#took me forever to finish though

[vale-n-tina-and-the-internet]

OK SO HERE IT GOES

Ok so story time: This was commissioned by the lovely (not to mention patient and supportive) @greypistacchio for her monumental fic Pieces of Paper we Hold, and it’s going to be the cover for the printed version she’s going to sell to raise money for SA survivors. It’s a great initiative and it comes with loads of merch from super talented artists so go.check.it.out. cuz it’s all kinds of awesome! (For real, the art for the merch is superb 😍)

Also it was my first commission ever 🤯 Nearly crapped my pants with nerves, but Gee was crazy enough to entrust it to me and I couldn’t be more grateful cause I’m kinda proud of the result and to be part of a project like this.

Some progress shots under the cut just for fun

[puppyeared]

filipina miku!! my mom helped me with her outfit ^_^

[nicolinocolino]

thnks fr th mmrs

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | One Shot | My Queen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Queen!Reader

Plot: The post-battle energy rush needs a release. Suddenly, there’s a willing soldier at your disposal.

Warnings: 18+. Smut and mentions of violence.

Words: 4OOO

“There are guests, Your Majesty,” John tells you with pity in his voice, not mentioning it because he thinks you have forgotten, but because he needs you to be aware of the important fact. If you tried hard enough, it wasn’t too much of a task to remember your duties and who those entailed, but it was a relief to have John around to remind you of such things, since you valued your duties and relations with the outside world dearly.

You glance around nervously and give him a guilty pout, grabbing the last of your belongings.

“I know, I am so sorry, but this is important. Send them a plane and I will get back to them as soon as I can,” you plead and quickly rush out of the room to the main entrance hall, John following you as you make your way to the prepared jet.

Mind occupied by making sure your small legion is armed and ready to go as you walk, you get brought to an abrupt stop when two large men block your path. Raising your head, you glower curiously at the rude interruption. As busy as you have been the past weeks, you study each and every encounter you plan, so you know exactly who the two men are.

“Captain Wilson. Sergeant Barnes.”

“Your Majesty,” Sam’s greeting is curt, yet kind. “I don’t suppose a sudden departure is part of your infamous warm welcome?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You have an awful lot of courage speaking to a queen this way,” you warn him, your tone formal before your features soften towards your guests. “But I apologise. Something important came up and I hardly think sending you into war with me is considered a warm welcome.”

The man you recognise as James Barnes lets out a humoured scoff. “Clearly, you don’t know us very well.”

Your eyes dart between the men suspiciously and a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, hardly able to contain it at the sheer boldness coming from the men. After a pregnant pause and your legion having left the hall to board the jet, you slowly turn to John.

“John. You heard the men. Get them suited and onto the jet.” Sharing one more glance with the men, your eyes lingering on the twinkle of mischief in Bucky’s eyes, you brush past them and step onto the plane without another word.

…

“It’s not often a queen goes into war with her people.”

“Well, unfortunately my legions are struggling on their own,” you explain to Sam calmly.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, brows pulled together in slight worry.

“John? Could you please bring them up to speed while I get ready?”

As John takes over and shows the two heroes what their next mission will be as they serve someone else’s queen, you step over to the side and let one of your generals help you suit up. Slipping into the modern metal, rusted with nano technology, the shimmering suit glides over your body perfectly.

From the corner of your eyes, you notice Bucky Barnes losing interest from John’s briefing and your eyes lock with his. There’s a rush of heat pulsing through your body at the sheer boldness of Bucky not breaking eye contact once he gets caught staring. His eyes rake up and down the sleek suit and lock back onto yours, a knowing smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth before he drags his eyes away and turns back to his previous conversation.

Leaving you absolutely flustered and furious.

Did he just ogle a queen?

…

Bucky is startled enough for it to nearly show on his face when he sees the feral look you have on yours. He knows that look, has worn it plenty of times himself. Battle doesn’t quite leave your body and mind as soon as it is over. Even with your spectacular win, which Bucky knows is mostly because of your reliability and skills as a powerful leader, the raging chaos of adrenaline lingers like you have days worth of battles to fight still.

He came in to check up on you post-battle, easily slipping past your guards, to find you pacing in your blood-splattered gear around the chamber before what he assumes is your bedroom. The hall is large and decorated wonderfully, but so very empty with your restless figure pacing through it. He’s certain he can feel your energy buzzing all the way up to the impossibly high ceilings.

Having enough decency to announce himself, he gently knocks on the door from inside of the room. When you whirl towards him in your frenzy, he finds it amusing enough to plaster a smirk onto his face. “Restless, my queen?”

You huff through your nostrils. “I still have fight in me.” He knows. “I want to kill them for springing that attack on us.” He knows that too, but the gravel in your voice awakens a slumbering beast inside of him and fire starts curling around his bones.

“I think you gave them enough hell for what they did to you,” he assures you and something in your eyes seems to soften at that. You did give them hell. Rightfully so.

“But this energy–” You shake out your trembling hands to rid yourself of that restlessness. Bucky nods and slowly prowls closer, hands gliding into his pockets as he slants his head to the side to observe you.

“I know,” he acknowledges, “it takes a while to wear off.”

“How do you handle it?” you ask him, taking a steadying breath as he crosses the room. “After a fight, how do you get rid of all of that energy?”

Bucky flashes you a grin, his brows raising with intrigue and a mischievous shimmer in his eyes. “I hardly think I could speak about such methods to a sophisticated queen.”

“Sophisticated, my ass,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at the broad soldier. “You hardly felt like you had to be appropriate when you were watching me put on this suit,” you say with a scoff, ushering to the intricate metals you’re wearing.

“In my defence, I hadn’t seen you fight yet. Whereas now,” he shrugs, “I’d prefer staying in your good graces.”

“You fuck it out, don’t you?”

Bucky’s blink is the only sign of his surprise and he cocks his head at you again. “Excuse me?”

“The only way to get rid of the energy after battle is to get your dick wet,” you clarify, “isn’t it?”

Bucky chokes on a laugh, stepping even closer to you now with his hands still in his pockets, close enough to make you have to tilt your chin up. “You have a filthy mouth for a queen,” he breathes and to accentuate his words, his eyes drop to said mouth.

“I didn’t become queen by being prim and proper,” you explain with a little less fire than you intended to say it with.

“No,” he breathes, “you didn’t.”

Another restless shudder up your spine reminds you of your predicament, your thudding heartbeat not coming to a rest. You sigh, searching those blue eyes still trained on your lips. “Care to help a queen out?”

