner, much less a conventional heteroromantic harem. he gets teased about that fact from time to time, but it’s with less of the sleazy shonen locker room humor one would expect and more of the good-natured ribbing you’d find among friends or that one especially nosy auntie at the yearly family reunion. kdj is a grown ass man. in the background, i applaud his maturity, and he handles all the prodding like a champ. 

so instead of finding and fulfilling his horny, he builds himself a wealth of loving family. yeah, there are beautiful men and women around him. yeah, they unequivocally adore him. but they’re also adults, and they have priorities, too -- which are not so much finding a way to bang kdj’s brains out and more so simply keeping the damn guy alive. this is truly not ‘oblivious mc with his thirsty, sex kitten harem’. it just so happens that a guy proves himself to be unflinchingly gentle and capable in an apocalyptic setting despite his broken self-esteem, and lots of people find that attractive, romantically and platonically. 

it.. kinda makes sense? he’s a hard worker, thoughtful, and good with kids. kdj is the kind of guy you know would make a reliable partner, and anybody with eyes can plainly see and appreciate that. 

and it’s not that our MC’s a total brick wall. in fact, it’s likely the opposite, and he’s just too darned repressed to admit it. from what has been implied, kdj does indeed recognize and accept love, or at least a primitive concept of it. i like to imagine that the kind of love that he ends up seeking out simply manifests itself more easily as acceptance and safety, as warmth and a home of people to return to every day. even better, the people who surround him know this, and they give him exactly that. it’s refreshing, and honestly, really sweet.

(as a side note, i really, really do appreciate the cosmic bi energy radiating off of kdj, who canonically earns the title of being loved by all and is all but in name married to yjh and hsy. he also respects women and small children and honestly anyone who isn’t total scum to him or his family. i respect that.)

but the happy stuff aside, you know it it just ain’t ORV without the generous screaming dollop of angst. admittedly, there’s self-sacrifice, injury, lonesome wandering, more sacrifice, some epic fighting, reunion and confrontation. all of it is a lot to digest, sure, but never does it feel entirely hopeless, or truly, truly heart-clenching. ORV, up until the final act, is a mostly light read. you relax in your chair, thinking that nothing beyond this point can disturb you. 

yeah fucking right.

------

and then the beginning of the end arrives. when the squad finally break through to their ‘ending’, the scene that kind of breaks me is the reveal of the Most Ancient Dream. it ties so much thematically into the little tidbits that we get of kdj’s past, and it though it feels like almost a joke that the source of the goddamn apocalypse is a kid with bruises smeared across his skinny ass body -- it’s such a pathetic picture that it’s kinda poetic, actually. you’re left mystified but somewhat convinced, like a math problem explained halfway through. this.. child.. is a villain somehow, isn’t he?

and then 999th turn uriel speaks up, and she. just. hugs him. 

[[You are this universe’s most powerless existence, aren’t you.]] 

that. that gets me. kdj’s reaction immediately upon this revelation? absolute murder. seeing him essentially self-destruct upon realizing that all these people he’s surrounded himself with -- some who continuously proclaim their loyalty and affection for him throughout their journey, some who suffered eons of war and loss and trauma because of his existence -- not only forgive his younger self but smother him with unconditional acceptance and love is stifling, is too vulnerable and exposed and he simply can’t cope -- it’s so telling of his true mentality, of his crippling insecurity and crumpled sense of self-worth. kim dokja is a liar, through and through, so much that he fails, or perhaps refuses, to comprehend the veracity of others’ kindness and love towards himself. 

by some miracle, the events at the end of the world somehow resolve.. or so it seems. there is a departing train, a liberated team of ex-gods, and a child rousing from his slumber. in the aftermath, i am left shaking. somehow, despite the ending having been (happily?) reached, there’s still another chapter ahead. what is this witchcraft?

------

and then ah, yes -- the epilogue arc. i teetered on the edge of being critical for a little bit there -- is that display of deus ex machina, of sad, self-sacrificing nobility a bit too egregious to be acceptable? is this some wild last let-me-yank-this-outta-my-ass plot twist to drag out the chapter count? i sincerely thought that the arc before it would have been the finale. i was wrong. thank god.

anyways, as an answer to the above: no, and no. i stake my firm claim on the belief that the epilogue arc was meticulously planned out well in advance of its release, confusing and time-warpy as it is. i liked it. tremendously. even if it entirely invalidates all of kdj’s supposed development (”haha lol yeah sure i won’t sacrifice myself or anything anymore guys don’t worry about me” -- KDJ, at some point because he’s a lying rat bastard). actually, our beloved MC disappears for a large chunk of this arc, and i think it’s great. in his absence, the other characters not only go absolutely fucking nuts, but they have to figure out this new problem on their own, even if the lure of peaceful complacency in the newly saved Korea might convince them otherwise. 

and then the whole time paradox thing comes around. yjh goes to space, hsy saves the only life she can, and kdj grows up. the crew waits, holding onto their hope even if it bleeds them dry. sing-shong does a damn good job of illustrating their fraying calm, their lurking madness, the unseen but pervasive depression that seeps in from kdj’s absence. the kids lose their father, lhs and jhw lose their reliable leader figure, ysa loses a best friend and confidant, lsk -- as distant as she pretends to be from her son -- loses her only child. and then there’s hsy and yjh , who are essentially bereft of the other half of their existences. their pain is palpable, is grounded in the hopeless, gnawing frustration of an utterly meaningless victory. emotionally, ORV hits all the right -- if agonizing -- beats.

however, a story can’t sustain itself just through its pathos. i’m happy to say that ORV doesn’t drop the ball after the first milestone, and after all the hurt, the characters do leap straight back into action. even better, the plot holes actually do get patches, and the poetic cycle of writer, protagonist, and reader comes full circle by making use of all those supposedly throwaway characters from the myriad world lines. 

at the end of the road, there is a distinct sense of unity, of a delicate but undeniable cohesion to the world lines and their origins. sing-shong lets us guess a little here at the finish, but there’s just enough information to feel hopeful. maybe there never had been a definite start -- or finish -- to the story of kdj company, and... that’s okay. everybody ends up where they were meant to be, where they fought and struggled to reach. it’s.. almost like a happily ever after, if we’re allowed to dream of that.

------

now, i realize, this was all an orchestrated maneuver.

i’ll take it.

to me, all of this work sounds like someone put some serious thought into this behemoth of a plot. it cements the entire original premise of the story. it suggests -- but never explicitly confirms! -- the possibility that breaking free of the cycle is possible through the exact same system that sustains it. it’s terribly interesting -- and inspirational! with all the dramatic revelations and life-threatening scenarios  and the cast’s resigned acceptance of them that essentially make up ORV’s entire mood, there’s still that last hint of rebellious and righteous anger that lights up the whole damn nebula. it’s like the kdj company blasting away at the heavens just to yell into the nether: we’re not looking for the happy end, but the free one. stay alive.

it’s subtle, and yet it’s such an emotional gut punch. i came away with the most ruinous, frustrating, bittersweet sense of longing in ages. i pined. for these fictional darlings. god, i am weak.

so. yeah. ORV is pretty good. flawed, but ambitious and impressively thought out.  i’m stoked that the webtoon is making pretty good progress, even if it’ll take an eternity and a half to meet that monstrous chapter count. i’m still gonna follow it. hell yeah. 

------

(by the way the idea that secretive plotter and co are literally gonna take care of and raise baby kdj and spoil him and be the best friggin family a kid could ever want does things to me. protect him. he’s suffered too much. let at least one worldline’s version of him know happiness. and actually, aLL OF THEM DESERVE DOMESTIC BLISS TOGETHER IN A BIG OL MANSION WITH SUN AND FRESH AIR AND TENDER FAMILY MOMENTS UGH)

------

and there you have it, folks. you made it to the end. in the far, far distance, i’m cheering you on and crying my eyes out in gratitude. thanks for tuning in!

[heli0s-writes]

IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.  

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

-

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud. 

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

-

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.  

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.  

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again. 

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

<Two days ago, pictures were taken in Hong Kong of James Barnes and a mysterious woman. Our sources here at TVB have worked tirelessly to uncover her identity.>

<Today we have the pleasure of introducing her to everyone tuning in. This is the first time you’ve ever been in the public eye, and astonishingly, next to two of the best pilots in the Program. There are so many questions, but first, the whole world wants to know…. why keep it secret?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally­­—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

<Natasha Romanoff-->

“She was one of a kind.”

<Was it hard to—>

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until  Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses. 

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

<The jacket tells a different story.>

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

<Do you plan for James to return to the cockpit? Is that the goal? James, how do you feel about all of this, taken away from your own Jaeger?>

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay.  “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

<What is priority at the moment?>

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.” 

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

-

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”  

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.” 

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

[drxwsyni]

Petrified (pt. 7)

Yandere Erasermic x f!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

a/n: this part is a lil short, but to make up for it the next one will be spicy. thanks for reading <3

*Sidenote*: Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist!

4.4k words

Warnings: panic attacks, anxiety, mild gaslighting and light non-consensual touching

A certain ringing sounded inside your head as your heartbeat picked up its pace. Progress made towards calming frayed nerves crumbled in an instant. Even more so when whoever was on the other side of the door knocked in the same succession once more.

On dangerously shaky legs, you rose from your spot on the wooden seat at the kitchen table. You took slow and hesitant steps towards the entrance, not really knowing what you should do. The plethora of ideas as to what could happen based on how you react came as no surprise, countless scenarios racing through your mind at light speed.

Should you answer it?

Maybe if you ignore it they’ll leave.

But what if they don’t?

They have no reason to stay if you’re not home.

...

...Who’s on the other side?

By now you had carried yourself to be positioned just a couple of feet in front of the door. The next logical step would be to look through the peephole, if anything to simply satiate your curiosity that was eating you alive.

A voice permeated through the atmosphere before you could make any moves to do so.

Low and gruff, but most importantly―irritated.

“You in there, (y/n)?”

Realistically, you also shouldn’t be surprised that Shouta was here. Of course he couldn’t simply leave you alone. He was nothing if not persistent, and painfully unaware of how his presence could sometimes stir up more anxieties inside of you than he calmed.

Luckily for him, having been put through the wringer was greatly dulcifying your inhibitions. For the most part.

You were weak, and in no state to put up much of a fight. But you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try to, even in the slightest.

If he already could tell over the phone of just how worn out you were, hearing your broken and hoarse voice in person would likely only solidify his incessant concerns.

“Y-yeah, I’m here...You don’t, um...You didn’t need to come and check up on me, Shouta. Everything’s f―”

“Open the door.”

...

There was no use in arguing with him. He wouldn’t hear you out anyways.

Hands trembling as they fumbled with the lock, a few fresh tears rolling down your cheeks, you slowly opened the front door. The gap only made it about two feet apart before Shouta took over and pushed the rest of it all the way open.

Warily, you took a few steps out of the way. Without asking, although it wasn’t like he ever really asked for your permission, Shouta entered your apartment. He shut the door behind him, a resounding click as it closed, sealing you in with him.

Another thing you disliked about the erasure hero was that he only saw what he wanted to see. Things like what he thought was wrong with you, and subsequently what he wanted to fix.

You cursed yourself for growing so complacent with him. Because now, not only did you not have the energy to put up any more resistance, but even if you did, you weren’t entirely sure if you would do so anyways.

Right now, Shouta was seeing you beaten and bruised, both mentally and physically. That’s what he wanted to fix, and you had no choice but to let him have his way.

Accepting your fate, you remained in one place as the man approached you. Your body was shaking as you feebly attempted to contain more sobs from escaping you. But Shouta was smart―he knew very well that the moment he comforted you, there would be no way you could keep those walls up.

And so when he pulled you into a warm embrace, gently cradling the back of your head while whispering reassurances that “It’s okay,” and “You don’t need to hold back,” your body simply couldn’t stay resilient under that weight.

Your form crumpled against him, any apprehension for Shouta falling away into nothingness as your being sought the comfort he was providing. Like a damn breaking at the seams, preconceptions of the man faded while you tiredly submitted to his consoling. You hated yourself for finding solace in his arms, the headspace you resided in betraying as it desperately needed relief from everything that had been unfolding. Events not just from today, but from weeks of growing weaker and weaker.

The fact was that you couldn’t keep up with the changes in your life. On the inside, the stresses of having to repeatedly acquaint yourself with the hero and his partner was wreaking havoc on your mental state. On top of that was trying to balance living your normal life while maintaining a dishonest front to keep them satisfied. So on the outside, your body was diminishing in strength from having to spend its resources keeping your sanity afloat. Naturally, wanting to keep using your quirk at work didn’t do a single thing for you.

It all boiled down to you being completely and utterly wrecked in every sense imaginable. You couldn’t keep this up even if you wanted to. That fact hadn’t gone unnoticed, but as you succumbed to all the pent up strains, Shouta gladly helping you ride out the tremors of those ailments, it wasn’t something you could care about.

Did you really think you’d get away with this?

…

Shouta’s words, quiet so as not to frighten you in any manner, brought you out of the cloudy haze you felt yourself drowning in. “Why don’t I make you some tea―help you calm down a little, alright?”

Face still buried in his jacket, you weakly nodded. You didn’t even want to fight against the offer. Not now, at least.

Slowly, Shouta pulled you away from him, a light grip on your shoulders steadying you. It felt distant, the hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the kitchen. A chair already pulled out, you plopped down at the table. In the back of your mind you registered a hand on your head, briefly smoothing down your hair reassuringly.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened yet. Just take a few moments to relax.”

The hand disappeared, and you were left feeling empty and alone as Shouta went to turn on the kettle. You went back to aimlessly staring at the grooves in the wood of the table. With how muddled everything felt, it didn’t seem like anymore than a few seconds had gone by before a steaming mug was placed in front of you.

You could hear the sound of a chair quietly scraping against the floor as Shouta pulled it up next to you, taking a seat. A few seconds of silence went by.

Shouta waited for you to start explaining yourself. But judging by the still greatly anguished expression on your face, he noted that it wasn’t likely to happen just yet. The best course of action would be to continue to wait until you were ready, your mental state probably not capable of handling any insistence from him. So that’s what he did.

“You just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?”

Another half-hearted, barely noticeable nod from you, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

The small sounds of your sniffling filled the otherwise quiet expanse of your apartment. It felt like a herculean task to simply think. Of what you were going to tell Shouta, how you would portray either the truth, or keep lying to him and yourself. You tried focusing on any one thought, but it simply broke off halfway through, excuses unfinished, outcomes unexplorable. It was easier not to think, when nothing could really form a comprehensive conclusion anyways.

The intrusive noise of a knocking at the door caught both yours and Shouta’s attention. Nervously, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes remaining downcasted in worry. The erasure hero offered a quiet “Stay here,” as he went to greet whoever was outside of your apartment on your behalf.

The distant commotion of voices exchanging drifted into the kitchen. You didn’t need to look up to know who Shouta had let into your apartment. Not when that more high pitched, concerned lilt in a certain blond’s voice could be heard from where you were seated. It sounded like they were arguing, but the details of their dispute was beyond you. They seemed to be trying to spare your feelings, keeping quiet so as not to startle you any more. Especially when Hizashi’s voice raised even in the slightest, only to be followed by his partner coldly shushing him, it became clear that they didn’t really want you hearing whatever they were talking about.

But having resigned yourself, albeit not really willingly, to their whims, the notion that whatever they were discussing likely had to do with you didn’t really bother you. Something in the back of your mind reasoned that it was the aftershocks of having yet another meltdown, but you felt particularly docile. A subduing calmness, keeping you from caring about the two men in your home, or what they had planned for you. But you also knew that it was likely that even the smallest prompt of either of them poking at your emotions would have you relapsing.

Your mind went backwards onto its self doubt. You always knew that the chance of you succeeding in your scheme of lies and fake behaviour was low. But you didn’t want to believe it.

It was funny how the men that caused you so much distress were also so attentive to rid you of it. You were emotionally fragile. You didn’t have the energy to keep anything from them now.

You didn’t realize the two had entered the room until waves of loose blond hair caught in the corners of your vision. Turning your head, barely by even a few centimeters, you saw how Hizashi had slid into the chair once occupied by his partner, pulling it closer so he was right up next to you. Carefully, he placed a hand on your back, leaning down to try and get a glimpse of your drained expression.

Your tea was getting cold.

“Hey there, songbird. Ya wanna tell me what happened?”

Shakily, you brought up a hand to wipe the tears spilling down your face, noting the uncomfortable irritation in your eyes. You shrugged your shoulders, searching for the words to say. He waited patiently, and eventually you found them.

“I...um. T-there was this crowd, b-blocking my way. ‘Cause of the incident, a-and―” The admission caught in your throat, broken and incomplete for a few seconds as you involuntarily stopped to sob. Reminiscing on the event wasn’t as hard as going through it, but it did bring up many of the same emotions. Panic, being suffocatingly overwhelmed.

Helpless.

“...And I had to cut through them. T-there was the alleyway, b-but I couldn’t just…I c-couldn’t...”

You could feel your breath start to pick back up, nothing to stop it from losing control. Those painful memories made their comeback, filling your head with dreadful notions of what had happened, what could’ve happened.

“Hey,” a hand cupped the side of your face, turning it in the blond’s direction, “look at me.”

Your eyes, watery and unfocused, met his. The troubledness swimming in his look shifted. An expression of mild confusion took its place, studying your features intently. A thumb gingerly swiped the falling tears from under your puffy eyes. Hizashi’s focus shifted to the build up of wetness and makeup product on his skin, brows furrowing in the slightest. He regarded you once again.

“Sweetheart, we know you haven’t been holdin’ up your end of the deal. And...this is what happens when ya let yourself get so worn down. I mean...” He sounded hurt, like a disappointed parent trying to educate their child as he looked you up and down. But nothing could equate to the shattering feeling inside of you.

This whole time, you were unconsciously rubbing away at that artificial mask. Nothing was left to conceal your lies. No amount of excuses could hide your faults. Not with them there to witness the clear display of carelessness to keep such things hidden on your part.

It was over for you.

“...I-I’m sorry…”

A wave of fresh convulsing shuddered throughout you, your head still cradled in the blond’s hands, face leaning into his palm as you realized your mistakes.

The words were garbled, incomprehensible and panicked. “I couldn’t just...I mean, I t-tried to―”

Hizashi pulled you into his arms, an embrace somehow tighter than his partner’s. You didn’t even know where Shouta was actually, your eyes screwed shut as you were pulled into the voice hero’s lap. The noise of quiet and soothing hushes barely registered amongst this new bout of intense and taxing emotions.

It felt like everything was your fault. They had pushed you, sure, but you were the one to fight back so hard. You were losing yourself to self-deprecating ideas. But really, it didn’t come as a surprise. This was just how things always came to be in your subconscious. Against your better judgment, you decided that it was your fault that you were in this position.

