#and i can associate them with my own past + what they’ve done for me

[glynjohnsfurcoat]

i do think a lot of the reason i buried and rejected my love of the who is fully due to shame but we don’t have to go there let’s not even dig into that

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

After All This Time | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello! Who wants to have their feelings hurt?! 🙋🏻‍♀️ I love some good angst, some pain, some emotional turmoil. 

Warnings: relationship drama, references to violence, arguments, crying, ex!Bucky

“What are you doing here?” You stared at Bucky, shocked. Perplexed. He had no business at your apartment. Especially not so late at night. Especially not after what he’d done. The way he’d treated you. It took a long time- too long- to achieve some sense of normalcy after things fell apart. After he broke your heart. You weren’t over him; you feared you never would be. But you finally arrived at something that resembled stability. You were nearly okay- nearly.

But Bucky’s unexpected presence took you out at the knees. Was he always this beautiful? Or did you just miss him? His hair was a bit longer, his stubble a little scruffier. His deep blue eyes softened at the sight of you. No, he was always this beautiful. Dammit.

His expression was stern. Serious. Just like it had been when he left. He’d promised you he’d never come back. “Can I come in?” He was a liar, apparently.

“What? No.”

Bucky breezed past you anyway.

You crossed your arms over your chest, hiding the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra. Your arms hugged your body, crisscrossing over your old college shirt. Thank god you hadn’t opted to wear one of the many henleys he’d left behind. The humiliation of him seeing you in one of his old shirts would’ve been too much. You knew you shouldn’t wear them anymore, but you couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop yourself from cloaking your body in the comfort they provided. It was sad, maybe even a little pathetic. But you didn’t know how to stop.

“Hey- You can’t just barge into my apartment-”

“Shut the door.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “No. What do you- get out.”

Bucky closed and locked the door for you. His fingers twisted the key in the deadbolt and fastened the chain. He even pulled on the door once- then twice. It was secure. He positioned his body in front of it- either blocking your way out or someone else’s way in. You weren’t sure which.

“Go pack a bag. We’re leaving here in five minutes.” He checked his watch, “Sooner, if you can manage it.” He looked up from his wrist and finally let himself drink you in. Were you always this breathtaking? Or was he just happy to see you? Your skin glowed in the yellow light of your reading lamp. Your hair was shorter now- he liked it. Yeah, you were always this intoxicating. Bucky wondered how he could even question it.

“Are you out of your mind? We’re not going anywhere.” Anger was easier. Easier than sadness, than heartbreak. You let wrath wrap itself around your heart, shielding you from the pain. Bucky didn’t belong in your home anymore, no matter how badly you wished he did. He didn’t want to be here- he didn’t want you. He’d made that painfully clear.

And though part of you liked seeing him here, existing in the home you once shared, you knew it would only serve to hurt you. Your voice was quieter this time, less confident, “You need to leave.”

He let out a huff, as though he had the right to be annoyed with you. “Just trust me on this,”,

“Trust you? That’s hilarious-”

“You’re not safe here,” he said. His tone was firm, irrefutable. “Someone attacked Pepper and Morgan. Clint’s wife, Laura, and their kids. Murdock’s associate- that guy Nelson.”

A burst of worry shot through you, “Shit. Are they okay?”

“They’re fine. They’ve all been relocated.” He wondered how you could worry about others while bypassing any concern for yourself. But the distress on your face was real; you’d gotten close with the families of the team before Bucky left. They welcomed you like one of their own, and your care for them survived even after things with Bucky died.

“Sam is taking his sister and her kids somewhere- everyone’s moving their loved ones.”

Silence. You waited for Bucky to elaborate. He waited for you to put the pieces together.

“So… why are you here? What does any of that have to do with me?”

“Hydra. They’re coming after our lov-” Bucky cleared his throat, “the people in our lives.”

You shook your head, “Yeah, I get that. But I’m not in your life.”

Bucky knew you weren’t his anymore, but hearing you say it cut him to the bone.

The strong façade you wore threatened to crumble. This was too much for you- almost cruel. Back when things were good, they were really good. You planned on staying with Bucky forever. You saw yourself marrying him, spending the rest of your days together. He’d had other plans. He left you. And never looked back.

“I’m fine here,” you told him. “I don’t need you.”

Bucky struggled for words. This was harder than he thought. “Well… they- they don’t know that we...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Hydra, I mean, they don’t know what um, what happened. We were pretty public- they might think we’re still together. So, I need to get you to a safe house. Just in case.”

“Why?” The question hung heavy in the air.

Bucky didn’t say a word.

“Since when do you care? Don’t act like I matter to you all of a sudden- don’t pretend that you’re worried about me.” You forced every ounce of emotion behind an impenetrable wall, “leave. I’m serious, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re in danger. And I…” He ran a hand through his hair “Just come with me. Let me protect you.”

“I’m not yours to protect.” The stinging sensation of approaching tears burned behind your eyes. “So… you can go.”

Your words gutted him. He hadn’t felt this much pain since he left, since the last time he saw you. He’d left you alone in the apartment you once shared. He’d shut the door and stood on the other side, unable to walk away. His forehead rested against the wood, and he listened to you. The sound of you sobbing- wailing- drove stakes into his chest. But he knew it was better this way.

“Yeah, I know that…” he said, his voice softer now. “But your family, your friends- they’ll be devastated if something happens to you. Don’t do that to them. Come with me. And when this blows over, I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

You hated that he was right. To let your pride endanger your life was selfish, stupid. You could practically hear your mom telling you to go with him.

But there was a side of you would rather die at the hands of Hydra than share a safe house with Bucky. Sure, you missed him. A lot. You wished he’d never walked out that door. But spending days- or weeks- with him? Just the two of you? In a secluded location? It would tear you to pieces.

You grumbled under your breath, “fine. How long will we be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, then- where are we going?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. Coordinates will be sent to the jet once we board.”

“Okay, great. Perfect. I don’t know how much to pack. I don’t know what kind of clothes I need. Awesome. Thanks, James.” You turned on your heel and headed toward your bedroom, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

James. James. You’d never called him James. Ever. Not even in a joking sense. He was always Bucky or Buck or Barnes or baby- depending on the context. Never James. It was so impersonal, you regarding him by his government name. So cold. Distant. He knew he deserved it- deserved way worse. But it stung, nonetheless.

With you busy in the other room, Bucky drank in the warmth of your apartment. It was inviting, cozy. Just like always. You’d gotten a few new pieces of art since he left; they took up the spaces left empty by the photos you removed. The picture of the two of you from a Stark gala. A strip of the two of you laughing in a photo booth at the pier. A polaroid of him kissing your cheek at Sam’s birthday party. He wondered what you did with them. Did you still have them- somewhere? Did you hide them away in a dusty box under the bed he used to share with you?

Or did you burn them?

He missed living there. Missed waking up next to you, missed making dinner for you. Missed you.

“Hey, I’m sorry to call so late…” you said into your phone, cradling it between your ear and your shoulder. “I’m gonna have to work from, um- I have to leave town for a little while.”

Bucky heard you on the phone with your boss, doing your best to lie your way through the situation. But you didn’t give much detail, just like he’d taught you when you first started dating. He told you never to trust anyone fully- never to believe that someone is worthy of every secret. He’d been speaking about outsiders. But when he left, he proved to you that no one deserved your trust. Not even him.

“Yeah, just family stuff,” he heard you say. “My cousin has been sick and took a turn for the worst, so… I need to be there just in case.”

He was so proud.

You stuffed clothes into a bag and rounded up the necessary toiletries. Your laptop, headphones, and a few books made the cut, and you grabbed the bag’s zipper, prepared to give it a final yank. But as you tried to close it up, a piece of fabric caught your eye. You let out a deep sigh. You’d moved on instinct, grabbing things from your closet and dresser without thinking. And some of Bucky’s old clothes had found their way among your items.

A flannel, two henleys, and a sweatshirt sat nestled at the bottom of your bag. They were some of your favorite things to wear- soft, comfortable, cozy. But you couldn’t bring them with you. Not when there was a chance Bucky would see them. You quickly swapped them out with pieces that didn’t belong to him and thanked the universe you’d noticed before it was too late.

When you emerged moments later with duffel bag in hand, Bucky was waiting for you. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the door. Hadn’t taken off his jacket. He wasn’t welcome here anymore. And making himself at home wasn’t right.

“Uh, here’s this,” he outstretched a hand in your direction and offered you a phone. “We can’t be sure that your phone isn’t being tracked. So, you have to leave yours here. This is a burner- just for emergencies.”

You dropped your phone on the counter with a dramatic groan and took the burner from his hand. Not only were you to be trapped for an indeterminant amount of time with the man who ripped your heart out of your chest and eviscerated it in front of your eyes- but you also had to give up your phone. “This feels like a kidnapping.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He made a move for your bag, “I can take that for you-”

“I got it”.

With a nod, he opened the door and checked the hall for potential dangers. And when he deemed it safe, he gestured for you to join him. He watched you lock the door- and smiled to himself when he realized you still used the same key. You never changed the locks after he left.

“This is the most conspicuous thing I’ve ever seen…” A jet sat on the roof of your building, just a few feet from the stairwell. “If Hydra didn’t know where I was before, they definitely do now.”

Bucky gave an awkward laugh, paired with a quiet “yeah”, and tried to help you board. But you shied away from any attempts as assistance. You needed to prove to Bucky that you didn’t need him anymore- no matter how untrue it was.

The flight was awkward. Quiet. Tense. You couldn’t escape to the back of the jet and hide from Bucky- there was no ‘back’. It was a small aircraft. Only enough room for two. It forced you to sit next to him, watching clouds paint with windows with their condensation as the jet sliced through the sky.

“So…” Bucky said after a while, “how’ve you been?”

You quieted him with a look.

The answer to his question was complicated- you didn‘t have the emotional energy to explain. Diving into how angry and miserable and lonely you’d been since his departure would take hours. Maybe days. And he didn’t deserve the inside scoop. He wasn’t welcome to your secrets or the inner workings of your mind- not anymore.

“We’re here…” Bucky said, his voice pulling you from your light sleep. You didn’t realize you’d nodded off. But sleep was the only escape from the painfully awkward situation he’d put you in.

“Okay, so…” Bucky opened the door to the house and gestured for you to enter before him. Still such a gentleman. “I know this place is kinda small. But I’m gonna do my best to not be in your space.” He flipped on a few lights and bathed the house in a warm yellow light. “They promised that the kitchen is stocked. I think there’s firewood somewhere in case we get cold. And there should be clean sheets and towels and stuff in a closet somewhere. As for the, um…” He cleared his throat, “the sleeping arrangements. There’s only one bedroom, so it’s yours- I’m gonna take the couch.”

He threw his bag over the back of the couch and watched it bounce against the cushions. “Let me know if you need anything.”

What you needed, he couldn’t give you. He couldn’t go back in time and reverse the effects of breaking your heart. He couldn’t rid you of the agony brought on by his absence. And so, with a curt nod, you bid him goodnight.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time you made the bed and crawled beneath the covers. You curled into a ball and pulled the blankets up over your head, as though protecting yourself. This had to be a joke. A prank. The wound Bucky’s departure caused had barely scabbed over- and his return flayed it wide open. It throbbed and ached as you cried under the safety of your blankets. You didn’t know what you’d done in a past life to deserve hurt like this.