“You want to see me bow for you again, don’t you?” He smirks and finally raises his eyes to meet yours.

You can’t help but smile slightly, giving him a guilty shrug, because yes, you loved seeing him bow for you earlier as you stepped onto the battlefield. Not just that, plenty of pretty men had bowed for you. It was Bucky’s willingness and respect as he took a knee for you that was particularly invigorating. He matches your smile and takes a long second to let you take in what he is about to do, before slowly sinking to his knees in front of you, steady hands moving to rest on your thighs.

“Your people are awfully lucky to get to serve you every day,” he murmurs, looking up at you with eyes of fire and submission. That manages to make heat surge to your cheeks and ears, swallowing hard as you take in the sight before you. “May I?”

It takes all of your power not to nod too eagerly before he starts working off the buckles and belts of your suit, the nanotechnology wingmanning perfectly as the metal retreats into the hard base of the suit.

Soon, you are in nothing but your underwear. Bones and muscles are trembling beneath your skin in response to forcing your body to be utterly still. Chemical reactions are ricocheting against the barrier of your skin to make you spring apart. So much energy. So much fire and passion and fury still roiling inside of you. A heavy blanket settles over it – desire. But before you can order him to act on it, Bucky comes back to a stand.

“Close your eyes,” he mutters.

“I’m close to fighting you, Sergeant Barnes,” you promise him, showing your active restraint, but deciding to close your eyes anyway.

He huffs a soft laugh and you feel his eyes burning into your skin, a knuckle brazenly trailing over your collarbones and down the centre of your chest. “I will take you up on that another day,” he answers and your blood heats up at the fact that Bucky revels in both of those sides of you. Most men cower at your bloodlust, but not him. He kneels before it.

Speaking of him kneeling–

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” you remind him and his hand pauses.

“I didn’t particularly think it would be fair to leave you standing as I proceed to immobilise your legs, my queen,” he drawls and you snap your mouth shut. Your eyes slowly flutter open and you find him having taken a step back, holding out his hand for you to take.

Carefully taking it with a questioning look in your eyes, Bucky leads you to your bedroom like he has been there a thousand times. Slowly and deliberately, he guides you to your own bed, still fully clothed himself in those black leathers.

“I expected it to be more rough,” you admit steadily. “Fucking out that energy...”

Bucky turns back to you, hands now on your waist as he pivots you with your back to the bed, the backs on your legs touching the foot of it. “Fucking you roughly won’t do the trick,” he explains. “Fucking you thoroughly will.”

If you weren’t quaking before, this would do the trick. Your heartbeat is pulsing between your legs, hammering for attention, the seams of your underwear teasing you more than the man before you. It paralyses you, that desire coursing through your veins like syrup, makes you fall quiet. Only for a short while.

“Then do it.”

Bucky’s brows raise again, not having expected you to fold so fast. “What?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” you hiss at him. “I need you to fuck me before I explode.”

Bucky smirks at you again and you’re so tempted to smother that smirk – you have your ways. “I am not yours to give orders to.”

You restrain from rolling your eyes at him, the close proximity making you prone to holding your breath and making your words coming out strained. “I’m not going to beg for it.”

“You already have,” he reminds you, not an inch of him giving away that he might be unravelling. “And I think you will, sweetheart. I think you are seconds away from begging for it.”

As if in answer to his outrageous insinuation, a shudder racks through your bones and flashes of that wild battle make your nervous system rush to life again. It’s so frustrating, to have so much energy begging to be released.

His solid eyes and steady hands on your waist make you want to sink into him for relief. You want Bucky to tear you apart, almost similar to the way he tore apart those monsters earlier. Calculated, precise and only slightly unhinged. His fighting earlier was like a choreography your body wanted to study and practice until it can memorise nothing else. The way his muscles moved, the precise strikes of his metal arm, the focused crinkles in his handsome face, his thick thighs planting him firmly onto the ground – your ground. Fighting for your lands. For you.

My queen, he had called you. You suppose he does answer to your commands, then. But you might just beg for it. If only because it feels so tempting. To whine for his pleasure, sob for it and make him serve you like he wanted to do earlier. How awful, for a queen to want to beg for it.

“Please,” you almost gasp from holding your breath for too long.

He hums, low and deadly, his finger kneading gently and appreciatively into your soft flesh. “That’s a good girl,” he murmurs and before you can shout in outrage, he slowly dips down and presses his pillowy soft lips to your collarbone, instantly making your head tilt backwards.

His hands pull you close enough for your front to be pressed to his and your hands automatically grab his shoulders. His lips part and his tongue traces a singular line over the thinnest piece of skin on your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His mouth moves up, tongue dipping in and out to raise your pulse as he suckles at your skin. Your fingers curl slightly and your body starts to nearly shake with jitters at the adrenaline coursing through you like an electrical charge.

Bucky bites down on the tense skin beneath your ear where he hums against you, the sound ringing in your head like a gong. His hands have travelled to your back, stroking up and down the bare skin until your bra pops loose with you barely noticing. You tremble with need when all you are left in are your panties and Bucky pulls away to once again sink down to his knees.

You swallow hard at his stare from below you and follow his silent command to sit down at the edge of the bed. Hooking his hands around your knees, he presses them apart and lifts one leg over his shoulder. Your fingers dig into the soft sheets with anticipation and you only break the intense eye contact to watch his tongue trace his bottom lip. He hooks your other leg over his shoulder and drags you to the very edge of the bed, getting comfortable on his knees.

“Is this where you want me?” he asks, but you don’t deign to answer him. “Kneeling before my queen.”

“Something tells me you don’t mind being there at all,” you answer tightly and his hands stroke up and down your calves lovingly. Bucky presses one kiss to your inner thighs, taking in a big whiff of air and groaning at the smell of your arousal.

“There is something about eating a meal on my knees that speaks to me,” he drawls, his eyes settling on said meal, only covered by the thin fabric of your panties. He presses another kiss, right over the damp fabric. You shudder.

“Then eat,” you bite back, scrambling to hang onto your power as a queen.

Bucky gives a wide grin, keeping his eyes on your soaking core. His hand lifts and his finger loops into the fabric, making you bite your lip painfully hard at the brief touch. He pulls the fabric to the side, spreading your legs enough for him to dive in, but not doing so yet. “That is no way to speak to your soldiers.”

Your soldier, Bucky supposes after today he is. You’re torture. Your smell, your voice, your body, the sheer power you have over him – over everyone.