Technically speaking, that was absolutely the case.

You could’ve very well put your foot down long ago. Stopped the two heroes the second they tried to pry into your personal life. It wasn’t right for them to guilt you into spending time with them, but that’s exactly what they did. And they did it until you were forced into an inescapable corner. If you fled, your faults would come back to haunt you. You would risk losing your job, and damage your chances of finding a career in the future.

If you had just been strong all that time ago, none of this would be happening. And now you were everything but strong. Reduced to a frail sobbing mess in Hizashi’s arms, emotions catching up with you faster than you were able to handle.

A certain sensation began to wash over you―one not entirely unfamiliar. A light feeling, enveloping you in a sedated stupor. And just like last time, Shouta and Hizashi were subjected to caring for you, knowing full well that you couldn’t cope with the weight of their words, a result of your actions, all by yourself.

Only this time, your panic and dread wasn’t brought on by mere lowly criminals that they sought to protect you from. They were at fault for alarming you further. What you didn’t know was that it wasn’t something they quite minded, when along with it came the notion that you would be forced to let them see you back to good health.

They were both troubled by your stubbornness. Yet, the anticipation for what your behaviour meant―that you would have no choice but to let them keep a closer eye on you―made the turn of events you were subjected to a welcome reality.

And so Hizashi comforted you as you cried, your breath fast paced and slowly bringing about unintended fatigue.

Shouta oversaw the ordeal, an irritation mixed with dangerous satisfaction brewing inside of him. Glad to know this would only make you closer to them, but frustratingly calculating how he’d beat this disobedience out of you.

You remained vulnerable. Tired, and unable to fend their ideals off. A state of complacency that seemed to grow with each passing second.

A state that you distantly feared would be your undoing.

_____

Hesitantly, you swung your legs over the edge of your bed, wincing at the coldness of the hardwood as your bare feet touched the floor. The haze of slumber just barely resided in your mind, fading more and more into the background as the noise of someone moving throughout the small kitchen of your apartment drifted down the hall and into your bedroom.

Clinking of utensils and cupboards opening and closing met your ears, the culprit remaining unknown.

Secondarily, your senses picked up on the wafting scent of cooking food. Whoever had taken up residence, they seemed to be making breakfast.

You padded towards the presence, silent as you finally laid eyes upon the intrusion.

Briefly, a wave of relief washed over you, seeing that it was just Hizashi who was enthusiastically cooking with various ingredients at the stove. There was a certain beauty to it―how the warm sunlight of the morning washed over his form, painting him in gold. His locks, loose and falling over his shoulders, seemed to glow ethereally, swaying gently as he moved from the stove to the counter next to it.

And then you remembered why he was here.

Your gaze unfocused, thoughts falling victim to the recollection of last night's mishaps.

The notion that you weren’t entirely in shock at the turn of events since making it home after work scared you more than the fear you once felt at the hands of those events not too long ago. A deep feeling of emptiness for your lack of control over the situation overrided those jarring emotions. It was troubling, not being able to pinpoint the where it came from, it instead seeming like an all encompassing numbness.

Wrapped up in your thoughts, you unconsciously shifted on your feet, still positioned at the entrance to the kitchen. The slight movement wasn’t much, but it did inconveniently put pressure on a particularly creaky floorboard.

Alerted at your presence, Hizashi looked over his shoulder expectedly. “Mornin’, sleepyhead!”

Your drifting gaze shot up at the characteristically enthusiastic greeting. Now met with the weight of responsibility, to own up for your behaviour, and the thanks he was most likely expecting for taking care of you last night, a small pit of trepidation formed inside you.

Finding that the action of meeting his glance directly only put more pressure on your already strained being, you settled for awkwardly avoiding it to look at any one thing that wasn’t him. “Hey, uh….I’m sorry for last night, by the way. And...everything else.”

Unsettlingly nonchalant, Hizashi waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. We know you were just a lil’ frazzled and tired. You feelin’ any better now?”

You gave an insincere, half-hearted smile. It probably looked a bit pained, that being how you felt. “Yeah, I guess…”

It was obvious he was avoiding the elephant in the room, being the admission of your deceitfulness from less than twelve hours ago. Hizashi’s behaviour only made you feel worse, but it was what you had to deal with until he took his leave.

The blond turned back to the stove, which was preoccupied with a couple of pans, counters lined with bowls and plates. “Why don’tcha take a seat, hun. Grubs almost ready―oh, and Shouta had to head into work, but he wanted to stay ‘til you woke up.”

Moving almost sluggish, exhaustion always lingering, you did as he said. “What about you?”

The voice hero’s tone took on more enthusiasm, if that was even possible, seemingly just by you engaging in the conversation. “Called in sick just for you! Couldn’t have our songbird all alone after what happened, right?” He moved about the kitchen, you unable to see what exactly he was cooking from your position at the table. “I slept on the couch after tuckin’ you in, ya passed right out not too long after, y’know.”

You were thankful for the brief avoidance of the subject, regrettably noting that you couldn’t ignore it forever. Soon enough, Hizashi finished up with putting together breakfast, bounding across the room to set the table. Fresh off the stove, the mouth watering smell of all your favorite morning foods were displayed in front of you. He portioned out his own meal next to you, a relaxed sigh escaping his lips as he sat down.

Politely, you thanked him for the food, disregarding how it was made with stuff you bought, some of the ingredients you weren’t even planning on using for a while. Moving past that, you weren’t surprised to find that it tasted perfect. For a second, part of you thought you wouldn’t quite mind his meals to be a recurring thing in your life. But of course, that would mean he would be a recurring thing as well. You settled to enjoy his hospitality for the moment, and then move on.

Hizashi always tended to break the silence first, and now was no different.

“So, Shou’ and I were thinking―s’probably a good idea for you to take some time off work for a bit. I know you might not see it, sweetheart, but ya really need a break. Whatcha think?”

You nodded in fake understanding, setting down your fork in the process. “I get last night was...a lot. But that kind of stuff doesn’t usually happen―the incident, and the crowd. I can’t let it hold me back.”

Everything in your being wished he would take your response and accept it for what it was. In your mind, it stood as clear denial, a request to drop the subject. But Hizashi, naturally, saw it as a challenge. You just needed more convincing.

“I got it, really...but ya still lied to us. I’m not tryin’ to make ya feel bad, hun. Neither of us are...but you need the rest. And you gettin’ hurt last night only proves that.”

Without realizing, you began spacing out, away from the conversation, which was more like a lecture at this point as he continued to go on. You picked up on a few parts, how “much worse it could’ve been,” and that they were worried sick “once ya gone and fainted” in his arms.

But one thing was true and lingering in your mind while he spoke, a fact that could very well get you through all of this. “I’ve been through worse.”

It came out during the small break in his speech, still reciting why him and his partner were so convinced that you needed to hold off on work for a while. At the confession he paused, enough time for you to realize that it likely wasn’t the best thing to admit.

“W-well not much worse, but I don’t think this whole thing is such a big deal.”

The look he gave you, like a disapproving parent―it didn’t make you want to side with him in the slightest. “It is a big deal. Shou’ and I are just tryin’ to help ya, sweetheart.”

“Okay, well...I just don’t think I need any help.”

That wasn’t entirely the truth.

Yes, you needed help. But not from them. The only thing they were good for was causing you stress, sometimes not even the few moments when you did enjoy their presence was enough to redeem that fact. You needed someone who wouldn’t weigh down your conscience, someone who would support you properly, who’d handle the parts of your life you couldn’t yourself.

And most importantly, someone who would respect your boundaries.

Hizashi let out a disappointed sounding sigh, leaning back in his chair. Having somehow managed to finish his meal amongst his talking, he pushed his plate away. You could tell by the way he clasped his hands together, giving you a pensive and serious look, that you weren’t going to get anywhere with him. Neither of the two men really cared about considering your side of the story, favouring the one they made to fit their ideals instead.

“Regardless, we need to work things out here. Something's gotta change, this whole lifestyle ya got goin’ on isn’t doing a thing for you.”

Always unable to meet his level of confidence, looking back at him too tasking given how much attention he was giving you, you stood up. Judging by the lack of food remaining on either of your plates, it was decidedly safe to start cleaning up.

“Okay then. Maybe just...give me some time to think of how to fix things? Just to gather my thoughts, since y’know, I’m still a little beat from yesterday.” You spoke through the motions of gathering both of your plates, bringing them to the sink. As you ran the water to wait for it to heat up, you heard Hizashi rise from his seat, the sound of the wooden chair lightly scraping against the floor meeting your ears.

“That’s fine and all...but ya gotta promise us you’ll actually do something. You can’t just say you will and then―”

“I get it, Hizashi. I won’t do that again, I promise.” You felt his looming presence join you near the sink. Fearing that he’d scold you further for interrupting him, your eyes remain downcasted, face slightly contorted in worry.

In a gesture that was likely meant to be reassuring, except it didn’t feel that way, Hizashi’s hand met the small of your back. “We just want what’s best for ya, songbird.”

You snuffed the flicker of anxiety sparking in your chest.

“I know.”

A dreadful silence, only awkward on your end, hung in the air, you being grateful at the blond’s next statement.

“Well, why don’t I give ya some time to yourself for now―clear your thoughts, yeah?”

Trying to contain the relief and excitement you felt at his nearing absence from your apartment, you gave a small nod. “I think that’s a good idea, why don’t I see you out.” Plugging the drain for the basin to fill up, you dried your hands and led Hizashi to the front door.

“Remember to call us if ya need anything,” he said while putting on his shoes and coat. He continued, “And we still expect ya to take that time off, or at the least quit using that lil’ quirk of yours.”

“I’ll see what I can do, thanks for helping me out, and if you don’t mind―give Shouta my regards too, please.”

Sending you a beaming smile, likely at the fact of your semi-compliance, he finished shrugging his coat on. You expected him to finally make his departure, but by now you should really know that nothing was ever typical with the two. Before you could question his movements, Hizashi wrapped you in a tight bear hug, close enough that you could literally feel the warmth of his body seeping through his clothing.

“Shou’ and I, we worry so much about you. Try taking better care of yourself, for your own sake.”

Having your face practically buried in his chest was a saving grace, because he couldn’t see the look of a deep set uneasiness take over your expression. At the hand that was drifting just a little too low for comfort, and at the strange and oddly threatening sounding tone to his voice.

How very characteristic, but simultaneously uncharacteristic of him.

Hizashi held you for a couple more seconds than a natural embrace should be. When he relented, you forced yourself to appear unbothered, and more importantly, grateful.

“We’ll see you soon, ‘kay hun?”

Oh, you had no doubt that you would.

“Of course.”

(End of part 7)

_____

Taglist: @roseloverofpastels @shinsous-eye-bags @tjhonoluluprezstitch626 @pekusofixus @riathearora @glitterypinkkitty @elektraeriseros @hadesnewpersephone @axolotleyeliner @idratherliveinbooks @silver-stardrop @niko-su993 @olivia-grace26 @shigsteranddabstersimp @hawks96 @pink-dodo-writes @amishahosein24

If you’re name was crossed out it’s because I couldn’t tag you!

[cake-writes]

making the beast beautiful (one)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (cheating); Steve x Reader (married)

Story Warnings: Mental Illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, Splitting, Clinical Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Low Self-Esteem, Cheating, Angst, Drug Addiction / Abuse (Cigarettes, later Alcohol & Pills), Recovery, idk it’s gonna get depressing but we’ll have a happy ending!!!, Eventual Smut, 18+

Summary: Bucky knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. And some days, he still struggles – even told you once how low he’s been. But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? No, Steve doesn’t understand. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. So one day, you finally give up and give in to your most self-destructive temptation of all: your preoccupation with his best friend.

A/N: i know this is another wip SORRY but it’s literal word vomit because ya girl just really needed to yeet these sad bitch feels into outer space lmao 🤷 

Your addiction to him starts slow, like the creep of nicotine through your veins from the cigarettes that he offers you on the rooftop.

Not often enough to do any damage, you try to tell yourself about your smoking habit – or maybe what you actually mean is the amount of time you spend with him. Bucky Barnes. Your husband’s best friend. Your former teammate. Not that it matters, because from one night to the next it’s all you can do to cling to the one good thing you have left, the one ray of light– or maybe he’s the one last shred of hope you’re willing to bind yourself to like a lifeline.

And if it snaps, you’ll fall. 

Too bad the threads are already starting to fray.

And lucky, lucky you that you fall even sooner, because your reality has shifted to one shade off from normal, and you can hardly tell what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. You want to prioritize yourself because you know you should – maybe be a little selfish for once, to combat the awful feelings of self-hate that plague your mind, but you don’t know if that particular affirmation is driven by self-esteem or self-destruction.

You can’t tell anymore. You don’t know who you are.

You’re a mystery, a chameleon, borderline, and the only thing you do know is that Bucky makes you feel again – too much. He makes you feel things you shouldn’t, makes you obsess and overthink and daydream and wonder about what life could be like with him instead of Steve.

Because that’s what you do when you fall in love. You turn into that. A monster. A beast. A siren hell-bent on the destruction of yourself.

So, you fall. You fall deep. You fall hard. You fall fast, but it’s the savouring of the moment that always brings out the worst in you. It brings back the worst part of you that you’ve buried under layers and layers of trauma and depression – the clinginess and neediness and desperation at the center of it all, and every layer covering up the euphoria makes you cry because you have to hide it for fear of losing yourself all over again. Losing that feeling. Losing what makes you you.

You’re happy, now. Right? So why do things you shouldn’t do?

But you just can’t help yourself.

You shouldn’t have accepted that first cigarette.

You shouldn’t have texted him asking for another.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about personal things meant for your husband.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about the most personal of things: your husband. Your relationship. Your insecurities because of your illness.

You shouldn’t have – because Bucky knows. He understands. He’s been there.

He knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. He’s been there. He’s done that. And some days, he still struggles – even told you, once, how low he’s been. 

He might have a different slew of acronyms to define his own mental state, but they all spell out the same thing: FUBAR. And so do yours.

But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? The man of your dreams, the one you’d married in the gown of your dreams, in the venue of your dreams? He’s resilient. And let’s not forget your wedding, with Bucky standing right there as his best man – the same Bucky who accidentally caught the bouquet you threw in his direction, because your aim was purposefully off to make him feel like he belonged for once.

Even before you got to know him, you always had a soft spot for him. 

And now? You’re fucked. Completely and utterly smitten.

No, Steve doesn’t understand. He absolutely, fundamentally cannot, through and through. Not for a lack of trying, though, or that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself. He supports you physically: makes dinner when you’re ‘tired’, runs errands when you’re ‘busy’, gives you love and affection just like he always has. You’re his wife; it’s his obligation. He has to.

That’s how you feel, anyway.

He treats you that way out of duty, not love, because Steve always has to put the greater good before himself. He puts your happiness before his own, you think. And he tries so hard – he does. And whenever he tells you he’s happy, you just can’t believe him because you think so poorly of yourself.

Why would anyone willingly want to be around you?

And emotionally? He tries so hard with that, too, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. He never says the right things, only well-meaning insensitive ones because he hasn’t been there, he hasn’t done that, and he thinks it’s all in your head – that you’re just not trying hard enough, that you just don’t want to get better badly enough, because if you did then you’d be up and at ‘em already. Then you’d be healed. Then you’d be out of this funk and back in the field with him.

You’re not.

You won’t be for a long time.

You’re not the same girl he fell in love with. Not that he’s ever said that directly to you, but sometimes you think it’s how he feels. He signed up for a wife, not a child. He signed up for the you from a few years ago, now, not the shell of a person you’ve become because of your illness.

Ironic, considering what he was like as a kid, Bucky likes to remind you when you start to hate on yourself because of how you’ve changed – because you’re not normal anymore. He used to be so sick all the time. Then the serum made him right as rain. Don’t take it to heart.

Steve got better because of a miracle. Hard work and determination can only get a person so far, but it was pure luck that got him to the serum. You know that. Bucky knows that. Steve probably knows that deep down, too, but he doesn’t see it that way. All he sees is his hard work.

He lies to himself. He always has.

He probably lies to himself about his love for you, too.

So it’s hard to believe he’s happy. How can he be? You don’t bring anything to your relationship but self-pity and unhappiness. And how can you not take it to heart that Steve doesn’t understand? Your husband, the one who should be supporting you and validating you and making you feel like you’re seen, thinks you’re always throwing a pity party for yourself, thinks you’re just too lazy to get up and actually do the things you want to do, thinks you’re just not trying hard enough.

Come on, doll, he says. Let’s go for a walk.

To you it just sounds like, Walk it off.

Because he’s said that before, too. A hundred times. In the field, and out.

You’re not an agent anymore. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle anything anymore.

Deep down, you’re convinced that Steve thinks because it’s not physical – that because there are no scrapes or bruises or broken bones to prove that you’re in pain – that your depression isn’t real. Not really. It’s an illness, same as any other, and he just doesn’t understand it because he can’t see any physical evidence of it.

Never mind the weight you’ve lost.

Never mind the bags under your eyes.

Never mind the crying spells, the dissociation – but then, you hide those from him the best you can these days. You don’t want him to see how bad you are anymore, because he just doesn’t get it. Because it hurts so much every time for him to look at you with those soft, confused baby blues and act like it’s not a big deal, like a little bit of sunshine’s a cure-all for your woes.

Ironic is right. The boy’s been to war and he hasn’t even processed his own trauma. Hasn’t even been to a shrink despite having two best friends poking and prodding for him to go. He’s in denial.

He refuses to believe that you just couldn’t get to the laundry today because you’re too exhausted from lying in bed all day. He refuses to believe that you couldn’t eat a bite because you didn’t even think to, too busy caught up in your own pain to remember, let alone care. He refuses to believe that you don’t even feel like you deserve to do anything good for yourself, so why even get up? Why bother? Why try to do anything anymore?

Just let the darkness take you away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. And then, maybe one day you won’t have to feel anything anymore. Maybe you’ll just disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He refuses to get it, and some part of you feels like it’s because he doesn’t want to. Because he’s afraid to acknowledge that it’s true. That if he starts therapy like you did, then this could just as easily happen to him, too.

But hey, that’s his problem, not yours. You’re still learning to prioritize yourself – to break away from co-dependency and focus on your own needs for once. You’re barely keeping your head above water; why should you have to work on him, too, when he doesn’t offer you the same consideration? You’ve done what you can, and he just turns a blind eye because he doesn’t want to understand your issues. Or his.

So, you’ve given up.

You plaster on a happy face when he’s home – a painful, never-ending reminder that you’re not okay, and you keep your troubles to yourself. You’ve stopped sharing your struggles with the man you married because he doesn’t understand, and it hurts. You try so hard to act like nothing’s wrong that sometimes you dissociate, and you don’t come back to yourself until you have a cigarette hanging between your lips, lit by a Zippo engraved with a clever, If you want to make love, smile when you hand this lighter back.