Bucky collapsed onto the couch. He slumped forward and rested his head in his hands, replaying every moment since you opened the door. The look on your face when you saw him again, the disdain in your voice, the distrust you held for him- it made his chest ache. He hated himself for throwing away the best thing he’d ever had. For hurting you. For breaking the trust you’d built together.

He didn’t sleep that night- the pain didn’t let him. He, instead, remained awake. Wired. He cleaned his guns. Double and triple checked his supply of ammo. He made sure every window was locked, every door secure. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.

The following day passed slowly. Bucky made enough breakfast for both of you, and kept your portion warm while he did the dishes and waited for you to wake. But you never joined him. You remained holed up in your room, miserable.

You didn’t care about Hydra; they couldn’t hurt you more than Bucky already had. Sure, they could beat you senseless and bleed you dry. They could torture you and hold you hostage. But it simply couldn’t compare. Physical injuries heal. They scab over and turn to scars. But the pain Bucky caused never ceased. The wound bled day and night. His mark on you could never be fixed.

Only when your hunger pangs grew painful did you leave the safety of your room.

“Hey, I made breakfast…” Bucky said when you finally emerged, “I tried to keep yours warm but- it’s in the fridge if you want it. I know it’s well past breakfast time and you probably don’t want cold spinach scramble and hashbrowns, but-”

He was being so nice;  he still remembered your favorite breakfast. You thought back on all the Sunday mornings you’d spent together, making breakfast and listening to music. Drinking coffee. Dancing in the kitchen until the food almost burned. But you banished the memories. And sent away the warm feelings brought on by Bucky cooking for you again.

You didn’t make eye contact, didn’t thank him. Instead, you rummaged through the cabinets until you found a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. “I’ll make something for myself,” you told him.

“Oh- okay, yeah. Knives are in the drawer to your left.” Bucky felt himself hovering. He stood across the kitchen island from you like an expectant child hoping for the approval of a stern parent. He knew he’d never get it, didn’t deserve it. But he couldn’t help himself. Being so close to you felt good. Really good. And though he’d promised he wouldn’t invade your space, he found it impossible to walk away.

You, however, couldn’t get away fast enough. You hastily made a sandwich and grabbed a glass of water before retreating to you room, safe from Bucky’s gaze. With the door shut, you allowed yourself to sink down to the floor. A gnawing sense of soul-crushing sadness eclipsed any feelings of hunger. But you forced the sandwich down anyway. You swore to yourself that everything would be okay, that you’d go home soon enough and try once again to heal.  

But you didn’t believe your own words.

Bucky hated how uncomfortable you were around him. It was his fault, and he knew it, but it made him sad all the same. At one time, he’d been the person you loved most. The person you  cared for. The one you could trust. You knew, without a doubt, that you could go to him with anything. Any problem, any worry- no matter how small. And he’d find a way to make it better. And if he couldn’t fix it, he could at least make you smile. He could bring you comfort and make you feel safe. Loved. He was the only one you wanted. The only person for you. His soul and yours were forged in the same fire- just a few decades apart.

But that fire was dead- snuffed out. And Bucky no longer held the secret key to your heart. He brought you only anguish and anxiety. Torment. Agony. And he hated himself for it.

He wondered if you’d spent all your time hiding in that bedroom. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. You weren’t happy around him like you used to be- why would you subject yourself to such unpleasant feelings unless it were absolutely necessary? He resolved to give you as much space as possible, to leave the room when you made your way to the kitchen. To not hover. Anything to make you more comfortable.

And if that meant that he didn’t get to speak to you for the remainder of your time in hiding, then so be it.

That night, however, he got to speak to you again.

He didn’t rest the night of your arrival, not even for a moment. And it finally got to him. He turned in early, falling asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. The last few embers glowed orange beneath the charred wood, but all warmth was gone. His sleeping form tossed and turned beneath a thin blanket. Droplets of sweat bloomed from his skin as heaving breaths forced their way into his chest.

A familiar sound woke you in the middle of the night. You hadn’t heard it in quite some time, but knew you’d never forget it. Bucky was having a nightmare. And before you had a moment to rethink your actions, you were up. You ditched your bedding and fled in the direction of his screams.

And he woke to the soft sound of your voice.

“Bucky, hey…” you placed your hands on his shoulders. “Hey, wake up. Bucky-”

His eyes flew open and quickly focused on your face. And though your presence brought a relief he hadn’t experienced in what felt like years, it was too late. His heart hammered against his ribs; his lungs burned. He couldn’t breathe.

“You’re okay. You’re alright. Here-” One of your hands migrated from his shoulder to his chest while the other searched for one of his. You dragged his hand upward and mirrored the placement, pressing his palm to your sternum. It was muscle memory, a deep-seeded reflex you didn’t know you still had. You used to do it every night- back when Bucky was still yours. He liked it. He said it made him feel like you were synching your heartbeat with his. And it always calmed him down.

Bucky let loose a deep sigh of relief. It seemed to come from somewhere else completely, like he’d been holding his breath since the last time he touched you. Your pulse beat strong and steady beneath his hand, thudding against his palm like his own personal metronome. And maybe it was all in his head, but he felt his own heartrate slow. He breathed easier. A smile pricked at the corners of his mouth.

But you pulled away all too soon.

Bucky sat up in pursuit of your recoiling hand, “Thank you…”

“Yeah.” You stood, hoping to make it back to your room before the tears began to fall. But Bucky’s words stopped you.

“I really- I really appreciate you waking me. And doing… that. For me.” He felt himself growing sheepish, but couldn’t let the encroaching embarrassment get the best of him. “I missed it- I missed you.”

Something in you snapped.

You turned toward him with a strange mixture of anger and pain burning behind your eyes, your breathing growing ever sharper.

“Why am I here?” Your tone was calm, measured. It was the kind of rage that turned your words to ice. To stone.

He cocked his head to the side, “um, because of Hydra. Because you’re in danger…”

“But why am I here?” You felt yourself losing control, “You heard they were going after the team’s loved ones and you thought to yourself, ‘hmm, that girl I completely destroyed, that girl whose life I ruined, that girl who I most certainly do not love, that girl I left for no reason, she’s in danger! Hydra will probably go after her, you know, since I haven’t seen her or spoken to her in almost a year!’”

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

“This makes no fucking sense, James!”

James. You’d let one or two ‘Buckys’ slip earlier- never again.

“Why did you come to my apartment? Why did you fucking kidnap me and bring me to this stupid house? Why did you put me on the same tier as Tony’s wife? As Clint’s wife? We aren’t together, I’m not in your life, and I’m certainly not a ‘loved one’- you made that painfully clear.  Why did you-”

“Because I still love you”

You rolled your tear-filled eyes, “Don’t you fucking lie to me.”

“I’m not lying…” Bucky sighed. “I swear on my life.”

An ugly scoff broke free from your throat, “I’m supposed to believe that? You once ‘swore on your life’ that you’d never hurt me. And that shit clearly wasn’t true, so-”

“I swear on Steve’s life. I swear on his grave,” Bucky’s voice wavered ever so slightly. “I still love you. I never stopped.”

It rendered you speechless.

“I never wanted to hurt you. And I didn’t want to leave. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

You stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. “You ‘didn’t know what else to do’? You left me because you ‘didn’t know what else to do’?”

Bucky shook his head. Regret pooled in his chest, and he wished to take back every stupid word. “That’s not what I meant-” he sighed. “I mean… I’m- I’m not meant for this. To be with someone. To be loved. Bad stuff- really bad stuff- follows me around. The war and the train and Hydra and Zemo and Thanos and the blip and the Flag Smashers and-”

He fought to catch his breath. “I break things. Anything I touch- it gets ruined.” He paused for a moment. Everything inside his head moved too fast. It blurred past him and fell from his lips before he had a chance to make edits. And if he was going to fix this, he needed to be in control.

“I never wanted to break you. Or put you in danger.”

“You never hurt me- physically…” you said. “You know I was never scared of you- I didn’t think I was ever in danger with you. I didn’t think you’d break me-”

“No, I know. I know.” Getting to that point had been hard for him. He shied away from you for so long, scared he’d somehow make you bleed or paint your skin with bruises. But you’d worked with him. You showed him patience and moved at his pace, working through the fear he held.

“What I mean is… I got scared because people knew about us. Our relationship was public. And I was afraid that putting you in the public eye like that would invite danger. A lot of people hate me- they want revenge. Retribution. So I thought…” he rolled his eyes at his past-self, at the version of him who let you get away. “I thought removing myself from your life would ensure your safety.” He shrugged, “no one would have reason to come after you if we weren’t together-”

“And look where we are now…” you said, “Hiding. In a safehouse. Because my life is in jeopardy.” Part of you- the soft side- wanted to show him mercy. To hold him and make him feel safe. To console him. But the side of you who wore brass knuckles and steel toed bootsa prevailed, “That was a really fucking stupid thing to do…”

Bucky gave a pained chuckle, “yeah, I- I know.” His cheeks reddened ever so slightly, and his shoulders slumped with shame. He knew he fucked up. “I’m sorry. About all of it. About leaving. About hurting you- God, I never wanted to hurt you.” The pain in his eyes could’ve made you crumble.

“And I’m sorry about putting you in harm’s way. About abducting you like this.” He took a small step in your direction; he couldn’t pretend like he wasn’t drawn to you. But he knew he had no right to exist in such close proximity to the person he hurt. And so he stopped himself, no matter how badly he wished he didn’t have to.

“But to answer your question with full honesty…” he said,  “you’re here because I love you. Because I’ll always love you. And even though you hate my guts- which you absolutely should- I care about you. And I want to keep you safe, as safe as I can. I want to protect you.” He let out a sigh, “And I know you’re not… you’re not mine to protect, but-” The words tasted like vinegar. If Bucky thought hearing them hurt, he was wrong. Saying them was far worse. “you’re here because I would rather die than let anything happen to you.”

He didn’t like the way your shoulders were yanked up near your ears, the way your arms sat crossed over your chest- like you were trying to protect yourself. But he understood. He’d hurt you- badly. Left you gutted and bleeding. He knew you’d never trust another thing he said- rightfully so.

Silent tears flowed freely down your cheeks and dripped down your neck. The weight of Bucky’s words forced you to lean against the nearest wall. Everything your friends said about him, everything your family told you- it was wrong. He wasn’t apathetic. He wasn’t inconsiderate or manipulative. He was just misguided- maybe a little stupid.

“I told myself…” you finally said, “for months, I told myself that you never loved me. That you used me to make yourself feel better.”

Bucky vehemently shook his head, “that’s not-”

“What was I supposed to do? I needed something to make me feel better…” you said. “It was easier to think that you never loved me. But you left me because you loved me? That’s- that was a terrible idea, by the way.”

“I know…”

A fresh wave of tears cascaded from your eyes and left droplets on your shirt. “I want… I want to believe you. I want to believe every nice thing you just said and pick up right where we left off. But I’m…” You pulled the sleeves of your shirt over your hands and wiped the tears from your cheeks, “I’m scared- I’m scared to trust you again. To let my guard down.”

Bucky took another small step in your direction. “That’s fine, that’s… understandable- more than understandable. Smart.”

You nodded.