Your hand finds his hair and you rake your fingers through the thick, brown tresses. Your eyes are soft when Bucky looks up to find them. “Will you take the honour of being my soldier?”

You’re genuine, he’s sure of it. Bucky can tell you’re asking him for so much more than just this. And considering his current predicament, he will consider his duties as your soldier later. Right now, he can only nod, entranced by the queen who has her legs wrapped around his head. He can only think of one duty right now and that is to rid you of all of that devastating warrior energy the only way he knows how.

Bucky buries his face between your legs and begins his feasting. Nudging his nose against your clit and prodding his tongue in and out of you. Licking every inch of your warm, wet, lovely cunt as if it’ll guarantee a place in your kingdom for him.

Sam will kill him for never returning home, but by the heavens, he can’t find it in him to care enough. Not with you tasting so heavenly and– fuck, those goddamn moans.

…

He was right, he was so fucking right. The slow and steady and longs thrusts make your body hiss in delight. The thorough swivel of his hips when he’s buried into you as far as possible, releases every bit of pent up energy that suffocates you. The sharp snap of his hips right as he’s about to hit home makes you shudder and sob, clenching around him every time as if you feel every thrust like the very first one.

Bucky strikes your deepest spot with each one, your hair between his fingers, your back arched to meet him and your cheek pressed into the mattress. Your eyes flutter painfully against your will, your toes curling when pleasure wraps around every abdominal muscle, your pussy spasming around him in need for release as the pressure between your hips grows to be unbearable.

The sounds that slip from your parted mouth sound inhumane. Soft and pitiful whimpers between huffs of breath. Oh God, oh God. You need him to slow down for a second, except he’s not going fast at all. He’s slow and deep and oh God, he’s so fucking deep.

You grapple for a grip in the sheets, any tether to reality slipping from your mind after every move he has already made. The last of your control, your power as a queen, slips away from you on a phantom wind, desire clouding every piece of domination inside of you. It’s all his now, you are all his now.

Within a short second, you get hauled up by your hair, arched against his heaving, sweaty chest until his mouth nips at your earlobe. Your hands grab his hips behind you, nails digging into his firm skin.

“You still there, my queen?” he coos, and you feel his grin as his mouth grazes over your neck possessively. Your answer is the harsh tightening of your nails into him and the groan he lets out makes you clench around him wantonly. “Oh, somewhere. You’re somewhere in that sex-riddled brain of yours. Losing your mind a little, are you?”

You swear you mean to speak a sentence – a word, at least – but the sound that comes out sounds like another garbled moan and Bucky laughs at your demise. He quickly presses a loving kiss to your shoulder, a deep thrust settling him so deep inside of you, you flutter helplessly around him.

“Don’t worry,” he hums, another deep thrust following as the hand in your hair slips to securely grip your throat and move your ear back to his mouth. “Next time, I will let you take the reigns. You can tie me to the bed and use me to make yourself come. I’m looking forward to it, actually.” You pulse around him and he snickers. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Prefer to have control and use the ones that serve you.” He bites your ear softly and squeezes your throat. “Oh, but you look so pretty like this. Don’t take this away from me, sweetheart.”

It's a whirlwind of emotions that rush through you at his words. You feel his desperation to have you like this seep through his ignorant confidence having you exactly like he wants you. The last of your working brain cells are screaming yes, yes, yes at his request. You’ll let him have you like this every day for the rest of your life. And it flashes before your eyes, him waking you up by slowly fucking you, hand back in your hair and lazy mouth muttering filthy things against your skin. God, he’s filthy.

Your vision is swirling as his pace picks up and blood flow to your brain is slightly limited by his grip. Ecstasy is rushing through your head and limbs with heavy tingles, and your moans raise in pitch. The metal hand bruising your hips with its possessive grip, slides between your legs and messily toys with your clit, the feeling making you want to buckle over.

“Shit!” you gasp and throw your head back into his shoulder, thighs quaking at the stimulation. Too much, it’s too much. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel every inch of him glide in and out of you with an ease and precision that feels degrading and embarrassing. Bucky’s breath is equally laboured now and his grip on you turns from possessive to desperate, like he cannot get enough of you into his hands.

“Come for me again, my queen,” he purrs in your ear, knowing what that term now does to you, and you nod blindly. Following his command blindly, unable to resist the feeling of his deep thrusts and his firm circles on your clit any longer, you let the warmth of your orgasm consume you. You tremble and shake and stiffen at his touch and he doesn’t stop. “Come on, keep coming. Keep fucking coming, baby.”

You choke out a sob, surely drawing blood with your nails as you gasp for air, for any word to make him ease up on you, but he only stops when you buckle over and your trembling form succumbs to the sheets below you. Curled up on the sheets, bearing the waves of pleasure that haunt your every nerve, you feel Bucky’s exhausted and sex-glazed eyes watching you carefully. You faintly feel the trickle of him come pulsing out of you and it nearly makes you smile.

Two hands, one scorching with heat and one a welcome cool, gently stroke up the sides of your thighs, cooing sounds coming from Bucky as he watches you come back to your senses. Lips follow his soothing touches, warm kisses being pressed to your quickly cooling skin.

“How’s that post-fight energy?” he asks softly and your eyes finally flutter open to meet his curious ones, the blue shimmering with… Pride.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He laughs, “Again?”

You breathe a soft laugh and he at last presses a kiss to your lips. If you had the energy, you know your body would betray you by lifting your head to chase his lips.

You finally let out a defeated sigh, letting the corners of your mouth lift to a lazy smile. “Thank you.”

“At your disposal,” he mutters back with slight amusement and you open your eyes again to look at him. God, he’s beautiful.

“Are you,” you dare to ask, earnest in your eyes, “at my disposal…?”

“It would be an honour.”

“Likewise.”

“That is more than I’ve ever had before.”

“The honour?”

He nods. And then leans in, his mouth brushing your ear as your eyes flutter closed again, goosebumps rising over your skin. “I will bow for you any day,” he breathes softly, “my queen.”

[volivolition]

SHIVERS WON THE SKILLS BRACKET!!!!

YAY CONGRATS SHIVERS FOR WINNING @skills-bracket-2 <333

[mushed-kid]

had to draw him myself as well

[burstfoot]

♫ SILVER AND GOLD ♫ WON'T SAVE MY ROTTING SOUL ♫

[lilypucks]

oh. so the whole time it was possible to get a chain for the bell pendant in isat

[lemon-grey]

(and you know) I might have just flown too far from the floor (this time)

version without the words:

[rockeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy]

3 hours late but ummm uhhhh HAPPY BIRTDAY WE LOVE OUR GUY!!!