Seeing the joke on Bucky’s lighter always brings you back, because it’s ridiculous. It’s a throwback to his army days; Steve found it awhile back with Bucky’s old personal effects. Makes you wonder what he must have been like back then.

Cigarette smoke and leather and sandalwood in the dead of night – and you always make a point to smile when you hand it back to him.

Temptation incarnate, now. What a dream he would have been back then.

Sometimes you text him when you and Steve have had another fight.

Sometimes he texts you when he needs you to ground him.

Sometimes the two of you just text each other for the hell of it. It’s usually related to someone’s mental health, usually yours, but occasionally not; after all, over the last few months he’s become your partner in misery and crime. The two of you have shared things to each other that you’ve never told another person, not even Steve; and in some ways, you feel like you’ve bared your soul to him.

It’s intimate.

In other ways, you’ve kept your guard up because you know you’re playing with fire.

It’s wrong.

You know you should really tell Steve about your midnight conversations – that you probably know his best friend almost as well as he does, now, but Bucky’s become a guilty sort of pleasure that you keep near and dear to your heart. He makes you feel things that you haven’t felt in a long time, but you’re not ready to acknowledge what that means. Not yet.

And neither is Bucky, evidently, because Steve’s still none the wiser.

Eight months of this and you still want more.

Your husband trusts you. He never asks who you’re texting or what you’re up to. You’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise. He feels safe and secure in your relationship, but maybe he’s turning a blind eye to that, too.

He shouldn’t. 

You wish he didn’t.

Some small part of you wants him to catch you, and that’s what you resent the most. You’re self-destructive – ready to destroy the one good, stable thing in your life in favour of an impossibility, but you can’t deny that Bucky gives your brain the dopamine it needs, it craves, it lacks.

He’s been gone on a mission the last week and a half, but you saw the Quinjet fly in the hangar earlier in the evening, around six, and you’ve been keen to text him since. You’ve held back for a little while, not wanting to appear to eager to message him – so you’re certainly not too proud of how quickly your resolve cracks.

You, 10:33pm Please don’t tell me you came home with Lucky Strikes again.

Bucky, 10:41pm Sorry, princess. Didn’t realize I was seeing royalty tonight.

And then he sends through a photo of a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand – an invitation to come to the rooftop. Judging by the setting, he’s already there.

Despite his choice in a particularly harsh smoke, you’re more focused on the pet name that has your face burning hot. It’s something he’s started to tack on recently – ‘princess’ being most common, particularly when he’s teasing you about being spoiled in some way, but when he slips it in during a real conversation is what really makes your heart pound.

You know you should tell him to stop. You know you should, but, you don’t.

You like how it feels to feel for once.

You’re married. It’s wrong. You need to stop, but you just can’t help yourself. You’re lonely.

Steve’s still away on a mission, which doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to – you hope he returns safely, of course you do, but you don’t really miss him. Not like you should. That’s happened more often than not as of late, and you can feel your attention shifting the longer you keep up this dangerous game with his best friend.

If it even is a game, that is. It’s probably not. How could he possibly be attracted to you? You’re depressed. You’re boring. And, to top it all off, you’re his best friend’s wife.

Of course you’re the only participant. Bucky’s just humouring you. That’s all.

And now, as you swipe on some deodorant and attempt to make something out of the rat’s nest that is your hair, you feel a particularly awful level of disdain for yourself. The self-loathing pairs nicely with your poor appearance; you haven’t slept well in days, and you’ve barely eaten in just as long.

It’s only when Steve is here keeping you on a regular schedule that you do. Otherwise it’s a free for all anymore.

Bucky never seems to mind – just encourages you to go do what needs to be done when the conversation’s over. And somehow, you listen. 

Sometimes he texts to ask if you’re doing okay while he’s away on a mission, too – and you always lie, because he can’t prove otherwise. He sends you a couple reminders anyway, because he just knows. He understands that you’d rather not burden him with the truth.

And then, when he comes back, he calls you out on your lie. He calls you out and reminds you how valuable you are – to Steve, mostly, and to the team. You’re irreplaceable. You’re needed.

He never says how important you are to him, but you always wish he would.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

Tonight will be no different. Despite your negative beliefs about yourself, he’ll tell you otherwise, but you won’t believe him. You never do, even though you desperately want to.

You’re a mess, so a beanie it is. You pull it over your tangled hair and somehow get your bangs looking presentable, at least; then you give your clothes the sniff test, spritz a little body spray just in case, and head out the door. You had a shower yesterday because even you couldn’t stand it anymore. 

That’ll do.

Fingers tap anxiously at your feed in the quiet elevator. There’s some mild jazz playing, just like usual, but your heart pounds inside your chest – only brings more attention to your nerves.

Bucky hasn’t been gone long, but you’ve missed him.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

After exiting the elevator, a short flight of stairs takes you to the roof. Once you start to push, the fire exit door blows open of its own accord; it’s windy up here due to the change of seasons, not that you’ve even noticed it considering you haven’t been outside in over a week. The fresh air shoots straight through your hoodie and sweatpants, and you briskly rub your arms to warm up, immediately wishing you’d checked the temperature before you came outside, maybe grabbed a jacket. You hadn’t even thought of it. Your mind’s a mess.

Hadn’t thought of dinner, either. Or lunch.

That’s when a heavy leather jacket is deposited ungracefully on your shoulders, and you glance up behind you to find Bucky standing there, giving you the look. It’s the one that pre-empts the lecture. “That help?”

You nod, basking in the smell of him – sandalwood and spice. Ah. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He knows.

He can tell with just one look that you’ve been lying to him – that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you said you were. But he doesn’t reprimand you this time, or offer you platitudes; the disapproving look is enough.

Slippers on your feet, you pad over to the two lawn chairs he set up awhile back near the edge of the eastern wing; it’s got a nice view of the landing pad, but beyond that is the lake, and the two of you have come up here long enough to catch the sunrise once or twice. It’s nice.

“Good mission?” you ask, shoving your hands into your pockets as you collapse into your chair. It’s made of a terrible green fabric, seated low enough to the ground to let you curl your knees to your chest and cry when you want to. And you do. A lot.

This time, however, you’ve got your legs extended far ahead of you. You don’t want to talk about yourself tonight. You want to focus on him.

A distraction. That’s all. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

The other chair, woven blue and white, is where Bucky comes to rest just like always. You suspect that it was the cheapest one in the store, because it creaks and groans and you always think it’s going to break when he sits in it, but it never does. It’s also taller than yours, so you call him old man every now and then for it because that’s just hilarious.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

Not even when you’ve nearly fallen into his lap on more than one occasion thanks to drinking beforehand.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pausing to consider his answer, “I made it back.”

His tone is soft – distant. Not a good mission, then.

“I’m glad you made it back,” you offer, giving him what you hope is a hopeful smile. It feels fake, but the intention behind it is real.

He studies your face for a moment or two, before he averts his eyes. “You’re probably the only one. I had to do some things on the mission that I—” He cuts himself off, then, and pulls the pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket to fiddle with. A crutch. “I don’t like to use my strength when I don’t have to. Makes people nervous.”

He’s told you about it before. By ‘people’ he means ‘agents’. Other agents. The ones he was working with, no doubt. As if his arm isn’t reminder enough, sometimes if he doesn’t hold back – well, they start to treat him a little differently after that. It’s a reminder that he’s not fully human.

You can empathize. “It’s a little shocking at first,” you remind him gently, “but you do get used to it. I did. It just takes some time.”

Of course, you also married a super soldier, so there’s that. You can’t really gauge what’s ‘normal’ anymore.

That’s when he cracks open the pack  of cigarettes – half full, which means he must have been smoking on the mission, too, something he doesn’t usually do – and when he meets your eyes, the dark, anxious look there turns your stomach to knots.

“Are you?” he asks, voice low and laced with an emotion you just can’t place – or maybe you’re too afraid to acknowledge that you can, and very easily feel the same way. “I could break you in thirty ways before you could even tell me to stop.”

Your brain halts like a record scratch when the clear implication of his words sends a jolt straight to your core. Not just because it’s true, the threat, but because of the dangerous way he’s staring at you, coupled with the casual authority in his voice.

He could hurt you so easily, but you know he wouldn’t. Not you.

He could do other things, too – something a lot less violent and a lot more pleasurable – but you don’t let yourself consider that. You can’t. Even if it’s what he’s implying.

Is it what he’s implying?

You’re married. He knows that.

There’s a long pause while you try to gather your thoughts, until you finally manage as evenly as you can, “Are you trying to scare me?”

Your voice is still a little hoarse despite how much you willed it not to be. He did scare you a little – not that you’d ever admit it, because he excited you a hell of a lot more, and you hate that, too. But you love it even more.

Your question makes his shoulders slump, just slightly, just enough to let you know that that’s exactly what it was – that Bucky was lashing out, in his own way. That he’s the one who’s scared. That he’s trying to push you away.

Why?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you reassure him, because you aren’t. You could never be. Not like that. What you’re afraid of is so much worse than that – because it involves him and you, and you can’t make yourself stop wanting more of this. More of him. More of what he threatened to do to you – the underlying meaning you hope to god you’re not imagining, but you should never, ever want.

It’s wrong.

“You should be,” he responds, quiet, rolling the cigarette he’s half pulled out of the pack in between his fingers like he’s debating whether to light it, but he’s trying his hardest not to this time. “You shouldn’t be up here with me.”

The ball drops.

The truth that the two of you have been dancing around for months finally comes out, and you laugh – you laugh, because otherwise you’ll cry. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlin’, you’re—” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves the cigarette right back in, shoves the pack shut too for good measure. Blue eyes burn into yours. “You know why.”

“We’re friends, Bucky,” you emphasize, lightly, but deep within your chest you can feel the anger, the anxiety start to burn and meld together into something entirely unrecognizable. It’s the tiniest ember now, but it won’t be if this keeps up. You know you’re married. You know that. You don’t need the reminder. “We’re just talking. What’s the problem?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” He’s calm, too calm, and it bothers you. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”

It’s just pretend. It’s not real. You’re happily married with Steve. You’re happy.

Right?

“That’s all it is,” you argue. “I’m married. You said so yourself. Steve and I are happily married.”

Saying it out loud is just another cold, brutal reminder that you aren’t. Just like the façade you’re forced to wear. 

“Yeah? You’re happy?” Bucky asks, pulling himself to his feet – and you suddenly realize how tall he is when he’s towering over you like this. You’re not scared, no, you love it. And that makes it worse, the way he makes your heart race like this. “Then there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t told him about our little talks.”

Because they’re more than that. That’s the reason.

“Well, why haven’t you?” you shoot back, finally getting to your feet, too, feeling your face flush with anger. “You haven’t told him either. Why’s that, huh?”

Tense silence falls over the two of you as you glare at each other, the only light illuminating your features coming from the full moon. It’s a beautiful night, clear and chilly and bright, and you originally had hopes of maybe stargazing with him like you’ve done so many times before.

Not tonight.

He’s pushing you away. He wants to push you away. You know he is, it’s obvious – he tried one approach, and when that didn’t work, he went for the thing he knew would invoke a reaction. The thing that would hurt the most.

Steve. Your marriage. Your happiness, or lack thereof.

No matter how many times you try to tell that to the rational side of your brain, you just can’t handle it. It’s another rejection from someone you cared about – someone you felt yourself growing a potentially unhealthy attachment to – and he just had to hurt you like all the rest. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to see you suffer.

You can’t stand him.

So you shrug off his jacket and shove it at him. “Take your fucking jacket,” you bite out. “You want me gone? Well, I’m going. Hope you’re happy.”

The way he takes it from you catches you off guard, blue eyes wide with hurt and surprise – but you don’t give him another second of your time. Instead you spin around on your heel and stomp your way back to the access door.

You’re not well enough for this. You’re depressed. You’re broken. You’re lonely.

And now, the only person who understands has thrown you away – discarded you like you’re nothing. Maybe because you are. You’re worthless.

Your fingertips just brush against the handle when you’re tugged back by the wrist, and then his arms are around you, his chest pressing into your back.

He’s warm.

It’s wrong.

But it feels right, and you hate how easily you melt into his touch, into the feeling of his lips at your ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, and you’re done for.

The heat from your anger warps into something else – something that burns you up in a different way, and you swallow thickly at the feeling of his arms so snug around your waist. “What do you want, then?”

It’s barely audible, your question -- but he hears it just fine. Soft lips drag from your ear to your pulse, and you shiver, lulling your head back onto his shoulder.

“You tell me,” Bucky breathes against your skin. “I need to know what you want.”

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, and the stakes are only getting higher. You both have a lot to lose, but you’re the one taking the higher risk. Not him.

“I want—” His teeth gently nip at your neck and you can’t help yourself. “I want you—”

And then your back is pressed into the closed door, cold metal biting through your sweats but you don’t even notice, too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and his stubble scratches just a little, pleasantly, just enough to hurt in the best way.

It’s hot, too hot, god, you can’t handle the heat of his body against yours—

“Bucky,” you gasp against his lips, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair to pull him closer. You can taste with the barest bite of mint from his gum, along with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, and you realize—

He must have been up here for awhile.

Overthinking. Wondering what to do. Lost in thoughts of you, perhaps.

The idea of it sends a rush of delirium through you, and you open your mouth just enough to let his tongue explore – or dominate, which you soon find you like very much when Bucky does it to you. His flesh hand cups the side of your face as he kisses the breath out of you, and his vibranium one snugly presses into your lower back – purposely, you soon find, because suddenly your knees go weak and your arms tighten around his neck to catch yourself from falling.

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Oh, wow. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” he teases, kissing your forehead as he steadies you back on both feet – and it’s then that the realness of the situation seems to sink in.

You’ve just cheated on your husband.

He’s just kissed his best friend’s wife.

There’s a prolonged silence as the two of you look at each other, watching, wondering, waiting, and then—

“We have to tell him,” you say, a little uneasily. “Just… not yet. Figure this out first.”

You can feel the desperation to see where this leads, no matter what a bad idea it is.

Bucky swallows. It’s clear that the prospect of lying to Steve bothers Bucky just as much as it bothers you, but you know he feels that same desperation when he suggests, “And if it turns out to be nothing, then…”

“Yeah. No harm, no foul.”

You won’t tell him. Because if it’s nothing, then it’s not worth worrying about. 

Even if it’s wrong.

Right?

two

and a moodboard I made because why not

[statusquoergo]

do you ever wonder about what mike's arrest would have been like, angst and story wise, if mike and harvey had been together at that point in time? because i do. like all the time haha. i saw a post on here talking about that once and i haven't stopped thinking about it since!!

Gallo wouldn't have made it to the end of the season alive, that's for sure. Nobody puts the love of Harvey Specter's life in danger, pal, you can bet on that much.

No, okay, with the usual caveat of "let's pretend Suits has a little self-awareness and can carry out the emotional repercussions of a heavy plotline for more than five minutes," it sure would've been... Well, I think it would be very similar in some ways, and very different in others. As it is, Harvey dedicates himself body and soul to getting Mike out of prison, and them being together obviously wouldn't change that. Maybe he would've done even more, somehow, although I'm struggling to think of, like, how that could possibly have happened.

Let's back up a little bit, to the events of the trial.

Now, being that the show spent remarkably little time during the second half of Season 5 focusing on Mike and Rachel as a couple, I don't think much would necessarily change prior to the aborted wedding in the finale. Mike and Harvey are at odds over Mike's defensive strategy, but that's mainly because they want to protect each other, so being a couple would only intensify that response.

The first place there's really room to showcase a different narrative is when Rachel gets mad at Mike for defending that man in court rather than spending time with her. Being that Harvey is, by and large, more empathetic towards Mike's need to prove himself and his desire to help people in need, I think he might be frustrated that Mike wasn't taking perhaps one of his last moments of freedom to spend time with Harvey, but he would also understand where Mike is coming from. That is, Mike has had this amazing experience over the past five years and worked so hard all this time to use his fairly accidental power to help people who would not normally be helped by someone in his position, and now the life he's built for himself is about to be ripped away, but he's stumbled on this one last chance to help someone else who's in the midst of being fucked over by the system, and he's going to take it, because he has to. Because he's Mike, and that's what Mike does.

So where does that leave us? With a great opportunity for Harvey and Mike to have an actual heart-to-heart that comes less from a place of anger, as their glass-throwing fisticuffs in the next episode, and more from a place of hurt—not Harvey's hurt feelings that Mike isn't spending time with him, or Mike hurting over his potentially impending imprisonment, but them both hurting for each other for what's going to happen if Mike goes to prison. From an angst perspective, this is a wonderful opportunity for a really soul-baring scene from the two of them, especially if Mike is starting to feel the hopelessness that prompts him to accept Gibbs's deal, and Harvey might or might not see the writing on the wall but refuses to accept it without fighting to the last breath.

Anyway, they missed out a little bit there.

As I said before, Harvey canonically devotes himself wholeheartedly to getting Mike out of prison, so I don't know that a lot would necessarily change in the overall scheme of things once he's there, but there are specific events that could be very interesting to handle differently. First of all, Harvey and the warden drugging Mike to give him a few hours with Rachel. The plan is stupid, the plan has always been stupid, and now that plan isn't going to happen, so that's good, but also Harvey still needs Mike to accept Cahill's deal, so how's he going to do that?

More emotive speeches!

No seriously think about it, if Harvey and Mike are a couple and the only thing keeping Mike from getting out of his sentence early is his refusal to turn on his cellmate who he's known for all of five minutes (hyperbole, but not much), what kind of impassioned conversation do you think Harvey and Mike might have arguing over that? There can still be backdoor shenanigans with the warden, even, if Harvey wants to secure them a conversation someplace where they won't be recorded so they can really release their inhibitions. I'm actually not talking about a sexual encounter, but Harvey in particular is, as we know, very guarded with his emotions, and Mike might've learned by that point not to be so cavalier about saying or doing whatever he pleases wherever and whenever it occurs to him, so getting them into a completely private space could be very...freeing, to use a slightly misguided word in these circumstances. More angst, is what I'm saying, this is a great opportunity for another really deep, vulnerable, angst-ful scene.

And that's all very well and good from a plot-alteration standpoint, but how about emotionally? Though I don't know that Harvey's actions would change much if he and Mike were in a relationship as opposed to merely...dangerously codependent, I could see his mental state fraying more than it does in canon. Not to bring this all back around to his mother, but let's bring this back around to his mother: It's heinously unfair to say Harvey would feel abandoned by Mike going to prison, so I'd like to think that if Harvey does feel that way at any point, he recognizes it and shuts it down pretty quickly. He's not the most emotionally astute guy around, sure, but he's not a total idiot.