“And I don’t want you to think- I’m not telling you all of this to convince you to get back together with me. Or to upset you- I never want to hurt you again. You just deserve to know the truth. So…”

He wondered how the two of you got to this point. How you went from domestic bliss to something so ugly. But he knew exactly how it happened- it was his fault. And he didn’t deserve a second chance. He deserved to be alone for the rest of his life while you moved on, found someone new- someone better. He wanted that for you. Of course, he’d rather have you all to himself. But it wasn’t right.

“It’s just- I’ve been regretting… well, everything, since the moment I left. I wish I would’ve talked to you, you know? I wish I was honest. I wish I told you what was going on inside my head.” He ran a hand through his hair, “maybe things would’ve been different.”

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear you say these things…” you said. “But now that you’re saying them it feels…” The floor rocked beneath your feet. You teetered to the side and reached for the arm of the couch- it was all too much. The lack of sleep, the emotional exhaustion, the weight of Bucky’s words. You needed to sit.

Bucky reached for you, desperate to help you steady yourself- but he pulled away. He didn’t have permission to touch you. Not anymore.

“Things absolutely would’ve been different,” you let out a deep sigh. Every possible outcome you came up with ended far better than the reality. “Because we would’ve worked through it together. As a team. And no one would’ve gotten hurt.”

All Bucky could do was nod.

“And maybe we’d still end up in this safe house, but we’d probably use it as a makeshift romantic getaway instead of an agonizingly awkward prison sentence.”

The thought brought a smile to Bucky’s face, to yours. It was easy to imagine the two of you camped out in the living room, reading by the fire and drinking old-fashioneds. You’d stay up late watching movies together and sleep until noon. And when the threat was eliminated, you’d almost wish for more danger- anything to keep the two of you in your own little world.

Everything went quiet. Neither of you knew what to say- or if there were any words appropriate for the situation. Was there even anything else to be said? Part of you wanted to retreat to your bedroom. To hide under your covers. But you wouldn’t allow yourself to squander this moment.

A sad smile pulled at your lips. “I don’t know where… where are we supposed to go from here?” You stared at Bucky as though he had all the answers, as though it wasn’t him who burned your world to the ground.

“I don’t think we have to go anywhere,” he said. “Nothing has to change between us- like I said, I’m not trying to change your opinion about me or make you feel bad. When this whole thing blows over, I’ll take you home. I’ll stay out of your hair.” He leaned against the wall opposite you, submitting to his future- and to his past, “I know I can’t change what I did.”

Another long silence filled the space. It pushed its way in between the two of you and rested heavy against your chest. Bucky waited for a curt ‘okay’ or a quick ‘goodnight’, but no such thing came.

“What if I don’t want that?” you said after a while.

He pushed away from the wall, as though your words pulled him upright. “What?”

“What if I want to try again?” Your heart thundered against your chest, growing faster and faster with each passing second.  You stood on the precipice, willing yourself to fall. This was your chance, the opportunity you’d hoped for. And though it sent fear coursing through your veins, you knew you had to jump.

“No matter how many times I tell myself that you hurt me for the fun of it or that you never actually loved me, I don’t believe it. I can’t- even if I want to…” you let out a sad laugh. “Because I know who you are- I know what we had was real. And I think- I know it’s worth trying again.”

A quick flash of pain and anxiety tore through you, hollowing your chest, “And yeah, maybe I’m stupid for being overly optimistic or letting myself be vulnerable with you. But I’m… I’m willing to risk getting hurt all over again.”

Bucky stood stone still, rooted in place. This was all he’d ever wanted. But now that he had it, he feared the thing his heart desired most. What if he fucked up again? What if he hurt you again? What if he squandered his  second chance?

“Are you…” Bucky took a deep breath, “are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Because you’re the only person I’ll ever want, Buck. Because I love you.”

Bucky never thought he’d hear those words again. And before he knew it, he was on the ground in front of you. He sunk to his knees, incapable of standing any longer. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His tears dampened your skin as he let his head fall against your thighs. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close as he possible could. He feared you’d change your mind, that you’d take back everything you said. And if you did, he at least wanted to know that he held you. That he touched you one last time.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry- you have no idea how sorry I am”, he said between sharp breaths. “I’m gonna make it up to you. I’m gonna make it all up to you, okay? I promise. I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I love you, that I’d rather die than lose you again. And I’m-”

“Okay, hey… let’s relax a bit.” You met him on the floor and pulled his head against your chest. You ran a hand along his back, soothing him. His shaky breaths were so sharp, so ragged, that they seemed almost painful. “Breathe, Buck. I love you, okay? And I know you love me- I know. You don’t have to prove it.”

Bucky tried to deliver a rebuttal, but you wouldn’t allow it.

“Hey- it’s okay. We’re okay.” You tangled your fingers in his hair, eliciting a deep sigh from his chest. “We’re both tired. And emotional. Let’s just go to sleep, okay? It’s the middle of the night- we can talk things through in the morning.” You gently pulled his head from your chest and swiped the tears from his cheeks. Touching him again, holding him, provided the salve you needed. The wound in your chest started healing. The pain ceased. And for the first time in almost a year, you felt whole.

Your hands found Bucky’s and pulled him up right. With a gentle tug, you led him in the direction of your room.

“Come on,” you said, “let’s go to bed, baby.”

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

Tag list: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality  @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy @mrsdrysdale18 @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl l @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot @duchessoftheheart @seitmai @itvy5601 @hisxsoulmate @dailyreverie  @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @masteroflightningz @evangeliamerryll  @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions​ @lokisasgardianvampirequeen​ @vrittivsanghavi @idkitsem@avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky​

[after-witch]

Okay, hold on because this?

You’re spitting nothing but facts. I’ve said this exact same thing on both of my previous blogs (not this one, not yet xmdkxkdnd) about how x reader just was not a thing in Ye Fandom of Olde. I don’t know if people really believe me or if I just sound like a hunch backed crone standing on her front porch waving her cane at the neighborhood kids, yelling at them to appreciate what they’ve got because back in my day … but it really was such an incredibly different landscape. There are certain aspects of it that I miss for sure and others I’m glad to leave in the past.

The completely random conversations between the author and the character(s) among them, GOD, the way that still activates every single one of my cringe reflexes. 😂 Actually my all time favorite fic had those for the first dozen or so chapters, but she thankfully left them in the fore and afterword, not haphazardly placed in the fic itself, so it was easy to ignore haha. I can laugh at it and maybe even look back at it fondly, but I don’t think I want that particular trend to make a comeback any time soon xmxmdnd

It’s kind of surreal in a way, finding someone who knows exactly what I’m talking about and sharing that mutual experience. I know there have to be more of us out there but I feel like a good chunk of them have probably moved on from anime fandom content so I’m very glad to have found you like this. 💕

I unfortunately got busy with one of my own projects yesterday and didn’t get a chance to read anymore of your stuff, but I’m really looking forward to diving in once I’m done. When I tell you I am 👀 eyeballing the hell out of your Sesshomaru fics cmdkxmdmd

Also, if I may ask, are you by any chance a fan of Yu Yu Hakusho? 🥹

"I don’t know if people really believe me or if I just sound like a hunch backed crone standing on her front porch waving her cane at the neighborhood kids, yelling at them to appreciate what they’ve got because back in my day … but it really was such an incredibly different landscape."

We can both be crones, in that case! But no, I completely get what you're saying. It was SO different. I am genuinely appreciative of the fact that "reader fic" is so popular and the distaste I see for it is mainly "it's clogging up the regular tags" rather than the absolute nastiness that used to be associated with any OCs or inkling of "hey I like these characters, wouldn't it be neat if they wanted me?"

OCs in general were considered taboo enough, but reader fic was just… not a "thing" back in the early 2000s, really, not in the style we know it today. When second person was used, it was usaully meant to be stylized (rather than today where the intent of second person is "reader fic," to pull the reader into the story in a different, visceral way) and second person fics would fall into the OC bucket.

Gosh on that note, I remember "Mary Sue Hunter" groups that would find any OCs on ye olde fanfiction.net and leave reviews with forms to determine how much of a "Mary Sue" someone's OC was.

If you were going to attempt an OC, it felt like you had to make them Super Super Boring and Normal and Ordinary and No Actual Characters Ever Fell in Love with Them (except maybe non-important side characters) in order to get people to leave you alone.

Not that there's anything wrong with writing characters who are ordinary but it rarely felt it was an organic decision from the authors, but rather a reflection of what was "okay" to write.

Fandom is so different now. As you said, there's some things I miss ("don't like, don't read" and "you're responsible for what you read" being the standard etiquette, for one...) but plenty that I don't, too.

Also, if I may ask, are you by any chance a fan of Yu Yu Hakusho?

Yessss. I love it. I have so many discarded OCs from my teenage years from YYH, they were all ridiculously self-indulgent ofc. I do want to at some point write a few yandere YYH characters, but I haven't gotten any inspiration for it yet.

[iihauntedmuffinii]

A Breath of Fresh Air (The Boys Fanfic)

SUMMARY

Daphne Bennett is a psychiatrist for kids in the foster system. She relies on her powers to help her clients unlock their traumas and emotions in a safe space. Unlike most superheroes, her powers come with a price. She is losing control of her body's health and mental state and sadly, her usual tricks aren't working. When the fluctuations in her powers are too painful she decides it's time to try and find a cure. A cure that she thinks resides center focus on The Seven. Through odd circumstances she is placed near the famous superhero team and their loose cannon of a leader, Homelander.

I have a Spotify playlist associated with the story, so if your interested, and don't care about chapter title spoilers I recommend checking it out.

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST:

CHAPTER TWO: Feeling Too Much

I awoke with pain throbbing in my head and my body felt like it had been beaten to a bleeding pulp. I blurrily look down at myself to see I had been dressed in a hospital gown, and the IVs were jutting out of my arms like a horror show. That was only a minor nuisance in comparison to the group of doctors looking at me through a viewing window. I jerk away from my intruders’ stares trying to pull my IVs out, only to finally notice my arms and legs were chained to the bed.

“Where am I?” I yell out trying to sound strong, but my wispy voice comes more as a strained whimper. The doctors keep jotting their notes down only inciting my ire. I scream at them as they leave the window–the only sight I can see from the outside world now. The empty dark window keeps me company as I wait in my hospitable bed for the entire night.

The interchangeable white lab coats flicker in my life for what felt like a blur. Endless and not distinguishable from day and night. The drugs that were injected into me, the endless tests that drained me to near exhaustion, and the torture to test my endurance were all done by indistinguishable white coats that drained my humanity every day.

“Where am I?” I ask one doctor another day when I'm more lucid. She does not bat an eyelash as she injects me with a green liquid substance I couldn't name. I faint, my instant reaction to the drug. I don’t know if that is what was intended when given to me.

A blur of time passes by me that I cannot decipher. The same pattern of torture continues as I succumb to the reactions of being a lab rat to these so called “doctors.” One shot of mysterious liquid had me breakout in hives and hear a murmuring buzz in my ears. A lab doctor asked me to manipulate his current mood another day. Without thinking properly on what would be the repercussions, and the drug cocktail they’ve been injecting me with everyday might have had a hand in what happened next. But maybe that was all an excuse  to lash out, I don't know.

