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a-hundred-jewels · 3 months ago

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ptsd made me a hardcore marauders fan for seven months

Ao3

content warning: the following contains discussions of school violence, teen violence, (briefly) domestic violence, mental health issues, depression, and trauma. if any of these are sensitive topics for you, please proceed with caution. in addition, if you feel i've missed a warning, please nicely let me know in the comments.

I don't like Harry Potter.

Sure, I binge-read the entire series in a bored, undiagnosed-ADHD-induced haze at the age of thirteen, have spent countless hours reading and even writing fanfiction for the series, have followed tumblr tags, listened to playlists, watched youtube videos, and am in the process of very slowly hand-binding myself a copy of A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety, but—

I don't like it, but nevertheless, I was sucked in.

"Some kid overdosed," one of my classmates said.

"What?"

"They're clearing the hallways."

Our principal had just come on the loudspeakers to issue a "shelter in place" order, telling us to ignore all bells and stay in our current classroom until he came back on and told us otherwise. I was actually glad, hoping the extra time would allow me to finish my Spanish homework before second period, since I'd spent most of the weekend thinking about the Strictly Come Dancing finals and my King Lear presentation in English class.

I hardly thought about the order itself—they're extremely common in United State schools, both as drills and as actual occurences. "Shelter in place" originated as a milder verison of going into lockdown where, instead of hiding from a potential shooter, students and teachers must simply not leave the room. In any case, I saw no reason to worry, and set about doing my homework.

In fall of 2022, I started my senior year of high school at the age of seventeen. I was having a rough year—my younger sister's depression was at an all-time high and my mother was recovering from a health scare—but, fandomwise, I was doing great. After all, Our Flag Means Death had come out that spring and I was in love. All I wanted to talk about were the gay pirates, and I even bought myself a "Team Edward" t-shirt with Taika Waititi's face smack in the middle as a "back to school" present. Everything was supposed to get better.

School sucked, because I went to a big public high school that looked like a prison and had equally-shitty Wifi, my (still undiagnosed) ADHD was worsening, and my grades were getting kind of bad. Even so, for a couple of months, I remained confident that my senior year would be my best one yet.

Third period was gym class, meaning I was only about an hour and a half away from the King Lear presentation. Senior year was actually one of the few years where I liked gym, which was awesome. It was just me and six boys, all of whom were nice to me, and our teacher was great. I think we were playing badminton that day, when our principal came on the loudspeakers to say that we were, once again, under a "shelter in place" order.

We were nonchalant about this, just as we had been in the morning. I cannot stress how desensitized children in the U.S. are to things like this, these days. When my little sister was in elementary school, there was a day when the whole school was put in a "shelter in place" because a man was walking around outside with a bunch of knives. When I was a junior, a boy severely beat up his girlfriend in the school hallway, giving her a concussion and leading to two mass protests. There were violent fights at my town's public schools almost weekly—and all of this is very, very normal. I would go so far as to say that my situation was pretty mild.

So we sat on the floor and did homework as time crept on, wondering vaguely what was going on, but no moreso than that. Third period ended, and we stayed. It should have been lunch time—we were getting hungry—but there was still no word about the lockdown ending. We stayed. Surely, it could only be another ten minutes or so?

And then, one of my classmates looked up from his phone screen, which was displaying a chat on Discord.

"Oh my god—someone was stabbed."

Before, I get properly started, I'd like to be totally clear: the point of this essay isn't to bash the Harry Potter fandom, not as a whole, and certainly not the sections of it I've been in. I met some incredible people while in my period of rabidly consuming Marauders content, and I don't want to put them down or dishonor the beautiful things they've created with my attitude. I loved my time in the Marauders fandom as much as I could love anything at that point in my life and have nothing but respect for the writers, artists, and tumblrinas who welcomed me into their space.

All of that being said, I think it's fascinating that I fell into a fandom like this one, particularly when I was doing so badly mentally. My dislike of Harry Potter only increases as I grow, as does my indifference, and, while I understand that's a fairly common sentiment shared among Marauders fans, I also get the impression that nostalgia plays a big part in their participation in the fandom. A Harry Potter- loving, bookworm child grows into a cynical teen, and then into a kind, brilliant adult with a "well, fuck it" attitude towards the world, using their limited free time to take that nostalgia from a childhood book series and write the kind of queer narratives they wish they'd had in adolescence. I could, of course, be wrong, but that's more-or-less how I understood the specific parts of the fandom I was in. (I know pretty much nothing about the tik tok side of the Marauders fandom, so we're just not factoring that in at all). Also, note that I said "adult" before, because the majority of people I interacted with were in their twenties and thirties. Being eighteen at the time and still in highschool, they all seemed at least moderately grown-up and untouchable to me.

All this to say, once again, that I literally didn't care about Harry Potter until I was almost fourteen and, even then, I only started reading it out of sheer boredom. I have pretty much no nostalgia or happy childhood memories associated with the series—I even skipped large sections of the fourth and seventh books because it irritated me whenever the main characters were fighting with each other. I was, at best, a casual fan.

There's something comforting, though, about being in such a big fandom, especially when your bad habit of choice is binge-reading smutty fanfiction in order to feel less dead. And, regardless of how I actually felt about Harry Potter , the concrete safety of a completed, unchanging series of books and movies where the author was already widely disliked definitely appealed tome and my less-than-stable life. You don't need to worry about a scandal if they've all already happened and, no matter how hard she tried to on Twitter, Joanne can't actually change the contents of the books. In my world of current fandoms and kind writers and actors all accessible on social media, the fuck-ass Harry Potter fandom was a bit of a refuge.

So that's why I think it was specifically the Marauders that I got into.

I don't actually remember how long we were in that gym. It must have been at least two hours, including the class time beforehand, but I barely remember any of it. I texted my friends, frantically trying to determine that everyone I knew was okay, and I told my parents what was going on. To this day, the thing I am most thankful for is that my sister, who we'll call Tabitha, wasn't there. I don't know what I would have done if she'd been in school that day. The other main thing I remember thinking about was my King Lear presentation, which was supposed to happen right after lunch, and, as the time stretched on, I became more and more worried that I wouldn't get to do it that day.

Shortly after my classmate saw the Discord messages about the stabbing, a video of the fight was leaked across Snapchat, as well as an image of the wound. We all looked on in horror, including my teacher (who we'll call Mr. Blake). It's objectively horrible to watch footage of a child being stabbed, no matter how grainy the video is, but, so far, we'd received no official information from the school, so this was literally all we had, and it had happened in the same building. Our principal wasn't allowed to make any statements (at least to my understanding) without it going through our superintendant and, for whatever reason, she didn't feel it necessary to get ahead of social media on this.

I was trapped in a school with thousands of other people, one of whom had just assaulted someone.

The night before my second semester of senior year began, I stayed up past midnight reading Dear Your Holiness by @mollymarymarie fleabag AU where Remus is a priest by day and a local rock musician by night, and Sirius has a popular music magazine. I had also spent much of my winter break listening to a podfic of All The Young Dudes (made it to sixth year) and generally rooting around people's bookmarks and gifts to get out of my head, so it's safe to say that, by the time I got to school in January, my brain was practially deep-fried in this new fandom, and it would only get moreso.

Mr. Blake felt, after an hour or so, that we'd be safer in the boys' locker room. He brought us down through a stairwell I'd never seen before, tucked away in corner of a closet in the gymnasium. I was thrilled by the opportunity to explore and filmed the journey on my phone. It's a weird, haunting video, not just for the grim situation and shadowy rooms, but because I'm so lively behind the camera. We're all fairly upbeat, joking about how big the school is and what things must have been like when it opened. I won't share the video here, as I don't feel like doxing myself, but I did rewatch it in preparation for writing this and it's truly disconcerting to look at the inside of a building I haven't been in for over a year, to hear the voice of a past version of myself and know I'm seeing snapshots of a day that changed me forever.

All there was to eat in the locker room were these Gatorade protein bars—mine was supposedly cookies and cream flavoured. I still remember the taste, sickly sweet and artificial. On an empty stomach, particularly an overly sensitive autistic one like mine, it was a horrible idea, and I felt sick afterwards, but god, I was so hungry.

I sent a selfie to my parents and Tabitha, then tried to read fanfiction while listening to one of my classmates talk in what sounded like Hatian Creole with his family on the phone. Boys were constantly being paraded in to use the urinals. The walls were painted concrete blocks, the benches were narrow and hard, and so I sat there.

In February, I spend a weekend binge-reading A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety, which kickstarted an obsession with seventies music and fashion. I read and reread the sex scenes during my final few months of highschool, trying desperately to shut my brain up and keep me from feeling so trapped in my daily life and the school I still attended. I got into the works of @spookymoonie, who was incredibly kind to me, and used to visit and refresh their blog every day to see if they'd (sigh) written more porn. Look, man, it was really good porn.

On the day of my high school graduation, I got dressed in pants that were too small for me, a shirt that was too big, and a cap and gown that made me look like a walking body bag. I mingled with my friends beforehand, taking pictures with people who I now haven't spoken to in months. The ceremony was long and boring but I'm a sucker for that kind of symbolic stuff, so I kind of liked it. I did say for weeks afterwards, though, that I didn't feel like I'd really graduated until I was cycling home, listening to "Telephone Line" on my tinny iPhone speaker. That was my graduation.

And I only knew that song from the official Black Mass playlist.

By the time we were finally released from the "shelter in place" and sent for lunch, it had been about three hours since our principal's initial announcement back in third period. There was little fanfare to the whole ordeal, and I don't recall any actual information being given to our parents from the school at this point, either, though I could be misremembering. Our principal simply came on the speakers and told us that the lockdown was up and we were to go for lunch. I had a pre-packaged turkey wrap that day—my mum got them from the store sometimes as a special lunch for me. I'm a vegetarian these days, so I wouldn't eat it regardless, but, even if I weren't, I don't think I could bring myself to eat one of those wraps again, not without remembering.

We'd only been in lunch for about ten minutes when somebody pulled the fire alarm. I don't know who did it, only that it was a student and there was no fire. I hate the fire alarm for the same reasons I hate all sudden, loud noises, and I was so overwhelmed already that I remember crying as we were paraded out into the parking lots, shivering in the cold, late-December air. I sat on a curb and ate my sandwich, wishing I had left when some of my classmates had, as soon as the "shelter in place" was lifted, or at least that I had my jacket and keys with me so I could get my bike and leave right then.

The fire drill was over as quickly as it had started and, god, I wish I'd left right then. Just grabbed my shit and got the hell out of there. But, well…my English presentation.

To anyone with rational mind capabilities, it would be incredibly obvious by now that said English presentation was absolutely not happening. A child had been stabbed, we'd all seen it on video and then been trapped for three hours— King Lear was far from a pressing concern. But I was traumatized and one of my groupmates was leaving the next day, so it felt like an emergency. So long as I was focused on my presentation and the soap opera-like melodrama of the play, I didn't have to think about what was happening around me.

Anyway, we did nothing English related fourth period, instead sitting in a circle and letting our teacher talk us through how we were feeling. I'm very grateful to her for giving us the space she did to feel our fear and anger without judgement, and I will never forget her telling us that we were to use the teachers' bathrooms for the rest of the day, and if any administrators had a problem with it, they could take things up with her. It might not seem like much, but when the stabbing had occured in a student bathroom, it was really nice for someone to acknowledge that we might be scared.

Another hour, or so, and the day was over.

I also want to get ahead and make sure I'm not framing my leaving of the Marauders fandom as a particularly good thing, or a good time in my life. I was still depressed and unemployed and, even after I finally got a job in August, I managed to hit several more crushing lows before the end of 2023—I was just reading different fanfiction to cope. At the very least, though, I was reading fic for stuff I was actually a fan of, which is typically a good place to start.

The feeling reminded me a bit of the one I used to get after I'd finished writing and posting a piece of puppet erotica—just this overwhelming sensation of "Wait, what was that?" It's like post-nut clarity, except clearly not. My time as a Marauders fan feels, in retrospect, like a bastardization, an appropriation. I was not a real fan because I didn't really care—I just needed something safe to numb my pain and confusion. That's why it feels so important to make sure I'm not trying to represent or bash the fandom in any way. It wouldn't be fair, because I wasn't really, genuinely a part of it.

When I finally had cycled home and let myself in the back door, I only remember collapsing. My mum was in the living room and I just stood there, I think. All I really remember is this image of how I think I looked, as though my mind had floated out of my head and taken a photograph. My face is very pale and completely blank, my bag somewhere on the floor next to me, and I'm staring at nothing, the performance of being okay just…evaporating. I know my mum told me she'd been facetiming my grandparents and aunt throughout the day and they were worried as well.

One thing I often forget about that day is that, barely an hour after coming home, I had a violin lesson over zoom. I assume it must have been a similar situation to the King Lear presentation, where I had to act as normal as possible in order to not completely freak out. I told myself that I couldn't cancel, because then I'd have to pay the fee, but, like. I'm pretty sure he would have made an exception. I remember telling him "oh, by the way, I'm a little out of it because someone got stabbed at school today," and seeing the utterly baffled look on his face. He offered to postpone, and I declined. I was not a very good student that day—I think I'd forgotten what we did in the lesson before the hour was even finished.

I went downstairs afterward and told my mum everything—I think. Either that or I lay in bed. The next thing I remember is going to school the next day, because I was still clinging to that King Lear presentation. Or maybe it was just because I didn't know what to do with myself? No idea. The next night, I was feeling sick and tested positive for Covid.

So that was nice.

My high school was never the same after the stabbing. Rules got stricter, a mass of teachers quit or transfered, the classes graduated and moved on, and I truly think something died that day. No matter how bad things were beforehand, there was always this hope I felt—this optimism. Even if I'd been cynical for weeks, all it took to love that shitty old building was an orchestra concert or a school play. It was trash, but it was home. That love didn't come back.

My love for the Marauders proved to be just as fleeting. I literally woke up one day last July with a craving for this Good Omens/Buzzfeed Unsolved crossover fanfiction (called video appeal by ravel_aorla) and that was the end of my phase. Poof! Avada Kadavra!

I'm proud to say, though, that I'm doing much better now. I'm writing and editing this in my college dorm room, which I moved into just yesterday. I'm also very into My Chemical Romance now, and am able to share that interest (and a long furby) with one of my best friends, @vriska-serketboard. It's been a year and a half since my high school has darkened the door of my feet and I am worlds better for it.

Call it instinct as a former GSA leader, but that's how I want to end this. It get's better. I got better, and you can too.

Thank you.