But what I do think there's room for is the collision of Harvey's mantra that "Everybody leaves," and his somewhat more hidden resignation that "I drive everyone away." Mike is in prison, because Harvey couldn't save him. Because Harvey wasn't fast enough at the courthouse. Because Harvey wasn't a good enough lawyer. Because Harvey couldn't convince Mike to let him take the fall for them both. Mike is in prison for Harvey. If they're a couple, I'd love to see this played out more thoroughly with some more attention given to some of the actual reasons Harvey is moving heaven and earth to get Mike out, aside from just "He's Mike and we're attached at the hip," or even in this alternate universe, "He's my boyfriend and I love him." No, let's get down in there and talk about what the parameters of this situation are doing to Harvey, who never talks about his feelings or examines his own emotional state. He's gotta start coming apart at the seams, to say the least, and what do you think Mike's response would be to that during their way-too-frequent-to-be-legal visitations? Nothing good, I'm sure of that, especially on top of the hardship of living in prison. Harvey is hurting, Mike is hurting, their hurting is hurting each other, everyone is miserable and there's not a whole lot to be done about it. So what do we do? Fight harder, of course! Ugh, I hope Harvey doesn't do anything too unhinged...

Well, anyway, I certainly think there's room to explore that idea and I'm sure I haven't exhausted the possibilities here, but it was fun to think about! Thanks for bringing this up!

[parentsnevertoldus]

PMDD AND AUTISM: SENSORY OVERLOAD BY LAURA MULLEN

From SeeHerThrive

October 01, 2018

I’m Laura, a 34 year old, neurodiverse mother of two beautiful neurodiverse girls and wife to a wonderful neurodiverse man. I have struggled with PMDD, Post-partum Depression and Psychosis, and Menstrual Psychosis in my life. I’m passionate about learning and advocating for others who are suffering menstrual related disorders and advocating for the autistic/neurodiverse population. I talk openly about my own experiences through out my life, including my suicide attempts due to my menstrual related disorders.

I have two passions in life, which both relate to myself and my kids: autism and menstrual mood disorders.

I’ve been part of the Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder scene longer than I have been part of the autism scene, but both felt like home immediately. We talk about finding our tribes, our homes, with people who immediately understand us without questioning what we are going through, without invalidating our thoughts and feelings. Imagine my surprise when upon finding my autism crowd that many struggled with PMDD or other menstrual/hormone related disorders too. See, in the neurotypical world, PMDD is little known and talked about. However, in my autism support group, it’s not uncommon to see it in discussions.

I’m not formally diagnosed autistic. I self-identify and after a few years of research (which started because of my daughter’s diagnosis) quickly became a special interest of my own when I started to relate so much myself.

Women and AFAB individuals often experience autism differently than male/AMAB counterparts. We are often discounted or ignored because we are more social, and we tend to mask our struggles.

Women as a whole are expected to mask their struggles in life, neurodiverse or not.

Classic theories of emotion posit that awareness of one's internal bodily states (interoception) is a key component of emotional experience (Jamil Zaki, 2012).There is talk in some autistic groups I participate in of PMDD or hormonal mood disorders being more prevalent in those that are autistic. This leads me to believe that this sensitivity to hormone fluctuation may be part of the interoceptive sense. When a person has a sensory disorder, we think most commonly of touch, auditory, taste, sight, and smells. Sometimes vestibular and proprioceptive sense is included.

What is rarely discussed in sensory disorders is interoception sensory issues/processing and just how it can affect a person and what it can actually mean for mental/emotional health when its processing is disordered. Yes, for a sensory avoidant person such as myself who shies away from bright light because it hurts or loud noisy areas because those too are painful and overwhelming, my interoception sense is also avoidant and extra sensitive to overwhelm.

But what is interoceptive sense and why in the world would there be a connection to PMDD?

For a long, medical definition of interoception you can read more here. For a simpler definition I am borrowing a passage from www.inspiredtreehouse.com:

Interoception refers to our perception of what is going on inside our bodies and is responsible for feelings of hunger, thirst, sickness, pain, having to go to the bathroom, tiredness, temperature, itch, and other internal sensations. What’s even more interesting about interoception is that it goes deeper than physical sensations because – as with all of our sensory systems – when our brains receive these internal signals, we interpret, attend to, and analyze them. So interoception is also associated with our sense of well-being, mood, and emotional regulation. (Heffron, 2017)

We know that the interoception sense is often part of a sensory processing disorder. We also know that under stress or overwhelm that our interoception is affected, often greatly. Think of our heart rate increasing during a panic attack or irritable bowel issues due to anxiety. And these also affect our emotions, maybe our heart rate is faster than normal, so we become anxious, creating a more rapid heart rate.

”Influential theories suggest emotional feeling states arise from physiological changes from within the body.” (Hugo D Critchley, 2017). Now, we know that PMDD has a physiological response system. The rise and fall of hormones within the body triggers a physical response from several systems in our body, not just ovaries and uterus, but deep within our gut, adrenergic systems, our cardiovascular system, and our brain.

Compare the response of a sudden surge of progesterone in the late luteal phase to that of an individual with sensory processing disorder being overwhelmed by a sudden shove into a noisy gymnasium, with bright lights, many bodies, smells and a cacophony of sounds. Said individual would likely go into either shutdown or meltdown mode, as they were unprepared for such an assault on their system and may even have difficulty regulating their emotions; in fact their temper may become frayed quickly, they may find themselves having a panic attacks, anxiety may overwhelm them, their body may start producing pain signals to the overloaded senses, they may even collapse under the weight of it all.

A person without the sensory issue may find this environment exhilarating. I would certainly be huddled in a corner until I felt that I could safely slip away unnoticed. Or, I would start to snap at those around me because of a desperate need to get away.

During the monthly cycle, my sensory system would be overwhelmed by the rise and fall of hormones and I felt completely out of control, emotionally.

Because I was out of control. My sensory processing could not keep up with both the physical and emotional toll of what my body was going through. I see so many sad stories of young girls starting menses and the emotional outbursts and meltdowns make absolute sense if you think of hormones as overwhelming a sensory system that just cannot handle it. Any homeostasis change in our environment is difficult to cope with, especially drastic hormone fluctuations during the menstrual cycle.

It’s not that there is anything abnormal about the menstrual cycle itself, but rather how our body processes the sensations and systems that cause a rise and fall outside of the comfort zone.

I believe that this can explain why women are affected by PMDD and how it all works. We found out in the last couple of years that there is a genetic link to PMDD. We also know that it is a sensitivity to hormone fluctuations, not the hormones themselves. Putting two and two together is what led me to this thought process, that it is part of the sensory systems and a processing disorder that causes a severe response, or meltdown, to our hormonal cycle. Obviously, not every woman who experiences PMDD or PME or other menstrual related disorders is autistic or has a sensory processing disorder; however, many are highly sensitive, both physically and emotionally.

Sources

Heffron, C. (2017, February 27). What is Interoception. Retrieved from The Inspired Treehouse: https://theinspiredtreehouse.com/what-is-interoception/

Hugo D Critchley, S. N. (2017, October). Interoception and emotion. Retrieved from Science Direct: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2352250X17300106

Jamil Zaki, J. I. (2012, 05 12). Overlapping activity in anterior insula during interoception and emotional experience. Retrieved from Science Direct: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1053811912005009

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Non-Sequential [Ch. 23]

Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader

One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.

Word Count: 2,200

Chapter 22

“Hello?” Y/N answered as she glanced behind at Bucky’s hut. There was a part of her that didn’t fully believe Steve was on the other end of the phone call. After all, she had nothing but silence from him when she first got to Wakanda.

“Y/N? Oh, thank God.” Steve immediately sighed in relief.

“Hi, Steve.” Hearing his voice eased in a way she wasn’t expecting.

“Shuri got me a message. Are you alright?”

‘Shuri got him a message,’ as in she told Steve she had traveled again.

���I’m fine,” Y/N muttered. Yes, physically she was fine. But emotionally and mentally she was still shaken.

There was a beat of silence.

“Want to talk about it?” He asked carefully.

Y/N sighed. Did she actually want to tell him?

“How about when you get back?” She offered and her face twisted into a wince even though she knew no one could see it.

“I can live with that,” he answered.

She blinked. “When will that be?”

“Couple a days. I promise.”

Y/N nodded her head and then realized Steve couldn’t see her. “Where are you?”

“I – I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t tell you. It’s best if you don’t know anything. The line’s supposed to be secure, but I just – I want to keep you out of my mess.”

“I get it,” she muttered, barely audible.

Steve sighed on the other end. “I’ll be back soon, Y/N. I promise.”

Y/N nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see it.

There was a moment of silence on the call

“You’re not OK, are you?” Steve challenged.

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears and her bottom lip trembled. “No,” she blurted out.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I should be there.” Even though she couldn’t see him, Y/N knew his head was hanging with disappointment and guilt. “Damn it. I need–I should be there,” he repeated.

“It’s OK, Steve. I’m-I’m with Bucky.”

Then she wondered if that would even give him comfort.

“That’s-That’s good,” Steve answered.

He knew Bucky would look after her. Hell, he was looking after when Steve had been acting like a complete and utter fool.

But there was also a weird, ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He refused to analyze it or even acknowledge it. But it was still there. And he hated it.

“Y/N,” even the way he said her name was filled with disappointment, “I gotta go.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed back, trying not to let her emotions all slip out at once and worry him even more. “Do you want to talk to Bucky?” After all, it was his phone that Steve called.

“No,” Steve answered too quickly, too bitingly. “No,” he said again, softer this time, correcting himself. “I’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“Umm…OK.” Y/N was confused by his reaction.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I-I love you too, Steve.”

——————————

Steve kept his promise, returning in the middle of the night just 36 hours after he got off the phone with Y/N.

He was put into an immediate panic when he returned to his room to find that Y/N was not sleeping soundly in his bed. He became even more panicked when she was nowhere to be found in her own personal suite either.

Eventually, Steve ran into a royal guard in the hallway.

“Y/N,” He blurted out like some crazy person. “Shuri told me she would contact me any time Y/N traveled while I was gone. I can’t find her anywhere, but Shuri didn’t tell me.”

The guard seemed confused, but patiently listened. Of course not everyone in the palace knew Y/N or Steve, or the personal and complicated situation that Steve was trying to explain.

“I-I am sorry, Captain Rogers, but I do not know what you speak of. I can wake Princess Shuri or King T’Challa if you–”

“No. No, please, there’s no need for that,” Steve quickly shut that down. But he ran a hand throw his shaggy hair, making it clear that his distress was still strong.

“It is the other guest you are looking for?” The guard asked softly.

Steve nodded.

“Perhaps you will find her at the White Wolf’s home.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “White Wolf?”

The guard nodded. “Your friend. Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. First, out of stupidity. Of course she was with Bucky. Why hadn’t he immediately gone there instead of bringing poor guards into his anxiety? Second, that terrible and ugly feeling found its way back into his gut.

“Thank you,” he told the guard before rushing out of the palace.

Steve made it to the outskirts, where Bucky’s hut resided, in record time. 

Without thinking about the ungodly hour, Steve’s fist tapped on the door of Bucky’s hut.

He didn’t hear movement on the other side, which wouldn’t be surprising since Bucky moved like a snake, unable to shake his assassin training.

The door started unlocking.

Steve expected to find Bucky disheveled with sleepy eyes. But it was clear that super soldier hadn’t been sleeping when Steve knocked on his door.

“Steve, you’re back,” Bucky commented with a lightness.

“Is Y/N here?” Steve asked, not meaning to skip the pleasantries and sound rude.

The question made Bucky shift his weight. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s here.” Then he opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in.

Steve quickly looked for Y/N to be awake somewhere in the hut. Instead, he found her fast asleep… in Bucky’s bed.

Bucky immediately saw what the situation could be misinterpreted as and cleared his throat. “She hasn’t been sleeping well… so she’s been here.” His voice was quiet, making sure he didn’t wake Y/N. Steve ignored Bucky, his eyes never leaving Y/N. He slowly walked forward until he was at the edge of the bed. Upon closer look, Steve realized that she was wearing one of his own t-shirts. One of the few he had since being on the run, which mean it was fraying and littered with holes here and there.

Steve gave a soft smile, finally relieved to see for himself that she was in the present, that she was – for the most part – ok.

He reached forward and brushed hair out of her face, placing it gently behind her ear.

Even in her sleep, Y/N sensed him. She sighed dreamily from just a whisper of his touch.

Steve then leaned back and finally turned his attention back to Bucky.

“Can we talk?” Then he looked at the door. “Outside,” he clarified.

Bucky winced even though Steve’s tone couldn’t have been more tranquil.

Both men gave one last glance at Y/N before shuffling out.

Bucky walked a few paces behind Steve, who didn’t stop walking until they were under the giant marula tree that was planted 50 yards from his hut.

Bucky waited patiently for Steve to speak first. But he seemed too lost in his head to begin.

Steve’s hands were on his hips as he stared into the darkness that surrounded them.

“You kissed her.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “No, Steve, nothing happened. I wouldn’t–I’d never do that. To either of you. I swear she’s just been sleeping here. She didn’t want to be alone.”

Steve finally looked him in the eye. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“The day you fell from the train,” Steve continued. “You kissed her. She tried to get you to stay. Tried to do anything that would stop you from getting on that train. And you kissed her.”

Bucky was blindsided. “She-She told you about that?”

“Was she not supposed to?” Steve challenged with a fire in his eyes.

Bucky had seen it in Steve’s eyes before, but it had never been directed at him. Not even when they fought and he’d tried to kill him as the Winter Soldier.

“No. I mean, yes! Shit.” He shook his head at the fumbling of his words. “What I’m trying to say is that she has the right to tell you anything she wants.” Bucky cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You were always the one to get the girls,” Steve thought aloud. Then he even smiled. “I made a joke of it when she first told me. She thought I’d hate her. Pretty sure she was convinced it would be the thing that broke us up.”

“I almost didn’t think anything of it. Back then, you were in love with another girl every week. Every time, no matter what, you were convinced they were the one.” Steve’s jaw clenched as he turned to Bucky again. “But then, without fail, you’d be on to the next girl as if the last one never even existed.”

Bucky wait for him to continue. He was smart enough to know that this wasn’t his time to talk. So he just had to stand there and take it.

“It didn’t bother me. I never planned to even bring it up.” Steve sighed. “But then I realized how you treated Y/N the opposite of all them. She wasn’t just the flavor of the week. She had stood the test of time. But it’s not time, is it?” Steve waited a moment. He had to find the courage to finally say what had been eating away at him. “You’re in love with her.”

Bucky’s face was pained. There were no words. He couldn’t lie and tell Steve was wrong. But he was also too much of a coward to admit to the truth.

But he owed his best friend something.

“Steve…Steve, I’m sorry.” He felt sick. 

But Bucky was met with silence.

“Steve, please do something,” he begged.

“Do what?” He demanded.

“Hit me! Cuss me out! Tell me that you hate me!”

Steve took a step forward. “Hit you? Hate you?” Even saying the words aloud didn’t make it easier for his mind to wrap around them. How could he ever do either of those things? “You think I brought this up because I want to hurt you?”

“It’s what I deserve,” Bucky mumbled. 

Steve shook his head. “The most ridiculous part is that I can’t even blame you. Because I know you love everything about her that I love.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Steve. I tried not – damnit! Do you know what it feels like to be in love with your best friend’s girl? I hate myself for it. I never wanted you to know. I tried my god damned hardest to keep it a secret.”

“Haven't you learned by now that you and I can’t keep secrets from each other?”

Bucky chuckled darkly at the comment. He ran his hand through his hair. “Well, if you’re not going to punch me… why did you bring it up then?”

“I don’t know.” Steve lowered his head. “I guess…I guess my jealousy finally made me snap.”

“Jealousy?” Bucky repeated with bewilderment. “Did you forget that you’re the one who already won the girl?”

“I messed up, Buck. I pushed her away. Left her here all alone. She almost died and I wasn’t there for her. But you were. And when I’m gone, you’re the one she goes to.” He sighed. “And as much as I hate to admit it, I still feel like that scrawny kid who was invisible to women. The women that were always falling for you.” He eyed Bucky with sadness. “What’s stopping Y/N from doing the same?”

“The fact that she’s in love with you, Steve.” Bucky answered immediately.

Before Steve could answer, the door of the hut opened.

Both men’s head whipped in the direction of the sound.

Y/N tiptoed out with a blanket wrapped around her.

Her eyes squinted, trying to adjust to the darkness. But even in the Wakandan night, she recognized Steve’s silhouette.

“Steve?” She gasped. 

Then she was running to him.

He tried to meet her, taking quick steps to shorten the distance.

Then she flung herself into his arms. Steve gripped her tightly, lifting her off of her feet. Her face was buried into his shoulder as he rubbed her back in comfort.

They stayed like that for a moment of two.

Bucky had no choice but to witness their love.

When Steve finally set her down, Y/N took in the scene she’d interrupted.

“What’s going on?” She whispered worriedly. “What’s happened?”

Bucky looked to Steve, letting him navigate the situation.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine. I just came to take you back to the palace with me.” He kissed her lips. “I missed you,” he sighed.

“OK…” Y/N gave him a shy smile, believing his words.

Steve held her hand and started leading her back up the hill.

Y/N only got a few steps before she paused. Steve looked at her questioningly. Then she turned and hurried back to Bucky.

Steve stood and watched as he heard Y/N whisper a ‘thank you’ and give him a warm hug. Bucky made eye contact with him as he met her embrace.

No, there was no way Bucky could’ve stopped himself from falling in love with Y/N.

She made that damn near impossible.

--------------------

CHAPTER 24

I don’t know how it happened, maybe it was the long weekend or whatever, but I found myself both motivated and inspired. Honestly, it might’ve been because I watched the new Little Women and Jo beat some sense into me lol. 

For the 3 people still reading this, I’d love to hear from you. 

[miqojak]

💍, 📓, ⚖️, and 🤕!