He burst out into a fit of giggle dropping his clipboard abruptly and falling, face flat on the hard shiny floor. He wouldn’t stop laughing even as the guards dragged him off to who knew where. An inkling of guilt itched at the edge of my brain. Without enough time to think on it a nurse scurries in to quickly drug me. I don’t know if that was a blessing or not.

More days blurred past and more tests were given to me. It felt like my life was someone else's and this current existence was all I knew. Tests were given sporadically to me throughout my time in this zombie-like state. I manipulated emotions, thoughts, and memories. The more they make me experiment on people the more I fear my own powers. My parents’ faint whispers of worry have morphed into disdain and judgment in my mind. Throughout it all I did not ponder enough on who was holding me captive in the first place. Which, thinking like a normal functioning human you would presume I would have. But, on a more coherent night I finally gained enough to think on it. Having that in mind my curiosity and pain fuels me to take my life back. To come up with an escape plan.

So, I decided to fight by measuring the time I was the least loopy and then I would strike. They were giving me drugs between night and morning, and I struck at the brisk hour that was 4am. When the first doctor appears that morning to give me my breakfast of a drug cocktail. All different from the last. The first scientist to go down convulses on the floor in uncontrollable sobs, the sobs echoing into the halls. They did not relent until I forced every single person who entered the room to shake into sobs so hard they were coughing up blood. I would not stop until someone took me seriously or no one was left to stop me from leaving.

“I will speak to whoever has me captive here and bargain for my freedom.” I dryly rasp out looking directly at the camera in the corner. The doctors’ sobs echo in my bare bones of a hospital room, a concert of human pained echoed everywhere around me. It made my stomach twist painfully into knots, but I held my glare on the camera. Determined to not show them any weakness.

“Let my doctors go and I will speak with you about your…predicament.” A dry, serious voice I could not recognize comes through the speakers. I let the scientists go all at once, staggering slightly from the over usage of my powers.

“You have five minutes before I mind control someone you love to murder you.” I bluff, not caring if I sounded heartless, as long as I sounded believable.

A few minutes of silence later; a tall lanky black man in an impeccable pinstriped gray suit gracefully strolls into the bare white room. The convulsing doctors writhing on the floor sobbing in pain seemed to not phase him a bit. His piercing eyes pinning me down like a creepy portrait in those mystery novels. I gulp loudly, nervously moving back and forth, not taking my eyes off the unknown enemy. But recognition came suddenly and with abandon.

“Wait, your Stan Edgar. The Stan Edgar, Ceo of Vought Co!” I exclaim loudly, confusion laces in my voice and expression.

“Your family is being closely monitored at this very moment, Miss Bennett. So, I would be careful with whom you threaten your powers with, as I have much bigger fish than you to worry about.” He does not beat around the bush. My face freezes with surprise before I glare at him, not holding back my disdain. He looks cool as a cucumber. The rumors about him seem to be true.

“What you don’t understand is that I can make you kill yourself at any moment if you don’t do what I say.” I threaten harshly, not recognizing myself in those my words.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I have stated before; I have your family and friends in the palm of my hands. They will be killed if you do something to me, you understand?” He states giving me no real room to bargain anything. He thinks I’m no monster.

“O-okay, don’t hurt them. How about this, I will do something for you anytime, anywhere. Just let me go.” I could feel his cold stare travel across my body judging every movement I made like a puzzle trying to fit all the pieces together.

“No, you have much more potential than that deal grants. What I have decided is that you will be my guard dog.”

“Guard dog?”

“Publicly, you will be The Seven’s super therapist. But to Vought you will be the leash that tethers all these heroes’ sanity back to the company, and reminding them of their best interests.” He stated, not batting a single eyelash. He was stiff as a board not moving an inch and his hard cobalt stare did not deter anytime he spoke. This was no bluff.

“In my contract I want, with my compliance, to be written as a requirement that my family and friends will be unharmed." I firmly state trying to hide my trembling hands behind my back.

“You will be given a contract with those stipulations included; first, you will get cleaned up before coming upstairs to sign.” He leaves with a quick turn, turning his back to me as if there still wasn’t a sobbing doctor laying in the corner of the room. How exactly do I get ‘cleaned up’ in this rotten white empty space of a torture chamber? With that thought a dozen more doctors in white lab coats surrounded me all coming in with an assortment of different weapons pointed towards me.

“We will escort you to the bathroom, miss.” One of a dozen told me, but for the life of me I could not figure out who said it.

I haven’t seen a bathroom for what felt like years, finally I can clean myself like an actual human being. No more bedpan and no more whore baths. I was pushed out of my white jail cell and forced to twist around a bunch of white halls that purposely disoriented the senses. No specific person from what I could tell was directing me. We passed so many white doors before one of the doctors forced me to a stop with a shove. I hurriedly bask in the cleaning process, first throwing myself into the cold little shower.

They all stood outside, waiting with bated breath for the end of it. Cleaning my body and hair for what felt like the first time in months I rejoiced, taking my sweet time. I got out after my fingers began to turn pruny. Getting out I see they left me with my old white blouse that had blood on it and my pencil skirt that looked torn on the sink’s countertop. I guess it was better than a hospital gown. I braided my hair to get it out of the way, but the cold damp wet strands laying on the nape of my neck only chilled me further.

The army of white lab coats swarmed me, pushing me towards our destination. I didn’t brace myself for their rough handling of my person as they dragged me to an elevator. I continued forward in a blur not feeling in control of my body. As if I was disassociating, something I've never experienced before.

The halls were large and I'd even call it ostentatious were it not for some of the more elegant choices in the furniture. The large wooden door, the only one to be on this floor it seems, was opened for me by a petite woman that wore a similar outfit to myself, only obviously clean and polished. The doctors left one by one like ant armies marching off in a uniform line to their queen. I gulped loudly, my dry throat feeling even drier as I was left alone with one of the most important men in the world.

“Come in, Ms. Bennett.” A simple welcome never made my heart stop before, and without my powers I would be able to presume this dangerous man is used to affecting people this way. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. I try to casually sit with some grace, with as much grace anyone could when you previously threatened their loved ones. Stan Edgar smiled at me as if he didn’t just threaten my loved ones as well. I stumble slightly as I sit center on the velvet blue loveseat across his desk.

“Now that you're fit for the company we can discuss our negotiations further.”

“Negotiations? This would be a negotiation if I wasn’t being held hostage.”

“I digress, because of your current predicament I hold most, if not all the power in this dynamic. You should know this by now. So, here is your contract and you have not much more say in the matter.”

“Bullying me into submitting? Probably has worked for you from the beginning of your career, but I’m no victim.”

“But your family, friends, and precious reputation as a reputable therapist is at jeopardy here, Miss Bennett.”

“Well, I see these so-called “negotiations” are over. I will sign but the contract must include my end of the bargain. I will not cooperate further if this is not agreed upon.”

“Of course, read your contract thoroughly and you will see this is included.” I glare daggers at him as I try to decipher his emotions and thoughts. His aura did not show itself nor did any of his emotions, and pushing any further was out of the question. He was not an easy person to read.

"I don't have much of a choice." I spit out.

“Everyone has a choice.” He smiles down at me smugly. I bite my tongue from insulting the man as I sign my name away to a corporation that could destroy me and everything I love. Without further fanfare he called his secretary in  to walk me out.

“Wait, before I go you have to tell me how long I’ve been here?” I asked before the secretary could shove me out, and she looked like she really wanted to.

“A week and three days.” I freeze in place as my thoughts scramble all over the place, reacting like an old broken computer. Error. Error. Before I could ask more the assistant pushed me out of Mr. Edgar’s office.

I enter the fancy elevator feeling numb from head to toe. The ice queen of an assistant was still as a statue beside me, not giving me a glance. If I couldn’t sense her trepidation like a thick fog I would think she was a robot. The aftertaste of lukewarm tap water bubbled up my throat, an annoying reminder of my powers. The drugs have kept my powers from me for so long, it's actually kinda nice to feel like myself again. Wanting to mute and control my powers didn’t equate to me wanting to be in a constant state of fogginess. So, the experience did help me realize one thing; having my powers was a better option than becoming a zombie.

I make this realization as the secretary with no name or introductions walks me out into the lobby. People are everywhere and my senses go haywire. I push myself to gain control and use my standard methods. I stand still completely and begin my breathing exercises. The secretary’s pointy hands dig into my shoulders to get my attention, but I ignore it.

I look up suddenly to a confident Homelander marching towards me with a graceful strut. The presence of his chaotic and tumultuous energy thrums loudly in my ears like a drum with an odd beat. A rhythm I can’t seem to get out of my head. I try to suppress the feeling as I step behind the ice statue that is Stan Edgar’s assistant.

“And what do we have here in our midst?” Homelander’s voice booms across the lobby, presenting himself as playful. His act didn’t feel genuine in the slightest. Those crystal blue eyes crinkled in a way that only further showcased his charming dimples, which all his posters displayed proudly. The uncanniness of it made goosebumps run down my arms and the hair on my neck stand straight up. The chill that ran down my spine did not evade his sharp eyes, and his glaringly white smile grew even wider and more sharp with the long pause of silence that settled between us. “Running away without my permission?” His sudden question within our mutual silence made me flinch back, his amusement only grew more apparent on his face. The assistant interrupted our odd battle of wills, our coup d'etat, if you had to surmise.

“Under Sir Edgar’s direct orders Mrs. Bennett will be escorted out to get her bearings straight, and will return not too long after.” The ice in her tone did not go unnoticed between either one of us. Homelander glared daggers at the petite blonde as she pushed me gently towards the exit. “I will be seeing you early in the morning, won’t I Ms. Bennett?” Her smile is sharp as it is bright.

“Of course Ms…?”

“Good.” She does a quick turn back from where we came from, Edgar’s office, without another word. I quickly turn all of my hyper focus onto Homelander, his body language screams immediate discomfort and annoyance, obvious in the way his body holds himself tight and upright. He noticed my prolonged stare and this seemed to push his edgy and defensive feelings into my brain harder. His discomfort made me want to scratch my tongue off. What I need to focus on is bringing him to my side--not his mood swings, which includes all the other supes I interact with from here on. I can’t have these superheroes see me as anything other than helpful–if an annoying–option to  destress in a healthy way. If that was even possible for some of these people. I can’t be their enemy, cause if I am that means I’m as good as dead. Including the possibility of them targeting my family.

“So, you already have Edgar under your thumb, don’t you?” He gets into my personal space, no one looks my way to see my obvious discomfort nor his threatening tone. A work environment used to abuse if I ever did see one.

“Mr. Edgar has hired me under extreme circumstances, from what you can already guess. I think you will eventually see this as a benefit to The Seven, Sir, if I do say so myself.” I gently try to say without irritating him further. He growls under his breath as his eyebrows scrunch further up creating an extremely fierce scowl that would haunt my dreams.

“To the benefit of Stan Edgar more like. Stealing our secrets in the disguise of “self-help,” makes me want to vomit.” His burning whisper of threat chillingly crawls down my spine and takes hold of my heart, and it won't stop aggressively beating. I know he can hear every quickening thump in my chest, but I can't look away from his cold stare. He wouldn't look away, and in my stubborn childishness I didn't look away either. Trying miserably to calm myself down--as if to win some sort of competition between us, but I don't know when it became this way. I could just decipher a hint of something other than bravado and cold hate from Homelander, something that tasted like yearning.