#school violence #teen violence #stabbing #marauders #the marauders #cameron rambles #harry potter #harry potter fandom #hp fandom #hp marauders #high school #school #senior year

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builder051 · 1 year ago

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No black cats allowed

(Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise)

This is the We fit like an Enfit ‘verse (tube ‘verse)—HOWEVER, it is completely removed from the currently published timeline. I always mean to fill in the cracks, but I never get to it, so here’s what you should know. The story runs like this: Steve and Bucky were high school sweethearts, then Bucky went overseas with the Army, had terrible experiences, got hurt, and got shipped back home. He tried getting back with Steve when he first made it stateside, but things were a little rocky, and eventually they broke up. It’s then, post-break up, that Steve starts having his own health problems and winds up getting tubed. He tries relying on coworkers to help him, but his issues continue, and he desperately needs a caretaker, or at least someone who can spend time with him and drive him to appointments. He reaches out to Bucky again, and after a little getting used to each other again, they move in together (and with Bucky’s cat), and they’re back to their previous relationship situation.

This story takes place in the “right back home” period, when Bucky has returned from Iraq and is still dating Steve. It’ll make sense as a stand-alone story, but placing it in context might be tricky.

This fic has a lot of stuff regarding war, mental health, PTSD, panic, therapy, hospitals, gore al la blood and vomit, some truly disgusting food talk, superstition, a nod to the existence of sex. It’s the usual mixed bag; there’s a huge amount of backstory, then story, then a tiny wrap-up with an open ending.

_____________________________

He probably shouldn’t have stacked the appointments. Looking back through the lense of hindsight, that’s exactly when things went wrong. It lies some three weeks previously, when he’d taken the return call from scheduling and neglected to note the dates and times in his planner. Bucky should’ve known the system would bite him in the ass. Again.

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, he’s probably the one responsible for the ass-biting. He shouldn’t take calls during his lunch hour. He tries, since that’s the only time he can slip outside the echoing warehouse. The stacks of cardboard and wood pallets do nothing to absorb the noise of crashing boxes and the temperamental swamp cooler. Signal’s always shitty, too, even on the outdoor loading deck. The building’s sad excuse for WiFi lies beyond possibility for the connection necessary for web calls. Regardless of means, the voice on the other end is crunchy and segmented. Bucky’s lucky to hear every third word or so. There’s just enough static to blur words out of meaning. Bucky isn’t quick enough to pack potential consonant blends into their respective gaps, and that’s his fault. His lapse in speech therapy practice. It’s his anxiety getting in the way of fulfilling every carefully noted point on his daily schedule.

Bucky didn’t used to have anxiety. Sure, he’d grown up with all the ups and downs of adolescence. He doesn’t like to think about the shameful day he’d ditched two final exams and barricaded himself in a janitor’s closet, puking up the previous night’s samplings of whiskey, edibles, and potato chips. But that happened to everyone, right? Through the rest of his time spent in secondary school, community college, basic training, Bucky remembers others laughing through self deprecating stories of the same.

It was just a universal thing, he’d thought. It had to be. Stress, probably. He’d had a lot going on during his seventeenth and eighteenth years. Football had him in two grueling practices a day, and the gods of senior year must’ve found his list of trespasses. Whether they were punishing him for his academic faults or general life choices, Bucky knew not. He had a feeling it was both; and he’s still sent reeling from time to time when a bad memory strikes. He leaves the room if anybody pops a bag of anything sour cream and onion.

Bucky had wanted to rush to the nearest exit when his VA appointed counselor gifted him the distastefully pink and quote-filled planner book. The dumpster out back would be a good place to stash it. Then he could hide out with an angry cigarette or two until he was calm enough to drive home. Therapy wasn’t for him, he’d decided, all in the same flustered moment. He’d just stop coming to his regularly scheduled appointments.

Halfway to the nearest gas station, though, Bucky had remembered his driver’s license was over a year out of date. The only valid ID on him was his base pass. It sometimes invited awkward conversations where people thanked him for his service. Truth be told, he’d rather have his arm back than any 20% discount. And the more he’d thought about it, the more he was sure that smoking tobacco would be a bad idea. It would probably have him honking up his breakfast before he could even inhale. He’d been forced to quit cold turkey somewhere in the Afghan desert. Taliban guards hadn’t been generous with their stashes of candy and drugs and diet soda. The same had been true for the nurses in any hospital he’s visited since. He should stick with weed. Edibles could certainly be obtained online these days.

That brought up the question of his ID again, though. Would some text bot in central Colorado rat on him for buying gum drops laced with delta 9? It would have to, if there was a subpoena. That’s stupid, Bucky told himself. It didn’t help much. When he arrived at his apartment, he was just keyed up enough to have the shakes and visual sparks that so often heralded migraines and bad memories. Once he shut the front door, Bucky grabbed an oxytocin from the bathroom cabinet and collapsed onto his bed. His jeans and boots didn’t matter. With any luck, he’d soon be having solely out-of-body experiences.

Bucky gets four hours of relief, no matter what he tries. Chemically negotiated sleep, alcohol-induced giddiness, a couple of chess games with Steve— his outlets, healthy and non, never bring him completely down. He’s never felt satisfied, never fully charged. His year in the desert stole more than just his body and mind; Bucky feels eternally depleted, like he can’t breathe in enough oxygen or drink enough water, despite his esophagus and lungs taking only minimal damage. The blisters from caustic smoke inhalation were completely healed, medical staff in Kandahar had informed him. Apparently mouths and throats and other wet, mucousy areas of the body have superior healing powers. None of it has convinced him to make an appointment with an ENT, an allergist, or a dentist, but Bucky makes a concerted effort not to discount the experts. At least not too much.

Bucky usually catches himself before he does anything too rash. Sometimes his excuses aren’t great, such as the time he used a hammer to smash open a jar of tomato sauce after an hour of fruitless one-handed twisting. The wrist ache and stubborn desire to put a cooked dinner on the table pushed him a little far, he’ll admit. But as far as he knows, Steve is still oblivious to the fact that he’d eaten pasta that was carefully strained to remove bits of shattered glass.

Bucky’s dissected the entire experience with his counselor over multiple sessions, and they’ve pretty much organized his breakdowns into different categorical reactions preceded by similar warning signs. Those urges to run, hide, throw rocks at the pigeons on his balcony— they should cue him to do something grounding. Looking at his planner would be an optimal choice. Breathing deeply and focusing on the pastel watercolors that border each page’s scheduling block. That might encourage him to reap more benefits of the fat spiral-bound book. If he wanted, Bucky could schedule his life from 6AM to midnight every day of every month of every year. Apparently the planner comes from a curated luxury brand, and a trip to its website could enable him to order complementary stickers and expander pages. The counselor cheerfully joked that he could go broke, the array of pastel and neon and vegan leather office supplies were so tempting. Bucky supposes it’s a success, then, that he’s never pulled up the site, let alone sit and browse with his wallet open.

Bucky likes planning his days more organically. He wakes up a solid four hours before he leaves for work, so there’s plenty of time to dress and shovel down some breakfast and call Steve’s office phone and plant an endearing message in voice mail box. They don’t live together anymore, technically, but their pair bond hasn’t completely disappeared. Bucky would lose his subsidized apartment if he put his name on a lease somewhere else. The rule runs the other way too, preventing anyone but Bucky’s solitary disabled veteran of a self occupied the blank-walled studio. It doesn’t keep them from meeting up from time to time. The times do seem to be falling a little less frequently as time stretches on, but thinks he knows why.

It’s Bucky’s fault, again. This time for falling into the greedy trap of bonus pay for work hours outside his regular shifts. He doesn’t want to buy anything with the extra cash, but the rotating schedule does give him something to jot down in his planner. Maybe he’ll get some outrageous stickers after all. Something loud and especially obnoxious, like glittery rainbows. He’d use them to mark special occasions. A dinner date with Steve, perhaps. At one of those nice-but-not-fancy places, like the diner that lights up the end of the block with its 24-hour incandescent window lights and perpetually flashing ‘fresh coffee’ sign. That could easily pin them down together for the four-hour stretch between the end of work and the beginning of Jack Hanna’s Wild Countdown at 11pm. Bucky has begun to recognize the reruns of the reruns, but he’s not in it for the fun facts. It’s the camaraderie he likes. His friend Jack keeping him from other, less savory companions like Jack and Coke.

The VA’s phone tree and call waiting systems haven't changed in the five years Bucky’s been subjected to them. The whole communication setup seems stuck in Windows 98. Bucky’s seen the telltale screensaver bouncing around on his rehabilitation doctor’s desktop. He’s fairly sure the hospital could afford to upgrade, though the staff probably hadn’t realized that patients glimpsing a monitor here and there could trigger memories of young recruits sitting in a sweltering tent and logging into the heavily filtered .gov email system on an ancient Macintosh. Sometimes a loved one sent a sweet message and a picture of a cat, which was always appreciated, even though the hard coded regulations reset the text to all caps interspersed with phrases like ‘censored’ and ‘jpeg not displayed.’ Just as often, though, a buddy with a satellite connection would dash off a succinct report of lives recently lost in the latest (redacted) mission. Harsh as they were, Bucky appreciated those notes just as much. His higher-ups rarely passed down accurate weather reports, let alone information about their brothers in other companies. Demoralizing content was cut more and more as the conflict in the desert stretched on. They said it would detract from the bravery of the young, impressionable troops. Bucky laughs now to keep himself from grinding his teeth. The policy won’t fall out of fashion any time soon, no matter where the army continues to send him.

If Bucky uses his morning free time to call any of the hospital’s departments, the nurse at the desk invariably tells him that they’ll take a note and pass it onto the next in the chain of command. An MA, an intern, some kid doing work study to earn his mess hall rations… As responsible as any of them may be, the note never makes it further than the trash can behind the reception desk. That’s what Bucky assumes, since he hasn’t received any communication back.

The same is true for his evenings; Bucky gets off work around 4:00 most days, and he’s lucky to be put on hold while the desk person searches down for someone with authority. The system shuts down promptly at 5:00, and the tinny classical medley of the hold music dies and gives him a dial tone instead. Some days Bucky steels himself and leaves his name and predicament with the voicemail, trying hard not to sound too angry or annoyed. He’s pondered on the idea of letting his emotions seep into his speech along with some heavy sighs, but he doesn’t want to risk it. The last thing he needs is for his counselor to find out and refer him to anger management.

What he’d needed, badly, was a follow up with audiology. The kind practitioner in plainclothes carefully helped him through the process of a complete ear health and hearing examination. The tiny booth for the beep and button test had given him pause, but, as with everything else so far, he’d survived. After the audiologist collected her data, she’d tried to interest him in filling out the form for his hearing aid order. The diagnosis of partial deafness had come as no surprise, but Bucky had declined to participate. “Whatever brand, whatever color. I don’t care,” he’d told her. Stress had been mounting, and the audiologist had let him escape the office with a fleeting, “See you later. We’ll call when you can come pick them up.”

The call had come, much to Bucky’s surprise. He’d felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket as he was pushing a refrigerator box across the warehouse. A quick glance at the screen had shown an unknown number with a local prefix, and he’d figured he should pick up. Maybe it was the front desk at Steve’s office. The community college puzzling over his student loan and GI bill. The local police, perhaps, trying to cite him for abuse of pigeons.

Surprisingly, though, it was the VA. “Hold on, hold on, I have to get somewhere I can hear you,” he’d barked over the rest of the caller’s sentence. Bucky had quickly ducked into the windowless closet they used as a break room before saying, “Ok, go.”

The quality of the call had been especially terrible. “Hearing aids”, Bucky was able to decipher. Then, “Schedule pickup.”

“In the morning,” he’d replied. “I work weird hours.”

“The thirteenth?” The caller had offered.

“What, like, tomorrow?”

“Next month.”

Bucky’d pushed his hair back off his forehead, wondering if he could pin down his work times that far in advance. “I’ll try to make it work.” That was the best he could offer.

“And PT?”

“What was that now?”

“Physical therapy,” the caller had clarified.

Bucky could’ve sworn he’d already graduated from the program. He’d been relieved when he’d stopped going. The humiliation of pedaling an arm bike with only one arm regularly took a chunk of his self esteem.

“No-show last session,” Bucky had managed to understand. “Reschedule.”

“Um…” He could’ve explained his understanding of the situation, but he’d already been eager to get off the phone. If anything, he could pretend to go to PT and really just use it as an opportunity to tell his therapist face-to-face that he was quitting. “Sure,” Bucky had sighed. The rush of air had reverberated through the call and caught him back like a waterpik to his eardrum. Hard of hearing, he was. Not hard of feeling. “Ugh, sorry.”

The caller had paid it no mind. “Nine o’clock for audiology and 9:30 for PT?’”

“Sure.” Now Bucky was cringing at the sound of his own voice. “Thanks.” Then he’d hung up, not waiting to hear a goodbye.

He’d meant to jot the appointments down in his planner. He’d amused himself with the thought that the thing might finally serve a helpful purpose. Bucky’s good mood had carried on through the afternoon. He was even inspired to pick up a box of donuts and drive over to Steve’s office, where he’d sat on the hood of Steve’s car and helped himself to a chocolate glazed. Steve had come out the door shouting at Bucky for defacing his vehicle. But then he’d eaten a sugar dusted lemon creme and inticed Bucky to lick the sweet powder from his fingers. The trip back to Steve’s place was a given. It wasn't the first time he’d given Bucky a lift to pick up his car in the morning.

The next few weeks had passed uneventfully. It was back to the mundane work/rest/tv cycle that drove Bucky’s life. He and Steve were a little tense again. He was living on cereal again. Bucky figured he’d work it out with his counselor at the next appointment. Until then, he’d cope. He hadn’t counted, but he knew there weren’t that many days left in the week.

Friday dawns grey and cloudy. Bucky’s scheduled to work a swing shift, so he doesn’t have to leave his apartment until the afternoon. He gathers the box of cornflakes and the milk carton, then sits at the kitchen table in his bathrobe. He intends to let his cereal marinate for a moment while he browses social media, but he doesn’t get that far. Bucky feels a jolt in his gut as squints at the expiration date stamped on the side of the milk. The thirteenth. Today, he realizes. Friday the fucking thirteenth. He should just go back to bed now.

But no, he has work later, and he rarely sleeps during daylight hours without the help of some chemical or other. Getting high would be nice, though. He could call in sick. The thought of the dishonesty hardens into a lump in Bucky’s stomach, though. On the other hand, he does feel a little sick. He doesn’t particularly want to slog his balding car tires through slick streets and mud puddles. No, he can’t do that. He’d run the risk of becoming the butt of somebody’s joke about being scarce on the unlucky day. Anxiety pits itself against anxiety, and the discomfort moves upward into Bucky’s chest.