💍 Does your OC have a specific item that is priceless to them but may (or may not) be completely worthless to someone else? Is there a story behind this item or is it just because they like it so much? I’ve had this ask before, and every time I get it, I wrack my brain. I still don’t think there’s any one item she values above the rest. She’s materialistic, sure, but if her house burned down...she’d save her sketchbook? In the end, she was raised in a nomadic tribe as a kit, and stuff is just stuff. You can’t always take everything with you - junk bogs you down. She likes her stuff...but the only item of incredible import to her is really her sketchbook, as it's more of an extension of self, than an item. 📓 Write a typical diary/journal page by your OC! (or if you’d rather not, describe their journal. Do they keep one, why?) Jak doesn’t keep a journal! She has only really started learning to read/write this last year, and is finally starting to be halfway decent at it (much to her chagrin). Her version of a ‘journal’ is her sketchbook! She has picture perfect recall (when she puts the effort into wanting to remember a thing), when it comes to her sketches, and it’s...a good way to sort of show how she sees things differently, or how she processes the world. She’s visual - words are fleeting and unimportant, ultimately, to her. She’d probably find the notion of a diary/journal stupid - then ANYONE could just read your inner mind?? She doesn’t even readily allow just anyone to see her art, either, for that reason.  As for what’s in it...strange depictions from her mind. Lots of jackal themes, lots of death themes.. Lots of sketches of people important to her - which is really only one person, now. She tore out and burned all the art of her ex’s, because she wants them out of her life for good...and that was as close to burning them alive as she could get. :P ⚖️ What is the biggest crime your OC has committed? Are they a thief, a cheat, a liar? What is the smallest, most petty crime they’ve committed? Or do they not do crime at all? Jak is indeed a thief, and aspires to be the best thief; a cat burglar of renown. She’ll cheat/manipulate without batting an eyelash, but she does not outright lie...ever, really. If she had to, she would. But she finds it uncouth and lazy. Anyone can make up some bo-shite, but it takes finesse to manipulate words and weave the truth into something it isn’t...without outright lying. The most petty crime...I mean, she was a pickpocket for a long time, but if I had to rank ‘most petty’ and took ‘petty’ to mean being petty AND it’s a small crime...she loves to do B&E’s. Yes, you know the Dane Cook skit. She loves breaking into random people’s homes and trashing their shit - or, just...rearranging things, move them a little. She gets off on knowing that she’s creating chaos - that, when those people get home...they will no longer feel safe in their own ‘den’, as she would term it. Knowing that these people won’t be able to rest easy, that they will be looking over their shoulders and asking questions for weeks to come, maybe moons? It really gets her. She loves that shit. She’s in control - she’s making ripples in a pond that will spread, and spread.

Most heinous crime...thus far is probably straight up murder. Last year, she had a hard time adjusting to the DRK soul crystal, and well...we all saw the canonical Fray ask for blood as payment, with the WoL (well, if you’ve made a DRK you have). Now imagine someone even more deeply emotionally disturbed than the WoL getting a Fray; she struggled to control these deep and volatile emotions that the power stems from, because she tends to refuse to face her emotions and cope in a healthy manner, so she lost control a ‘few’ times. In fact, Starlight before this recent one? She just...murdered a couple in their home and draped what was left of them on their Starlight tree. She’s gruesome, when the time for careful control has passed. 🤕 What is the worst injury your OC has ever suffered? Do they have any scars or lasting physical reminders of it? Do they get sick often or have any lasting medical conditions? 

  Well, theoretically the worst injuries are from her backstory - her time in a Garlean war camp/prison/detainment facility/concentration camp, whatever you want to term it, they tested a lot of medical finds on the captives therein, and torture was regularly part of life. She has a lot of mental hang-ups due to that, but I’ll say that since I’ve been writing her, the worst injury she’s had was getting caught in a 3v1 in an alleyway trying to protect someone else...and she took a flaming sword to the back that split her from the inside of her left shoulder/neck, down to just the top of her right buttock. Extensive healing got her back from a pretty bad place, but she has a nasty scar down the length of her back, now, and she’s kind of annoyed about it. She can’t put a full-back tattoo there, now, unless she incorporates the scar!

That said, the scar still gives her trouble at times, but she doesn’t bring it up with anyone, really. But it was a big wound, and hastily healed, so there’s absolutely times she has muscle spasms, or it aches. I’ve wondered about writing something about it, in fact! She doesn’t like being touched, but she’s debating a masseuse to help her handle this angry scar on her back...

[sombrz]

The Evolution of Katsuki Bakugou and The Importance of Saving

after the last chapter, i couldn’t help myself and wrote down a huge...meta? description of a collection of moments? relating to bakugou’s ongoing arc with his increasing dedication to prioritizing rescuing others in his pursuit to be a top hero. feel free to add on if i somehow forgot something!

behind the cut bc it’s really image heavy!

CHAPTER 5

we’re introduced to the concept of combat vs rescue, win vs save - and of course it’s by comparing our main boys. they started on opposite ends of the spectrum, after all. deku’s all hero, no super. bakugou’s all super, no hero. so yeah, bakugou managed to get first place in the entrance exam without a single rescue point. which is a feat considering even iida managed to get 9 points and it was clear he wasn’t thinking about helping others until he saw deku’s bravery when uraraka was in danger. at this point, bakugou’s only interested in showing off. being flashy and tough, proving he’s the best!

CHAPTER 18

bakugou’s first rescue and he could give less of a shit! he saves deku from running into kurogiri’s portal here, not with the motivation of saving his life but to get him out of the way - he jumped into the fray in order to take down kurogiri. saving deku isn’t even a plus, really, it’s just a side effect.

deku’s still grateful though.

EXTRA 1: THE FIRST OVA (actually written by horikoshi!)

bakugou initially complains about having to be on rescue duty, but he still gets praised by thirteen for his efforts: many heroes struggle with the parts of heroism that they can’t easily solve with their quirks, and simply by manually pulling the stretcher up, he’s showing he’s capable of overcoming that. a beautiful hero, indeed. then, later, while he himself doesn’t rescue todoroki, he works in tandem with deku and class 1A to ensure that save AND their victory. and while iida, uraraka and asui give deku the credit of coming up with their plan, and he modestly returns the praise to everyone, he makes sure to give indivudual kudos to bakugou - because like this OVA, aizawa’s ‘twin pillar’ speech, all might’s ‘raise each other up’ speech, and the upcoming movie all prove: deku and bakugou work best when leading their peers together using the ‘save AND win’ mentality.

CHAPTER 65 + Ultra Archive Databook Omake

saves deku again, this time from all might. this is interesting because he’s doing this for both their benefits despite still not really having the ‘rescue’ mindset. he’s counting on deku to make it to the gate, but he was the one (by launching deku towards the gate to begin with) who assigned them these roles. deku as the runner, while bakugou distracts all might and therefore, shields deku from the brunt of the attack. he’s putting himself in physical harm for deku. but he’s not thinking it that way: to him, this is still just for personal gain (passing their exam) and due to (thanks to deku) a renewed sense of willpower and drive. he sees these actions as his own willingness to destroy himself for a victory.

 and he’s definitely pissed later during the databook omake that deku went back for him, seeing no positives in deku’s innate inability to ignore others when they’re in trouble (especially when that someone is bakugou himself - since we learn during this exam that bakugou equates all might being able to stand against any kind of tribulation by HIMSELF and coming up on top as what makes him the strongest hero). 

EXTRA 2: THE FIRST MOVIE (not written by horikoshi but i still wanna bring it up)

uraraka can’t fight back or escape the drones because she’d have to release her quirk to do so - which would put deku and melissa in danger. but when things look grim, who comes to the rescue? bakugou does! like his first rescue, he’s not doing this with the thought process of ‘oh i have to save my friend’ but rather, ‘hey i just got here and there’s things to fight and one of them is about to attack uraraka so might as well start with that’ but in this case, it’s....the action that counts! and the action was still heroic! he did it in a very dramatic way too!

CHAPTERS 79, 80, 85, 90

i decided to group all these together. it’s all in the same conjoined arcs and it’s a little more nebulous on whether it counts for this particular meta because, well, bakugou doesn’t really do any rescuing. i didn’t bother with the sludge monster scene because it’s pretty clear-cut but i think that this really set the baseline for all future bakugou development and he filled the role of the damsel in need of rescuing - so it definitely affected his perception of it.

things i wanted to point out: during the forest, he and todoroki are together since they ended up partners during the forest activity. at some point after (or maybe as it happened) the mustard gas filled the forest, they came across tsuburaba and todoroki decided to carry him through the rest of the way. todoroki also has to continually point out to bakugou that he should avoid using his quirk as to avoid further endangering their peers still in the forest (since, y’know, fire and explosions + wooded area = bad). for this entire time, bakugou is the hothead who just wants to fight and needs to be reminded that, hey, others could get hurt if you’re not careful. he barely pays tsuburaba any mind either, and we can probably assume he refuted it if todoroki even slightly implied they take turns carrying him or something.

he still helps out tokoyami even though he didn’t really need to, since todoroki’s fire would have probably sufficed on its own. so that’s nice! but then the convo switches gears to the fact that the legue of villains are here to kidnap bakugou and his friends all agree to be his [fandom voice] defense squad. EXCEPT, WAIT, WHAT THE FUCK? HE DOESN’T NEED ANY PROTECTION, THANK YOU VERY LITTLE, HE’S FINE BY HI - oh, yikes, and he got taken by mr. compress. i do like how he did listen to todoroki telling him to follow them, and must have stopped grousing about it long enough for the guys in front to not realize when he and tokoyami got taken. 

uraraka’s the first to bring up that bakugou would probably feel bad about being rescued - because of his pride. that’s what leads deku to add the caveat of, if we offer our help to kacchan, kirishima should be the one reaching out - at this point, bakugou would hate help from anyone, even though he KNEW that he was a hindrance to all might during the fight, and deku knows from personal experience after the whole sludge monster debacle, but it’s less of a blow to his ego if it’s someone he doesn’t see as a threat, and he’ll be less hostile if it’s someone he recognizes completely as a friend. the fact that he’s starting to see anyone as a friend is a lot! and though he denies it later, that grin says it all - he’s glad to be saved. he’s thankful.

CHAPTER 110 (& 113)

this is also an interesting one. i wish more people did a bit of retroactive meta for bakugou during this arc, because everything he does really shows his mental state in the aftermath of his kidnapping. anyway, while the first part of the exam was to show off your battle prowess against foes (which, another interesting note, bakugou would have FAILED without kaminari), the second test is where you show off your saving skills. and this is NOT what bakugou does. his tagalong BFFs chastise him for his behaviour, but the ‘victims’ seem to realize bakugou is observant enough to know they’re low priority civillians. this doesn’t stop them from taking points off for his bad attitude though - because the thing about bakugou is he’s actually emotionally intelligent enough to understand other people (when not clouded by personal feelings), but he repressed his empathy at a young age and therefore struggles with acting appropriately without coming off as terrible. and he ends up failing because he presumably doesn’t try to alter his method and lets kaminari and kirishima do all the heavy lifting while being unusually complacent throughout - not even bothering to check out the big gang orca fight, despite apparently being aware it was happening.

but also, side note about the first test - where kaminari notes that bakugou held back on using his more powerful attacks because he didn’t want to hurt kirishima (who was on the ground) or kaminari. i didn’t include it as its own thing here since it more shows bakugou’s development in terms of teamwork, and not really rescuing - though i DO think getting kirishima back was on bakugou’s mind - but it’s still bakugou being pre-emptive and mindful of not hurting others and caring about his friends. sowing the seeds for his future motivations.

CHAPTER 120

after he failed his exam, finally vented his guilt and frustration, and beat deku in their fight - all might shows up with some words of wisdom! bakugou admits that all that ^ wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but a cool thing about bakugou is that he always absorbs criticism and advice and takes it to heart (ex: bakugou’s start line!) he’s not averse to changing himself to improve, and if his IDOL says that being a bit more like deku is the way to be the best hero: that he can finally put aside all that anger and all those misunderstandings, and instead rise up by helping deku and keeping pace with him? surpassing him? that saving people is just as important as the final victory? then there has to be some truth to that, right?

bakugou has nothing to do now but let all those revelations simmer, attend his remedial classes, and wait to be relevant again.

and so we’re now in a different ball game!

CHAPTER 207

let’s fast-forward a few months. bakugou’s been out of the spotlight for a bit, if you don’t count him getting his babysitting credentials, joining a band and just generally being more invested in ~friendship~. but we haven’t seen him fight anyone for a while! he automatically puts himself in the leadership position of team 4, annoys his friends by being bossy and impatient, same old bakugou, and then - wait, he throws himself between kamakiri and jirou to save her?

we finally see the fruits of his labour after deku vs kacchan 2. the old bakugou wasn’t a team player, didn’t care if anyone else got hurt as long as they didn’t get in between him and his opponent - him and victory. the new bakugou is still prickly, still has the same personality, still wants nothing more than to surpass the number one hero - but he’s had a change of heart. the new bakugou has discovered a new strength, and that’s the desire to rescue others.

CHAPTER 208

i don’t even have to say anything. class 1A does it for me. while monoma, tokage and class 1B are shocked beyond belief that bakugou is capable of changing...his friends are just proud and happy. at this point - seeing him day in and out - they (especially the ones he’s built up closer friendships with, like kirishima and kaminari) all know exactly how he thinks and feels. 

we also get to hear that, before the fight even started, he straight-up put it out there: ‘if you guys are in trouble, i’ll save you. if I’M in trouble, YOU gotta save me.’ and that’s the next step, right? bakugou never put stock in protecting others, sure, but he was adamantly threatened by the idea of being the one that needed protection. because that would mean he was weak, right? he can handle anything by himself! except....his friends saved him in kamino ward, and maybe - his databook bio implies this too - time to reflect on it has let him see that...was okay. we saw in the license exam with kaminari, and during the culture festival with jirou and the band (both things that are brought up here) that he’s begun to - not just acknowledge his peers as worthy of respect, as he did with todoroki and yaoyorozu after the battle trial and with kirishima and uraraka after the sports festival - but TRUST them too. specifically here, he trusts that if he fucks up or if class 1B decides to target him, he can count on his teammates - on jirou, sero and satou - to rescue him and take over when he can’t do it himself. and they do, so well done!

CHAPTER 219

the sketch is from the volume extras: to let us know that bakugou attacked from up above in the air (and the lamp post) in order to make sure no bystanders got hurt from his explosions or todoroki’s ice. :)

anyway, this is his official premiere into the hero world! his first licensed fight, and it serves as a surprising template for how bakugou operates these days. for one, he has no qualms with teaming up with todoroki - whom he claims to dislike (haha, suuuuure, kacchan). two, he lets todoroki call dibs on the main baddie while bakugou takes care of all the lackies (in one fell swoop bc he’s THAT GOOD) - even though one could easily argue that there’s less glory in that. three, he’s aware of his surroundings and notices a civillian in danger at the same time as all might, moving quick to save her, whereas todoroki only manages to react in the aftermath - because, as we’ve seen, rescue is now firmly imprinted in his mind’s eye. if he sees someone in trouble, that’s going to be the most important thing to him. four, we find out after the fight that he prioritized saving everyone’s wallets and purses before blowing up all the lackies. and i love that bakugou’s more talented at snatching wallets than actual goddamn thieves. master cook, natural musician, battle genius, honour student.....pickpocket extraordinaire?

bakugou’s still rude to the civillian, still brusque with the pro heroes (even trying to act cool when faced with proud dad might head pats), but this fight showed us where his priorities lie - and it’s not what they were when he started school and couldn’t even garner a single rescue point.

EXTRA THREE: THE SECOND MOVIE (also not written by horikoshi but it seems he had more of a hand in it)

the movie’s not even out yet but it’s clear that the boys are going to be leaning HARD into their new shared mantra. defeating nine and his lackeys, in order to save everyone on the island, and personally motivated by protecting mahoro and katsuma in particular.

so even though we don’t know the nitty-gritty of what happens yet, i felt the need to include it. bakugou’s gonna be doing a lot of saving in this movie. i can tell.

CHAPTER 248

he doesn’t do any rescuing here. on the contrary, he and the multi-quirk boys almost let a couple people get run over by a truck head-on because they’re still too slow to keep up with endeavour. but endeavour’s words here are pointed directly at bakugou: he can’t treat hero work like school, he can’t make excuses for his shortcomings - because he has to work his ass off in order to save lives.

once again, the narrative ties bakugou’s growth with the lesson that the goal of heroism is to save other people. 

CHAPTER 251

earlier that week, endeavour set the three main tenants of heroism: combat/suppression, evacuation and rescue. the intent was to show that a top hero has to do all THREE, instead of just one, but a lot of fans obviously instantly tacked one of those on each of our trio. i wasn’t surprised that most put ‘combat’ as the bakugou one. because, yeah, bakugou....battle instincts, feral boy, here to fight and win....

BUT THAT’S BECAUSE Y’ALL WEREN’T PAYING ATTENTION SINCE SOME OF YOU ARE ACTING LIKE THIS IS SURPRISING. so, let’s break it down - bakugou’s the first out of the car and first to activate his quirk. he’s so in the zone that he doesn’t even turn his head when catching his suitcase. and what does he do? he, ONCE AGAIN, just like in the ch219 fight, allows todoroki to be the one that handles the villain. instead, he uses his new supernova flashstep move to focus on RESCUING THE HOSTAGE. he catches ending by surprise, securing natsuo away from him, and blasts away to safety while also using his explosions to rip the other cars out of ending’s grasp, fully entrusting in deku’s ability to catch the cars safely and evacuate all the bystanders with zero injuries, and DEFINITELY zero corpses.

early bakugou would have immediately stormed for ending (then again, early bakugou wouldn’t have chosen to do this internship in the first place) but he’s not that guy anymore. we’re dealing with bakugou 2.0 now, and we have for a while now.

WOW, THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS BUT I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL WE CAN KEEP ADDING MOMENTS TO THIS COLLECTION OF BAKUGOU’S LOVE FOR SAVING PEOPLE.

[numberonepapermaker32]

Buffy the Vampire Slayer Omnibus Vol. 1 Review

SPOILER ALERT!!!

01. All’s Fair

The opening story of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Omnibus Vol. 1. It was nice to hear/see Spike and Dru's dialogs, but there wasn't that much more to the story except it was another one of their adventures. I was kinda misled to believe it would be set during the Boxer Rebellion, but instead, the time of it was the Chicago World's Fair in the 1930s. It was short and not that fun, the theme of the crazy scientist with a wondrous machine was even a bit silly. I didn't much enjoy the artwork, either. Spike and Dru don't look like themselves from the show. All in all, a quick and somewhat fun read. 

02. The Origin

I loved this volume!! I have yet to watch the Buffy movie, somehow I can't make myself. So keep in mind I read this without knowing the plot and the facts from it. Buffyverse Wikia says how this comic is ''considered the canon story that replaces the events of this movie,'' so it's fair to say it gives us the whole backstory of Buffy's life prior to coming to Sunnydale. It shows Buffy already fighting vampires and eventually finding out about her Slayer destiny. We get the complete info because, on the show, they glossed over that part: how Buffy was quick in adjusting to this new life, figuring out how in order to beat more vampires at once, she should seek a priest to bless water for her to use, etc. Just as with Melaka Fray, here we see how Potentials transform into Slayers, being quick on their minds and feet. Another important part was how she tried to talk to the school's guidance counselor about vampires and the dreams she'd been having, and he didn't even listen to her but instead talked about himself. This is indicative and shows some good foreshadowing for the show. It tells us at this very beginning how no one will believe Buffy to be a sane person when she mentions these ''shadow activities'' of hers. The word crazy gets tossed around a lot, which I strongly dislike. I hate the stereotypical gender roles that Buffyverse keeps on projecting. The girls are pretty and dumbsih, the boys want sex with the pretty girls. Other than that, I really enjoyed this issue. Very much so!!