“You may not like that I invaded your headspace–and by accident might I add–but I saw that you needed my help. And probably everyone else on this superhero team does too, and I don’t think anyone, like your fanbase, would be mad publicly knowing that. It could even help grow your personal outlooks on certain situations–” Homelander cuts me off with a firm hand abruptly thrust near my face, palm open. A strike if just a few inches closer.

“Thank you Ms. Walt-fucking-Disney I really needed a pep talk about how much I fucking needed therapy. Thank you, you’ve won best therapist of the year award! Do you want to know what you’ve won?”

“I understand it will be hard to earn your trust after the way we first met, but I promise I take my job very seriously.” I try to put all my sincerity in my voice as I could.

“You’ve won my ‘Me Not Giving a Shit Award,’ Ms. Bennett.” He pushes his face close in my space looking me straight in the eyes. Him hunched over me with his large body was a threat between the two of us, unsaid but heard.

“I’m sorry Mr. Homelander for invading your personal space without your consent and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I will work hard in helping you and your team to redeem myself in your eyes.” I bow my head looking back up to see if there was any hint of approval beneath his icy blue stare. They only reflect back an empty coolness I could not quite decipher, but it tasted bitter.

“We will see how long you will last.” He huffs, a snort of derision blowing heatedly in my face as if he was some kind of bull.

“Homelander!” Queen Maeve appears at his side out of nowhere. Not even a hint of her usual stormy aurora gave away her presence, only making me nervously pick at my nails not knowing what to do with my hands. “We have to get to the shoot for the Saving America campaign at 10, or did you forget?” She drapes her arm across his shoulders, seeming to get a thrill of adrenaline from irritating Homelander. Her closeness was causing a storminess to take over his thoughts, or maybe it was from interrupting his line of questioning. Either way I was thankful for the distraction.

“I know Maeve. I’ll be there in a bit, I have more to discuss with our newly appointed “therapist.”

“What? Therapist?” Maeve asked out loud, confusion written all over her face. Homelander’s glare was intense and seemed to emanate heat. With that intense stare down Maeve turns away with a shrug and leaves me to my demise. Who knew Queen Maeve, known for her helpfulness and bravery, wasn’t so helpful. Probably all marketing.

“Now, when we come back from set I want you back in this building so we can discuss this whole therapy session thing. If you're not back here by the time my shoot is over I will find you...” He trails off as his eyes flicker about watching his surroundings. The sweet spicy taste of excitement tingled on my tongue, his thrill by his demands given to me gave him a sense of dark pleasure. The thought and feeling made me freeze in place like a rabbit caught in a trap, right before its unwitting end. I won’t bend to it, I already have to bend for Stan Edgar, I’m not bending for Homelander too.

“I have an official document given to me by your boss himself. I will be returning tomorrow early in the morning to be briefed for the public and the team, no earlier no later. Ergo, my contract does not include bowing to the whims of any superhero, that includes you.”

“It’s in the smallprint, you just gotta read between the lines Ms. Bennett. Be here or I will find you, got it?” He threatened with his usual charming voice. I could hear the charm being replicated dozens of times in his commercials, usually selling something sugary, unhealthy, and overpriced.

“It’s not in my contract.” I weakly state unknowingly, shaking my head defending my stance, my bouncy golden curls finally dry enough to spring hitting my cheeks without realizing it. His smirk just grows aggressively wider, taunting me with his too sharp canines.

“I guess we will see.” With that he turns away with a dramatic twist in his cape, making me think he so with such flare on purpose. Prone to dramatics then. Meaning if I didn’t show up he may be making good on what he promised, in a dramatic fashion, might I add.

Something to worry about, but before I fret over that I need to try and contact my family...No matter how life threatening it seemed to be I needed to reassure them that I was alright. The lobby was silent, a rush hour dispersed including the heroes themselves. I finally had the energy to leave the extravagant lobby in my well worn and now shoddy clothes. Stumbling out into the city feeling like a stranger in a place I once called home.

I hold my bag’s leather straps in a tight white knuckle grip, and my heart sped up to a degree I couldn’t control. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air, as if I was drowning in a sea of people. The pushing crowd threw me around as I stumbled across sidewalks and store fronts. I trip near a wooden and well worn bench in middle of a busy sidewalk, finally forcing myself to sit. Looking back and forth I find myself far away from the Vought headquarters, at least far enough away for me to not see any visual signs of them.

I force my shoulders to relax and force my breathing to a slow, normal pace. I decide, finally, to look through my non-expensive leather bag. There all of my things lay as if I wasn’t kidnapped not just a minute ago, nothing different to showcase what I went through. I look through each of my inner pockets to find my slick new phone intact with its cute blue glittery case sparkling innocently back at me.

I see over a hundred messages and voicemail notifications on my phone’s home page pop up with a blearing light. The most coming from my parents, Olivia, and my workplace. I start with the most recent voicemail from my mom’s cell phone, my hands start to shake with anticipation.

“Hey, honey I wish you got back to us instead of your new employer THE STAN EDGAR, CEO for The Vought Corporations. The company that establishes super heroes, honey! You know that you can’t be involved in that community, for your own sake. They are dangerous and your powers cannot be used for their gain. Mr. Edgar called us personally to tell us of your new “employment.” That this radio silence is because of an extreme vetting practice that Vought is widely known for. Mr. Edgar even enthused about how valuable you would be as superhero therapist for The Seven. As I’ve surmised, this situation you're in is not an easy trap to escape. But sweety, please come back home and we can escape town together. We know people, okay we can figure it out! You don’t have to do what they’re saying because they have big fancy lawyers, okay? Honey, I don’t want you mixed up in that…” Mom’s voice quivered and stuttered out before continuing. “Please call me back once you can. Love you.” She finishes not mentioning anything about Dad, and that only made me worry more. I move on to Olivia’s most recent message trying not to dwell on my mom’s fear filled voicemail.

“I know I got you those tickets, Daph; I saw you faint in the middle of idle! You’re lucky you scared me only half to death with worry. I was just glad I was contacted by Vought. You getting this job is a huge win for you, even if you have to deal with that superhero nonsense, it'll be worth the paycheck. Call me when you're done with your “super serious company vetting.” Love you, bye!” Olivia’s chirpy voice coming through the speaker gave me an instant dose of calmness. The millions of texts spanning the timeframe of me disappearing to the Morning Cup of Joey showing gave me an example of their wide range of emotions that Olivia and my parents went through. The amount of texts in my phone were more than I’ve ever had before, makes sense, with the doom of it all. I’m glad that at least's Vought’s excuses of “extreme vetting” helped calm them down. And apparently a personal call from the Stan Edgar was good as gold, the bastard.

“Hello, Dr. Bennett, we are glad to hear about your recent successful career promotion in your field. We are sad to see you leave but are happy for you and your future. Your severance and insurance package will be sent to you in the mail. Your families have been assigned another therapist and have been given notice since your sudden departure. We are sorry again to see you leave but happy to see you thrive, good day Dr. Bennett.” The sweet as syrup voice rang from the phone with a bland tone only an A.I. could replicate. I realize it's my assistant’s nasally voice Ms. Sydney Regis’s. I stuff my phone back in my bag glad to never hear that lady’s voice again, trying to look on the positive side of things.

To look on the positive side of things after being held against my will for over a week, to be forcibly removed from a job I loved, and be anxious for the safety of my family and friends at all times cause now I’m the therapist of a bunch of superhero brats! But I’m going to try and stay positive. Cause that’s what a Bennett does, stay positive while in the middle of a shitstorm. That’s what my father always said, so I’m going to do that, things could always get worse.

“Honey, I’m so glad you called. I was worried sick for you! Tell me everything and please honey for god’s sake tell me the truth.”

“Hey mom.” Is the only thing I can think to say, just happy to know she’s okay

“Gosh, it is so good to hear your voice. Mr. Edgar’s call was enough to tell us you are in deep doo-doo, sweety. I mean so deep that we might have to dig you up and scram out of here, if you get what I’m saying?” She not so subtly implies over the phone and silence held between us for just a moment. I can’t help but roll my eyes and give a deep sigh, this was no school board she could talk her way out of. I can’t let them get into the middle of this because of me and my problems. My powers and actions are already targeting them. I can’t have it get any worse for them.

“No, mom. I-I am doing great…the job offer they gave is generous. So generous I couldn’t pass up the job right then and there. So, everything is...great.”

“Honey, I know when you're lying to me. Even on the phone.”

“I’m excited to be a part of this public campaign for promoting therapy and making it more acceptable for people to pursue. I will not only be helping The Seven but also people all around the world.” I say with as much passion as I possibly can out of my already drained being.

“Just promise us to make time for family once in a while, okay?” I can hear in her voice a sense of resignation.

“I promise.”

“Oh, and your dad wanted to say hi,” She chirps before I can threaten to hang up. I can't help but lovingly roll my eyes at their usual routine. I focus on the receiver as I hear my father’s voice grumble what I barely decipher as a hello. “Okay honey. Just remember we're always here for you. Love you.” The receiver dies and the call ends with a final note that makes my heart skip. I hope I keep my promise to see them soon. Before second guessing myself I call Olivia next.

“Oh my god how are you doing Daph? Are you okay? Say something only I would be able to decipher as SOS?” The last bit sounded like a joke but I couldn’t help but latch onto that thought, but not even strong Olivia can fight against Vought.

“I’m just tired from all of the conferences I’ve been through. They make every new Vought employee jump through a million hoops. I guess that’s why we get paid the big bucks.” I fake a happy voice, sounding too cheery and high pitched in my ears, but I hope nonetheless that she goes along with it.

“Wow, I’m so happy for you Daph! A dream job falling right into your lap after such a dramatic exit with Homelander. It’s gotta be one of the most interesting job interviews ever! Have you talked to any of them? Are they all like how they are on TV?”

“I haven’t really talked to any of them yet. I also can’t really discuss any of them anymore because now they're my clients.” I awkwardly remind her of that bit about my job.

“Ugh, somehow Daph you always take the fun out of any situation you're in. I swear I’m glad something interesting is finally happening to you to spice up your life.” If only she knew how much my life took a nosedive.

“Uh, yeah I definitely needed a change in routine.” Just not this type of change.

“Yeah, I’m happy for you. And since I got you this job through my amazing connections, you owe me a lunch date. Since you can afford it now, big boss lady, you can pay for the fancy dinner!”

“Alright it's a date, how does Friday night sound?”

“Perfect, 8:30 and I will send you the google map location. I have better taste than you when it comes to dining out, so my pick.” She huffs that last bit. I swear I could hear her hair flip through the phone.

“I don’t mind. I’ll call you later when I’m more settled into my new job.”

“That better be soon.” She demanded.

“Promise. Bye!” I hang up before she can get me to break down and spill all my feelings at her. I sigh through my nose in a very unattractive huff before I force myself to stand up straight, wobbly more like–but firm against the crowd of rushing people; and decide finally to leave the solace that was that bench. Getting up and walking across the busy streets; I blurrily walk all the way to my dingy apartments.