Something else isn’t right. Bucky stands and grabs his planner from the top of a stack of phone books in the kitchen corner. The poorly bound yellow and white pages usually serve the purpose of sound damper when he has to resort to a screwdriver or hammer to bust open packaging. Otherwise, they’re a convenient shelf for stuff he likes to keep handy, which is really just a flimsy excuse for not tidying up.

Bucky flips the leaves of the planner. He’d left it open to some date last week, and, though he hasn’t written anything in the schedule blocks, he’s starting to feel positive that he’s missed something important.

Important. Bucky whispers the word under his breath until it slurs into something unintelligible. Appointment, Bucky realizes as he lands on the page for today. “Don’t let the rain spoil the sunshine” the inscription reads. It’s in a curly novelty font, and Bucky can swear he feels the eye strain crystallizing into a headache. Friday the fucking thirteenth indeed.

Bucky can’t remember the time he’s scheduled to arrive at the VA, so he books it, just in case. If he’s late, someone will cancel the appointments. Usually some front desk person, a scheduler or a receptionist, who seems to lavish in other people’s distress. If he’s early, well, he’ll sit and suffer in the waiting area, listening to the front desk person ruin other people’s day.

Bucky leaves his pajama top and hustles into jeans, then grabs his wallet and phone. He stuffs his feet into some clogs. Even slip-ons that require a manual heel adjustment are too much for him today. He’s almost out the door when he spots the milk and dry cereal still sitting on the kitchen table. Bucky falters in an anxious pause, then decides it’s not worth the effort to put them away. The milk is scheduled to expire today anyway.

Bucky pauses again outside the front door when he remembers that he needs keys. They live on a hook next to the door, so he only needs to open it as wide as his arm. He scrabbles at the wall with his fingernails, and the keys fall on the floor. “Fuck,” Bucky mumbles as he bends to retrieve them. The change in position kicks up a wave of vertigo, and he has to lean on the wall for a moment to stop his visual field from spinning.

Now flustered, Bucky races across the parking lot and jumps into his car. He backs up without turning his head, hoping Friday the thirteenth doesn’t bless him with a dent in his bumper. Luck wins, and he speeds toward the main road. He breathes deeply before turning at the stop sign. Getting out of his parking space must’ve been a false positive. He steels himself for whatever terror the hospital has for him today.

When he slides into the hospital lot, Bucky knows he’s pulled in crooked. He cracks the door, and once he sees that his tires are only a centimeter or so across the line, he calls it good enough. He slams the door, but when he goes to lock it, he realizes he’s left the keys in the ignition. Bucky begs the car not to auto lock, but it does anyway. The beep is barely within his range of hearing, but the high, tinny sound makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He has his phone on his body, so he can at least call roadside assistance when it’s time to leave.

“Fuck.” Bucky curses himself again before starting to hold his breath in preparation for the VA’s revolving door. If he’ll ever get stuck in it, it will be today. The door grinds and scrapes over waterproof carpet, but Bucky manages to shove it into working order. It spits him out in the middle of the overly lit entrance hall. Blast fluorescent lightbulbs. Bucky’s head gives a good throb, and he remembers to exhale. His heart’s going a mile a minute. He needs to calm down before some staff member sees him and decides to give him a piss test to make sure he isn’t misusing his amphetamines.

Lo and behold, a woman in scrubs crosses the hall right in front of him. She has her head down and her thumbs moving madly as she types on her phone. She pays him no mind, and Bucky’s glad for it. He hopes she doesn’t run into something, it being Friday the thirteenth and all. After a glance in both directions, Bucky heads to the audiology clinic. With the lights above reflecting in shiny puddles across the floor, he hopes he doesn’t run into something either.

When Bucky reaches the front desk, the elderly man behind the counter glares. “You’re a few minutes late,” he announces.

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He swallows and tries to get his diaphragm and lungs back into alignment. “I’m sorry. Uh, traffic, you know…”

The man nods. He knows. He probably thinks he knows everything. He might be a retired general or something; Bucky’s only seen this degree of hatred coming from the eyes of a higher ranking officer who’s dead set on stomping anthills.

“You’re late,” the man repeats. “I’ll have to call your practitioner.”

Bucky averts his eyes as the man picks up a landline and peruses the list of extensions on an index card taped to the side of a computer monitor.

“I can just go,” Bucky offers. Better to leave on his own volition rather than take the demerit and perseverate on it on the drive back to his apartment. No, rather when he loiters back in the parking lot waiting on a tow truck.

“It’s fine.” The doctor in plainclothes appears in the doorway adjacent to the reception desk. Today she wears a t-shirt bearing a stylized painting of a cochlear implant. “You’re picking up, right?” She glances at the back of the desk man’s head. “Appointments like that don’t take much time. You’re good to come back.”

Bucky’s relieved to avoid the tense session of waiting room sitting; he steps quickly through the door the audiologist holds open for him. Her office is the first door down the hall. Blessedly it’s carpeted, and the chairs for patients have real cushions on their seats. Bucky starts to sit, but the audiologist stops him.

“Here.” She grabs a small box off her desk and hands it over. “Just pop them in.”

Bucky takes it and does as he’s told. The box hinges open, and there are the aids. His aids, now. The part that sits behind his ear is metallic grey with a few bright, silver, and overly technical looking buttons. Dark red tubes secure to the slim side of the aids to navy blue molds, which Bucky assumes are custom cut and fabricated from the uncomfortable gel impressions he’d suffered through at his first appointment.

“Alright…” Bucky takes one and pushes the earmold deeply in his left canal. The soft silicone squishes slightly, but maintains its shape. It feels as if he’s shoving a bouncy ball into his ear. Once the aid is positioned, it completely blocks his sense of hearing. He’s reminded uncomfortably of the compressed foam earplugs he’d worn when he was training on the firing range. “Is it supposed to be quiet?” Bucky asks. He points at his ear, and, unable to hear his own voice, hopes he isn’t shouting.

“I’ll turn them on and tweak the programming once you have both in.” The audiologist speaks at what Bucky assumes is a regular volume, but she moves her lips in an exaggerated fashion. God, will he be happy to get rid of that problem. He isn’t good at lip reading. He can if he has to, but just looking someone in the face spikes his anxiety.

Bucky puts in the other aid. He’s disconcerted by the further silence, even though he’d known it was coming. He gives the audiologist a thumbs up. He’s willing to do anything to speed up the process.

The audiologist returns the gesture, then turns to her computer and clicks through multiple drop down menus. The aids suddenly spring to life, making Bucky cringe. The change from silence to sound is more abrupt than he’d expected. It’s as if he’s in the middle of the ocean, but without crashing waves to see and feel to ground him in the experience. Bucky wonders if the walls are moving, the painted cinderblocks rumbling against each other as the room closes in from all sides. The discomfort of his headache moves down to his sinuses and his jawline. No, not now. The last thing he needs is creeping nausea.

“How do they sound?” The audiologist’s voice rings out loud and clear.

Bucky can’t quite reason whether the aids are doing their job or if she’s still just speaking loudly. “Um.” Bucky swallows. “I hear you.”

“Good.” The audiologist moves her mouse and clicks a few more buttons, then presses a few keys.

Bucky hears the sound of her typing. Is it normal for typing to make such a clatter? The whole computer setup is as ancient as anything else in the hospital with a towering processor and large cube-shaped monitor. Old keyboards make a lot of noise, Bucky knows. And the audiologist has long fingernails.

She looks up at him, eyes full of pleasurable excitement. “How do they sound?”

“How am I supposed to know?” The words are out of Bucky’s mouth before he realizes he’s probably sounding rude. “I mean,” he tries to backtrack. “I think they’re ok?”

The audiologist nods, unperturbed. “Both sides sounding the same?

“Um.” Bucky tries focusing his attention to only hid sense of hearing. It’s a difficult feat, though. Nausea flares again, and his head gives an almighty throb. “I…yeah? I guess?”

“It’s challenging at first.”

Bucky wishes the audiologist had led with that. It gives him a granule of comfort, though his discomfort stays at the same level.

“The volume buttons are there.” She turns her head and points midway down her ear. “Definitely play with that. And if something feels off with the sound or the fit of the ear molds, just swing by. I do walk-ins.”

Bucky forces a smile. He knows he won’t visit again. He doesn’t want to know what the desk sergeant would say if he came into the clinic unscheduled.

“Yeah, ok.” Bucky nods, then regrets it. He becomes all the more aware of the tension in the back of his neck.

“Alright.” The audiologist stands and walks toward the door.

Bucky follows, highly aware of his clogs scraping the aged fuzzy carpet. “Bye,” Bucky says as he steps over the threshold into the hallway.

“Yeah, see you. Come in any time.”

Bucky makes no response. He hears her voice; the words come in clearly and sound clipped with precision, even though he’s already turned his back. It’s definitely an improvement, but he’s anticipating a learning curve.

With this potentially difficult done with, Bucky should feel encouraged. He’s done a thing; it was successful. His counselor and DBT workbook would want him to evaluate, then non-judgementally file it for safekeeping. He did something hard. Therefore, the next hard thing should be easier. He can’t quite feel the vibe, though. It might be the headache spreading its domination over more and more territory in his brain. He imagines double-masted ships bumping into the coastlines of North America and Africa, then spitting out little red-coated troops to run inland and raise the British flag. It could just as easily be a C-130 dropping off a fleet of Army-colored Jeeps in the desert, Bucky and his buddies lined up to sprint into the cargo bay and jump in the drivers’ seats to back them down the incline.

Great, that’s just great. Bucky grits his teeth. The stupid war that cost him his stupid arm and grounded him out of a career. And now he’s meant to live out the rest of his stupid life, full of stupid appointments and therapy, which keep jumping onto the stupid calendar whether he wants them or not. The sound of moving air in his ears is replaced with a cringe-worthy grind. Bucky stops in the middle of the hallway and looks around before realizing it’s his own clenching jaw. He brings his hand up to massage his mastoids. The pressure in his head and face rearranges itself again. Maybe he could just go home and leave a message with PT. He’d apologize for the last minute cancellation and say he got sick. It wouldn’t even be that much of a lie. Doubt raises its voice in dissent, though. Someone would probably recognize his car… For which he’ll have to call roadside before he can go anywhere.

For a moment, Bucky entertains calling Steve. He hates to look weak and dependent. He hates asking for things. Steve’s boyfriend had gone to Iraq, and this idiot with long hair and one arm came back. Bucky wants to slide back into place as the protective one, not the one needing protection. He can’t make up for the deficit with boxes of donuts, at least not all the time. Bothering Steve during work, for which he’s savagely underpaid and actually seems to enjoy… Bucky slogs on toward the therapy office. He’ll be a lone wolf today. Hopefully his position as the lame one far behind the pack won’t get him eaten by a polar bear or something. The PTs and their wall posters of bisected humans made of red muscle would be bad enough. They probably knew very well how to butcher him and roast his meat on a spit.

Bucky searches in his head for a thought that isn’t nauseating. His stomach feels knotted and lifted into his rib cage. Had he eaten this morning? Had coffee? Bucky doesn’t remember, nor can he figure which situation is worse.

The moment he reaches the waiting area in front of PT, the woman behind the desk tells him to go ahead into the exercise room. Bucky nods. Ordinarily he’d feel a little wary of the familiarity; he doesn’t care for situations when someone he barely knows has all his information. Some days he can’t recite his own social security number. On a day like Friday the thirteenth, he hopes he doesn’t have to sign any forms. He isn’t sure he’d be able to spell or even remember his full name.

Those thoughts disperse immediately when he walks through the door to the exercise room. He’s used to it smelling like rubber gloves and past its prime gym equipment. Today, though, the scent of potato chips is overwhelming. Just plain, salted, greasy chips. Bucky tells himself he actually likes regular chips. It’s kitschy flavors and toppings that set him off. He has to try willing away his disgust. It has to be the headache. Bucky likes food, at least better than the reflux of tube feeding formula. Even military hospital food outweighed the NG. Other people eat. He isn’t offended. He just doesn’t feel well. It’s completely his own problem.

Bucky looks around from the threshold of the exercise room, expecting to see his usual therapist. Natasha is unmistakable with her high red ponytail and chiseled musculature. She makes black scrubs look high fashion. Bucky hasn’t dated a girl since 8th grade, but he’s open minded. About friendships and things. He’s a little jealous of Natasha, when he gets down to it. Had he not been injured, he too might’ve maintained his shape and strength and social life. She’s alluring, but also intimidating. It seems as if every time Bucky comes in, he’s forced to remember how different things could’ve been. She’s successful and he isn’t, and that’s the way things will stay. He’s very set on his decision to quit. Then he might improve at talk therapy with the removal of Natasha as a trigger.

There seems to be no Natasha today, though. Two male therapists sit facing each other, one sitting on a desk and the other perched backward on the seat of a stationary bike. The one on the desk has the crinkling, yellow bag of Lay’s.

“Hey, sorry.” The man on the desk chews and swallows quickly before crunching the bag into a ball and shooting it into a trash bin. “My kids have me hooked on snack time.”

“Hm.” Bucky inclines his head and makes a sound of acknowledgment, trying not to react to the angry sound of the chip bag hitting the rim of the bin.

“Yeah, well.” The man on the bike stands up in one fluid motion. “Client’s here. Gotta pretend to go back to work.”

“M, yeah, I guess.” The one on the desk wipes his hands on his knees, chip crumbs and grease prints now adhering to his pants. He hefts a file folder. “Data entry. Super fun.”

The man now off the bike gives Bucky a wave. “I know you belong to Nat,” he says. “But they’ve got her running a training in Baltimore today.” He pauses a second, then asks, “I’m Sam. You mind working with me?”

“Um,” Bucky wavers. “I was, er, going to turn in my papers?” He’s met with silence, so Bucky goes on. “Like, telling you all I don’t want any more appointments?”

“Oh, sure.” Sam nods. “Yeah, we don’t have to reschedule you. I think you’re on the list of recurring clients.” Then he addresses the man at the desk. “Hey, Clint, while you’re entering data, can you put his name on call-to-schedule?” Sam looks to Bucky. “It’s James, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. There’s no need to explain how he goes by his middle name, but also not really.

“Sure…” Clint squints at his monitor and scrolls slowly. “Yep, there you are. And done.”

“Thanks.” Bucky shuffles his feet. He wants to turn and run, but adding any kind of bounce to his gait will surely stir up his gut in the worst of ways. Maybe he can inch backward first to initiate a smoother exit.