(darnold got him a bulk pack of Evil Powerade and benrey got him a box of like 50 different trinkets that would not be available literally anywhere. he won't explain)

[theultimatekamehamehavoc]

Junko and Mukuro time! Junko: It's Junko time! I went all out with the accessories cus, why not! She fit the best for this and that kidcore. Also, going back to Makoto's design, I planned it out and gave them both little band-aids. Thought it'd be an interesting connection between the two. The connection between hope and despair. I also tried to make her outfit a bit ill-fitting too. I dunno. She stole them or something! Or the fact that they don't fit her brings her despair???? I am grasping at straws. Also am now I'm imagining this little brat unrolling her sleaves and slapping people hard with them like a shirt whip. Mukuro: I gave Mukuro a few different designs because she is Mukuro and she is special. Jokes aside though, I felt it was warranted. One as Junkuro, one without the wig, and the last in her own clothes. The Junkuro outfit and one lacking the wig are self-explanatory with Mukuro dressed as her sister. Thus, I'll just go over the main design. I gave her a little army camo vest for fun. Got that bootcamp vibe to her. She also kept the skirt and school girl like attire cus she IS still a kid. Like a soldier in training. Also kept a wee bit of red in her design like a reference to her original design but also showing her connection to her sister with that red in there.

[napo-leo-art]

(Cue Morgan immediately contradicting)

Morgan and Farah here

(no subtitle version under the cut)

[lenievi]

Spones Day 2023 fic

Canon divergent universe where TMP never happened. Takes place a few years before TWOK (but if TWOK happens is in the stars). Kirk has retired from Starfleet (just so you’re not confused), because I like that tidbit from Generations.

#McCoy didn’t know they were dating #first kiss #strangely proactive Spock

~1000 words. | G

---

The door to the Transporter Beam-up Center opened, and mixed groups of various species started to come out. McCoy moved to the side to not stand in their way, his eyes scanning the crowd for Spock’s familiar face. It was a few minutes before he heard, “Doctor McCoy.”

McCoy startled. “I need to buy you a cowbell.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been saying that for years, Doctor, and I’m still waiting.” He raised his hand, fingers spread in a Vulcan salute. “We meet again.”

McCoy blinked and looked at his hand. His third finger quivered as he tried to connect it with the fourth one, hoping to form a V, but with no success. He gave up, shaking his fingers a bit, relieving the slight pain in his ring finger. One day, one day, he would succeed.

Spock held out his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. 

McCoy glared at him. “You could’ve done it from the beginning.” He clasped Spock’s hand, soaking in the warmth he hadn’t felt for three months. “How was the trip?” He let go.

“Commanding a ship full of cadets on their training voyage is hardly a trip, Doctor.”

“You visited Vulcan before that, didn’t you?”

Spock gave a stiff nod. “Sarek sends his regards.” He beckoned toward the exit. “Shall we?”

Spock led him to a nearby restaurant.

Even after three years, it still felt odd whenever Spock invited him out. Sometimes to a science or technical museum, sometimes to a restaurant, sometimes to an arboretum. Just the two of them. If anyone had told him that ten years ago, five years ago, hell, even three years ago, he would scoff and tell them not to drink anymore. But Spock kept reaching out, and McCoy kept saying yes.

“Have you spoken to Jim recently?” McCoy asked after they ordered. He kept his eyes on the tabletop, not wanting to see Spock’s judging expression.

“Not since before my trip to Vulcan,” Spock said. “He acquired a dog.”

McCoy raised his head. “Jim has a dog?”

“His name is Butler.”

McCoy blinked.

“You would know that if you called him,” Spock said, his eyes piercing.

“Well…” McCoy wet his lips. “He could call me.”

“You informed him rather vehemently you didn’t want to see him unless he comes out of retirement.”

“You can’t tell me you think he can just live on a farm in Idaho and be happy.”

“That is not for us to judge.” Spock sipped his tea. “He appears to miss you.”

McCoy’s stomach did a funny flip. He reached for his glass of water and clasped it in both hands. His argument with Jim was ugly, and they hadn’t seen or talked to each other for two years.

“So, uhm…” he started but was saved by the waiter bringing their meals. The plates were placed, and McCoy grabbed the utensils. He should not think about Jim. Spock had always made it clear that they should resolve it themselves and did not wish to discuss it.

“It’s good to see you, Spock,” he said instead.

Spock smiled. 

They dug into their meals.

“My father offered me to work with him and accompany him to Ensis,” Spock said between bites.

McCoy frowned. “You want to leave Starfleet?”

“It would not immediately come to that, but it is an option I am considering.”

First Jim. Now Spock. McCoy had stayed in San Francisco because he wanted to stay close to them. Then Jim left. He stayed because Spock would have someone welcoming him back whenever he left on a training voyage. He stayed because… because he… 

He swallowed.

“I wanted to ask for… your opinion,” Spock said, his eyes focused somewhere behind McCoy’s shoulders. 

“My opinion?” McCoy put down his utensils. He didn’t feel hungry anymore.

“I have… always appreciated your company, Doctor.” Spock frowned. “Leonard.”

McCoy's heart skipped. He didn’t remember the last time Spock used his name.

“In the last three years, perhaps before that, the appreciation evolved, changed.” Spock looked him in the eyes. “I do not enjoy the thought of not seeing you for months.”

McCoy didn’t know what to say. His mind was flying at warp speed. The almost realization a minute ago. Every time Spock invited him to go somewhere. Every time McCoy invited Spock to his apartment, sharing meals, cooking together. The soft brushes of their shoulders, as they passed each other in McCoy’s narrow kitchen. The soft brushes of the back of their hands, as they walked down the streets or halls of the museums. Spock’s fingers on his elbow, demanding his attention. So common, so frequent that he didn’t even notice them anymore.

“Are we dating, Spock?” McCoy blurted out.

“As there hasn’t been an official agreement, we are not.”

“Do you want to?” McCoy asked before he could think about it.

The tips of Spock’s ears darkened. “That was the matter I wanted to discuss today. In order to answer my father’s offer, I first needed an answer from you.”

“Why?”

“I have already told you. I would have… missed you.”

McCoy could not hold back his smile, his cheeks growing hot.

“If you did not answer positively, creating a physical distance between us would be a logical thing to do.”

“The distance wouldn’t help,” McCoy murmured.

“Perhaps.” Spock inclined his head. “But it appears we do not have to test it.”