As I walk up the gray stair in my stale surroundings I can’t help but start to break down. I very quickly fixate on my current life threatening predicament. Not my future threat, no, no, my current threat. Which is the, motherfucking Homelander, superhero to all of America! I weakly open my apartment door only to see an even worse disaster at my feet. A complete mess. Precious photos strewn throughout my apartment were shattered on the floor, but not unsaveable. All of my furniture collected with devotion throughout the years were broken and thrown across the open floor plan. All of my flowers and plants strung across the ceiling with fairy lights were thrown all over the floor with no care.

My absence was noted in my neighborhood, obviously. Looking around I could see my door was bashed into and my lock decimated. I don’t know how I didn’t notice that sooner! Some things were missing from my apartment, but most of it was completely trashed. I guess it wouldn’t be a usual break-in without a few missing heirlooms, right? Luckily I kept all my prized family heirlooms in a safety deposit box linked to my family's bank. A few pieces of art were missing including my TV and BlueTooth Bose Radio, luckily I had my laptop on me when I got kidnapped. I’m still trying to look on the positive side here, somehow.

I start cleaning up the debris one piece of ruined wood at a time, trying not to ponder on the unique pieces of furniture lost forever. Because if I do I think I will start to cry, but I won't. I will not be beaten by this, and I still need to be on my A-Game from now on. Knowing this is going to be a big endeavor in cleaning up, I decide to turn on my laptop, laying nice and snug in my leather purse. I place it on the end of my bed–one of the only pieces of furniture that wasn’t broken, and keep my attention to the screen as I start to clean. I put on the news randomly, not thinking too hard about it.

“A Recent news report has broken out about our newest member in the Seven, and for the first time in history, revealed through an Instagram live! Our new member is none other than Stormfront herself. For the first time ever the team will have an equal number of men and women. Today is a great day for womankind." The cut quickly goes into an edit of a cute spunky woman with a short brown bob gloating over none other than Homelander himself. The background seemed to be at a working set from the brief angle I can see in the Instagram Live.

“Hi. I'm in The Seven. Replacing Translucent. God bless his soul. Ink's barely dry but, yeah, reporting for duty. f*ck, yeah!” The chirpy voice of Stormfront casually reveals this sensitive info to Homelander and Queen Maeve. Queen’s Maeve’s mouth dropped, not able to form a response.

“No, I don't think that this is... It's not true. I don't know anything about this.” The red head I briefly saw yelling at the receptionist what felt like years ago stammered out. She reached her shaky hands out as if to shield Homelander from the information. His facial expression was obvious to everyone, including Stormfront. He looked like he could burst from the seams and split into a million pieces. A sharp smile and dead stare gave all who were viewing it a good idea that he wasn’t happy. Including her Livestream’s chat.

“Wow. Well, Stormfront? Who delivered the good news?” He grinded his jaw as he delivered that question, masking it with a painful looking grin.

“Oh, uh... Mr. Edgar, the big guy?” She holds the camera on his face, knowing a reaction was brewing underneath the surface. Stormfront wanted to rile him up for some reason and I couldn’t fathom why.

“Wonderful. Great. All right!” He turns around abruptly, walking away. “Great!” He shouts back out one more time as if trying to console himself.

Stormfront points the camera back at herself, a smug turn of her lip and the pleasure twinkling in her eyes told me enough. She was a troublemaker. Trouble for me if that was the end of his shoot and expecting me to deal with his tornado of feelings. Or worse, threaten my family and friends because he couldn’t trust me and wasn’t willing to listen.

“Well, I think this is going great.” She chuckles lightly before the feed ends and the news hosts are back on screen.

“Announced just this afternoon, isn’t that exciting Matthew?”

“I know I’m excited Diane.”

I tune out the news hosts and start gathering all my collected garbage to be thrown out through the trash chute, and for some of the bigger boxes I throw them out back in the sketchy alley. I do all of this in pilot-mode. I have no fucking idea how I’m going to win over a super hero who has plenty of reasons to make my situation worse. After that reveal on Stormfront’s Instagram Live he is now more angry than where he left me. His anger is violent and a visual red cloud resided above the surface and fogged his thoughts, and I know I can't read his mind but there is a brokenness to it that most individuals didn’t have. An imprint of pain that even someone as weak as me can see.

I stop dead in my tracks, standing alone in the dark scary alley a brilliant idea bursts from within me. A miracle of an idea that might save me if I act on it fast enough. I saw into his mind so I have an edge over him and he may want to get rid of me because of that, but that’s also to my advantage. I saw a brief snippet of memories between him and Ms. Stillwell. At the time I chose to try and ignore everything that spewed forth from his mind as I blurrily traveled through his mindscape, but some of it leaked through my well trained mental walls.

The conglomeration of his memories that stemmed from Madelyn Stillwell’s presence in his life, the root issue I barely touched on in his mind, was blurrily still stuck in the back of my head. The memory of him stealing her breast milk out of her fridge was one of the first that I found looking deeper in my head. One image of him arguing with her about not being true to himself and being forced to spew out lies about his past. More images blurrily come to me giving me a migraine that had me physically shaking. Consciously unaware my eyes were rolled over and my nose was bleeding as I writhed violently on the dirty alley floor. Just away from sight from the everyday person passing by, behind the dumpster just a few feet away from my apartment. A horrible memory vividly took over my mind like a tidal wave I’ve never experienced before.

Homelander pondered a baseball in his hands before throwing it so far he could not possibly fathom the consequences of how fast and far the ball is going. Watching it fade in the distance Madelyn as always walks onto the scene thinking she can fix everything. Or so he's always experienced.

“That is gonna kill somebody when it lands in Boston.” Madelyn steps up into the barn entrance taking her jacket off casually. As if this was a casual conversation with him.

“Look, I heard what happened. I am so, so sorry.” She quickly stepped closer to him, touching his arm. He turns away taking a few steps to distance himself away from her.

“What kind of place did you grow up in?” He asked, stone faced.

“Well, I moved around a lot, so, uh, it was a bunch of condos.” She huffed, putting her hands on her hips, seeming to steel herself for what he was about to say. He slowly walks back beside her decidedly staring at the beautiful field beyond them.

“So, what if I took you to a house you'd never seen before, full of photos of parents you never met, toys you never played with, Hardy Boy books that you never read? And then I asked you how much all that fake fսcking bullshit meant to you? How would that make you feel?” At that last question he finally looks back at her, and not to her surprise the stare is full of bitter resentment. Cold and unabashed in his cruelety.

“I wouldn't like that.” Without any prompting Madelyn stands closer beside him, shoulder to shoulder. She reaches out once more and takes his arm in both her hands. “I'm really sorry about the blanket. It never should have been there, and Randy Set-Dec has already been terminated. But right now... we need to finish that tour and to show how down-to-earth and ready to serve you are. And I need you to tell the mother story. Please.” She places her head on his chest invading his personal space as well as using her body to tempt him with the right answer. An obvious move Homelander understands, but can’t seem to shake anyway. “Please do it for me.” She begs and slowly starts to rub his crotch back and forth. He takes one weak exhale; that was that.

“It was actually my mom who dragged me along to my first Little League practice, and, uh, pretty soon after that, I-I just loved the game more than anything else in the world. So every year she would bake me a birthday cake in the shape of a baseball diamond. And... oh, I got to tell you, it was perfect. Perfect. Everything, down to the last minute details. Just like her.” He was standing what felt awkward to him, but on camera it made him look authentic. At least that’s what the director said before the end of the shoot.

“Cut. Perfect. So great.”

“So we're done?” He’s asked tight jawed with piercing eyes that seemed to communicate a yearning to murder.

“Uh, yes.”

“Great.” He says with a grimace, walking away from the others trying to get some space away from the crew’s prying eyes. A moment away to recuperate and hopefully through the utmost effort be truly appreciated by Madelyn for once. Anger just rising above the surface he walks across the beautiful fake porch of his fake childhood home to cool off, and he sees something in the corner of his eyes.

There is a bin to the side of the house with a bunch of other props, and there was his blanket. The thing that started it all. He instinctively, without realizing it, reaches his hand out towards the insipid object. Slowly unwrapping the blanket with meticulous precision a memory that he held back for years came to the surface.

He was stuck back in that awful room. Isolated in that bare white empty space with only this blanket and a human shaped target to keep him company. Mr.Vogelbaum would visit, sometimes with another scientist, and sometimes without–to play peekaboo with him.

He’d use this very blanket to play with them. The only hint of warmth he would receive, well other than his female handlers. But that was not something he wanted to reminisce on, nor does he want to remember that room or his blanket. Homelander, no John at the time loved Vogelbaum like a father, but he was no father. He would make Madelyn repay him for doing this commercial, that’s for sure. Homelander’s memories start to fade away as I come back to reality on the dirty alley floor. I feel empty and alone trying to recover my muscle spasms, pain in places I’ve never experienced before. Including my bitten tongue that was bleeding profusely. My mouth tasted of my own blood and I wobbly turned my body over so as not to choke, before puking all over the alley. The putrid puke lay steaming in the alley way just nearby my discarded and broken furniture.

A few tears fall down my face before I clumsily try to wipe them away, forcing myself to stop crying. Stop thinking.

Homelander’s memories still swirl around my brain like a chaotic blender, with no buttons to press to make it stop. They are dark and are filled with hate that my body shakes with my own resigning anger. As if I could start throwing things at anyone who even took one weird look at me. This anger and bitterness tasted cold and hot as if burning coals were shoved down my throat. A form of torture that could not be described made me wither and shake in pain. I get up wobbly and lean against the grimy garbage bin just to stay on my feet.

I’ve never experienced such a vivid vision of another’s memories before. Just like I can’t really read people’s thoughts, only an impression of what they're thinking. I can’t really see people’s memories, well not until now. This has never happened before, well until my power’s rapid increase in fluctuations and my bump in with the Seven. Or at least two of the seven. The threat of being The Seven’s therapist not only comes with the disadvantage of dealing with super powered people with emotional problems, but also the effect of it. These super powered people with personal issues has the powers to make my life a living hell--my family and friend's lives a living hell, and I couldn't bare the thought of that happening at all!

That decision made and promised to myself in the dark alley on a nice summer evening I stumbled back in my creaky gray apartment building and back up to my floor. Where my broken and trashed apartment lay clean clothes and soap. Looking at the time on my broken Victorian clock I see it's already 5pm and my heart stops. Homelander is possibly already back at Vought hunting me down.

I don’t know if the hunt would entail him firing me, hurting me, or my family and covering it up by Vought. Stan Edgar was the master of the operation, but from my memories and impressions I have of the situation, Homelander is my shock-collar. He may also be the reason why I have this and put in this circumstance, for all I know! It didn’t matter in the end, because my family and friends were at risk of a superpower corporation willing to do anything to get what they want. I am not going to get crushed under them like a bug.

I run to my bathroom’s medicine cabinet and take some meds for my powers, not dampening completely like the drugs did in the Vought Labs, but kept me from feeling unhinged when without them. The meds that’s helped me survive in the modern world and will help me out in dealing with Homelander too. I quickly spruce myself up longingly looking at the shower before deciding to ignore it. I don’t have enough time so I for-go what I want and quickly put on a pencil skirt and blouse. I grab my bag and phone before locking my doors and rushing out, more like limping out, but I was trying my best.

I get a cab and get to Vought in record time running through a still busy lobby. The young receptionist was watching videos on her phone of the hero Stormfront from what it looked like, ignoring the people walking by.