“Do you want to do anything today?” Sam offers. “Legs or abs or soft tissue?”

“Uh.” Bucky feels called out. He still has every right to leave, but now there’s pressure. He hates not delivering. He hates giving up a challenge, knowing it contributes to his air of disability. Statistically, a lot of vets get caught up in PTSD and alcohol and drugs and wind up hibernating until they’re arrested or dead. Shirking commitments is a primary sign, and with Bucky’s awareness of his want to ingest substances and get horizontal… He has to remind himself that even trained therapists can’t read his thoughts. “I don’t know…” Maybe he should offer an excuse? “I really have a headache and I have to call to get my car towed…” he trails off, feeling much more lame than he had when he’d started.

“You’ve done soft tissue work with Natasha, right?” Sam points to the door of one of the small private rooms coming off the main. Bucky knows there are massage tables and rolling stools inside. He has done soft tissue work with Natasha, and it has alleviated his back and neck aches before. It’s overly personal, though, and awkward. Bucky’s never sure if he’s supposed to keep his eyes open or closed.

Honesty takes control, and Bucky answers with “Yeah, I have.”

“Might bring down the headache. I’m no magician, but I do know pressure points.” Sam grins at him. “I went through all this when I came back, too. PT saved my basketball game.”

Bucky knows he’s being kind, but he can’t help thinking of his unbalanced body trying to dribble and shoot lay-ups. He’d look worse than the last kid in gym class.

“Or you can just lie down for a while.” Sam laughs. “I don’t disclose what happens in there. HIPPA, and all that.”

And there, without even trying, they’ve formed such a close friendship that now they’re in the territory of dirty jokes. It’s stranger intrusion, one thousand percent, and even though it makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up, he no longer has the choice to leave. Bucky wonders if this guy’s a master of manipulation, whether he knows he’s contorting the inner threads of Bucky’s brain and removing all traces of his own volition.

“Um, I guess.” Bucky’s voice is so loud in his own ears that it makes his head throb. Once the pain has reverberated to his stomach and back, he continues, “I guess we can try.”

“Cool.” Sam reaches for a clipboard and pen, but stops before picking them up. “No notes today, right? It’s your sunset session.”

“Right.” Maybe lying down would do Bucky some good. The sickness that’s been building in him is edging toward physical sensation. It’s no longer confined to his mentality, and any hope of thinking it away is far gone. Bucky walks toward the private room. He’d better not look as terrible as he feels. He doesn’t think he can take any comments of sympathy.

“Face up, ok?” Sam closes the door behind them and plants on a stool.

Bucky obliges and sits on the edge of the massage table. One of his shoes falls off as he’s lifting up his legs. He jumps at the sound of the clunk and quickly apologizes. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s cool. Probably more comfortable to take them off.” The wheels on the bottom of the stool squeak slightly. Bucky both hears and feels Sam coming closer. His spine tingles and an ache starts up between his shoulder blades. There’s nothing like anxiety throwing spears at his body. Wholistic approach to medicine aside, Bucky swears his brain and body are egging each other on.

Once Bucky’s flat on his back, he combs his fingers through his bangs to keep the hair from sticking to clammy sweat. Sam will probably be grossed out before even touching him. He’s infinitesimally glad to see the therapist putting on exam gloves.

“Alright.” The stool squeaks again, and Bucky feels Sam slide his fingers beneath the arch of his neck. “We’ll start right here at the top of the spine.”

Two thumbs plant on either side, just below Bucky’s occipital lobe. The pressure brings with it a feeling of pain that’s just short of pleasure. If he didn’t have vertigo, Bucky might’ve thanked Sam for spotting a problematic area on his first go.

“Ok. And here…” Sam’s fingers rest lightly on the jaw muscles stretching under his chin and down his neck. He adds force to the pressure points behind Bucky’s head. His touch is light, and his fingertips stay still and professional. Natasha’s work on his tense muscles had been just fine. Maybe Sam had more advanced training? Or was he pushing a fallacious invitation of intimacy that comes when people mistake shared backgrounds for real empathy. The first and last time Bucky had tried attending a support group, someone who’d last fought in Vietnam had tried to give him a hug.

Sam slides his touch outward toward Bucky’s ears, and a horrific scraping noise resounds in the hearing aids, which seem to have barely escaped disturbance. “Turn your head to the side.”

Sam hasn’t stated a direction, so Bucky falters, and the weight of his head wavers to the right before he commits to turning left. Vertigo swells over all other sensation, and Bucky holds his eyes wide open, looking for a substitute horizon. There are subtle lines between the painted white painted cinder blocks of the wall. Bucky tries to choose one to lock his vision upon. He daren’t blink. The overhead light sears into his peripheral vision, though, and dark and light spots start to gather on both sides.

“Alright.” Sam puts his palm against Bucky’s jawline and directs his fingers to the tight muscle running lengthwise from his ear to his shoulder. “You comfortable?”

“Um.” Bucky can only stutter before he has to gulp down something horrible and sour. His thoughts run frantically. He hadn’t consumed the spoiled milk this morning; he remembers that for sure. It was probably treating his tiny apartment to dank odor of curdling dairy. The first day of his deployment, Bucky had learned not to leave a cup of yogurt outside in the sun. He’d opened it when he sat down at the outdoor table, then obviously misjudged how long it would take him to finish the rest of his meal. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before it had developed a thick skin and gave off a smell of sweet rot.

“James?” Sam lifts his hand. The imprints of where his fingers had been develop a sensation of negative pressure. Bucky can’t remember which line he’d chosen on the wall. He blinks, and he’s disoriented even more. Bucky’s stomach races upward ahead of his heartbeat and turns liquid somewhere inside his esophagus.

“You ok?”

“I—actually—uh—“ Bucky’s entire body trembles, and it seems gravity has loosened its hold on him. He can barely feel the floor under his stocking feet when he pushes himself up on his arm and turns. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Sure, man.” Sam pulls his stool backward with the shove of one sneaker, then turns back to Bucky and proffers a small trash bin. “Here.”

Bucky holds down a retch long enough to get the bottom of the bin between his knees. The next heave is huge and convulsive. Bucky instinctively breathes in, then chokes when the air hits liquid resistance in his mouth and nose. He coughs hard to clear his airway. His vision swims and brings on another wave of sickness. Bucky doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until his sternum aches from pressing against the bin’s hard metal rim.

It’s all Sam’s work keeping him stable, Bucky realizes. His mind would fall into weakness and stupidity if his body wasn’t already robbing every bit of his attention. It’s just his luck, just his Friday the thirteenth, pushing him into such a compromising position. What had he been doing, thinking about spoiled milk? Bucky’s mental image quickly replaces the milk with a rumpled chip bag. He’s never eating a potato again, whether it’s a chip or a fry or a baked potato with sour cream and chives…

“Ugh.” Bucky hacks again, feeling ropes of mucous and saliva sticking to his lip. He squeezes his eyes shut, and unintended tears roll down his face. They get caught in the scruff of his beard before passing his cheeks. Bucky wonders how soiled his mustache will be. And the hair on his chin. But those are small potatoes compared to his rushing thoughts of food. Fuck potatoes. Fuck cereal. Fuck donuts and starches and sugar.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam’s voice is uncomfortably close. Bucky assumes Sam’s leaning forward too, trying to bump their heads together or something. When he peels his eyes open, though, Sam’s still at a reasonable distance. His hands and knees hold the bin while his back remains straight and tall.

“I’m—fuck.” Bile runs down his tongue, and Bucky’s unsure whether he wants to spit or swallow. He tries the swallow, but his epiglottis refuses to close, and he winds up letting more liquid sick flow into the bin. “Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He wants to rake his hair back again, but he’s afraid he’ll fall over if he doesn’t keep his hand grounded on the massage table beside his hip.

“Hey, no big.” Bucky isn’t sure how Sam’s able to maintain such composure. Maybe he has kids? A loved one with cancer? Steve takes good care of Bucky when he’s exceptionally down, but there’s always a nervous jumpiness weighing in on the situation. It’s just Steve, Bucky thinks, who has a nervous jumpiness about everything. He stresses over other people’s stress, constantly puttering and hovering. It’s probably why he still looks like a skinny teenager; he burns so many calories with his perpetual motion.

“It’s ok,” Sam says. “Humans are messy sometimes.” He must’ve absorbed the entire DBT book, Bucky decides. Wise and observant and unemotional. He could be one of those kids unnaturally excited for Anatomy and Physiology Lab. Blood and guts might turn him on. He could be a CSI on the side. Or maybe a serial killer.

“I’m—god, I’m sorry,” Bucky apologizes again. He lifts his head an inch and catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, trying to reset his flighty sense of judgement. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, Bucky says inside his head. Calm. Observe. Bucky shakes his head a little from side to side, but the world shifts on him again, and he wraps his arm around his abdomen. It does nothing to help steady him; his organs are still shoved up in his chest.

Bucky dry heaves. A rancid tasting belch pops in the back of his throat, but it brings nothing up with it. Good, maybe? He’s done? Bucky’s sure he’s empty now, at least.

“No, you’re good.” Sam pauses a moment. “I mean, I can’t imagine you feel good, but don’t rush. Try not to stress. It’ll make you tense up. Then you’ll have to come back to visit PT.”

Bucky’s never stepping foot in this office again. Not into the VA at all, if he can help it. He can push his meetings with his counselor back to Telehealth. He’ll figure out his hearing aids by himself. There has to be a website or something.

Now that he’s thinking about them, Bucky recognizes the swirling water sound coming in. It’s amplified enough to shake his eardrums. Bucky presses the balls of his feet into the floor and lets his arm free to pull the aids out of his ears. They make a high-pitched squeal as he holds them together in his palm, but Bucky depresses the off button on one, then the other. Bucky enjoys the blessed silence, but then Sam says something again, and Bucky’s right back with his original deficit.

“Those new?” Sam nods toward the aids in Bucky’s hand.

“These?” Bucky checks. “Yeah. This morning, actually.” He swallows a couple of times, hoping to kick the chafing and hoarseness out of his throat.

“Ah.” Sam gives a half smile. “I wouldn’t advise ophthalmology right after breakfast, either. Or load up on Zofran. You got a script for that?”

“One of the boxes on the bathroom counter, I think.” Bucky thinks he has a pack of the foil-coated pills. Or was that Xanax? No, Xanax comes in a regular prescription bottle. Either way, Bucky should probably carry both on his person at all times. He’s turning into a stereotypical civilian. Though jeans and shirts are severely lacking in pockets when compared to Army duds.

“If I had any, I’d give you a hit.” Sam’s smile turns mysterious. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that. No secret chat with someone at the pharmacy counter.”

“Naw, I’m good.” Bucky waits a tick, then says, “You’re not going to tell on me for this, are you?” He glances into the bin, then lifts his gaze quickly. “I don’t want to be called in for a flu test or anything.”

“No worries.” Sam looks toward the bin as well. “Done with this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. “Definitely done.”

“How’s the headache?” Sam asks before setting the bin on the floor out of Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky wonders if Sam’s reading his mind again. But Bucky had fed him that intel, he remembers. And he’d spilled the beans about his car. He really couldn’t be caught any worse. “Eh.” Bucky shrugs. “It’s a pretty constant thing. On and off, I mean.” Everyone who’s read his chart notes knows everything about his TBI and its physical symptoms it causes. Most of the world could probably guess, too. The scar along his hairline is as good as poof. The crabby looking guy with a battle mark— his look is enough to turn people away.

Sam remains quietly engaged. He really could be a sociopath. No, Sam’s probably the normal person. Bucky might be the sociopath. He hasn’t really come to terms with the man who came home from the desert, despite Bucky’s inability to retain the identity he had before shipping out.

Normal people ask questions back when chatting with others, Bucky remembers. He should do that. “You, uh, you said you’d served?” Bucky thinks he remembers that too.

“Yeah. Air Force. Two tours,” Sam says with little emotion. “I thought being a PJ was all about jumping out of airplanes.” He averts his eyes momentarily before looking Bucky in the face again. “But it’s way more putting in IVs in the back of an H-60. Talk about turbulence. Had to grow an iron stomach for that.”

So that’s where he gets it. He got to load the wounded and dying into the bright yellow cage lift. Bucky hadn’t been conscious through his own medevac, so he has no triggers regarding bungee cords and helicopters, thank god. He wonders how Sam had managed to make it back stateside, but Bucky knows he isn’t allowed to ask. Bucky tries looking at things from Sam’s end, dredging through red blood and orange sand, looking for skin sticking out of singed uniforms. He probably hates Army green now. And maybe bright yellow bags of chips.

Bucky’s pondering has allowed the conversation to trail off again. Another fail on his part.

Sam seems not to mind, though, and as soon as Bucky’s mentally checked in again, he asks, “You ever been in a helicopter? In the seat, I mean?”

“Uh…” Bucky struggles to recall. “I think we did an aerial tour of the map once before I got assigned to a camp.” The memory comes back as he verbalises it. “I had the jump seat, and they didn’t give me any headphones. I think I looked at a bunch of piles of sand.”

“I wish I’d had a pleasure tour,” Sam replies. “I usually didn’t know where we were going until we were ready to repel. I guess it didn’t matter so much. Helped keep us focused, maybe? I honestly couldn’t point to all the places I’ve been if you gave me a map. I was just along for the ride, you know?”

“Every ride in a tank is just as long and bumpy,” Bucky tells him. “And hoping I didn’t draw the short straw and have to sit backwards.”

“Oh, yeah. Flight school, it’s a big thing.” Sam laughs. “Tank school, though? Drivers’ ed?”

“I never went.” Bucky puts up his hand to mark his innocence. “I can only speak for myself, though.”

“I feel you.” Sam takes the pause to switch subjects. “You said your car wasn’t working, right? Do you need a ride?”

“Oh, well.” Bucky bites his lip. “I locked the keys inside,” he admits. “It’s Friday the thirteenth. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Friday the thirteenth,” Sam repeats. “I actually had no idea. You’ve had a day, though, man. And it’s only…” He glances at his watch. “9:37 in the morning.”

“I better call the insurance. Can I come back in here if it’s raining?”

“Sure. Or we can walk together across the parking lot. I have an umbrella. And leather seats.” Sam rises to his feet.

“I should just bite it.” Bucky picks up his hearing aids and stands as well. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slips the aids inside. “I mean, I should call someone. My boyfriend has a car…” As soon as he says it, Bucky knows he’s slipped. He’s stuck in non action again. It won’t be a big deal unless he makes it a big deal, and then there will be full-on tension.