“But your father –”

“My father is aware.”

McCoy opened his mouth and closed it. “You…” He wet his lips. “You talked about us with Sarek?” Us. There was an us.

“My father thinks highly of you,” Spock said. “Mother too. She’d like it if you accompanied me next time I visit Vulcan.”

McCoy blinked.

“You don’t have to give me an answer today.” Spock bit his lower lip. McCoy hadn’t seen that habit in years. “But I would like to kiss you.”

McCoy nodded, lost for words. His heart beat loud in his ears. He raised his hand.

Spock leaned across the table and pressed their lips together.

[moe-broey]

HUGE difference between "I never finished Three Houses" (🏘️ wait hold on. Wh. Why is there a Three Houses emoji. That is so specific.

Anyway HUGE difference between "I never finished Three Houses" (the story is probably good but my fuckinh god the calendar based gameplay wants my head on a pike. Missing important events/interactions due to the time based nature wants me DEAD. The general inflexibility when it comes to whatever cast of characters you're stuck with for what run like YEAH you can recruit dif students school arc but. The options still feel soooooo limited and if there's a house of characters you just don't vibe with but that's the run ypu have to do. Fuck your entire life. And then there's the time basedness of it all. The arc basedness of it all. The structure of it all IS DESIGNED VERY SPECIFICALLY to fucking Kill Me. You can't even fuck around and give yourself little side quests. The Fucking Time and Structure.) vs "I haven't finished Engage yet" (I have commitment issues 😔 I don't wanna let go.... 😟 I don't want it to be over 😢😢😭💔💔💔)

[staysafedontdie]

Kyle: Cartman, what the fuck??

Cartman: What? Did you expect me to be ~inspirational~? Fuck you. *takes nonchalant bite of his donut*

i saw a meme and had to do something similar. (Please click through! Tumblr will crush the hell out of them)

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Nothing and Everything - Part 4

Summary: Certain times of the year are harder than others. This is the first year where they have all been present to face the memories of all the trauma. How can they come together when they each have their own traumas to face?

Pairings: Gen fic (they love Layla and she loves them)

Warnings: Heavy dissociation, Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Depression, mentions of self harm, mentions of hospitalization, PTSD.

Word Count: 5094

Part four: With the moon boys approaching crisis, Layla has called in an expert. But this expert knows that this is no easy task, after all, he's worked with them before. Is it mission fail or will it work?

Previous Chapter HERE

Jean-Paul sat waiting at a cafe in the high end of London. He had always wanted to try this place. It served croissants that just about melted in your mouth and coffee that reminded him of a night he once spent in Turkey. 

The table was set with a fruit platter, macaroons, a chocolate croissant, and two cups of coffee. He was considering ordering a slice of quiche to top it all off. 

It was extravagant and the bill far exceeded the quantity of the meal, but he didn’t care. He had made a promise to himself after his last mission that he would never deny himself a moment of happiness. 

He was retired. A label that most mercenaries never lived to see. Considering that all his former comrades and friends were in the ground, he took a special moment as he sipped his coffee to savor the moment.

The smell brought him back to bright string lights across a street, vendors lining the path with food and drinks, the bright neon signs that advertised bars and clubs and the dark paths that lead to drugs and other unsavory places. 

Most of all, the taste brought him back to a young man at his side, smiling and laughing as they ate kebab and celebrated being alive. Dark eyes and dark hair, and a smile that was so rare and beautiful… 

Jean-Paul breathed in the smell deeply, holding the cup gingerly. Bitter sweet as it was, the moment was gone, along with the regrets and opportunities that he had let pass him by.

He set the cup down as a familiar head of curls appeared next to his table. 

“Ma chérie… It has been too long.” He smiled up at Layla and gestured to the open seat across from him. 

Layla sat down and looked down at the spread before them. “Jean-Paul, thank you for coming.” 

She immediately picked out a macaroon and bit into it with a sense that she had needed something sweet and wonderful in her life right now. 

He waited for her to settle in, knowing that sometimes you just need to remind yourself that life outside of stress and pain and panic existed. 

At last she sat back and looked up at him with a smile. “How are you? Are you staying here in London?” 

“Ah, we are starting with the small chat?” He smirked and picked up a slice of honeydew. He took a bite and waved his fork vaguely. “I have a lovely hotel that overlooks some favous garden that I could care less about, but it does serve the most wonderful breakfast and the mattress is perfectly firm to support my poor back. I cannot stand these super soft beds people like these days. False decadence, is what it is. I would just as soon sleep on the floor.” 

Layla laughed and reached for a strawberry. “I’m all about the pillows, really. Give me five and I’m happy.” 

“Five? Hmmm… Two for the head, one to hug, one for the hips…Where does the fifth one go?” He smiled sat back in his seat. 

Layla blushed and gave him a mischievous grin. “Depends on if I’m alone or not.” 

Jean-Paul feigned a scandalous gasp. “If only I were straight. I would steal you away from Marc and go on a wild romantic excursion through all of Paris with you.” 

“I have been through enough wild excursions.” She shook her head. “And I am sure there are plenty of men begging you to fly them away.” 

“Not as many as there used to be.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “I’m not as handsome as I used to be. I’m waiting for time to turn me into a silver fox. Perhaps I can turn into someone’s… What do you call it? Candy daddy?”

Layla made a face. “I just call Marc a dirty old man.” 

They burst out laughing, her stress finally melting away and letting her relax for the first time in weeks. 

When the laughter faded, she ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry filled with jam. Her sweet tooth was just as bad as he remembered. 

They chatted a moment about mundane things. Her life in London and work in translation and identification of artifacts. His life in private flights and mechanics. 

They talked about old days and the more recent adventure he had missed in Egypt. Of all the talk, he noted that she kept a wide circle around the actual subject of their meeting. 

At last, she stared down into her cup and found nowhere else to go. “Have you heard from Marc?” 

“No. Not since you all came back from Egypt. It was more of a courtesy call, really. I think he felt bad for ghosting me. Perhaps he feared I too would track him down like an angry ex-wife.” He smiled at Layla gently. 

“Idiot didn’t sign the papers. We were never ex-anything.” She rolled her eyes. “Did he talk to you about…Steven?” 

Jean-Paul took a moment to cross his legs and arms, deep in thought. Perhaps to her, it looked like he was trying to remember. 

In reality, he was deep in memory. 

“Swear to me, mi corazon…. Don’t tell him. He cannot know…” 

A memory filled with dark eyes and a deep regret for things lost. 