“Um, excuse me?”

“Yes?” She takes one dismissive glance at me before continuing to watch Stormfront on her phone.

“My name is Daphne Bennett. I’m the therapist assigned to The Seven and I wanted to know where my office was placed?”

“Sign in here and I was told by Donna you wouldn’t be needing that space till tomorrow?” She watches videos while talking to me and handing me a clipboard to sign-in, seeming to not need an actual answer to her question. She chews her gum obnoxiously as she does this all and gives me a tiny note that shows my office number and floor level as I give her back the clipboard.

“Thanks, Ms?” She ignores my attempt for a name and continues to watch her videos. I sigh before I trudge inside the elevator. Looking back at the small paper I realize something that makes me freeze in place. That the number written down was the same as the level famously known around the world to be where the Seven’s meeting room lies. Great, immediate access to their emotional chew toy, that’s me! That was a harsh thought and I try to compartmentalize that to deal with later.

I reach the top floor and begin my journey down the intimidating halls. The paintings depicting the heroes are dramatic and looked like they were hand painted by a master oil painter. The busts sculpted for each of the seven were so life-like their pores were visible on the surface of the marble. Nothing was left not wanting, so to speak, when it came to decor. I always preferred a little more nuance but I still appreciated the work that was put into it. Even if it is a bit ostentatious.

I walk into my new office–my name on a plaque of this large door and the wooden ornate furniture makes my heart sing, it almost makes up for my trashed apartment I walked into earlier. I take out my grandmother’s tin full of cookies I made before I was kidnapped, just a tad stale. But I preheated them in the oven before rushing off, and not forgetting my milk and cream. I set up my few pieces of china I still had left in my home and filled the cup half with milk and cream. Sadly, there was no place to heat it up unlike my old office.

A let down for sure. I place the warm cookies on my china platter as well as placing the cup of milk to where Homelander would be facing my desk. The scene set up hopefully for him to willingly accept my help and my apology. The more memories that surface from our shared connection makes me think he is not as forgiving as the media portrays him. My mother’s scared voice on the voicemail rings back in my head, a chilling warning.

I cough uncontrollably, grabbing my father’s old handkerchief from my purse. Blood drops stain the eggshell colored cloth, something hard to clean out. I dazedly place it back in my purse out of view, wiping my mouth and hiding any evidence. Just as I shoved my purse under my large wooden desk a woosh sound and breeze brushed past my back.

“I’m surprised you didn’t run.” He sounds bored not seeming up for the conversation even though he’s the one who asked me to be here.

“Did you want me to run?”

“That feels like a question a shrink would ask.” He bites back, setting his hands on the desk, standing over me. I was sitting in my too big office chair in my too big and too fancy desk while Homelander was thrilled to make my space feel even more claustrophobic. I can taste the spicy sweet taste of excitement running through him. An unusually pleasant aftertaste for such a threatening situation, unfair really.

“Hah, well I am one if you want to get down to the nitty-gritty of it.” I reply back forcing myself to sit up straight and stare him dead in the eyes. He smiles and I can’t tell if it's genuine or not.

“You’d think I would trust you after your oh-so-charming introductions. No, I would have every right to melt you down to your bare bone for what you did. But instead you're a Stan Edgar spy!” He growls, his voice growing more erratically loud as he rants. The red storm clouded him and his aura and not even my medication and abuse could make me not see it. The anger and humiliation was evident in his storm filled cloud of despair. So many different emotions flash on my pallet I can’t grasp them all. The taste makes me want to puke but I force myself to swallow my bile down.

“I’m sorry. I have some milk cookies here if you would like any by the way. I made them from my great-grandmother’s recipe, passed down generations on my father’s side.” I push my china platter towards him. He looks dumbfounded at the cookies and small china glass filled with milk and cream. He decides to sit and pointedly only takes the small glass of milk. He doesn’t touch the cookies. The storm starts to quell and his face slowly relaxes, not as tight and wound up as it was from the get-go. So much anger bottled up is an explosion always waiting to happen.

“You smell like blood.” He states, not looking at me but his head turned as if watching the view outside my window.

“What? It’s not polite to point something like that out–wait, how do you know that?” I ask, stupefied and a large smirk crinkles across his face before he leans in slowly towards me. “Wait, no nevermind I don’t care how you know that. If you must know, I'm on my period.” I fumble with an excuse

“No you're not.”

“How do you know that? Ugh, wait no, don't explain! I fell, I’m clumsy, okay!” I exclaimed quickly, again not wanting to know how his weird intrusive powers work.

“You fell?”

“Yeah, it was a bad fall. Still have scrapes and bruises to show off to my superhero co-workers.” A small quirk of an actual smile flickered before falling back to a blank face.

“You don’t have super healing?”

“No, I didn’t really win the superpower lottery when it came to its coolness factor.”

“Or a usefulness factor.”

“Ah, yes, I used to think like that too. When I was younger I felt the burden of my powers were too much and I didn’t want to be around anyone for a long time. I was an angsty teenager who couldn’t see the benefit of it and only saw the pain. To put it shortly I learned through getting past my own barriers and reaching out to people was a bonus not a burden. My powers may not be flashy or be able to save a whole city from an active nuclear bomb, but I can help take a panic attack away.” I shrug nonchalantly as he dismissively plays with one of the hand puzzles laying at my desk.

“Are you done yet?”

“Well, no, I am also a licensed therapist hired to help you guys. I know this is some kind of test and I'm willing to show you that I’m here to help?”

“You were hired here to dismantle my authority over The Seven and control us if we ever get “out of character.” He dismisses glaring daggers at me, a dark cloud almost thundered over him, to cloud his thoughts with anger. He shoves himself farther into the back of the sofa chair, a grimace stretching across his face.

“My notes are coded in a way that only I could decipher them, something I’ve developed when studying for my doctorate. Stan Edgar doesn’t know I code all my notes–and he will never have the cipher because it is not written down. It was written in my contract that I as a Doctor who promised to withhold my client’s best interest cannot converse about my clients outside of our sessions.So, with all of that in mind can we start now?” He gulps not blinking as he directly stares back at me, I do not look away.

“What would I even talk about?”

“Anything you want to talk about.”

“With you? No, not really.”

“What about the transition of a new member on your team, how is that going?” His body goes very still, as if paused in real time. His cold stare gives me chills.

“That media whore can go to fucking hell. She is not one of the seven.” Homelander’s chilling emotions rattle my bones and his emotional tidal wave tastes cold and bitter.

“Is it because she was hired on without your permission?”

“Partly.”

“Did you feel embarrassed for the way she told the world, including you and your team?” I asked another question, more pointed, his eyebrow twitched. He snorts and then huffs anger tensing his shoulders.

“Yes.” He bites out staring me down, not willing to look away. I do instead by taking one of my own cookies on a platter, enjoying the familiar taste.

“I’m sorry she did that to you and the team. Did it feel horrible to not have control over something so important to you?” I ask another question, maybe not delicately enough with the way he squeezed the wooden puzzle in his hands. It looked like it was ready to explode in a million wooden slivers ready to slice our skin to ribbons.

“She did it to provoke me and boost her numbers. And my number took a hit because of it!” His need to be in control of his image and not being seemed to set him off just from talking about it, and that is concerning on a lot of levels. Specifically to the people around him. He lets go of the puzzle and to my surprise takes a cookie and eats it in one bite. Delight clear on my face he pointed glare. Heat vision is almost a threat if I look too closely into his thoughts.

“Well I know what it's like when mucking up introductions–meaning our situation,” I point between us smiling shyly at his still present icy glare. “And wanting to move forward in helping each other. She might want to help you in her own way. She just may not have started that best way. You might just make an ally, or two.” I say with an eyebrow raised as he continues to scarf the cookies, not willing to be shamed it seemed.

“Interesting thought, but to ally with her would require her to not ruin my reputation.”

“Like I said, first introduction flops happen. Her being on The Seven because of Stan Edgar could also mean she could be a strong superhero. And a strong superhero is always a good ally to have.” I shrug at that, not willing to divulge my opinion–or my own agenda–any more.

“You know what?” He stands up abruptly walking towards the door as if to leave on that question, but he stops.

“What?”

“You're not as dumb as you seem.” He turned back towards me with a wide smile that seemed to just break from his stony exsterior.

“I’m a doctor, Homelander.” I say not able to hide my exasperation in my voice. He smirks, getting a kick out of my obvious annoyance.

“Oh, and by the way doctor, your cookies were quite stale.” I sigh even louder and more pointed at that, actually getting a chuckle out of him.

“So, are you going to give me a–ah I mean Stormfront a chance?” I ask as he turns the knob of the office door to leave.

“I’ll give her a trial run.” He does not turn to see my relief evident on my face. “Oh, and good luck with the social media frenzy that will be your day tomorrow. Have a great night.” He yells out as he leaves the office and the halls my door swinging back and forth from his dramatic exit. The tension in my muscles finally released and my heart even out, finally. Being in the same room as him has begun to feel like walking on tightrope, and no net underneath to catch me if I fall.

The reminder about tomorrow has my blood go cold and my body starts to sweat profusely. I never signed up for this. I don’t want to be on TV and I don’t want to be known around the world as some superhero psychologist. I don’t want people to know about my powers. I haven’t even told Olivia yet. I slump in my too large office not feeling up to walking to my trashed apartment. Looking longingly at the large white sofa in the corner of my office and a chair blanket I combine the two to make my makeshift bed. It may look desperate and sad but I don’t care.

I also might just be a bit desperate and sad.

______________________________________________________________

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[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Exit on your left: Part 1.

Um...Mr Kamukura?

I know I probably shouldn't be the one to question your escape methods but...Why are we going THIS way?

...

*Kanata, Fuyuhiko, Kazuichi and Hiro closely follow Uchui as he leads them through the base. Uchui remains stone faced the entire time.

Where exactly...IS this place?

This is the first time I’ve seen the building outside the cells. I figured we were in some kinda institution but...this looks more...

To put simply...it’s a factory. Though, I had assumed you would have come to that conclusion just by looking around.

You don’t gotta be a smartass about it. When did Zetsubou take the time to BUILD all this?

Well, it’s all been built up over the last 10 or 11 years...Since Shirogane came to our reality. But the actuality is Zetsubou secretly sieged this place from a previously existing company, wiping out or silencing all associated with it for their own ends.

Hold on...11 years? But I thought the V3 kids came through 4 years ago?

You really think it would take 4 years to build up this big an empire? Only Ultimate leaders could pull something like that off. And Shirogane is anything but.

But...how...? You said you pulled them through, right? And you only got that idea in the last few years, so how could Shirogane have come through a decade before?

...I don’t know...I do have some working theories, but I assume even if I was to talk about it, you wouldn’t get it.

*They emerge into a room with several monitors and computers.

...I knew it...

Knew what?

Sorry, but truth be told, this is the central security room of this entire base. Before I get you out of here, I just needed to make a quick detour and grab something from here?

THIS is the central hub?

Is that a problem?

...It’s just...for the main security mainframe its...pretty quiet around here.

...Exactly.

...

You don’t think Zetsubou have caught on, have you?

*Uchui starts fiddling with the large keyboard in the middle of the desk.