“Can he come get you?” Sam asks, nonplussed.

“He works for a travel blog, actually,” Bucky says, hoping he isn’t disgracing Steve by talking about him and his work. “They’re in this old newspaper office. It’s kind of a cool place.”

“Sounds neat. Old places are nice. Unless they’re here,” Sam says with a laugh. “I’ll probably be old and grey before they give this place a facelift.”

“Oh, I agree.” Bucky laughs too, then averts his attention back to his phone.

“You still have more than twenty minutes of appointment time,” Sam says. “And I have a break before I’ll be needed here again. You sure you couldn’t use a lift? I don’t want you getting tripped up over a sidewalk crack and fall into a mirror or anything. Step in front of a black cat, probably get all hissed and scratched at.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting a cat,”Bucky says, somewhat seriously. Then, “It really won’t be a bother? I’d hate to give you and your car any of my bad luck.”

“Seriously,” Sam assures. “I’ve got to go do a weather check. Take out the trash, all that stuff.” He’s already bending to remove the trash bag from the bin. As he speaks.

“Oh, I can—“ Bucky starts.

“No, I’m good.” Sam twists the top of the bag and ties it off. The bag is a frosted clear color, so its contents are not immediately apparent. It has a liquid sag visually, though. Bucky feels an edge of sick guilt, so he engages in putting his phone into his pocket. It bunches up on top of his hearing aids, but he’s determined not to be caught picking at his ass and losing his last shred of dignity.

Bucky and Sam exit the private PT room side by side. “Here, we’ll go out the back door,” Sam says, pointing.

“You bringing back Starbucks?” Clint, still at his computer, raises his eyebrows.

“No,” Sam says blankly.

“Where you going, then?”

“Going to take out the trash and take this brother for a drive.” Everything Sam says is plain and glib, and his tone could’nt be mistaken for anything but the honest truth.

“Can you take my trash out?” Clint points to the bin behind the desk, which is overflowing with wadded balls of paper.

“No,” Sam tells him again.

“Come on.”

“I’m not catching the blame for putting sensitive material in the dumpster.”

“It’s not sensitive. It’s trash,” Clint tries to explain.

“I don’t make the rules.” Sam waves him off. “Check your calendar, though, I think you’re scheduled to have a bad day.”

“What?” Clint shoves a pile of folders to the side so he can scrutinize the desk blotter. He squints and looks closer, and the top folder slides onto the floor, absenting itself of all the paper within. “Fuck. Really?” Clint gives the mess a dirty look. “You really should pick me up a Starbucks.”

“It’s probably raining and the drive through’s closed.” Bucky laughs as Sam blatantly bull shits.

“Huh?” Clint seems to know he’s been insulted, but can’t see exactly where. “You haven’t done a weather check.”

“I’ll text you,” Sam offers. He turns the knob of the exit door and ushers Bucky to follow. “There’s an emoji for that, right? Happy cat for sun and crying cat for rain?”

“Yeah, text me.” Clint gives Sam a final unsure glance before returning to his calendar.”

“Roger,” Sam says as he steps out the door. As soon as Bucky is out as well, he says, “The dumpster’s just behind this wall, and my car is there.” He points to a shiny red BMW. A fine layer of miniature raindrops coat the hood and windshield. The air itself feels cold, yet muggy. Bucky feels slightly choked, and he’s glad he’s already emptied his stomach. With the weather and the remaining headache, it’d just be his luck to ruin some new friend’s upholstery.

Sam clicks the remote to unlock his car. Bucky doesn’t hear the beep, but the solid click of the two front doors alerts do the job to alert him that it’s time to open the passenger door. There are indeed leather seats. And it still smells like new car.

“One second.” Sam picks up his pace and disappears behind the edge of a grey and weather stained wall. There’s a moment of silence, but them Bucky hears Sam’s voice again, shouting, “Oh, shit, man, you’ve got to come see this.”

Bucky shuts the car door, wondering if he should be concerned. He follows Sam’s route around the wall, then laughs at what he sees. Two green dumpsters sit side by side, accumulated rain dripping down to the pavement. Sam must’ve already thrown the trash, and he’s pointing at an old wooden ladder leaned against the face of the far dumpster. Its bottom step is busted, missing a good amount of wood between the jagged ends.

“I’m not touching that,” Sam cackles.

“I can see why they left it,” Bucky offers, pushing down his own mirth. “You’d have to hold it over your head to toss it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be leaving that right there.” Sam walks toward Bucky, and they return to his parking space. “I’ll make Clint take his trash out later. I wonder, is there a ladder emoji?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky opens the front passenger door again. “But which cat are you going to use for cloudy as fuck?”

“I don’t know that either.” Sam slams his door and puts his key into the ignition. ��Maybe somewhere there’s a black cat? Past the smiley faces and in the animal section?”

“That makes good sense.” Bucky takes his phone from his pocket again. He recalls his aids being in the pocket as well, and he takes the opportunity to get ahold of them before he winds up throwing them into the washing machine. The car is quiet, so Bucky cautiously turns them on and snugs the earmolds into his ears.

“Testing the waters again?” Sam asks, glancing Bucky’s way.

“Yeah.” Bucky ruminates on the sound of his own voice for a second. “No harsh lights. And your engine runs really quiet.”

“I really hope they run better for you.” Sam comes to a smooth stop and turns out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, I hear a difference already. Bucky catches his phone as it’s about to slide off his knee. “I would look up an emoji for you,” he offers, “But I don’t want to risk any consequences.”

“I trust your judgement.” Sam laughs and slowly brings the car up to speed.

“I—“ Bucky goes to say something else, but his breath catches in his throat. There’s something in the road several feet in front of them. It looks to be moving across the lane. “There’s a—“ Bucky hopes it’s not a cat.

“It’s a plastic bag,” Sam assures him. The object moves again and turns in a 180 as it enters the next lane. The huge, red Target logo stands out boldly on the other side.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, relieved. “Those damn sneaky plastic bags…”

They stop at a light, and Sam says, “Just tell me where to turn.”

Bucky realizes he hasn’t given him a hit of a direction. He supposes he’d thought Sam already knew, with the ease of their bond and all.

“It’s up a little ways. On Sandersville.” Bucky pronounces the street name a little awkwardly. He finds it displeasing, since it doesn’t lead to a village or a sand pit.

“Oh, yeah, I know what’s around there. I’ve had a few buddies who’ve lived in the buildings.” Sam nods. “I’ll get you home nice and safe. And, here—“ Sam pops the center console and pulls out a business card. “It’s probably too formal, but it’s got my number. The work line and my cell.” He points out the bottom line as he hands the card to Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky replies. “I’ll text you when I’m all settled? Then you’ll have my number, too.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Sam offers him a smile. “Call me if you get on the wrong side of any more plastic bags.”

“Steve works till six, so I guess I do have a lot of bad day left.” Bucky recalls his former plan to get toasted and lie on the couch. It still appeals, but maybe he’ll do something a little productive first. He’ll download a user guide for his hearing aids. Maybe see what the cable channels play Jack Hanna during the daytime. And he’ll call for his car, when he’s up for it.

“You take it easy, now.” Sam looks at him again. “It’s good to get to know you, James.”

“I, um. I go by Bucky,” Bucky says, embarrassed. It’s a perfectly natural thing to tell a new friend, he reminds himself. Sam hasn’t had a reason to call him by his name yet, anyway. “It’s short for my middle name,” he says, hoping it’s a good enough explanation.

“Well, good to know you then, Bucky,” Sam replies without missing a beat. “Let me know when you’re all good. What do you think, the grinning cat with its eyes closed? To sound the all-clear?”

“Perfect.” It may be the worst possible day, but now that Bucky’s sealed the deal with a new friend and a secret handshake. “I’ll have to explain the cat thing to Steve, though. I don’t want him getting jealous or anything. I don’t think he’s a great fan of cats.”

“No worries,” Sam says. “Maybe you can introduce us later. Something casual, you know. Like at Starbucks. I do like coffee, and we don’t have to talk about cats.”

“We like our coffee, too,” Bucky laughs. “It would be fun to meet up later. On a nicer, luckier day.”

“Sure.” Sam reaches the light for Sandersville. “That is such an odd name for a street, especially for one all full of vets’ houses. Did they call it Sand Ville when you were over there?”

“Yup,” Bucky says. “My thoughts exactly.”

Sam brings the car to a halt when they reach the edge of the first building. “This you?” He asks.

“Yeah, right there.” Bucky points to his front door. He undoes his seatbelt and tells Sam, “Bye.”

“Yeah, text me.” Sam waves as Bucky steps out onto the curb. “I still have my med kit and my EMT license, if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Back at you, man.” Sam waves again and does a U-turn in the street and heads off it the other direction.

It’s still cold and wet, but the rain seems to have stopped, at least long enough for Bucky to get back to his apartment. He stops dead at his front stoop, though. His keys are back in the car. At the VA.

“God fucking dammit.” He’ll call Steve. The upturn of the day has collapsed in on itself. He listens to the low sound of the wind for a moment. Everything sounds more balanced now. The hospital must just produce its own woeful environment. Bucky tries to reign his breath and focus on the principles of his DBT. He feels the weight of his phone in his hand. It’s hard and smooth, until he passes his thumb over the edge of the business card, which is a slightly different quality of hard and smooth. Bucky decides he can buy himself a few more minutes to think while he sends a text. He awakens his phone and dials Sam’s cell number into the top of a new message.

Hi, it’s Bucky, he types. No emojis. He presses send.

Barely a second later, the same number sends him a reply. Hi Bucky. Another second, and there’s a third message.

Are you locked out? Occurred to me when I got back to the corner.

Bucky feels his face flush with embarrassment. He backspaces through a few quivers typos before he manages to send back his undignified yes.

Bucky still has his eyes on his screen as it populates with another text.

Turning around.

Thank you.

Bucky’s day has reached uncertainty yet again. He feels like he has better odds now, though. If nothing else, he’ll live it out with his friend.

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ghostie-gengar · 2 years ago

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sooooo mad rn i was working on a song at school and i finished it and it took an hour and it actually sounded good but then i went to save it and the shitty school wifi cut out so all my progress was lost

#i was making a theme for blair unova under siege in case you were wondering #shouldn't take me that long to redo it tho cuz most of it was moving shit around #i'm still rlly mad tho >:(

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rokkam-rocks · 2 years ago

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AN IMPOSTER AMONG US...

Does everyone has some or the other kind of sadistic teacher who pretends to be good among the other students and in front of the whole school and help some " teacher ke chamche" who wants to get away with some mischief. ( ones who continuously assist teachers and butter them with unwanted loyalty) I know that I was never been able to accomplish the 'teacher ke chamche' kind of stuff, even if I try that will be the weirdest version of myself that upon contemplation will be a vision of horror which will taunt me in my dreams.

Today we had Digital marketing event in which we had some thing called 'e-sports' In which we were allowed to play Among Us, Free Fire and PUBG (I am still in the dillemma that why can't they call it as video game event probably insisting on the fact that it was considered as a part of learning process by naming an event as e-sports, or maybe to satisfy the higher authorities of the fact that they are not promoting such video games in school) To be honest people will be sacked out of their job in our school of some higher authorities will find out what kind of shitty event they conduct in our college. I don't know why I ended up joining this wierd school who has no management and values and call themselves as a business school (can't mention name for privacy reasons) they can't even communicate things on time, people will ask you to bring your own sheets to write your exam that too on the day of the exam. Since they had poor communication skills I wasn't aware of the fact that today was the event day... I was so lucky that I bought my phone along with me..i wanted to participate in the so called 'e-sports' event so desperate and on top of that my phone was having some nervous strokes and my mobile data was busted all of a sudden( why this all happens to me on weirdest and important stances) maybe because of the weather or my fate. So I went to ask my vice principal for the WiFi password of the college ( as you are not aware that our college has this werid fantasy of not sharing their passwords to students in their mobile phones even I was aware of that fact I tried to get lucky) but returned upon failing on my instinct. Disappointed, i tried to fix the issue of my phone as if I was a pro at it. My fortunate so called forced friend (for which I shall make another post for it, its a sort of tragedic epic which ever happened to me) she digged on her luck and she so happens to be teachers favourite and he gave her the password, soon after she got it i was literally on fire and was determined to put up a fight, but my friend busted me totally and prevented me to ask for my own rights...at once i felt the fire that every freedom fighter has upon depriving of his rights. I regretted for having a lean body structure thus I was dominated by my friend and physically suppressed my raging fire within. I completely gave up my hopes on playing the game today and decided to submit my phone in the lobby (we are not supposed to carry our phones to our classroom)

And to conclude I participated in a content marketing event which has nothing to do with marketing stuff we were just given some random topics and it was too dependent on our fate as you all know I have got a brilliant fate and I got a shitty topic which I wrote clumsily in a period of 15 minutes and submitted. I still don't know the reason behind why it's called content marketing when they ask us to write on a topic without the tags and without posting it(that could have been done in Microsoft Word. Literally they were just converting a composition into the name of content writing), it just doesn't feel right, maybe this confusion and foolishness of others will gradually consume me day by day and i will completely turn into lunatic and submit to depression again till my parents realise the fact. My friend got the first prize and a junior dude got the runner up who had not even participated in the event.

So long! Let's meet in another interesting and weirdest blogs that I hopefully write (let's be optimistic) thank you for bearing my shit till now, hope it is relatable (its mostly relatable to Indians I suppose)... BYE

#school #school life #soft sadist #911 fox #the winchesters #mcr #the mandalorian #shadow and bone #the last of us #artists on tumblr #school drama #school days #school daze #school discipline #among us #creative #blog post #weirder Times

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russeliarat · 2 years ago

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Have you ever gone camping?

Several times! Never with my family, but with extracurricular groups like Guides/Brownies and with my primary and high school. I went I think a total of about 4 or 5 times.

I have a lot of silly memories that I love and cherish. I remember being roomed with three other girls in Year 7/8(?) who were friends of mine and very nice, but me and a girl I'll call L basically started singing Freaky Friday at like 7 at night from her phone with the really shitty wifi while everyone's phones were charging (this was the night we got there so everyone had used their phones on the coach there) coz I'd never heard the song before and she wanted to show me someone was in the music video.