“If you are asking if I know about his… condition…” He treaded lightly. 

“Dissociative identity disorder. D.I.D for short.” Layla said it with the air of someone that has had to explain it a lot. “You knew?” 

Jean-Paul looked down into his coffee and at last put the tiger to bed. “I knew about Jake.” 

Layla dropped her fork. “Jake? Jake Lockley? You knew about Jake?” 

He groaned and looked up at her sheepishly. “Please tell me that you know him now. I do not like being the one to cause problems.” 

“Oh, I know about Jake.” Her jaw was firmly set in a line. “That man… That man…” She sat back and shook her head. “It took a long time for me to know about Jake, though. Steven showed up when the whole thing with Egypt happened. It’s how I found Marc when he ran off. Jake took his sweet time to introduce himself to the rest of us. Marc certainly didn’t know.” 

A lot of things were starting to click into place and Jean-Paul laughed softly to himself. “Does Steven happen to sound like a little English fellow? The sweetest smile you’ll ever see? The kind that melts into your heart and makes you wish life were different?” 

Layla stared at him for a long and hard moment before she nodded. “Did you know about Steven?” 

He tapped a finger on the table, knowing full well that the tiger may be in bed but it was still dangerous. “I met him once. We had brunch.” 

She raised an eyebrow and Jean-Paul held up his hands in surrender. “Marc is not as in control as he thinks. When things were hot, of course he was Marc. I would not want to see that sweet English tart out into the things that we got into, either. But when things cooled down… When it was quiet and we went into town to spend money and have fun… Sometimes the quiet could set in and we went to the right town…It was like he couldn’t help but let Steven out to enjoy it.” 

Layla mouthed the phrase ‘sweet english tart’ incredulously. 

“Steven probably thought he was there to have brunch and some strange French tourist randomly joined him. I’d be surprised if he remembered it.” Jean-Paul sipped the coffee with a smile, remembering the smile and the joy. Joy he had never seen on Marc’s face. So open, so beautiful… 

“What about Jake?” 

Jean-Paul picked at his croissant, eating it piece by piece. How much to say? How much did Marc know at this point? 

We have to keep him safe, do you understand? 

“Sometimes things were very hot. Very stressful and we both have our fair share of scars. Sometimes Jake was needed.” He sat back and smiled at the past. “My god that man knew how to fight. Marc was good, but Jake…” He placed a hand over his heart as if to ask it nicely to be still. “Sometimes after the fight, Marc could not settle. We all had troubles sometimes. Things we wished we hadn’t done in the moment… Things I wish I could forget. Jake was there for him. For me. He could help the nightmares fade away.” 

Layla nodded and looked away. “He stayed hidden really well. He saved us in Egypt. Marc had no idea. Denial I suppose. It wasn’t till Steven insisted that someone else was there that we found Jake. Even then, it took a long time for Jake to start to trust us enough to talk.” 

Jean-Paul laughed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Jake didn’t just saunter up to me and introduce himself. I was the only one he spoke to of the group. Pretended to be Marc for years. It took time for him to trust me.” 

Layla relaxed a little. Perhaps she had felt insulted or left out at the idea that Jake had so openly been around Jean-Paul when she had been with Marc for years and not known about him. 

“I must be the worst wife in the history of wives.” She hunched down in the chair over her coffee. “Steven and Jake… How do I miss two whole people?” 

Jean-Paul reached across the table and placed a hand on her arm. “Non… Chérie… If people don’t want to be seen, you will not see them. They could be sitting here plain as day and if they don’t want to be known, you will never know them.” 

“How do I help them? If they don’t want help?” She held his hand gently. “Marc is depressed, Steven is depressed, and Jake won’t talk to me. Jake talked to me all the time when things were fine. Now he’s shut up again and I think he’s trying to handle it all on his own.” 

“Is that why you called me?” Jean-Paul leaned forward. 

Layla looked up at him, looking tired and like she was utterly exhausted. “You’re his friend. Maybe seeing you will put him in a better mood. Distract him. Or… Talk him into maybe… getting help.” She sank down, looking ashamed. 

Jean-Paul raised his eyebrows. “You want me to talk Marc into seeking help? Like with a psychiatrist?” 

“Or a therapist.” She mumbled. 

He ran his fingers over his mustache, smoothing it out. “Does he still have a temper?” 

Layla waved a hand in a way that suggested that he still very much had a temper but she didn’t want to say so. 

“You know about his past, right? Has he told you?” Jean-Paul looked at her seriously. 

“He mentioned that he spent some time in a hospital once. He didn’t elaborate and Steven didn’t know anything.” 

He finished his coffee and stared into the empty cup. She didn’t know. It wasn’t his place to tell her. 

Yet, she had come to him for help. Perhaps she sensed something there. Perhaps this was a line she knew she couldn’t cross alone. 

He pulled out a wallet and tossed down enough money to cover the check and tip then stood up. “Finish up here. Don’t let this go to waste.” 

“Where are you going?” She looked up at him in alarm. 

“I’m going to go make sure my affairs are in order before I do this suicide mission.” He muttered and put on his sunglasses and looked up at the English sun. His instincts told him to wait until evening. 

“Thank you Jean-Paul.” She sat back and ate another macaroon. “I owe you.” 

“Mmhmm.” He looked down at her again. “Between you and Marc, I could ask for the world.” 

“Give me a day. I need to plan. You don’t go on a mission like this just jumping in. Text me his schedule, address, and car information. I need time to steak-out the area. And don’t tell him I’m in town.” 

“Thank you. I’ll get you the info you need.” She grabbed her phone to start sending him the info. 

Jean-Paul headed out. “You’re lucky you and Marc are beautiful.” 

A simple mission. He just needed to look at this like it was another mission. Find the target, track the target, get a feel for their movements and come up with the best time and place to ambush him. 

Back in the day, he would have called this sort of mission a breeze. Find one man in the city. Easy. 

The problem was the target. He knew this target. He knew the files that would have come with this target. He would have taken one look at this target and charged a king’s ransom. 

Marc Spector. Not many people who crossed paths with Marc Spector were still alive. Friend or foe, the man was cursed. 

It was enough to make him wish he hadn’t given up smoking. 

He spent the first half of the day walking the paths near Marc’s home. He watched the building and looked up at the window, taking in the view that Marc must have during the day. No one would be able to look into his flat without difficulty, but he could see down into the street easily. 