03. Viva Las Buffy

Wow, this issue was excellent!! Really fast-paced and I read it in a single breath! It's a prequel with more of Buffy's backstory, but also Angel's and Giles's, which I loved! Randomly picked thoughts: 01. The only thing I HATED about this issue is Pike. I mean, he's utterly horrible! Again, Buffyverse displays some stereotypical gender roles, and those are painfully obvious in this story. Pike is constantly whining and worrying about how Buffy will not like him and how he's a nuisance when we know as well as he does, Buffy doesn't need that kind of crap in her newfound life as a Slayer! I mean, the dude tries to kill himself in front of Buffy and actually thinks it's a good idea and a valid way to help her because he's so self-involved!!! Thank the heavens he leaves at the end, urgggh. 02. Dawn is in this comic, which I'm not sure how I feel about, and it also contradicts the show and movie (as Wikia suggests). I don't like her as a character on the show, except for when she is there for Buffy emotionally. 03. There are many scenes in this issue, as well as the next one, where we get info about the marriage between Joyce and Hank. It's difficult to read, really, knowing what we know after we've seen the show. The strain is huge, and Hank is strict, cold, and distant. 04. I loved to see how Giles became Buffy's Watcher. The use of Dark Magics is also indicative and comes full circle in the episode about his Ripper days, The Dark Age. Oh, and Wesley and Gwendolyn Post are also here! :) 05. Angel's story is quirky, so to speak. He follows Buffy to Las Vegas to watch over her (as we learned on the show from his talk from Whistler). He calls himself Angelus for some reason... Like, doesn't that only happen when he's soulless? Whatever. Then he gets into this messy situation with the casino manager regarding his vampire factory and ends up going through a temporal portal that leads him back to the manager's backstory. It was so fun when he said ''...So would someone like to tell me why I'm the only thing here in color?'' LoL, way to be meta, Angel. This is a great comic and I would recommend it to all Buffy fans!!

04. Dawn and Hoopy the Bear

Oh my everloving lord, was this bad!!! Like, why would someone write and publish this in an otherwise great series!?? I'm only giving it 3 instead of 2 stars because the artwork is amazing. But seriously! Some guy who we don't even get to meet chants and calls upon a demon* to curse a teddy bear into killing the Slayer. A teddy bear. A. TEDDY. BEAR. Without knowing who or where the Slayer is. Dawn is just as irritating as on the show, yelling ''What about ME?'' All right already... The nice thing is that the bear protects Dawn because Buffy ran away to Las Vegas, so it's a lovely touch. The parents are getting more distant, so Dawn is kinda alone. Oh, but then?? The ending? The freaking ending?! ''...He came to life and became a real bear. But he turned out to be a naughty bear...'' ''Oh, Dawny, what an imagination you have!'' AND THEN: THE END!! And we see the bear sitting in a dark alley with a beer in his hand. Sorry, paw. WHAAAAAAT??! I mean, was this supposed to be funny?? It's horribly sad and wrong and why am I even thinking about this bear and why does this idiotic story bother me so much?? Omg... * The demon at the beginning looks a lot like the Asphyx demon that gave Spike a soul at the end of s06 of the show. I asked the folks over on reddit about it, but so far haven't gotten an answer. IF ANYBODY KNOWS ANYTHING, LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS :)

05. Slayer, Interrupted

Yeah, this is the best installment in the Omnibus vol.1 collection, mainly because it completes everyone's backstory prior to the show's s01, after they all arrive in Sunnydale. This volume is set around Buffy's time in the mental institution which we learned about in s06 of the show, this gives us details. Basically, Dawn being Dawn, the insufferable idiot she is, goes on and reads Buffy's diary which makes their parents decide to send Buffy to a mental hospital. She can't possibly be sane if she's writing about vampires, right?? Urghh, Dawn. Anyway, the doctors set a diagnosis of a ''severe neuroses paranoia'' and ''a Messiah complex.'' Then they go on to decide she should get medication prior to electro-shock treatment. OMG... Like, did they actually do that stuff in the 90es still?? Eventually, we find out that, of course, the asylum is laden with the supernatural. The head doctor turns out to be the Rakagore demon who sires teenage brides. Yuck, again with this gender stereotype crap. BUT! This episode does raise some interesting foreshadowing. Buffy's problem with authority and the almost complete lack of faith from adults in general. There's this scene where she describes her childhood with her father. He reads her Alice in Wonderland (of course, what else, geez) and she then felt safe. The symbolism is clear even for Buffy and she raises an excellent point of how the word 'crazy' is just awful and plain wrong. Random thoughts: 01. Giles's story of passing this super-difficult test by facing his inner demons, or rather his younger self was kinda weak. However, I was happy to see how he and Buffy have other things in common, here namely father figure issues. 02. We get this short glimpse of Sunnydale Hight with Cordelia and Willow and that makes me super happy!! I wish there was more! 03. There's a couple of scenes with Angel and Whistler that are completely unnecessary because they give us no exposition whatsoever. 04. There's this great foreshadowing at the end when Buffy visits Alice in the hospital and offers her a Doublemeat burger.

[pocminiseries]

Call My Name

Club Lure.

The task her older sister gave her was simple; Make sure everything was running smoothly.

But Brooklyn knew that it was never going to be that easy, especially with a place like Club Lure.

"Let's get this over with." She mumbled to herself. Her driver within three seconds stood beside her door opening it as he helped her out of the backseat. The warm Miami winds kissing her skin immediately. "Thank you, Sebastian." The older man simply nodded, making his way back towards the driver side, leaving Brooklyn standing in front of the one place she didn't really want to be.

Her dark eyes scanned the entrance, taking in the long line of people waiting to get in. She knew that her sister's club was a popular one but she had no clue it was this popular.

On the outside, Club Lure looked like any other club with its alluring entrance and neon name sign, captivating anyone that looks in its direction. Upon entering, it had its appeal of any other nightclub, the huge dancefloors, bass-thumping music, nice seating areas and a bar stocked with every kind of liquor imaginable but that's where the normalcy ended.

Her sister had included a "special" level that was where only the exclusive could enter. The one place that was designed for the elite and wealthy, all ranging from athletes, musicians, entrepreneurs, etc. While the first floor was for the average paying customers, the upper level, however, was where the true sin took place.

And that's exactly why Brooklyn didn't want to have anything to do with the club, it was too much to deal with.

Shaking her head a little, she was already feeling a bit self-conscious and out of her comfort zone just by simply standing there. But what Brooklyn failed to grasp was that she looked absolutely gorgeous in the strappy white lace material that hugged her curves like a second skin. With her feet in a pair of Tres Frais heels, her hair laid over her shoulders in soft curls and her makeup was done to perfection.

Numerous pairs of eyes landed on her as soon as she stepped out of the car and as usual, she was oblivious to the looks she was receiving.

Taking a deep breath she walked up towards the two buff bouncers that stood in front of the open double doors. Their eyes danced over her from head to toe the closer she got until she was standing in front of their towering figures. She went to open her mouth to speak but they were already well aware of who she was.

"Miss Monroe." The one with the piercing grey eyes spoke first. "Chantell already informed us of your arrival." She had given them strict instructions to keep a close eye on her and to make sure to be there for whatever she needed.

Of course, she did.

"The manager is waiting for you on the top level, room 303." He told her, watching the nervous young woman that screams innocence. Chantell was definitely not lying when she told everyone that her little sister was the exact opposite of her. The main difference between the two was the fact that Chantell was an absolute Vixen. She knew exactly how sexy she was, and was not ashamed to show it.

She gave him a quick thank you as he and the other man stepped aside to let her in. She could feel their eyes on her until she disappeared into the slightly lit club.

A heavy bass song she recognized slowly began to fill her ears as she walked down the hall. A few people stood amongst the walls, drinking or talking to whoever, their voices quieting down when she made her way past them.

Her palms began to sweat slightly, the closer she got to the opened set of double doors.

It wasn't as if this was her first time going to a club per say but since she knew the intentions of this one in particular and why she was here, it all felt different. Her eyes danced around the large opened, crowded area. Lights flashed from the ceilings as bodies moved together on a very hyped dancefloor. People were everywhere she looked, laughing, having what seemed to be a good time that they'd probably forget come morning time.

She maneuvered her way through the crowd once she spotted the area that led upstairs. A small smile pulled at her lips at the feeling of people lightly tugging at her hand, wanting her to stop and dance with them.

Moving past them as quickly as she could, she let out a much-needed breath and slowly made her way where another man stood by waiting, guarding the area carefully.

Without her even opening her mouth, he moved aside, allowing her entry. "Miss Monroe." he acknowledged her with the slight tilt of his head. She returned his gesture and carefully walked up the steps into an area she has only ever heard stories about.

As soon as her heeled feet hit the top step, she instantly felt the shift in the air. The color and theme were the same as downstairs but clearly, the people were not. Her eyes scanned the room spotting a few familiar faces that occupied the huge lounge area. It was just a bit amusing to her because she began to wonder if people understood what the word faithful actually meant.

Regardless, she wasn't here to judge.

She could feel people staring at her as she approached the elevator doors where a woman dressed in little to nothing stood behind a top platform. "Brooklyn." She smiled, stepping away from the platform tapping in a code on a touchpad, opening the elevator for Brooklyn to walkthrough. "I'm Teri. Whatever you need, just tell me and I'll get it done."

Brooklyn nodded her head, taking inside and turned to face Teri once again. "The elevator will take you to the top floor. Just keep moving forward, room 303 will be straight ahead." Teri told her, giving her a wink just as the elevator closed.

"Thank you." Brooklyn threw out quickly. Her suddenly dry throat made her wish she would've gotten a drink to help relax her nerves. She was way out of her element here.

But she promised Chantell that she'd watch over things while she was away. Especially since she recently hired a new manager that could possibly be interested in owning the club soon.

A mixture of moans, grunts, and music filled the air, exposing exactly what was going on behind the six doors that surrounded her as soon as the elevator doors dinged open. She couldn't help but feel like she was on set of some flick, and that wasn't good when you haven't been having sex on the regular.

Pushing all thoughts to the side, she made her down the hall, trying her best to tune out the noise coming from behind each room. She didn't even think to knock before she entered the room 303, quickly shutting the door behind her, silencing the noise completely.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were running from something." Brooklyn's eyes snapped up, following the source that was attached to the voice. A voice that she knew all too well. "But that wouldn't be anything new coming from you, no?"

"Why are you here?" She choked out, her body seemingly frozen on the spot.

"Manager." He stated simply, casually leaning against his desk. Brooklyn found herself biting her lower lip taking in his all-black business attire looking like the full course meal he was.

A devil in a damn suit.

Brooklyn cursed under her breath. Why would Chantell not tell her this beforehand? Her older sister of all people knew about the history between them, the things they did and how she felt about him. She was going to have an exchange of words with her when she made it home.

"It figures you would be into this type of shit."

Christian only smirked at her remark, not seeing the point in denying whatsoever. "And you aren't?"

Brooklyn's eyes squinted accusingly. "No, I'm not." She denied, knowing that her words held a bit of a lie to them.

Pushing away from his desk, Christian took a few steps towards her, visibly taking in how nervous she actually was. "You could never lie to me Brooklyn, remember that."

They were both well aware that he could read her like a book. He knew her better than she knew herself which is why she was so nervous around him. When you give yourself to someone, physically, mentally and emotionally, it opens and reveals things about you to them that you probably never even knew about your own self.

And their..."relationship" if that's what you want to call it, proved that.

"You knew. Is that why you took this job? Wanting to buy this club from her?" Christian knew her family pretty well but her sister had opened up this club not longer after Brooklyn had ended things with him. He has always been a successful businessman who even owned his own chain of clubs, so him being interested in her sister's club wasn't too fishy.

However, Brooklyn still had her doubts.

"Somewhat. This place has been under my radar for a while and since Chantell was thinking of giving it up and pursuing other things, I figured why not? Smart business move." While Christian knew that Brooklyn's sister owned Club Lure, the last person he was ever expecting to come across while here was her.

She made it clear that she no longer wanted to see him....ever. And Christian has gone out of his way to abide by her request. Until now of course.

"Right." She snorted. "You couldn't just leave me be could you?"

"No." He replied bluntly. "It's not as if you really wanted me to." Brooklyn tore her gaze away from him and focused on the tiled floors instead. She hated when he did that.

"Let's...let's not do this right now. This is strictly business and a favor for my sister. You do your job and I'll do mine, ok?" Her heart has been thumping loudly in her ear since she heard the sound of his voice. Being in his presence was always difficult for her.

Christian simply licked his bottom lip, taking it upon himself to invade her personal space. "But that's not what I want. You realize that when I agreed to let you go that I only meant it as a temporary thing right?" His fingertips lightly skimmed her bare skin, pulling her closer towards him. "You knew exactly what this was when you agreed to mine."

Brooklyn knew all too well, and that's what scared her.

"Don’t do this..." She whispered. His pleasantly soft but sweet smelling cologne filled her nose as her small hands slightly pushed against his chest from his close proximity. They shouldn't be this close. He knew all too well of the effect he had on her.

Voodoo type shit that always left her panties ruined by the simplest things he does.

"Don’t do what?" He teased, his lips lightly brush against her plump ones.

Her breathing was beginning to come out more quickly from her heightened hormone levels. He made her nervous. Not because she was scared of him but more so afraid of how much control this man had over mind and body. Even after three years of not seeing each other, he still made her body respond in a manner that no other man could.

She had to bite her lip when his hands moved from her waist and slowly began to slide down to grab a hand full of her ass. He literally left no room in between them, loving how her body responded to him.

He knew her well enough to know how wet she truly was without checking for himself. But he loved to tease her, so he quickly attached his lips on her neck and swirled that crazily skilled tongue of his over her skin. Immediately her knees became weak but his grip tightened on her booty, making sure she didn't fall.

Brooklyn hummed in approval using one of her hands to grip his dark hair, pulling him closer.

They both knew that her neck was a weak point and when he sucked on her spot right underneath her left ear, she could not stop the moan from leaving her mouth even if she tried.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as he lifted her up and carefully sat her on top of his desk. He was always so caring and protective of her.

His hands rested on her thighs, moving up every few seconds while he placed soft kisses from her neck to her jawline and on both her cheeks. Their eyes never left each other as she felt his hand slid between her thighs. He could feel the heat from her pussy and he hadn't even really touched her yet.

"After all this time you still get so easily wet for me...Peaches."

[ghost-chance]

Rant regarding disability

It recently came to my attention that most people don’t know this...and it happened because a nosy receptionist made my friend Autumn fall apart in a waiting room. Since people apparently don’t know, here’s the scoop:

If you receive a government check through SSI or SSDI, you are ALWAYS at risk of losing that check. MARRYING, in particular, will end your benefits.

No, I’m not exaggerating or being alarmist - I’m entirely serious. Maybe it’s not the case in all states, but in all the ones I’ve checked, it’s true. Marrying while receiving SSI/SSDI or Survivors’ Benefits renders you ineligible for further payments because now you’re your spouse’s problem. THEY are expected to provide for you, whether they are capable or not. Allow me to illustrate specific instances I’ve come across.

A physically disabled woman on SSI married an unemployed man looking for work. Her SSI was canceled point-blank. Her husband, too, was disabled, and having trouble finding work because of it...but he was expected to be able to provide for the both of them. They lost their home, spiraled into debt, couldn’t find work, and last I heard, they were living in a shelter and panhandling. Their only mistake was MARRYING each other.

A friend of mine got engaged and had to call it off. She’s on SSI and hasn’t been able to hold down a job in years because her mental illness flares up under the slightest bit of stress. Her fiance works minimum wage and is mentally/emotionally incapable of rising to a better paying position. This couple had everything planned - they had wedding rings, they had plans for their future, they were even looking into local chapels - then the JOP they saw warned them she’d lose her benefits if they married. They’ve been together for years now and people constantly ask them “so when’s the date?” There is no date...setting a date will cancel the payments they depend on.

A disabled man married a non-disabled woman. Before marrying, she was financially well-off and had no money problems. After marrying, her husband’s benefits were canceled and she was made responsible for paying for EVERYTHING. Her finances don’t go far enough anymore and they’ve never stopped struggling.

Two disabled persons receiving SSI payments married each other. They thought surely since they were both receiving payments no one would have their benefits taken away because neither could possibly support the other. Their benefits were NOT taken away...they were COMBINED and DECREASED. Yes, they went from a full payment apiece each month to ONE JOINT PAYMENT EACH MONTH which was LOWER than their previous payments COMBINED.

That’s only a few examples. The point remains: As much as people say government benefits are supposed to encourage financial independence, the regulations connected just end up making you more dependent on a broken system. If you’re disabled and receiving benefits, apparently you’re expected to spend the rest of your days living in your mom’s basement, single, depressed, and a drain on society...and that expectation is BULLSHIT. Disabled folks still contribute to society and they CAN build a life of their own with a little extra help. The marriage rules aren’t the only injustice, either - people often say “Well, then get a job!” but they’ve never tried earning work while on government benefits - the regulations around WORKING are even more absurd and archaic.

SSI/SSDI payments are meant to be extra help for those who need them; instead, they come with more regulations. NOWHERE in the US will the legal monthly limit for an SSI payment cover a month’s rent AND a month’s groceries. NOWHERE in the US can an SSI recipient raise a child without relying heavily on charity and increasingly red-taped government-funded programs. NOWHERE in the US can an SSI recipient work part time at minimum wage without having their payments docked by MORE THAN THEY‘RE MAKING, even if the hours aren’t regular.

Many people struggling with the system have become afraid to ask for help because of the public outcry and blame. “If you’re poor, stick to rice and beans!” “People on government payments shouldn’t be allowed to buy pet food!” “People getting paid by the government don’t need their own house - that’s what the shelters are for!” No matter how normal or expected it is for non-disabled persons to engage in something, it’s liable to be seen as excessive or forbidden for people on benefits. Having children, having access to a working vehicle, being married, working, eating healthy, enjoying a book or movie once in a while, owning your own home - these are all things EXPECTED of people without disabilities, but God Forbid a disabled person expect the same treatment.