In primary school, around Year 5 or 6, we went traditional camping in the woods with my class of no more than 15 (ours was the smallest class in the entire school). A bunch of us gathered together in one of my friends tents and we told horror stories we made up to each other. No one could sleep so me and my best friend were just whispering to each other in our tent until we heard another group of like 8 or so kids tip toe past the teacher's tent so we went to see what was going on. We basically scared ourselves so bad that when the entire class had to walk to the toilets in the pitch black of night, no one managed to because we saw a couple red dot lights and we all just ran back to the tents coz we thought it was like monsters or wolves or something. We basically slept in two or three groups in different people's tents, which meant we all slept in huddles with no space, it was really warm so no one slept in sleeping bags, and there was a scandal from the teachers who told us that boys and girls shouldn't be sleeping in the same tent coz we were 'probably kissing'. Favourite memory of mine.

#ask russ

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inkats · 2 years ago

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Considering that Amelia has a long way to go with her own number to improve, I feel it is a rather odd reading to judge Simon's super high number as the train judging him as irredeemable as there hasn't really been any established limits or rules about numbers from the train, only that numbers can go up or they can go down. With that train of thought, his number becomes more of a sign that he had much, MUCH more of a problem to work through at that moment than Amelia - particularly, one that still could theoretically be brought down to zero - rather than saying he absolutely cannot get any better.

As for the ghoms, considering Amelia seemed to moreso just be able to borrow orbs from other cars rather than actually modifying them, as well as how they went after Tulip and Lake despite the former being at an extremely relatively low number and the latter a denizen, they probably might be more of an encouragement from the train to move on to the next train car instead of staying out on the walkways.

my original attempt at answering this got ate (i had like three paragraphs im so upset). anyway this isn't gonna be very. robust. sorry. disclaimer same stuff as before also ive been watching the show on shitty school wifi over the course of like a month i might forget shit.

My thoughts are v broad about themes i don't know why i tried to justify it with how the train works. I think i thought it'll give substance but it did not. sorry im not really gonna touch that again.

The show is about growth, and I think Grace and Simon's chapter in it is about how oneself factors into it. They were given the same opportunities and ended up at very different places.

Grace and Simon are narrative foils right. Simon is a stoic character while Grace is kinetic. Simon stays where he was in the beginning while Grace grows and changes. Simon dies, his end is the end, Grace's is the opening of a new chapter. Grace took new information and looked at her beliefs and realized that she was in the wrong, but Simon was firm and set in his ways.

The point was to show i think how one has to want to grow, be willing to change for change to happen.

I don't think Simon is irredeemable, but he just doesn't think there's anything to redeem. He doesn't believe he needs to grow, and so he simply doesn't.

#the original post was cause im watching the show with one of my friends and she sees things v black and white #she was like simon is mean him dying was good.#and i was devastated.#so i just wanted to like get it out and my blog is usually like talking to a wall so i just put it here #im sorry for all the grief this has caused

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conceptofjoy · 5 months ago

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so i went to high school and middle school with him, he kept thinking i went to the same elementary school too and i had to keep remind him that no ^_^ i didnt. i had an INcredibly small italian class with him, literally 4 other students, he was already italian and played online chess matches which constantly pissed off the teacher. he had a tendency to keep pissing off whatever teacher he had, at least which ever i shared with him which was sadly a lot.

i thought his ass was going to get decked at least once in high school but he some how didnt. EVERYONE didn't like him. he was like... i dont even know. he was a brand of shitty that was self aggrandizing (which sucks cause he WAS genuinely smart) and he would go out of his way to be like... ok maybe youre not trying hard enough. once there were tickets to a school dance that there were a limited supply of, he bought ALL of them using a program. they had to like redo the thing.

i forgot to say he was like a computer genius. once in this miserably small class he was pointing in the corner at this wifi box thing and was like did you know that this controls the internet for this section of the building? do you want to see me fuck with the wifi? everyone was like NO. he would causally tell storys of how he bit teachers in elementary school and i was like yeah checks out. i remember in middle school he broke into an exibit in a fieldtrip and nearly got everyone kicked out. there was an alarm and everything. i cant get across his vibes. you just had to be there.

he fucking named his cats cat one and cat two.

#d talks

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noirandchocolate · 6 years ago

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Me in College: Wooooo it’s Fall Back night that means when it’s midnight the clocks go back and I get a whoooole extra hour to talk online with my friends and listen to loud music and watch torrented episodes of Invader Zim!!! Who needs bedtime I’m gonna RP forever I’ll go to bed when I die!!!!

Me Now*: Mmmnnnn extra hour in bed niiiice.

#kidk says stuff #*please note i graduated college thirteen years ago and am Old #i wont necessarily even sleep im terrible at sleeping but boyyyy Bed is Nice #((oh also since Fall Back is always a saturday and i went home weekends in college))#((my parents made me get off the computer at midnight bc the computer was downstairs))#((and if i stayed down there any later id wake dad up when i came upstairs amd thatd be mean))#((ALSO we had shitty dialup til i came back for law school and demanded and paid for proper cable/wifi))#((ahhhh my youth))

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strangelipa · 7 years ago

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• like or reblog if u save • or credit @hypelevitate if u want to lol

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dear-ao3 · 2 years ago

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the saga of saphs terrible, horrible internet

so my friends and fellow romans, as some of you may know, i am currently at home while i wait to go galavant off to the other side of the globe for my study abroad. being at home presents a great many challenges that i will not get into at this time, but the top one is the internet connection.

now i am the proud owner of a 2017 macbook and an iphone se. the macbook was bought refurbished 3.5 years ago and the phone was bought new last august when my iphone 6s finally crapped out 2 weeks into junior year of college. i take....decent care of my electronics. and, this is an important detail here, the phone has an unlimited data plan.

i have never had a problem with this phone. it works great, occasionally it buffers in certain spots on campus that are kind of dead zones due to the buildings being massive blocks of concrete, but it always works, even despite the shitty school wifi i have because i can turn the wifi off and use data. the computer hates the wifi a little more, but i can still usually get it to work with minimal issues.

until now *cue dramatic music*

i have to be at home (my parents house) for a grand total of 18 days. which is not very long. and while at home i had some stuff to do, all of which required me to have an internet connection (fighting the financial aid office, talking to brad, researching grad school, purchasing textbooks, buying the last couple things i need for my trip, etc). i have also had to be in quarantine (long story) so essentially i have been confined to my room.

the internet has always been a little bit meh in my room, with certain spots not working the best (due to the fact that i am furthest from the router) but this is the same room that i took zoom classes from for 2.5 semesters, plus a summer class and a j term class with 0 issues, so i was confident i could make it work.

well. i was wrong.

the first two days went fairly normally. but then, a steady and rapid decrease in internet quality began.

and yes, i am aware that me complaining about internet quality is a very first world problem, but i am stuck in a house with my parents and it is miserable and i just want to facetime brad.

on day three i became unable to send a text message unless i was connected to wifi.

on day 4 i could only connect to wifi if i was standing in one specific spot in my bedroom and even then it didnt always work and would usually drop off by the time i walked back across the room

on day 5 facetime stopped working

on day 6 even standing directly next to the router didnt do anything and plugging into our sole ethernet cable only provided me with mediocre internet

on day 7 i had a mental breakdown and watched youtube all day at 144p complete with buffering that added a good 10-20 minutes to any video.

on day 8 i told my dad that in my deeply unprofessional opinion something is deeply wrong with our router and he said well its just cause your room is far away from it

on day 9 (today) i walked downstairs to get my up of tea in my big christmas tree mug and my dad said "our internet is being very slow, i am going to have to look into it"

wait

you mean

to tell me

that the internet

isnt working?

golly goodness gosh

i didnt know

its not like it took 3 minutes for the blank post im writing right now to load and 30 minutes for a 10 minute youtube video to load and that i get kicked off the wifi if i so much as tilt my phone slightly to the left

its a miracle i havent gone insane yet i swear

#not a tag #from saph #so in case youre all wondering why i havent posted things its because i cant get the internet to work #i know that this is a very first world problem but i just want to talk to brad

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dollslayer · 4 years ago

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Sweeter Endings

Sugar Daddy!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the financial realities of losing your mother you turn to a lucrative website for help and get more than you could have bargained for.

W/C: 5,325

Warnings: Smut (no minors 18+ only), light D/S dynamics, brief mentions of alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, swearing

A/N: NO MINORS, I wrote this for @donutloverxo 's Sugary 4k Challenge (Congrats!!) I love sugar daddy AUs so I was really excited to write this!! If you like it then please like/reblog/comment I'm all ears! Also maybe check out my other stuff if you want! Cheers!

Main Masterlist

____

The saying ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ was truer than you’d ever imagined and you found out the hard way. Life had hit you hard last year. You had watched your mother succumb very quickly to cancer. A cold that just wouldn’t go away turned into a doctor’s visit turned into three months left to live. Having no one else in her life, the cost of her funeral and medical bills fell to you. The bills outweighing the inheritance you had no choice but to drop out of school.

One year later you were hanging on by threads to keep yourself off the streets without turning to a loan shark or selling yourself. Stocking shelves at a bougie grocery store in Soho by day and bartending in Tribeca by night had you working six days a week. What free time you had you were too exhausted to do anything with. Something had to give or you were going to collapse from the stress, you just didn’t know what.

A couple weeks ago you had been casually venting about how broke you were with a coworker when she jokingly suggested signing up for one of those Sugar Daddy sites. You laughed along with her but it sounded better than getting a third job. You had quietly asked one of your roommates to borrow their laptop saying you needed to look at job postings only half a lie, really and locked yourself in your room.

You were just gonna check out the website, maybe sign up and poke around, it didn’t mean you were committing to anything, just looking. You remembered first looking at the website once your shitty wifi loaded it, promising ‘beautiful and successful people making mutually beneficial connections’. You balked after reading that but you couldn’t look at any profiles without making one yourself so you had set to work.

After making your profile you hadn’t gotten any hits in about a week so you shrugged it off. You couldn’t keep hogging your roommate’s computer anyways so you set off back to work. Your days at the store wore on into endless nights at the bar and you wondered what other options you really had when you had no degree and no experience in any relevant field.

___

6 o’clock on a Thursday night, the typical after work crowd begins to roll in. The bar you work in is upscale, classy. Definitely trying to lure in the businessmen that worked in the area and their wallets. It annoyed you to deal with the same type of customers you did at the store all over again but with the high end crowd came good tips so you couldn't complain too much.

It was busier than usual when a group of men in suits walked in together asking for a booth. You saw a lot of business meetings take place over whiskey sours in this place so you didn’t think much of it. You tried your best to keep tending to your regulars when a pair from the group came over.

One of the men had deep brown eyes and a sly grin that when split gave you the perfect view of the gap between his teeth. He was confident but he had a kind look to him. His friend had dirty blond hair and a beard that clung to his perfect jawline and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t snuck a second look. You turned your back and continued filling orders to distract yourself when one of them cleared their throat behind you.

As you turned to face them you found it was the blond calling after you. His face held a hint of surprise but it was quickly replaced by a look of amusement as he smirked and one brow lifted, like he knew something you didn’t. He was like any other typical customer for you, professional and handsome, probably over-confident in himself. You returned his smirk and prepared your best charming banter. Time to earn those tips.

“Something to drink for you, gentleman?” You offered.

“We’d like a round of scotch for the table over there. You don’t mind bringing it over, do you sweetheart?” the brown-eyed man asked.

“Of course not” you answered. Pricks.

“Good girl” the blond said with a wink. Creep. A hot creep but still. Before you could ask he took his card out of his wallet and put it on the counter for the tab.

____

A round had come and passed, soon they’d asked for another but this time it was just the blond that approached you. You lifted your eyebrows in anticipation of an order.

“You here often?” he asked. Ugh, not even a good pick up line.

“Am I here at my job often?” You retorted with a playful smile.

The man’s shoulders shook as he chuckled. “Sorry you just uh, you look familiar that’s all. What’s your name?”

You supplied him with it and asked him if he wanted another round of scotch. He nodded.

“Smart girl, I’m Steve by the way.” He laid down his business card which you picked up with a look of challenging curiosity. Steve Rogers, CEO of Shield inc.

Oh. You didn’t recognize the name but you definitely knew the company. It felt like a quarter of their employees stopped in for a drink throughout the week and it was prominent enough of a company that you read about it weekly. Play it cool, these types want to feel like an every-man at the bar but still wanna feel important.

You raised your eyebrows again in recognition. “Nice to meet you, Steve, I’ll have your round right out.”

“Good Girl” he winked again at you. Okay so it’s hot, but he’s a total stranger and you don’t even know him. Stay on your game.

___

10 o’clock came around and things were thinning out slightly, regulars made their way out, awkward Tinder dates and rowdy young 20-somethings made their way in. The party of businessmen was still around but they were hopefully wrapping up after the 2 more rounds they’d had. Steve approached the bar once more and you preemptively picked up the bottle of scotch.

“Whoa, easy, girl! I’m here to pick up the tab” He said, taking out his wallet.

“What’s the name on the tab?” You decided to play dumb but based off the grin on his face he knew you were playing with him.

“Steve. Rogers.” He replied, his tone was stern but his eyes told you he was in on the joke.

You cashed him out and left him to sign his receipt so you could make more drinks. You saw him move in your peripheral and turned your head to see his face.

“Have a good night, sweetheart. I’ll be seein’ ya” he promised.

“Take care!” You smiled back.

A few minutes later you circled back to collect his receipt and found three $100 bills staring back at you. You blinked dumbly in disbelief, who the hell leaves a 200% tip? Looking around to see if Steve was still here he was nowhere to be found. You had no choice but to pocket the money.

____

Another week went by and left you wondering how much energy and concentration it would take for you to just evaporate, since that seemed easier than going to work today. Sadly still in solid form, you punched in at the store and stowed your things in your locker.

Your upscale customer base was a mostly pretentious and successful group of yuppies so even though you were grateful to not be on the streets you were constantly reminded of the professional success you couldn’t help but feel that you were missing out on. Stuck instead to listen to incessant whining ‘is this organic? I won’t eat it unless it’s organic’.

The upside of this job was that the time went by quickly because you always had so much to do. Plus with how monotonous the work was it was easy enough to zone out. So much so that you hadn’t heard someone calling your name and approaching you. A hand softly touching your shoulder snapped you into the present.

You looked up, startled to find a pair of blue eyes staring back into yours. You took a step back and processed who it was. “CEO guy?” Steve?

“‘CEO guy?’ I thought I recognized you, ‘barmaid’ or should I say… ‘stock girl?’” He joked using his fingers to make quotations.

Now that you thought about it, the store isn’t that far at all from the bar, it would make sense if he’s in the area. You smiled and tapped your nametag in response.

“I just came in on my lunch to grab a few groceries” looking down at his basket it held some protein powder, some eggs, and one lonely banana. “Clearly, I’m single. But you’d know that already, wouldn’t you?”