The location was good. Something discreet yet close to many public transit lines and a lot of good shops. It was obviously chosen with the idea for convenience and discretion. No one could even see who was going in and out of the building without walking down a side street that was narrow and crowded. 

It was clear that Marc had thought this through when going into hiding. It would be unwise of him to approach while Marc was near his home. 

The next thing he had done was locate the car. 

That had taken quite a bit of thinking. Layla had listed several streets where the car could be parked, which implied that he moved it a lot and seldom picked the same location.

Most people would find a good street near their home and keep to it. 

If it had been Marc, he would have parked as far away from home as he could. He might have paid for a spot with cash and kept that spot. The fact that he moved it and parked it in the street and not a garage made him think that this was not Marc’s car. 

When he found the car, he had to change the file on who his target was. 

Jake Lockley loved his car. It was clean and well kept, but it still had enough trash inside and dirt outside to help disguise it from being too obvious of a target. 

Going after Marc was bad enough…But Jake? He would have charged triple his normal asking price back in the day. 

Jake was like trying to find water in the desert. You knew it was there. You could see hints and traces of it having been there, but actually finding it? 

If Marc didn’t want to be found, Marc wasn’t found. If Jake didn’t want to be found, you might as well be looking on the wrong planet. 

He continued down the streets, slowly widening his path until he stopped before a bookstore. It was a small run down looking one with a sandwich board out front and old hand painted signs in the windows. 

He had to double check the addresses that Layla had sent him to make sure he was even in the right place. 

Jake was not a big reader. The man liked to work with his hands and had liked more practical things like newspapers and magazines. He’d even caught Jake working with crossword puzzles and sudoku a few times. 

Marc was a very particular reader. He liked to quote big classics that he had obviously read while in school, but he never touched more modern things. He didn’t read for escapism. His attention span never stayed long enough to dive into a mystery and thrillers hit too close to home. 

Of the three of them, this file scared him the most. An unknown and unpredictable asset. 

He thought back to his brunch. An excursion into London for reasons he didn’t want to think about. Marc had been bothered the whole while there, constantly looking over his shoulder and acting far too distracted for his taste. 

Once the mission was over, he had disappeared altogether. It had been pure chance that he had come across Steven sitting at an outdoor cafe looking pleased as punch to be there. 

Expecting Jake or Marc, he had been fascinated by the childlike joy and wonder Steven had exhibited as he talked about London and how much he wished to live there someday. 

It wasn’t until partway into the conversation when Steven had suddenly quoted something in perfect French that Jean-Paul suddenly got the sense that Steven was incredibly smart and hiding it very well. 

By the end of the conversation, Jean-Paul had felt more than a few heart flutters and was utterly prepared to die for the man. 

What little information he had on Steven, made his head spin. 

Avid reader, researcher, self taught, multi linguistic, and well skilled in the art of negotiation and sass. Not to mention advanced knowledge in Ancient Egypt, poetry, astronomy, puzzles, and according to Layla, a very fast study and pretty good at fighting. 

His only advantage was that Steven had no idea who he was. Yet, Steven left it all out on the table. There was no mystery and Steven did nothing to hide himself. It was Marc that had hidden Seven. Marc that had been so protective of Steven that he had gone to scary and often self destructive tactics to keep the man safe. 

And leave it to Marc to put them all in danger as he chose the most dangerous profession. Keep him safe, as long as Marc didn’t get them killed. 

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered who he was eventually going to approach. How was he going to get them to listen? How did he get Marc to listen? 

Marc, who he knew the best, was also the most trouble he had ever experienced in his life. 

Jean-Paul wondered if Jake might be better to approach, but Jake was so protective of Marc… Not to mention what Jake had told him about his experience with the medical field. 

Any time one of them had been injured enough to mention a hospital, Marc had resisted. At least one occasion had Jake jumping out the back of the truck with a bullet in his shoulder. 

It was time for the next step and the most dangerous one. 

He waited at a safe distance until one of them left the house. He was not prepared for the bombardment of emotions that hit him when he saw those familiar locks of curls. Even from this distance, he could see the dark eyes and familiar shape of his nose and chin. 

Years. How many years had he ridden side by side with this man…These men? 

How long had it been since he last saw them? Since that last moment in the desert with Marc dying and bleeding in the sand? That last moment as he and Layla left on their last adventure? 

Jean-Paul took a moment to compose himself then started to follow at a reasonable distance. 

He knew that walk. The weave between the people as he seemed to slip through them without leaving a trace. He somehow managed to take that body and make it smaller, closed off and impervious to the outside world. 

Jean-Paul pulled back further. Jake would know if he was being followed too closely. 

Jake would also know if Jean-Paul came at him with an ulterior motive and shut him down. 

The day dragged on as he tailed them. He watched Jake get coffee and food at some diner. He watched Jake smile and talk to people that he obviously saw often. 

Did Jake have a life here? No longer hiding in the shadows and popping out when no one was looking? Something he never thought he’d see. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little jealous. 

The more he watched, the more he started to realize how free Jake was. His sense of style, the way he moved, and even his relaxed demeanor now that he was no longer expecting to be shot at every second of every day. 

Jean-Paul backed off, slowly letting Jake fade into the crowd. Who was he to bring the past back in when it was clear that Jake wanted nothing but to move forward? 

He pulled out his phone and pulled up Layla’s number. He couldn’t do this. Maybe he was selfishly thinking of his own pain or maybe he just couldn’t stand to see the look of betrayal in his target’s eyes. 

He was about to text her a mission failed status update when he sensed someone standing at his six. 

“It is incredibly hard to tail someone with a mustache like that.” Jake’s accent was no longer strangled out by pretending to be someone he wasn’t. His voice was confident and soft. 

Jean-Paul smiled weakly then looked back at him. “Mon Ami… Tailing was never my specialty.” 

Jake looked him over, hands in his pockets as he contemplated something. “You look good.” 

“I’m alive. Mostly in one piece.” He shrugged. 

Jake hesitated then pointed to the phone. “Layla?” 

“Yeah. Is Marc…?” He felt like an awkward teenager again and he did his best not to show how defeated he felt. 

Jake shook his head. “No, but he’ll be happy to see you. As happy as Marc gets, anyways.” 

Somehow, that made him feel a little better. “Can we talk?” 

Jake shifted his stance then pulled a hat out from his coat pocket. He pulled it on and adjusted it carefully as if it were some sort of ritual. 

He glanced at Jean-Paul and sighed. “Grounding. I don’t want Steven to try anything.” 

“And Marc? Are you keeping him away too?” 