Back to my friend Autumn. Autumn is a strong, determined and unbearably sweet young woman who just happened to lose at the genetic lottery. She never asked for the invisible disability she was born with and she’s never stopped fighting to overcome it, but when people look at her, all they see is someone who isn’t trying. She’s given up on countless ‘luxuries’ just to live independently without resorting to CHARITY and high-demand government programs like HUD and SNAP. She skips meals and buys cheap food that destroys her body. She has no vehicle and gave up on the chance of having children. She lives in a rental complex where the residents aren’t treated properly because respect and working appliances costs more. She never reads or watches anything that isn’t FREE, and she’s still using the same clothes and belongings from over ten years ago, and although she wears his ring, she can’t afford to marry her boyfriend of ten years. As long as I’ve known her, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen Autumn get repeatedly shat on by life, pick herself up, dust herself off, and start over with a pun and a smile.

“I see you’re wearing an engagement ring?” the nosy receptionist asked Autumn. “Who’s the lucky guy? When’s the date?�� Yet again, Autumn had to explain to a complete stranger “There is no date - we can’t marry because I’d lose my SSI, he can’t afford to support us on his own, and I can’t keep a job because of my disability.”

“What? No, that’s silly, you can still marry! Just lose the government check, it’ll work out in the end!” The receptionist, I should mention, was apparently wearing enough jewelry to stock a jeweler’s store and had impeccable and visibly expensive makeup, clothes, and a professional manicure. Autumn’s jeans were frayed, her shirt had a couple holes, and her engagement ring is plain and simple silver. She’s visibly poor...and this ableist woman literally made her cry.

Ten minutes later I got a tearful call from the parking lot and spent the next ten minutes talking Autumn through it; it wasn’t the first time and I know it won’t be the last, and I’ve never minded offering that help whenever I can. After we hung up, I got a text from her: “The abstract art in here looks like some kind of arboreal fungus - I’m not really lichen it.” Yet again, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and moved on with a joke and a smile, and all in the face of ignorance and negligence. Sure, this one was my joke first, but all that mattered was she was feeling better. Autumn is legally disabled and bounces back remarkably quickly, no matter how badly someone hurts her; our non-disabled landlord can’t even cope with people hanging up on her and takes it out on everyone around her.

Tell me again that the system doesn’t discriminate against people with disabilities. Tell me again that we’re subhuman and don’t deserve equal treatment.

[islareeveswriting]

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INSTAS

What you don’t know, can’t hurt you.

Molly thought the concept of that was laughable. It seemed stupid to her that anyone could think something unknown couldn’t hurt them. Maybe that was because Molly hated being in the dark, she’d prefer the truth, even if it was a horrible truth, every day of the week. At least that way, at the very worst she knew what she was facing, and the very best she could put her fears to bed and move on. Things unknown, kept secret, hidden, tended to fester into something much greater and far harder to deal with. Once a secret was kept, it’s not just the facts of the secret, it’s the fact someone kept something from her, felt they couldn’t tell her something, that she had to face.

What Molly didn’t know was killing her emotionally, mentally. And she didn’t even know for certain if there was indeed something she didn’t know. She was running on instinct, on an assumption, but it was hard to ignore when Harry seemed to be making such an effort to avoid contact with her.

It was exactly as it had been before, when they’d returned from her parents house. He’d gone cold, quiet, and Molly was left in the dark wondering what she’d done wrong. If there was a bitterness left in his mouth from her mistakes taking Ryan home and not getting in a taxi, she could understand that, and she’d apologise and explain herself as much as she could, knowing full well the action itself and then not telling Harry about it put her firmly in the wrong. It was proof that what people didn’t know, could indeed hurt them. However, Molly was sure they’d moved on from that, and if it wasn’t the same on his side, all he had to do was say so. But Harry had been normal for days following their argument, things had been back on track, going well, with no signs anything was amiss.

Until everything was amiss, and for no apparent reason. Things had fallen off the track with no warning signs whatsoever and Molly could feel the whiplash of it ricocheting through her mind.

It was infuriating to keep coming back to square one, when Molly was sure they should have been far away from that place. They seemed to be taking it in turns to set fire to themselves before they were fully built and they were left to start from ashes all over again. Everytime Molly thought she was close it was ripped away from her, like the ocean between her and Harry kept getting deeper, wider, and shore much, much further away. But for some reason, she just wanted to keep swimming. There were far more reasons to walk away, his temper, the way he laughed any serious conversation off like it was meaningless until he had no choice but to face it, the darkness in his eyes that he wouldn’t let her into. But Molly couldn’t help herself, she was falling, and no warning signs made her want to stop.

When Molly woke up the morning after ‘girls night’, there hadn’t been a part of her that was intending on acting on Lauren’s words. When Lauren had suggested Molly go round to Harry’s uninvited Molly had literally laughed it off. But over twelve hours later and Molly was spinning back and forth on her desk chair, staring down at her phone seriously contemplating it. It was verging on three pm and she hadn’t heard a word from Harry, despite her reply to his late night text, despite her trying to call when she stopped working to have some lunch, despite the sweet text just checking in he was ok, and the slightly more salty message a few hours later when he still hadn’t contact her the way he’d promised.

There was a little fire that started inside her of, at the sound of his voicemail yet again. It came from anger, or frustration, but by that point the feelings weren’t  mutually exclusive, and they felt one in the same. It fueled her up from her chair and out of the door, with nothing but her purse, keys and phone, which she shoved into the pockets of the denim jacket she shrugged on over her hoodie. It pushed her onto the bus, and off at the stop just outside Harry’s building. It drove her all the way to the front door of his block, until she was stood outside with her finger lingering over his doorbell.

There was a moment where she thought about turning around. Harry had told her he was busy and she should respect that. But he’d also told her he’d call first thing, and not only had he failed to do that, he’d failed to answer her calls, or either of her messages, even though she could see he’d read both. Perhaps if they’d spoken, Harry had sorted something out as he’d said he would, she wouldn’t be there. As it was, Molly was feeling let down and in the dark, and perhaps Lauren was right when she’d said that Molly wasn’t being unreasonable to expect a little clarity and honesty.

Molly’s finger was seconds from pressing the buzzer, when a larger than life man pushed the door open, as startled by seeing Molly on the other side as she was by being pulled from her train of thoughts by the door opening before she’d even pressed the button.

“Oh sorry sweetheart didn’t see you there, you going in?” The man asked, his accent far from local.

“Thanks,” Molly whispered, slipping in the door that was being held open for her. Now she was inside, without even having to speak to Harry over the intercom, it felt like the world was telling her to take the steps to his flat, she’d made the right decision. Still there was apprehension in her belly - just because the world thought it was a good idea, didn’t mean Harry would, and Molly was certain there was only two ways this was going to end.

The stairwell was as cold as it was every time Molly had been there. Even as the days were beginning to get longer and the sun warmer, the winding staircase, modern, and clinical, was always cold enough to give Molly goosebumps, even through her hoodie and jacket and the fleece lined leggings she’d been keeping comfortable in at her desk. Even the battered and beaten black combat boots over her thick socks were doing little to nothing in terms of keeping her warm. But perhaps it was more than just the cold making her shiver.

The third floor seemed further away than normal, but Molly got there eventually, Harry’s door, number fifteen glittering over the wood, looking as normal and inconspicuous as ever. There was a peep hole in the door, and Molly swallowed knowing as soon as she knocked on the door, Harry would be able to know she was there, and there was a part of her, growing larger with every second, that wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to do this. Once that door was opened, if it opened, there was no going back. As much as Molly had thought she’d wanted it, she was beginning to wonder if maybe she could carry on living in peaceful ignorance. Though of course, there was nothing peaceful about it at all.

And so she knocked the door. Three gentle taps and a gulping swallow on nothing before she stood patiently with her hands in her pockets, toying with the frayed piece of pink ribbon she had tied to her key ring.

If Harry hesitated at the peephole, he did it quickly, because the door was open in no more than thirty seconds, and Molly was looking up from the scuffed toe of her boots, to someone who was very not Harry. Molly’s breath hitched in her throat at the sight of the dark haired woman. She was a complete stranger to Molly, she’d never seen her before, not even in a photo, not even in passing, but there was something that was vaguely familiar. Molly couldn’t put her finger on it at all, but there was something very slightly recognisable about the woman greeting her at Harry’s door.

“Hi,” The girl grinned, apparently not at all thrown by Molly being on the other side of the door. At least not as thrown as Molly was. Half of her hadn’t expected the door to be answered at all, but the other half certainly didn’t expect someone other than Harry to be answering the door, and Molly’s mind started to tumble unkindly into all the ways he could have been busy enough with this woman to cancel on her last minute and ignore her calls and texts.

“I was erm,” Molly started, swallowing down on nothing. There was nothing lodged in her throat, not even air, as she found she’d been holding her breath waiting for the words to come to her. “Is Harry in?” Molly asked, wrapping her jacket further around her as if it might protect her from something that was aiming for her heart.

“Oh no, he’s just popped out, he’ll be back in like five minutes, come in,” The girl encouraged with a bright grin that might have set Molly on edge if she could have had any clue as to who she was and why she was in Harry’s flat. Her mind was racing, but she was simultaneously trying to rationalise it. She’s just a friend, he might be a dick sometimes but he wouldn’t...would he? The question lingered in her mind for a second, as Molly thought about what she wanted to do.

“It’s ok, I’ll come b-”

“Molly,” The girl interrupted as Molly moved to turn away from the door and take the stairs back away from the flat, not sure where she would exactly go from there, entirely unsure what to think, especially when her name spilled from the girls lips like it had been well rehearsed.

“How do you know my name?” Molly asked, frowning, entirely curious now.

“Because you’re all Harry bloody talks about, and he’s never used social media so much in his life until he had photos of you to put all over it,” The girl chuckled. Molly lightened quickly then, doubts and fears almost, but not quite, eradicated. “I’m Ellie, I’m a friend of Harry’s,” she explained, and Molly lightened yet more with the new information. For all her initial apprehension, Molly found it surprisingly easy to trust Ellie. There was just something about her, something almost sisterly that Molly began to settle into as she stepped over the threshold into Harry’s flat.

It was warmer inside, the underfloor heating was on, Molly could tell, but there was also a window cracked in the kitchen letting some fresh air travel through the space. The TV was on, playing to itself as Molly kicked off her boots and Ellie shut the front door behind them. It was calm, and not at all how Molly had anticipated turning up at Harry’s flat would go.

“Can I get you a drink or anything?” Ellie asked, sliding back into the flat with her socked feet, the white fabric loose on her toes.

“No I’m good thanks,” Molly smiled,following Ellie tentatively through towards the kitchen area. As easy as Ellie was in Molly’s company, it wasn’t entirely mutual. Molly felt better than she had when Ellie first opened the door, but she still didn’t know who this woman was, and it showed in the way Molly didn’t take her jacket off and kept her hands firmly in her pockets. She looked like a stranger in the space, Ellie commanding it easily, taking the lead in this strange little set up they found themselves in, though Ellie didn’t seem fazed by it at all. Where Molly was cautious, Ellie was confident and helped herself to a mug from Harry’s cupboard as if the flat was her own. Ellie was no stranger here, and Molly guessed not a stranger to Harry at all, but Molly hadn’t even heard her name, let alone seen her face before.

There was something a little strange about it, but Molly couldn’t put her finger on it without supposing she sounded as if she thought she were entitled to know about everyone he associated with. It wasn’t that. It was just she doubted any of the friends of Harry’s she had met would let her into his flat, or offer her coffee, grab a mug from his cupboard, and she’d spent a considerable amount of time with those friends. Even received texts from Amanda to see what she was up to, how she was, if she wanted to meet up. Someone who seemed so at home in Harry’s flat, is someone Molly thought Harry might have mentioned. It just pointed to those secrets she was sure she could almost see.

“Are you sure? I was about to make coffee anyway,” Ellie told Molly, nodding at the coffee machine with it’s green go light illuminated. Molly chewed the inside of her mouth. She was beginning to wonder what Harry would think when he got back and she was sat at his kitchen counter with his friend drinking his coffee. Molly swallowed, it didn’t matter.

“Ok, go on then,” Molly smiled again, and Ellie grinned back. The coffee machine whirred to life, spitting out coffee from the spout into one of the two mugs Ellie fetched. Ellie helped herself to milk from the fridge and poured it into the jug that Harry normally kept on top of the machine, though Ellie found it in the dishwasher without even seeming to think it could be anywhere else. She gave it a rinse before she used it, and Molly wondered how many coffees she’d had at Harry’s already that day.

“He won’t be long, I’ll give him a text in a minute, let him know you’re here,” Ellie told Molly as she heated up the milk in the metal jug.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s not expecting me,” Molly informed Ellie, glancing over to her from where she’d been staring out of one of the large kitchen windows.

“Oh, he told me he was seeing you later,” Ellie said with a frown, clearly a little confused, though not as confused as Molly. Molly didn’t know what she’d missed, or misunderstood, but it certainly wasn’t Harry  letting her know that he’d be seeing her later.

“He told me he was seeing me today, but he cancelled last night, he also told me he’d call him this morning, but he didn’t, so I’ve given up listening to what he says he’s going to do, and started focusing on what he actually does do.” There was a bitterness in Molly’s voice, she could hear it and it sounded as ugly as it felt, but Ellie simply sighed, a big sigh that lifted her shoulders and let them fall again, heavily. Molly watched her suck one of her cheeks in. Maybe Molly had just insulted this girls friend, but she didn’t look annoyed, at least not annoyed at what Molly had said. In fact she looked disappointed.

“He’s a fucking dick head,” Ellie spat, and Molly felt her eyes go wide. If she’d had coffee in her mouth, she was sure it would have spluttered out thanks to Ellie’s quick, harsh words. “If I’d have known he was meant to be seeing you, I, it’s probably best he explains,” Ellie sighed, turning back to the coffee and pouring the milk into it. “Just make sure he explains, don’t let him laugh it off so you find you’ve forgotten about it,” Ellie warned placing a mug in front of Molly which Molly gladly wrapped her hands around as she smiled to herself.

“He does do that huh?” Molly chuckled before lifting the mug and taking a sip of it.

“All the time,” Ellie laughed. “Some weird defense mechanism,” Ellie shrugged. Molly nodded, rolling her lips together and looking down at her mug. This girl knew him, better than Molly it was clear. Perhaps this was someone he let in just enough so she knew how he kept himself shielded from everyone else, something Molly was still working out. “Harry and I are just very much friends by the way, just to be clear,” Ellie added, quietly, carefully. Molly shot her head up at that.

“Oh no, I didn’t, it’s fine,” Molly babbled quickly shaking her head frantically.

“No I know,” Ellie smiled. “Just there’s nothing, there never has been, well-”

“Heyyy,” Harry’s voice was sweet and sing songy as it rung through the flat behind the sound of the opening door and the sound of wheels on the floor. “We’re back,” he called again, and Molly spun on her stool, just about able to see him through the spaces on the book case, though he couldn’t see her. The push chair was easy to spot and for a minute Molly assumed it was Zak, that was until a pair of toddling feet wobbled around the bookcase and a little girl with blonde hair tied in two little bunches appeared. Molly felt taken back at the surprise of the new child, but just smiled brightly at the little girl staring up at her.

“Hi,” Molly cooed, the little girl having slowed her steps and side walking towards Ellie with an outstretched hand, eyes fixed on the stranger in the room.

“Lolly?” Harry questioned, following after the child with a deep frown on his face. “What are you doing here?” He asked, reaching for the child and lifting her up onto his hip where he started removing her little converse from her feet. Molly didn’t say anything for a second, just stared up at Harry from her seat as he stared back at her.

“She came to see you after you forgot to call this morning,” Ellie explained for Molly who was chewing her lip, watching the child grabbing at Harry’s ringlets, the thumb of her free hand finding her mouth as she continued to stare at Molly trying to work her out. Molly raised her eyes to Harry and she saw him sink, his forehead uncreasing quickly and his eyes closing for a few seconds. There was an apology on his tongue, Molly could almost hear it, but it didn’t find air, just lodged in his throat, as he decided to save it for later when they were alone. “Lola baby, this is Molly, Uncle Harry’s friend, you gonna say hi?” Ellie tried, seemingly attempting to loosen the atmosphere.

“Hi Lola,” Molly grinned, eyes back on the blonde haired little girl who couldn’t have been much over three, but Molly had never been good at guessing ages.

“Hi,” Lola mumbled around her thumb, the words clipped and not fully formed. She had the biggest doe eyes Molly could imagine, bright green and glistening in the lights of the kitchen as she continued to stare back at Molly. “M’ Lola,” Lola babbled, her thumb popping from her mouth and her hand resting by her thigh that was hooked up in Harry’s arms.

“This is Lolly,” Harry started edging closer to Molly, head twisted to look at Lola. “Lolly’s my friend, do you want to sit with her while me and Mummy get your things together?” Harry’s voice was sweeter than normal, a little higher and softer, somehow slower though Molly didn’t know how that was possible. Lola nodded and reached out for Molly, who looked to Harry with wide eyes not entirely sure how to take what was happening. Harry just nodded, a soft, somehow reassuring, smile on his face. Molly took the child from Harry resting her on his lap and looking over her blonde head to see Harry motioning for Ellie to follow him. They headed up the hallway towards Harry’s open bedroom, but the door almost closed behind them. Molly swallowed and look down at the child who was looking up at her with her thumb back in her mouth.

“You’ve been with Uncle Harry today then?” Molly asked spinning a little and placing Lola up on the work top, hands knitting together behind her to stop her moving away or falling from the edge. Lola nodded, her eyes somehow widening. “Did you have fun?” Again Lola just nodded and Molly giggled. “What did you do?”

“Went to park, and for ice cream,” Lola told Molly, looking around the room a little as she did so. The words weren’t full, syllables missing here and there, but Molly could make out the words just fine.

“Wow that sounds fun.” Molly’s voice trailed off, both her and Lola distracted by the sudden raised voices from the bedroom. “So what ice cream did you get?” Molly asked, trying to grab Lola’s attention again, but it was futile. Lola’s big green eyes were fixed on the bedroom door and her mind on the noise.

“Why they shouting?” Lola asked, eyebrows dipping a little.

“I’m not sure, maybe they can’t find something,” Molly suggested quickly, not quite sure what to say, she didn’t have the answer, and the things in her head didn’t concern Lola.

“Just tell her the truth Harry for fucks sake.”It was Ellie’s voice that called the final blow, and where before they’d been hushed, attempting to not be heard but failing, Ellie’s words were loud and clear, ricocheting around the flat like bullets sent straight for Molly. Molly felt herself tighten, her spine lengthening and shoulders rolling back, as her eyes shot to Lola. It didn’t appear that she noticed the swear word particularly, but the tone had clearly registered with her little ears and her fingers lifted to her mouth, resting on her pillowy bottom lip as her eyes blinked quickly.

“Hey, Lola, what ice cream did you have?” Molly asked brightly, picking the child back up and placing her on her knee where she bounced Lola quickly, trying to distract her from what was going on in the bedroom.