Your brows twinged together in confusion. What is that supposed to mean?

“Excuse me?”

He edged a little closer to you and lowered his voice “SeekingConnection.com?”

Your eyes widened in shock. The fucking Sugar Daddy site! I forgot about that! Surprise was quickly replaced with humiliation. You looked down and away as you felt your cheeks heat up.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you” Steve placated, “But I gotta say, I’m pretty hurt you never responded to me. I sent that message weeks ago and let’s just say I’m not used to rejection.” He kept his tone light, letting you know he wasn’t mad.

“I-I um, I’m sorry, I don’t have a computer and they don’t have an app, I was using my roommates’ computer and I guess I forgot about it…” You admitted.

Steve nodded in acknowledgement. Please say something to salvage this conversation. Please.

“Well,” Steve rummaged in his pocket for another business card. “You got a pen on you?”

You dug around in your apron and came up with one. Handing it to him you watched as he wrote on the back of the card. He held the card and the pen out to you.

“That’s my number, I’d ask for yours but I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, you already look like you wanna sink through the floor” Not helping, but I do. You took them from him and tucked them away in the pocket of your apron.

“You do have a phone right?” You only glared at him in response. “Well, if you check your profile, you would’ve seen I asked you out to lunch, offer still stands. Just text me when you’re free”

Should I even say yes? I mean, the winking the other night was weird but he’s good looking and at least somewhat considerate. I mean, it’s not like I had any other intention when I signed up for that site. What the hell. right?

“I… usually work mid shifts so I don’t know if lunch is doable, they only give me half an hour but, maybe we could do coffee? I’ve got tomorrow off from the bar I could meet you” you suggested.

If Steve felt pity for you he hid it well behind the wide smile he made when you offered coffee instead.

“There’s a place around the corner from here, just up a block, you know it? I’m off tomorrow at 6, why don’t you meet me there?”

“Sounds like a plan.” He winked at you again and started walking away. What the hell just happened?

____

You did end up borrowing your roommate’s computer once again when you got home to look up Steve’s DM. Sure enough, there he had been in all his internet glory. ‘Steve, 33, CEO. likes: art, conversation, whiskey. Digging around further on his profile you found that he owned several houses here and in Europe, he had a dog that was cuter than he was, and that he was ‘Seeking deeper connection’. All of these things piqued your interest.

‘Hey, Doll. Saw your profile and I had to ask, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? Kidding, of course. But maybe you’d care to tell me your story over lunch? Your profile says we’re both in New York. - Steve’ Sent three weeks ago. Fuck.

You had texted him earlier to confirm, which is how you found yourself walking up the sidewalk towards the shop with a mind running rampant with nervous thoughts. What if he just wants to feel big about himself in comparison to me? What would I even really have to offer the relationship? A college dropout working two dead-end jobs with no social life. You needed to snap yourself out of it. You were just meeting for coffee doesn’t mean anything.

Pushing open the door you found Steve waving at you from a quiet corner. He was still in a suit, presumably coming from work himself. Even the buttons on his shirt looked expensive. You were wearing dirty jeans and a worn pair of work boots paired with a flannel. You couldn’t have looked more different if you tried.

“I waited for you to order,” He said. You smiled up at him, only now realizing how tall he was in comparison to you. He ushered you both towards the counter where you both placed your orders. You moved to take your wallet from your purse but he had already beat you there.

“Really? As if I’d let the lady pay, and on the first date no less?” He said playfully.

“Oh, so this is a date now, is it?” You kidded.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets and gave you that boyish grin and a shrug. The pair of you made your way back to the table and waited for your drinks to be brought over.

“How was work?” You asked, “What exactly is it that your company does?”

“We offer security and surveillance software domestically as well as international. Stadiums, airports, other government buildings. Things of that nature. And work was fine, thank you for asking” Steve said with a genuine smile. “How was your day, doll?”

“Oh, my day was fine, more of the same but y’know,” You answered half-heartedly.

“You know, you never answered me, what’s a funny, pretty gal like you doing on a site like that?”

Embarrassment hit you again, this time maybe accompanied with a hint of shame. You were saved momentarily by your drinks being delivered. He seemed truly interested and since he was paying you supposed you owed him an answer.

“I was going to Columbia and I had a pretty good internship when my mom got diagnosed with cancer. She died three months later and since it was only always just the two of us I ended up footing the bill. I was on partial scholarship but between the hospital and the funeral I can’t really afford the rest of tuition on top of working for free so here I am” you explained, “Oh my god, I’m sorry I’m totally oversharing aren’t I? You probably don’t wanna hear about a bummer like this, sorry”

You tried to laugh to ease the tension you thought you’d created. Braving a look at Steve, he looked thoughtful and only a little bit like he pitied you. You could live with that.

“I’m really sorry about your mom, mine also got really sick before she died, I know it must’ve been hard. What were you in school for?”

___

You and Steve talked for hours, trading anecdotes of childhood and talking about each other’s interests. You had a similar sense in humour so you got on swimmingly. The evening seemed to be coming to a close as the night sky sent in through the window.

Being with Steve was probably the most relaxed you’d felt since before your mom was diagnosed. It became difficult to focus on anything but your financial situation and even though that’s what brought you here in the first place you had managed to forget all about it.

“So look, us getting together wasn’t exactly the most conventional on meet-cutes but to put it bluntly,” He said, “The CEO life makes it hard to meet real people and it gets kinda lonely, I mean, you saw my grocery basket” You both laughed at that. “You need money and I need company, I feel like we could help each other out. Whad’ya say? Think you could put up with me?”

You knew what this was but hearing it put so plainly was a little surprising. At least he was to the point.

“So if I said yes what does that mean, exactly?” you inquired.

“Well,” he started, “We take care of each other. Let me cover some of your bills at the very least, make it so you’d be comfortable quitting at least one of your jobs. And you’d keep me company, we go on dates, maybe you could come over, there’s the occasional work event or charity gala I’d need you on my arm for. Thoughts?”

God I can’t even imagine what it’s like to work only one job anymore. Maybe I could even save up and go back to school. He’s cute and he seems sensible, why not?

“Could we maybe take things slow? What you describe is something I’m down for but I don’t want to make myself completely dependent on you. But I’d love to be there for you, and I have to admit, the thought of only working one full time job is pretty crazy to me” You laughed.

Steve swallowed and placed one of his large, warm hands over yours.

“I can do things the old fashioned way, if that’s what you’d feel good with. I gotta say though, with looks like that it’s not gonna be easy” he jested.

You smiled shyly and looked away. You both stood to leave and he held the door open for you.

“I’ve already got your number from when you texted me earlier but I’ll talk to my assistant about my schedule and maybe I could take you out to dinner this weekend?”

“I um, I’d really like that. It’s a date” You stated.

“Oh, so you think this is a date now?” He jested.

You lightly punched him in the arm and he took the opportunity to pull you closer to him. You looked up to find his face inches from yours. You could smell his aftershave and his deep voice gave you goosebumps when he spoke next.

“I kinda want to kiss you goodnight, would that be okay?”

You could only nod as he shut his eyes and closed in. Your lips met in one perfect, chaste kiss. You sighed and leaned into his hand as it briefly cupped your face.

You broke apart and made promises to see each other soon. You felt like you could’ve floated home as you boarded the subway, caught up in the swarm of newly forming feelings.

_____

You sat in the break room when your phone buzzed to life, ‘Saturday at 7?’

You were about to type out a yes when you forgot you worked closing at the bar. Your thumbs moved quickly to tap out the reply ‘Working, sorry :/ the pitfalls of bartending. Sunday at 7?’

You were nervous telling him no and asking to change plans. You hated not being able to make things work but you only just met the man and the weekend tips were killer, it’s not like you could turn the shift down.

‘Ah yes, almost forgot. Sunday works too, I’ll text you the details. What’s your address? I’ll pick you up’

Oh, God. Steve can’t see my building! His cufflinks probably cost more than my rent!

‘I’ll just meet you there, don’t worry about it’

‘Not a chance, doll. Just tell me where and I’ll come get you’

You let out a worried sigh but knew you had to let it go. You sent him your address and went back to work.

____

Saturday was maybe the longest day in your entire week, in fact you loathed it. Mornings at the store followed by running immediately to the bar. Last call in New York was 4am so it’s a good thing you didn’t try to make brunch plans with Steve for Sunday. But ultimately both your shifts passed without major incident and now it was Sunday and you tried to ready yourself the best you could.

The place Steve mentioned was fancy, you knew that much from a quick search. Panicking instantly upon realizing you don’t really have any nice clothes you turned to your most fashionable roommate for help. She loaned you a cocktail dress that was revealing enough to draw interest without giving everything away. You just hoped Steve would like it.

‘Downstairs, doll. Silver BMW’ you exhaled. Hoo boy, here we go.

____

Steve handed his keys to the valet and rushed around to open your door for you. You held his hand and you clambered onto the sidewalk in your heels. His warm hand on the small of your back as he steered you towards the doors was a comforting weight.

Dinner has been lovely so far, he chose a place that wasn’t completely white-glove but was upscale enough to make you feel only a little underdressed.

You joked back and forth with him over the course of the meal, talked about your lives, and even found out you both have a guilty pleasure for cheesy rom-coms. It wasn’t until dessert and your third glass of wine came that you realized how much time had passed. You frowned slightly thinking of the early morning ahead of you followed by a long night at the bar.

“What’s wrong, doll?”

“Oh, nothing I just didn’t realize how late it was, I’ve got both jobs tomorrow it’ll just be a long day that’s all” you tried to wave it off but Steve frowned in response.

“Quit the bar” he stated.

“What?”

“Quit the bar. This is your card, I’ve already loaded $3000 on there. Put me in touch with your landlord and I’ll get you taken care of.” He slid the card across the table to you. Your name printed on the front. This got real very quickly.

“Steve, that’s.” You were in shock, a loss for words almost “that’s too much, I don’t know what to say.” You felt embarrassed taking the money. You knew that was the essence of your arrangement but actually taking his money had you feeling uneasy.

“Honey, this is what I’m here for. Let me take care of you. Give up your late nights. I wanna take you out on the weekends and you’ll need to be available for events. You can stay at the store if you want but quit the bar, you don’t need it.”

You took a deep sigh. He did say he wanted you to be comfortable quitting one of your jobs; it's just making the change that scares you. But something about Steve felt safe so you nodded and looked up to him.

“I’ll put in my two weeks”

“Good girl” he patted your knee and you involuntarily clenched your thighs. He smirked at that but let it go.

____

A few months had come and gone since that night and your time with Steve had been great. Only working the one job gave you so much more free time. You'd spent a good chunk of it just trying to form a normal sleep schedule but all the time you spent with Steve made it difficult. Not that you minded especially since your allowance was monthly but he’d showered you with gifts here and there.

They started off small, perfume, chocolates and flowers, or a simple pair of white gold hoops that reminded him of you. They gradually became pricier and more elaborate. You’d felt guilty accepting it all at first but he was insistent you deserve the best. He had even mentioned you moving out maybe finding a better place but you reminded him you needed to go slow.

He’d also been nothing short of a gentleman. Out in public at least, you’d learned the hard way that he was an absolute animal in bed. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep your hands off of him.

Something you had appreciated about Steve is that he never made you feel bad or less than for being broke. Never held his money over your head like leverage. You’d felt equal to him in all aspects, understanding you had just as much say as he did.

Still, there was a small nagging voice in the back of your head that reminded you Steve is not your boyfriend. This isn't a relationship and he's looking to get something out of just like you are. But if you were being honest you were catching feelings, it was hard not to when the man was giving you the fantasy. You decided to push that voice aside whenever it came up and let yourself be swept away. Maybe that would bite you in the ass but for now you were happy.

____

You were buzzed into Steve’s building and on the elevator ride up to his penthouse your phone buzzed. ‘I have to make a quick call- I’ve got a present waiting for you in the living room.’ You couldn’t help but feel giddy.

The doors opened and Steve was nowhere in sight but as you entered the living room a bag from Chanel and the Apple Store sat on the table. Oh god, what this time? I swear this man is too much.

You opened the smaller bag from Chanel first and found a beautiful black and white evening bag. It was sleek and simple, very much to your tastes. You were nervous to open the Apple bag, Steve always went overboard. Shakily removing the paper you pulled out the slim case in disbelief. A MacBook Air and a pair of AirPod Pros. The man well and truly spoiled you.

“You said you didn’t have a computer.” His voice came from behind you and startled you.

“Steve, this is too much. You’re too much.” You swung your arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Nothin’s too much for you, doll.” He kissed the top of your head.

“Think you could take a couple days off of work? I just got off the phone and confirmed plans for my house in Nice.”

A trip? France?? Oh my god. How is this my life? You felt so overwhelmed that you grabbed Steve by the collar and brought his face down to meet you in a kiss. His tongue swiped your lips and you granted him entrance. Moaning into his mouth your hands traveled up into his hair, pulling softly and coaxing a groan out of him.

He guided you to sit on the couch and brought you down into his lap. You ground down onto him and felt his hard-on through his slacks. Your hand moved slowly to undo the buttons of his shirt as he kissed down your jaw towards your neck. You sighed softly when he found your sweet spot and started sucking.

He helped you take off his shirt while you got started on his belt and undid his pants. He lifted himself off the couch slightly to move them down to his knees, taking his briefs with them. His cock stood proud and an angry red, leaking at the tip.

“I wanna ride you, I can’t wait.” You pouted as you writhed against him in need.

Steve tutted at you “that’s no way to get what you want. Ask me nicely, baby. Beg to ride my cock,”

You ground down even harder and whined. “Please, sir, please let me ride your cock. I need to feel you, I can’t wait any longer please.”

“Good Girl” Steve's hands flipped up your skirt and found your panties, ripping them to shreds. They were La Perla and had cost a pretty penny but he didn’t care.

He lined himself up and brought you down harshly gripping your hips. You moaned loudly in surprise and satisfaction and wasted no time moving back and forth. Steve made you feel so close and connected to him whenever he fucked you but he still made you feel sordid and dirty. You couldn’t get enough of the feeling, you’d gladly chase it.

His eyes were hooded as watched you chase your own pleasure and giving him some in return. His hands kneaded your ass and smacked it just to get a gasp out of you. He grabbed the back of your head and brought you in for a searing kiss that was all teeth and tongue. He’d nip at you and lick the pain away.

His hips met yours, finding your rhythm and speeding you both up when he gripped your hips.

“Can’t wait to have me, you had to fuck me on the couch huh?” Steve panted, “my dirty girl. So fuckin’ gorgeous.”