Jake tilted his hat back and gave Jean-Paul a hard look. “Until I figure out why you’re here, yeah.” 

“Fair. Is there somewhere we can go?” He glanced around. “I don’t suppose you’d let me into your flat.” 

“You guessed right.” Jake continued to give him a look that made him sweat. 

“Still playing the protector.” Jean-Paul shook his head. “Come. We are near my hotel. There’s a garden patio I’ve been told is very nice.” 

Jake walked at his side, hands still in his pockets and silent. 

How many times had they sat in silence together? How many times had Jake been forced to stay silent as he pretended to be Marc? How long had it taken Jean-Paul to notice? 

He let the silence be. It was familiar and comfortable. Silence was safe. 

When they reached the hotel, Jean-Paul guided him to the back patio with a fancy garden full of large tropical things that would surely die in the winter and a fragrant rose garden that must have been hell to upkeep. 

Stepping out into the area, Jake paused for just a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering softly to himself. “No, Pendejo. Go away.” 

Jean-Paul moved to take a seat at a bench and waited. 

Jake sighed and moved to take a seat at his own bench. “Steven likes the flowers. Thinks this place is very fancy.” 

“Fancy enough.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “Reminds me of that place in Brazil a bit. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Every place reminds you of somewhere else.” 

“Marc hated it there.” Jake shook his head. “He was pretty pissed about the language issue.” 

“I can’t believe he didn’t know they spoke Portuguese.” Jean-Paul smiled. “I’ve never seen a man so confused and angry at the same time.” 

Jake laughed softly then held up a hand. “Enough reminiscing. You’re going to wake him up.” 

He knew Marc wasn’t really sleeping. It was something else. Floating in a void? Hiding in the back room? Jean-Paul didn’t really know, but the way Jake spoke of it, it made it sound like Jake had tucked Marc into bed and was standing watch for nightmares. 

“Do you have a cigarette?” Jake looked at him hopefully. “Steven tossed all mine out. Pretty pissed when he found out about it.” 

“No. I quit a year ago.” He smiled to himself. “I’m six months fully sober come next week. Do you know how hard it is to be a Frenchman and sober? Mon Dieu…” 

There was surprise on Jake’s face. “Everything? I’m impressed. What changed?” 

Jean-Paul looked away. “What was the point of surviving all of that shit if I was just going to kill myself? The drugs weren’t going to bring any of the people I killed back. I had to face the fact that I was miserable and I didn’t want the past to win anymore.” 

Jake took off his hat for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. For just a moment, Jean-Paul got the feeling he was sitting with Marc, nervously wringing his hands as he stared down the demons of his past. 

The hat went back on and Jake shook his head a little. “Layla threw out the alcohol last month. Marc keeps a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the wall. I let him keep it there. He likes knowing that he can trash himself should the need come. I wouldn’t exactly call that sober, but so far he hasn’t broken down and drained it.” 

“Merde.” Jean-Paul laughed. “I kept drugs taped to the back of my ceiling fan for ages. I used to lay there watching the blades spin and wonder how long it would be before I cracked. I didn’t need to use it to be under the spell. My sponsor helped me get it down and flush it when I was finally ready to admit I needed the help.” 

“Can’t flush all our problems away.” Jake muttered. “Marc would have tried to flush himself if that were the case.” 

“That’s sort of why I’m here.” He leaned back a little and looked at Jake fully. It was time to take the leap. “I want to sponsor you…three.” 

“We don’t do drugs.” Jake paused as if asking someone inside just to be certain. “Only Marc drinks and I just need Steven to keep tossing out my cigarettes.” 

“Not that kind of sponsor. Though it would be nice to see Marc give up the drink.” He took a deep breath. “You need help. Layla thinks it’s getting pretty bad. She’s worried.” 

Jake stiffened. The look of terror that flashed across his face shot through Jean-Paul’s heart horribly. It was the look of a man trapped and desperate to escape. The look of a wounded animal that knew it was only a matter of time before it was hurt again. 

“No one’s going to commit you.” He rushed ahead to try and reassure him. “Not unless all of you agree that it’s bad enough to need it. I’m not here to lock you up.” 

Jake swallowed hard. “I have this. I told her I had it. She didn’t have to call you up. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” He stood up and made for the door. “It was nice to see you again, Frenchie.” 

“I spent three months in the hospital.” Jean-Paul stood up. “Self committed.” 

Jake stopped but didn’t turn around. “Because of the drugs?” 

“Because of the memories. The guilt.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Because I couldn't stop seeing the face of the woman I killed in the crossfire. I was a mercenary before you were. A legionnaire before that. We all did things in our endless search for gold, glory, and attempt to escape the past. I burned down villages before Marc crossed his first battlefield.” 

“Did it help? Do you sleep at night now? Did you forget her face?” Jake looked down and worked his jaw, clenching it till Jean-Paul worried about his dentition. 

“I don’t want to kill myself anymore. I also joined a veteran’s support group. It wasn’t just one thing, but it was the first step for me.” A step that he had struggled with the whole time. One he had wished that someone had been there to support him on. 

“I’m not going to a hospital.” Jake clenched his fists at his side, prepared to fight anyone that disagreed with him. “They don’t know the first thing about our…problem. Half of them think they can drug away the issue and the other half think we’re faking it. And that doesn’t even consider the ones that think it’s fascinating or the ones that think we just need to heal into a full grown singular normal person.” 

“I’m not asking you to go.” Jean-Paul sighed. “I’m asking you to consider the possibility that if you are so far down the hole that one of you tries something… If Marc tries something… You might not get that choice anymore. I don’t want you to get that far.” 

“So what do we do? Hm? Tell me that.” Jake turned to look at him and the anger was gone. “What choice do we have? Do you have any idea how hard it is for someone like us to find the proper help? I can’t put them through that. The let down as yet another so-called doctor or therapist offers the wrong solution or hurts us again. How do I get Marc on antidepressants without Steven being terrified that somehow the drugs are going to make him disappear because he thinks he isn’t real? How do I get Marc to talk to someone without putting up so many walls that even I can’t reach him again? How do I… How…I can’t do it again. I can’t. I have to hold us together. Just let me do this.” 

“Mon ami…” 

“Don’t you fucking dare follow me again, amigo.” Jake turned again. “If I catch you trying to get Steven to agree to any of this, you’ll regret it. Don’t even go looking for Marc. Marc isn’t as forgiving as I am.” 

With that, Jake was gone, once more leaving Jean-Paul alone in the garden. 

Part Five HERE