“Mummy shouting at Uncle Harry?” Lola asked quietly, lip literally and visibly trembling. Molly swallowed, not sure what to say. Could she lie? Was there any point when Lola clearly knew the answer? “Why?” Lola asked, obviously seeing the truth in Molly’s face.

“I’m not sure hunny, I’m sure you don’t need to worry,” Molly smiled, trying to catch Lola’s eyes but she was looking out of the side of her eye back at the door.

“Mummy used bad words,” Lola mumbled over her fingers again.

“It’s ok, I’m sure she didn’t mean to, hey, why don’t you tell me about the park, did you go on the swings?” Molly tried again, but the toddler was completely distracted. “Come on look, shall we see if we can find something on the TV?” Molly suggested standing up and resting Lola on her hip as she did so. Lola finally looked away from the door, moving slightly to rest her head on Molly’s shoulder, her small chubby hand finding Molly’s hair and twisting it slowly around her fingers. Molly sighed quietly, looking down awkwardly to the little girl sucking her thumb and lost in her head, reminding Molly of herself as a child, and even now. Molly didn’t think anything of pressing a little kiss against Lola’s soft blonde hair before she began flicking through channels.

Before Molly could find anything though, the bedroom door was opening. Molly turned to the noise to find Ellie heading back towards her. For the tone of her voice she looked calm, and she smiled sweetly at Molly as they caught eyes.

“Sorry,” Ellie said with a shrug. “We have to go home now Lola, you gonna say goodbye to Lolly?” Ellie asked, as Molly gently handed Lola over to her mother. Lola sat up more in Ellie’s arms, looking back at Molly over her shoulder.

“Bye Lola, I’ll see you soon,” Molly grinned, bending a little to catch Lola’s eyes.

“Buh-bye Lolly, see you soon,” Lola grinned happily before turning back to look at her mum.

“See you Molly, thanks for watching her then,” Ellie said, backing out of the room towards the entrance way and Lola’s pram. “If you have any questions, just get my number of someone and give me a call,” Ellie offered quietly. It took Molly a little by surprise and she found herself blinking quickly as Ellie left the room finally, Molly watching after her dumbfounded. Questions? Molly wondered, why would she have questions? What would she have questions about? It set her heart of racing, and she wanted to chase Ellie out of the room ask what she meant, but she could hear the response before she’d even asked. Ask Harry, talk to Harry about it, he needs to tell you. The real question was if he would actually tell her, or pretend like it was nothing, and tell her that Ellie was just being over dramatic about something that was nothing, just like he’d done when Katie had told her Harry liked to lead people on, that she should be careful, made out like Harry wasn’t good enough.

“Mummy, don’t shout at Uncle Harry, make him said,” Molly heard Lola tell her mother as she was clipped into her pram, but Ellie didn’t say anything, just shouted a goodbye into the flat that was followed quickly by the sound of the door opening and closing.

The flat fell silent and so did Molly. She took a seat on the sofa and fell back into it heavily, resting her head on the back of it and looking up at the flat white ceiling. The lights weren’t on up there, and the lamp in the corner cast an odd shadow across it. It was coasting into early evening and the sun was just beginning to lower, turning the sky a deep orange that filtered through the windows and stained everything a similar vibrant hue. Molly closed her eyes to it all and focused on her mind.

What she was supposed to think she didn’t know, but what she was thinking was that maybe she was in well over her depth with Harry. Perhaps there’d always be more to him than she could understand, and maybe she wasn’t as adept to coping with that as she’d like to think. It wasn’t even that she wanted everything from him, just an admission there was indeed something. Molly could understand if he wasn’t ready to open up and tell her all the things about himself that he’d been practicing so hard at keeping closed off, that was fine. What she couldn’t understand was pretending what she saw was what she was going get, because with each day it became clearer that might never be the case. There was never ending layers to Harry, and with each step closer to him she got, all she really discovered was another layer encasing him that Harry refused to admit, at least out loud, was there.

It wasn’t as if Molly hadn’t given Harry chances to tell her there were things about him he wasn’t ready to talk about, it wasn’t as if circumstances had kept him from telling her that, it was only himself that had chosen to make it into something else, to pretend there was nothing to him she didn’t already know. When Molly had met Harry he’d seemed so confident and self-assured, but she was beginning to think that was just a mask for someone insecure and afraid of themselves. Someone who didn’t know how to process someone else getting close to them. All his mood swings, his outbursts, his cocky, smug attitude, appeared like a coping mechanism for the fear of letting someone in, and putting a dent in his armour.

Molly was more than willing to be patient for him, if he was willing to at least admit there was something to be patient for, admit there was more than the exterior shell he let the world see, admit there was a softness, a weakness, an achilles heel to the faultless Harry he portrayed day in, day out.

Molly opened her eyes again at the sound of footsteps and twisted her head in the direction of Harry’s room. Their eyes met as he headed towards her slowly, socked feet almost sliding along the floor. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the long curls away from his face, his eyes dropping to his feet and his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. The silence persisted, Molly refusing to say a word until he did. Perhaps it seemed stubborn, bitter or petty, but Molly didn’t want to say a word and give him an escape route through what she had to say. She wanted to hear his words, standing alone for what they were.

“I’m sorry,” Harry started carefully, quietly, hesitating at the edge of the living space. He held his hands in front of him, wrapped together pulling at this fingers. Molly didn’t say anything, just looked up at him, turning a little on the couch so she could see him without craning her neck. “For letting you down, and for not calling, and for…” Harry continued, but hesitated for a second, “that,” He finished, flicking his head back towards the bedroom door that he’d left ajar.

“What was that?” Molly asked. She saw Harry’s throat twitch, the lump in his neck bobbing under the skin as he stepped a little closer, his thighs resting against the arm of his sofa.

“Lola’s my god daughter,” Harry told Molly confidently, holding himself tall, his words laced with conviction, making himself look as strong as possible even if he was feeling weaker. Again he swallowed on nothing, flicking his tongue over his lips. “Ellie is an old friend, she called last night to ask if I could watch Lola today for a bit, I hardly get to see her so I said yes without really thinking,” Harry explained calmly, though there was a slight shiver in his voice.

“Hardly get to see her? It looks like she adores you?” Molly pointed out, finding it difficult to forget how easily Lola had rested in Harry’s arms, and how comfortable and content she’d looked resting on his hip and toying with his hair. Harry cleared his throat quietly before continuing again, looking past Molly to the window for a second, seemingly checking over his words. Molly wished he wouldn’t, but she didn’t say anything, he was talking, and that was something.

“It’s fairly new is more what I mean,” Harry added. “Ellie and I, we, well uh, we don’t exactly know each other for the best reasons,” Harry tried, scratching the back of his neck as he did so.

“What do you mean?” Molly asked, turning fully to Harry and pulling her knees up into her chest, her feet finding a home under one of the cushions that had fallen from its perch when she’d taken her seat.

“Really?” Harry winced. Molly just nodded, and Harry sighed, rounding the edge of the couch and taking a seat on the coffee table opposite Molly. She turned again to face him, still holding her knees against herself. He made it sound like Molly might not be sure she wanted to hear what he had to say, but really it was him that wasn’t sure he wanted to say it. The thing was once he let her in, took of some of the armour, it was easy for the rest to fall away, and far harder to put it back on, to ask to her leave again, to shut the door after her and pretend like the space hadn’t changed for her existing in it. Once he said it, he couldn’t un say it. “Ellie and I used to,” Harry hesitated again, looking to the ceiling, perhaps for some divine inspiration, but more likely just the best word for what it was that had happened. “Fool around,” he settled on; “years ago, years and years ago, it was nothing, stupid, at least for me, but I was a dick to her, next thing I know she’s having a baby and doesn’t want me anywhere near her, not that I blame her for that, but over the last couple of years we’ve gotten close again, both grown up a lot, we were close friends before we started, y’know, and I guess we’re in that place again so she asked me to be Lola’s godfather,” Harry explained quickly, the words reeling out of him as if he were reading his favourite story.

“Why would you not just tell me that rather than say ‘something’ had come up, I would have understood,” Molly promised, staring back at his face, a picture of regret. As he sighed his whole body moved with it, shoulders rising and falling, his lips pinching between his teeth.

“I don’t know,” Harry breathed, shaking his head and looking down at his clasped together hands, the rings making them look even bigger and bulkier than they were.

“Cause you wanted to keep me at arms length,” Molly told him with a flick of her eyebrows. Harry’s face fell instantly, a deep frown creasing his brow, his lips pouting a little more than normal and parting just slightly, just enough to let air pass, as he contemplated what Molly had said. Though he could clearly make no sense of it, as if he didn’t even know he’d been doing it.

“Huh?” He asked, his lips barely moving at all, the almost word pushing past almost unnoticed.

“It’s what you do, keep me at a distance until you’re forced to let me in,” Molly told him with a certainty she hated. She didn’t want to feel like that, she didn’t want it to be that obvious to her, but it was, and it hurt her just as much as it clearly hurt Harry, dropping his head again, curls falling over his shoulders and hovering in mid air around him.

“It’s not like that,” Harry mumbled down to his feet.

“How is it then? Because I’m really struggling to see it any other way,” Molly informed him, dropping her knees to sit cross legged.

“Ellie has only just let me into Lola’s life, she could take her away again at any moment, I…”

“Think I could be the reason she might do that?” Molly offered for him, quietly, a little saddened by the idea.

“No, no, not at all,” Harry corrected quickly moving closer to Molly his hands reaching out for her, but never quite finding her. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Harry sighed, shaking his head and falling back from Molly again. “I don’t have a real reason for not telling you the truth, apart from I’m just used to keeping people at a distance,” Harry guessed with a shrug. If it was anything he’d ever paid any sort of mind to, he wasn’t showing it. It appeared like he was learning as much as Molly, like it was all intrinsic to him, like it was all wired into him.

“Why?” Molly asked, finding the bravery to do so somewhere deep inside. Her voice was quiet, barely audible above the constant hum of the world, but her eyes never left Harry. Harry sucked his cheeks in, beginning to chew on them as he looked back at Molly, looking for something, but Molly couldn’t tell what. Maybe the part of her he could trust, or maybe looking for parts he couldn’t, reasons not to say another word, not to let another piece of armour fall.

“Cause people I let in have a tendency to fuck off,” Harry told Molly bluntly, with a nonchalant shrug that suggested that what he was saying didn’t hurt as much as it clearly did. Molly sighed and moved forward to sit as a mirror of Harry, bending over, resting her arms on her knees and clasping her hands together so her first nearly bumped Harry’s.

“I’m not going to fuck off, the only reason I’m going to go anywhere is if you keep shutting me out all the time, or if you ask me too,” Molly promised him, holding his eyes as she said it. He stared straight back at her, his eyes never leaving hers as she spoke. He swallowed it down, literally, the corner of his mouth twitching just a touch.

“I’m not going to ask you to fuck off,” Harry sort of whispered, unclasping his hands to wrap them around hers. “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” He told her, giving her hands, how cirlcled up in his, a gentle squeeze.

“Then can you start letting me in, cause I feel like I don’t even know you sometimes, everytime I think I’ve got you figured out it ends up like this,” Molly lamented twisting their hands a little so one of hers was on the outside of one of his, her thumb gently sliding back and forth along the the ridge of his hand.

“I’m sorry, I am trying,” Harry told her.

“I know,” Molly nodded, offering a gentle, almost one sided, smile. It didn’t seem enough for Harry though, who looked down at the hands and turned his mouth down, bottom lip jutting out before he twisted his mouth to one side.

“I’m sorry for letting you down today,” Harry said, lifting his eyes just slightly to look at her again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Molly told him with a shake of her head.

“No it does, I should have told Ellie no,” Harry decided. Molly didn’t begrudge him now she knew the truth of it, she didn’t hold it against him, wanting to spend time with his goddaughter, it was fine. It just would have been nice to have been told that. There would have been no stopping them rearranging to do the fitting in the evening, if he’d only explained.

“Does Ellie have a key?” Molly asked not really sure where it had come from exactly, but knowing there was something tickling in her mind, and sure it would come back to her later if she wasn’t to ask then.

“What? No,” Harry answered, a little befuddled by the question.

“Oh, she was here when I got here,” Molly told Harry, hoping she wasn’t appearing as if what she was saying was coming from a place of mistrust or jealousy.

“There’s a spare under the mat, I told her to let herself in if she got here before we were home,” Harry explained, and Molly took one long, slow nod. “You are more than welcome to use it whenever you want,” Harry told Molly, and it wasn’t a second thought, he was simply letting her know, but Molly shook her head at that. “Why not?” Harry asked, back to confused and unsure again.

“I’m not just gonna let myself into your flat Harry,” Molly told him.

“I’d like you to,” Harry tried with a shrug.

“No,” Molly told him finally. Harry huffed and sat up straighter his hands trailing away from Molly’s. The change was instant, and she could feel the pull of that dreaded square one again, with the same minimal warning signs as ever. Molly sat up as well, her eyebrows dropping a little with the sudden change of pace.

“Thought you wanted me to let you in,” Harry huffed, folding his arms across himself both defensively and immaturely.

“Yeah you let me in, not let myself in,” Molly returned with the tiniest drop of venom.

“Is there a difference?” Harry quizzed with a flick of his eyebrows and a near sarcastic tone in his voice.

“Telling me I can let myself into your flat is not opening up to me,” Molly pointed out. Of course Harry was trying to patch things up, but being told she could use the spare key under his mat wasn’t what Molly wanted, even though it was a sweet gesture. She just wanted a little clarity, to not feel like she was paddling against the tide for a change, like she was drowning in all the possible things he wasn’t saying.

“Ok, so what do you want to know?” Harry asked with a sigh, holding his hands up, as if surrendering, giving up, hopefully realising how little of being kept in the darkness Molly could take, that he really did have to start letting her in, little bit at a time if he wanted her to stay. Molly wanted it to be on his terms, if he wasn’t ready, telling her he wasn’t ready would be enough. But then he had asked, so she took the first step into the unknown.

“How old were you when you left Manchester?” Molly asked gently.

“Fifteen,” Harry told her with a curt nod.

“Why?” Molly went on, pulling her legs back up underneath her, crossing them, and letting her hands fall into her lap. Harry nodded, and looked away for a second, swallowing on nothing. “If you’re not ready, tell me you’re not ready, but don’t tell me just because, or laugh it off, please,” Molly begged. If it seemed unreasonable, she didn’t mean it too, but if she wanted him to be honest, she had to be honest about how she was feeling too. Harry nodded, understanding, and finding her eyes again.

“After my dad died my mum kept coming down so we could see Nan,” Harry started, his voice rougher around the edges than Molly was used to. “I think Nan wanted to keep us close after Dad passed, I was a handful, went off the rails a bit after dad, I suppose that’s normal,” Molly nodded because she supposed it was too, not that she could say for certain of course. “Got in with the wrong crowd that kind of thing, I’ve always been told I was going to be staying with Nan for a weekend so mum could have a bit of a break, but when she left me at Nans that day that was the last time I saw her or Ida,” Harry finished finally, biting his jaw together and his throat clenching hard.

“Your sister?” Molly asked to be sure, and Harry nodded again. “And you were fifteen?” Again Harry nodded. He couldn’t look at Molly, he was trying to, but whenever he got close he just dropped his eyes an inch or two, looking at the rounds of her cheek and the natural rosiness of them. “Did you ever try to find her?” Molly asked, starting to chew on her bottom lip not quite sure where the line was but hoping Harry would make it known when she got close.

“Yeah, a few years ago I had a go, but I gave up, don’t think she wants to be found,” Harry told Molly, and she could hear it was the truth in the tone of his voice, and see it in his eyes.

“What about your sister?” Molly went on, cautiously.

“No idea, couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere, Nan reckons they might have gone to the states, apparently mum always spoke about going but dad didn’t want to leave the family,” Harry explained, and Molly just nodded, taking it all in and appreciating every word like it was gold dust.

“If she came to find you…?” Molly hinted carefully, not sure how that would be taken, not sure if it was even something Harry had contemplated.

“I’d ask for an explanation,” Harry started, and at last he found Molly’s eyes, with confidence, telling her it was something he’d thought about, maybe even imagined, and probably more than once. “I’d have a conversation, but I don’t know if I’d want her back in my life properly, maybe Ida because none of it was her fault, but mum, I’m not sure,” Harry admitted without hesitation or regret.

“You know none of it’s your fault either don’t you?” Molly wondered out loud, eyes narrowing.  Harry shrugged, lips pouting and eyes looking away again. “It’s not, your mum decided to leave you, it’s not your fault,” Molly assured.

“You don’t know that,” Harry pointed out, his words mumbled staring down at his knees. Molly supposed that was true, but still she couldn’t believe it could be the case.

“Why would it be your fault?” Molly asked. Harry shrugged again, sucking his cheek into his mouth, avoiding eye contact at all cost. “Harry,” Molly whispered, moving forward and taking one of his hands in hers, wrapping her fingers between his and clutching him tightly. Harry didn’t look at her, just glanced at their hands, before he started talking.

“I just always thought the way I acted, treated her, like it was her fault dad died, some of the things I did, and don’t ask cause you don’t need to know, and I’m not ready to talk about it, it makes no odds, it was just stupid teenage shit, might have pushed her away.” Molly saw it was hard for him to say, and she appreciated him telling her he wasn’t ready, as much as the rest of it. It was honest, and that’s what she wanted, more than she wanted to know what had happened, more than she wanted to know about his past, and what made him how he was, she wanted his honesty.

“But she took the final steps Harry,” Molly reminded him quietly. Harry didn’t react at all, so Molly carried on, because she couldn’t just sit there and have him think it was his fault, or that letting her in would end the same way, that caring about her, would end with him broken, alone, confused, and hurting. “Don’t blame yourself,” Molly begged, “if this is what it’s about, if you’re scared of pushing me away because of some mistakes you’ve made or whatever, you won’t, as long as you’re honest with me, about things, and you don’t keep shutting me out, I’m not going anywhere,” Molly promised him and she meant it, because she couldn’t see herself walking away. For every part of her that got frustrated at him, there were far more parts, far bigger parts, finding themselves caring about him, loving him even.

“I don’t need you to tell me everything if you’re not ready that’s fine, but don’t pretend there’s nothing to say just tell me you’re not ready, just be honest with me, that’s all I’m asking.” Harry pulled Molly closer with that, up from the couch onto his lap. She took a seat there, on his thighs and let him pull her close. Her head rested on his shoulder and he buried himself into her neck, letting out a long shaky breath into her skin, that left him limp, but still holding her tight, with all the little pieces of his broken, mending heart.

A/N Happy Friday everyone! Hope you enjoy this one. AT LAST some answers, by are they actually the answers? WHO KNOW!?

Let me know what you think, and have a lovely weekend <3