You put your forehead against his and went harder, pushing your clit to grind against the muscles of his abs.

“Only yours, sir.” Your orgasm was building. Steve was a pretty relaxed dom but you still needed permission.

“Sir, please let me cum I can’t wait any longer” you tried your best to slow your movements a bit.

“I think you can hold it baby, I wanna enjoy you a little longer”.

You could only whine in response and tried to slow your pace but his grip on your hips and his own movements pushed you further and further towards the edge. You tried to squirm out of his grasp but his hands only tightened. It felt like forever until Steve finally gave you permission.

“Go on baby, cum for me you earned it. Fuck your self on my cock and cum all over me”

Your movements were frantic, desperate to chase your orgasm when finally the perfect angle of his cock inside you and your clit against him set you free. You cried out above him and dug your nails in deep.

Steve held you firmly in place and started slamming into you from below, finally letting himself think about cumming. All you could do was hold on for mercy. Moments later he brought you down onto him one final slam as he came inside of you with a cry.

The only sound in the room was both of you trying to catch your breath. You sighed again and collapsed against him, nuzzling your face into his neck. He kissed the side of your face and let you make yourself at home while he caressed your back.

____

One shower and two more orgasms later you were both clean and made your way to the kitchen. Steve was gathering the ingredients for dinner when you hugged him from behind. Your head resting against his back. Steve twisted around and hugged you in full. You both stayed like that for a moment until you looked up at him.

You were so content. Moments like this where you were just domestic were some of the best between you. It wasn’t about money or material, it was just the two of you making dinner and enjoying each other, no barriers.

“Are you really going to take me to France?” Your voice came out muffled against his chest.

“Of course, doll. After dinner I want you to use your new laptop to buy some outfits for the trip. I left my card in your new purse.”

You lifted onto your tiptoes and kissed his nose.

“You really do think of everything, don’t you?”

“What can I say? I’m a planner” he retorted.

You didn’t know it yet but Steve was going to ask you to become official while you were there. He wasn’t worried in the slightest. In fact he’d never been so sure about something in his life.

#sugary4kchallenge #steve rogers x reader #sugar daddy!Steve rogers x reader #sugar daddy!steve rogers #sugar daddy au #marvel au #marvel fic #marvel x reader #fluff #smut

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felikatze · 5 years ago

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i talked to a politician once and whenever i remember i am filled with rightous anger

#Feli speaks #idk which party he was from.... i think it was sp-d??#all policitcians are good for is fucking deflecting #i didnt even ask anything controversial!#i asked 'hey. it's proven elderly drivers cause a lot of accidents. are there plans to stop this by for example introducing regular driving #that's not a controversial topic yes?#but the motherfucker wa sjust. 'o but Young drivers cause even more accidents! thought about that??'#and then went on to the next question!#like. OBVIOUSLY young drivers get better! but elderly drivers get worse! clear difference!#and if you forbid young drivers there wont be any drivers at all you stupid idiot!#and a teacher. a teacher right.#she asked him 'do you consider raising wages for teachers to make the job more appealing and combat teacher shortage?'#and he was like 'oh but the country simply CANT afford to pay teachers more!'#oh yeah??? where's all this money for digitalization coming from then???#the fuck am i gonna do with quicker wifi at school when ive only got half my lessons bitch???#remember those protests from city kids where their 'temporary' school buidlings were full of mold?#or got so hot in summer people fainted???#but youve got money for quicker wifi. sure #but only in the city obviously! cuz us countryside nobodies get jack shit #we got shitty public transit shitty health coverage shitty public everything #a doctor here's retirement age but still in business cuz there's only 2 doctors for 12000~ people #and waiting lists for ANY kind if special treatment are AT LEAST half a year #like. ever heard of therapists? no one here has cuz there ARENT ANY.#fix this shit first before you shit whiteboards out of your ass #oh yeah and thats not even working!#know how MY school got new projectors cuz the old ones exploded sometimes??? doing a charity run and raising the money themselves.#again. as if you ACTUALLY care about kids and not the picture you got to take for some free publicity #anyways ive been listening to way too much critical satire and got very angry at society again

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ellavogues · 4 years ago

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what did you wish for? - harry styles

summary: long distance has put a strain on harry and yn’s relationship, especially as his birthday is fast approaching

a/n: last repost from my old blog, i still freaking love this. this fic means a lot to me because parts of it was based off of my own life. as always, ily all <3

masterlist

The light turned to dark as she sat by her phone watching reruns of The Office, waiting for Harry to call her like he did every night. Her day was particularly bad, everything that could’ve gone wrong went wrong - from her forgetting her umbrella when it was bucketing down to her somehow locking her car keys in her car (which led to her incurring a $200 fee for the roadside assist service getting them out). Then, when she trudged home in the pouring rain, clothes completely soaked and her socks inside her shoes wet, she received an email informing her the elevators in her building were out of service. Unluckily for her, she lived on the 16th floor.

All she wanted was to see his smile to turn her day around. Harry never failed to turn her worst days into good ones just by being him, but being in a long distance relationship put a strain on that. Sure, they would visit each other every now and then, but both of their jobs were demanding and meant they couldn’t travel as much as they wanted to. Harry could travel more than she could, but she didn’t think it was fair that he’d always have to be the one to hop on a plane and fly across the world.

The familiar ringtone played and her eyes lit up in excitement. Y/N reached for the phone and answered to hear him yelling some utterance at his friend, to which his friend responded with something equally as snide.

A smile crept onto her lips as she lightly giggled at his attitude to his friend, and she could almost feel them roll her eyes at his snarky remark. Y/N would be lying if she said the huff of annoyance he let out as he returned his attention to her wasn’t hot, as well as the way he ran his fingers over his stubble then through his curly hair.

“How do you want to celebrate your birthday, Haz?” Y/N asked softly, not wanting to make his bad mood worse and hoping the change of subject would make him happy.

Harry sighed, closing his eyes as he composed his answer. “What’s the point?” His tone wasn’t soft like hers, nor was it disappointed. It appeared that he was angry that she brought up the topic. In a matter-of-fact tone, he continued, “You’re not in London with me, you’re in New York. There’s no point in celebrating with you if you’re not here.”

“We can FaceTime?”

He rolled his eyes at her suggestion as if it was the stupidest thing he had heard, and sarcastically laughed at her.

“What’s with your attitude, Harry? I want to celebrate with you! It’s not my fucking fault that I can’t be in London!” She frowned, frustrated that the distanc between them was the topic of conversation, like it always seemed to be.

Harry scoffs in response, the look on his slightly pixelated face dumbfounded that you would even suggest that it wasn’t your fault. “I have offered to fly you out to London many times, Y/N. There are plenty of jobs for you out here that you could apply to and that you know you would get because you’re so damn good at what you do,” he retorted, tired and irritated. Though Harry was usually incredibly patient with everyone, especially her, these increasingly frequent conversations had begun to wear him thin and gradually made him resent FaceTiming her at all, despite still being completely and utterly in love with her. “You’re being stubborn about moving for no reason.”

They were both quite stubborn individuals, but in the past Harry was usually the one that compromised to make her happy. He valued her happiness over getting his own way. When they reconnected a year ago, a few years after finishing school, and quickly realised their friendship was based on more-than-friend feelings they faced the problem of living in different countries. Although it seemed like a breeze at first, Harry scoffing at anyone who claimed long distance would be hard, as their feelings grew deeper and his visits less frequent, they both longed for a more physical presence of the other, rather than just virtual. This was something Harry was absolutely not willing to compromise on. He had his whole life in London, and he knew that he could give her the life she deserves if she would just take up his offer. He knew she was scared of leaving her family behind to move in with him, and he understood. Harry tried to keep his cool about this topic, but eventually he became exasperated.

“No good reason? Why should I be the one to move? Why is it me that has to pack up my entire life just to be with you?’” She scolds him for being so rude, and feels like he’s completely brushing off her feelings. “You are able to work from wherever you are. I am not. you should be the one to move.”

“Me?” Harry was astounded at was his girlfriend’s response, and was indigent at her crazy suggestion. “I can not leave London just because you’re scared of leaving the city you’ve been in all your life. My work is in London, you know this. You know I have to be here to work, just because I technically could still record in New York does not change that the majority of my work and networks are in London. You’re being a bit dramatic and unfair about this, Y/N. I’m tired of arguing about this all the time. Goodnight.”

The fact that he hung up on her makes her see red, blood boiling as she clenched her fists and teeth. He knew what he was asking of her; to pack up her whole life just to be with him. He was being selfish and unreasonable and she was being exhausted of having this stupid argument that neither of them ever won every time they talked. She felt like he never considered her friends here in New York, and that he always brushed off how she felt about the move. This fight had gradually become more tense as time went on, as they knew that a decision would eventually have to be made if they wanted their relationship to grow.

///

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she claimed.

“I know you and H had a fight,” Harry's friend responded, the one on the phone earlier. “He told me what happened and he feels really bad. Like, really. I know he would really appreciate it if you were here for his birthday.”

She sighed, starting to feel slightly guilty too for the way she reacted. She feels even more guilty for the fact that they hadn’t spoken at all in the past 3 days, besides a text from Harry simply saying Sorry for hanging up on you. When Y/N received the text, she was still calming down from their argument, still hurt by the way he made her feel that her career wasn’t as important as his. She still loved him, and she still misses him, though.

“I can’t afford a ticket, you know that. Not everyone makes a fuck ton of money like you and Haz-”

The friend chuckled softly over the phone before reassuring Y/N, “I’ll pay for it. Come and surprise him, he’ll feel a lot better and it’ll give you guys a chance to work it out in person, where you can’t just hang up on each other.”

Y/N knew that his friend was right, she knew that she and Harry needed a face to face conversation about the future of their relationship because long distance hadn’t seemed to be working for them anymore. Their virtual dates, while well thought out and romantic, weren’t the same as being there in person with him. Being there and lightly brushing legs as they sat down at the small table, hearing his laugh without the audio cutting in and out, being able to hold each other’s hands. It wasn’t the same.

Maybe that is why Y/N and Harry had been arguing so much, because their relationship relied on strong wifi connections and the ability to be on their phones all day. And it wasn’t enough for either of them anymore.

“Okay, thank you. I’m really grateful you’re doing this for us,” Y/N finally responded, expressing her gratitude.

His friend felt a wave of relief, ecstatic that Harry might finally get out of his shitty mood. Even though he didn’t mean to take out his annoyances on his friends, and he apologised every single time he gave them an uncalled for attitude, but it seemed his bad mood was never dissipating. When finally asked what was wrong, bursting through his door in a fit of exasperation, he broke down and told her about their FaceTime, and all their FaceTimes before it. About how every subject they discussed seemed to lead to the same topic: the distance between them. He admitted he regretted his harsh words, and regretted him acting like he thought his job was more important than hers.

“It’s really not a problem,” his friend promised. “I’ll email you the flight details and the invite, I can’t wait to see you! It’s been so long!”

“It’s been, like, a month and a half. Not that long.”

“That is so long! I miss you like crazy.”

“I miss you too,” Y/N giggled.

She flopped back on her bed, grinning from ear to ear and excited she would finally be able to see her boyfriend again, yet dreading the impending and necessary conversation they would have to have.

Y/N had anxiously got out of her Uber when she arrived at a friend's house for Harry’s surprise party. She was visibly shaking, stuttering as she said thank you to her driver, nervous that his reaction wouldn’t be good when seeing her. She was scared that he didn’t want her here anymore after their fight, despite his friend constantly reassuring her that he would be over the moon to see her.

She knocked on the front door, which his almost immediately answered. “Hey! Y/N!”

The loud exclamation earned the attention of the other attendees of the party, all shocked to see Y/N after Harry had repeatedly, and bitterly, told them that she was going to be in New York for his birthday.

“Hey,” Y/N smiled, greeting everyone. She glanced around the room, seeing the fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, the island bench covered with a gold table cloth, the backyard decorated with gold balloons and streamers. “Woah, the party is super cool! Harry is going to love it.”

“Harry is going to love that you’re here and not in New York.”

When Harry finally arrived, the lights were switched off and everyone scurried to grab their phones out to film. Y/N waited behind everyone as the group gathered close together to surprise him when he walked in.

“Oh my god,” Harry spoke. “It smells funny in here.”

She let out a quiet giggle at his comment, but was quick to muffle it before he heard it was her.

When he made it past the gold streamers that blocked the front door from the living area, everyone yelled out SURPRISE, going crazy and covering Harry with confetti. His face had pure joy, happiness and gratefulness plastered all over it, ecstatic that his friends would do something so sweet for his birthday, although he most likely already knew about the party. He glanced around the room, and almost had to do a double take when he saw his girlfriend. Y/N had told him she wouldn’t be able to make it, making him dread his birthday since he didn’t see a point in celebrating it if it wasn’t with her.

When the crowd had dispersed, Harry made his way over to her and grabbed her chin gently, tilting her face up before saying “Hey, love” and kissing her softly. He broke the kiss and pulled his girlfriend into a warm embrace. She was so glad to see him, in person, to be able to hold his hand and hug him and just be around him. In person.

They were pulled out of their moment when Harry’s friend asked if they wanted a picture, to which Y/N responded no and he responded yes.

“Don’t be shy, love,” he teased, smiling like a cheshire cat as he put her hair behind her ears. “I want to remember you being here tonight, let’s take the picture.”

It wasn’t long until it was time to cut the cake, Harry having Y/N by his side the whole night because he didn’t want to waste a minute he could spend with her. Being with him reminded Y/N why they were dating, and why she loved him. As the night went on, she felt the fight that was seemingly big feel less important, because she realised that she was making excuses as to why she couldn’t move to London with him. She was being stubborn for no reason, and she noticed that the only thing holding her back was her. Not her job, she could find a new one in London, not her family because she barely saw them anyway, not her friends because half of her friends were in London with Harry anyway. When she saw Harry walk through those streamers, it became crystal clear how silly she was being.

Harry knew what he wanted, and being with her that night just made him more sure. He decided he wasn’t going to stop fighting for his relationship with her, and if that meant he had to settle down his requests for her to move to London with him so she felt more comfortable, he would do that. Despite wanting nothing more than to live with her, to wake up every morning and see her face, to Postmate her favorite coffee every morning, to surprise her with spur-of-the-moment dates every now and then. He wanted her, and he was willing to wait if that’s what he needed to do.

After everyone sang happy birthday to him, his arm slung loosely around her, he blew out his candles.

“What did you wish for, H?”

#harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles imagines #one direction imagines

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