They’ve been on edge ever since Maki Harukawa went missing. I wouldn’t put it past them.

For real!? You mean they might be looking for us right now!? Then why are we HERE?

Shh! If you make that much noise, then they’ll find us a lot quicker!

Oh! Sorry...!

But if that’s the case...do we really even have a chance at escaping?

*Uchui stops fiddling, then rises and turns to look at Kanata.

I don’t believe in chance, doctor. Chance never saved anyone in the Killing Games, nor did it save me from the hell that was my upbringing.

I believe in the flow of time, and the value of effort. If we stick together, we’ll stay alive...and you WILL see your families again.

Uchui...

Well, in the very least, I can get YOU out of here. Whether or not I get out with you...

You’re not coming with?

No. I still have a lot I need to do here. I still haven’t found a way to destroy what remains of the Hope Serum.

You still haven’t done that!? I thought that’d be priority number one!?

This is gonna sound really cheesy and lame, but I value your safety more than destroying that serum. I got you into this mess...now I’m gonna get you out.

This is just step one of my mission to atone for me and my family’s sins.

...And what’s step two?

...Taking down this whole base...and destroying Zetsubou from the inside out.

And how do you plan to do that?

Not alone. But I don’t want you guys in here when this place crumbles.

And you? How do you plan to get out?

That’s in my interest only.

So much for sticking together...

I...! Gah...

*He grips the edge of the desk.

Look...with all due respect...I betrayed the Future Foundation and cost many people their lives when I sold them out to Zetsubou. There’s no reason for Kirigiri, or Fujisaki, or anybody else in the higher ups to worry about saving MY life. 

What about Reaper? You’re his best friend; you really think he wouldn’t try to save you!?

KURIPA knows that we have priorities. Even he wouldn’t jeopardize such an important mission just to save MY life...

I’m sure...

You don’t SOUND sure...

What’s it to you anyway?

Because I’ve seen that kind of thing before. This overwhelming guilt that makes you think everything would be better off if you were gone, or if you paid for your mistakes in the most painful way. 

*Kazuichi starts to pace the room.

Look, I get it Uchui, but you can’t do this. You think you’re making a heroic and brave sacrifice, but all you’re doing is continuing to have your life weighed down by-

“Terror...?”

GAH!?

!!?

!!?

Oh crap! RUN!

Heh...Going somewhere!?

YAGH!

Heehee! Nice try!

Shit!

*All three entryways in the security room are blocked off as several Zetsubou goons armed with rifles emerge from the blackness! Akira, Celeste and Narumi take one, Yukari and Mikihiko take another, and Tsumugi stands with a few henchmen in the third.

And thus the whole pity party is here. Sorry to come crashing in.

Celeste! Wait, it’s not what it looks like!

Shut it Hiro! You’re not helping!

So this really WAS an ambush?

You don’t sound surprised in the slightest?

I had a feeling when I saw this room was empty that you’d caught on.

And you came anyway? That’s either very brave, or very stupid.

Well, I’m clearly smart enough to have gotten away with it up until now, right?

Au contraire, Kamukura. Maybe I didn’t know about a few details of your plan, which prevented me from stopping you up until now...

But I’ve known about this escape plan and your conspiracy for a LOOOOOONG time...

What...!? How!?

...

...

...

*Nagito and Matta emerge from the darkness in the doorway behind her.

Matta here filled me in on all your suspicious activities. Plus, I didn’t quite trust you, Uchui, from the start. I’m not THAT brainless.

Komaeda, you bastard...!

Don’t misunderstand...! I didn’t-

Mr Gyalusetsu!? You...!? Then...!?

Humans are desperate creatures, Dr Inori. In a world of despair, where there is a light of shining hope, they cling to that hope without thinking of the consequences it might bring.

Which is why, when I offered you that safe room to plan, I knew you would take the opportunity.

Don’t you agree? Komaeda?

...? Um...

You mean you trusted him!? What the hell is wrong with you!?

I...

That man is every bit of a demon as the rest of them! And you let him get inside your head.

Don’t listen to him. Typically, I am not as profound a manipulator as I may seem. Normally, I get the job done, no nonsense.

But ever since I arrived here...It’s been nothing but nonsense. So I decided to play along eventually.

I’m so sorry...

Don’t apologize Doc! It’s not your fault!

Yeah...I kinda figured he was different from the rest too. I guess we were all fooled.

You were also fooled into thinking that the treatment I’ve shown you all until now was the worst I could muster...Now that you’ve attempted this escape...

You’ll see just how NASTY I can be...! Now BACK TO YOUR CELLS!

...

*Uchui carefully shifts towards the desk and swipes something from it.

*SHUNK!*

GAH!

Hey...back away from my PC buddy...

*Akira’s ring weapon shanks the death and very nearly cuts off Uchui’s fingers. He backs away and raises his hands in the air.

What are you doing...!?

Shush! Play along!

So let me get one thing straight...This whole thing about wanting to help me make Ultimate Hopes was just a lie? You really just wanted to stop me from the beginning and destroy the Hope Serum for good?

You really should’ve done that first.

I know right!? I said the same thing!

Hiro, seriously, shut up!

Don’t act like you wanted it for a higher purpose or something.

Normally I would say “you have no idea just how dangerous that serum is to us all!” but no...You DO know, and you DON’T care!

You wanted to create Ultimate Hope’s because you know how much chaos Izuru Kamukura’s creation caused. Even if it spirals out of your control, it will cause so much carnage, it won’t matter!

Not to mention this serum of yours is even worse than the project...Fujimori and Komaeda...Both of their minds were fucked, and they lost sight of themselves and their original goals because of what that damn drink did to them.

...

My father’s batshit crazy work served as the catalyst for everything that went wrong with this world the first time...

And when I brought you to this world, I created the catalyst for the SECOND...The difference is I acknowledge that, and I won’t run away from that responsibility...!

...Well, I’ll give you credit...You certainly didn’t RUN from it...

Junko? Kamukura did something to central security system when he got here. Run a scan and find out whatever virus he downloaded. Akira, help her.

Got it.

On it boss.

*Akira saunters over to the computer to aid Junko, controlling the pieces of his ring to surround Uchui and the survivors, while Zetsubou soldiers point guns at them.

You know...In hindsight...

It takes a great deal of patience and confidence to be the best friend of Kuripa Kurafto...I should’ve figured you would go to such extremes...

Don’t talk to me about extremes, Miss “I’m-gonna-wipe-out-everyone-with-the-power-of-Ultimate-Hope-because-I’m-so-desperate-for-attention.”

Ooh, you kiss your mother with that mouth?

I never knew my mother, asshat.

So what’s the master plan “Mastermind?” You despair-y types always have one, no?

Hm...I could kill you and capture the Survivors again...Or I could explain my master plan and THEN kill you and capture the Survivors again...

...I think I’ll just kill you!

*With a wave of Tsumugi’s hand, all the Zetsubou soldiers aim their rifles at Uchui and the others.

Son of a...!

Hey...Kamukura...!? Please don’t tell me your master plan was us walking into the jaws of death!

It looks like it was a big mistake thinking following this heathen was the best course of action...He’s sacrificed you...then failed you...

I’m not a heathen, you prissy, pink-haired monster...

*BEEP!* *BEEP!* *BEEP!*

I’m a SCIENTIST...

What is that horrid-?

Um...Junko? What’s going on?

Tsumugi! It’s bad! The security mainframe is RIGGED TO BLOW!

NOW! RUN!

*KAABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMM!*

GAUGH!

Both: AKIRA!?

RRAAGGAGGGGH!

YEEAAAAAHAAAHAAAAAGH!

Both: YUKARI! 

...!?

*Uchui grabs the escapees and they make a mad dash for an escape! The explosion of the computer launches Akira back into the wall and knocks him unconscious, causing the ring pieces to fall and the armed soldiers to fly back too. Additionally, the direct damage done to AI Junko in the system brain fries Yukari, and causes her to collapse!

GO GO GO!

DON’T STOP RUNNING!

EEEEEKK!

WE’REGONNADIE! WE’RESOGONNADIE!

URGH!

*Tsumugi casts out a hand once her ears stop ringing.

KILL HIM!

...

Huh?

*Matta places a hand on her shoulder.

Let him run...

It makes it more fun for me...!

*WHOOOSH!*

[captainaikus]

Seriously what is some peoples problem? It’s like they’ve never read more than one fanfic on their life before. Most story ideas aren’t original and we just interpret them differently and therefore write them differently. Even if they are similar, it doesn’t mean that it’s copied and pasted. It’s such a simple concept that isn’t that hard to understand. And if people have unasked criticism to give the least they can do is come off anon for some sense dignity. And this is absolute no hate to the other author, I love their works and I was just on their blog and saw the discourse so I came straight over, and they’re super chill about the misunderstanding with the readers. I think it’s just the readers that got offended on behalf of the author. But even though that’s the case, they really shouldn’t have pushed it so far as to start harassing you abt it, especially if the authors they’re defending already said something abt it. This makes me so mad because you talked about this fic for such a long time and we’re so excited to post it too. I can’t count even the number of times I’ve been criticized for something without any indication that I needed the advice. Writing wise or not. So I can understand your feelings a bit. I’m sorry this happened to you. Some people are just negative for no reason. If you do decide to delete the fic, that’s totally up to you, but if it were me I’d keep it up and delete any negative comments or asks about it just for spite. I’ll say it again, the fic was amazing and I loved reading it. *sends many comforting virtual hugs*

- ✨ anon

Hi starry!!! (o^^o)

Okay so first things first, I’m not ignoring you; for some reason you’re not turning up in the asks section of the app; just through the inbox on my pc and I was gonna answer your ask from yesterday-but I was really drained and I have other asks to respond to as well (I was screaming on the inside when I saw you come off anon but I’m saving my reaction to answer that ask and I thought of answering this one first)

I was feeling pretty low earlier mostly because the anon just assumed stuff abt me (that too on anonymous which is so contradictory) when I’m actually a really closed person here; just minding my business writing and creating content. And even now they sent an ask despite Zari stepping in and talking about it. What part of discourse settled do these people not get? There are a million questions and a million answers and rather than accepting the fic for the way it is, they just want to point out the flaws of it. And there are so many fics are similar! I literally spoke about my work getting paraphrased and plot lines that have been masked despite it being originally mine.

And why would I even copy paste an idea? Especially since I’ve gone through the same thing and didn’t appreciate it? And like I said even for Zari’s message; there are a lot of followers here that follow blue lock content blogs apart from mine. So if I had done that, they would have told me in my askbox or at least approached me through my side account.

And yeah I have talked abt this fic for a very long time. Over a week almost - cause I have these discussions with my friends who are into my hobbies as well. Jock x nerd! Girl reverse is such a mainstream thing to write and I took that route - and when we’re talking about nerds science isn’t the hardest thing to think about - and the more questions there are, the more justifications are needed and I don’t have to prove a point to anyone unless it has to do with the person directly associated with the problem (that has already been handled). Tumblr has its own writing prompts page and there are so many people who use it and their prefs coincide with that a lot - like people don’t even bother to think through these things before downright accusing me. (No one’s even gonna talk abt how I was one of the first authors to write for NNN and then the trend started when I was scrolling through latest fics for bllk?)

I wanted to delete the fic since this will leave a scar on my blog- already wants to change the name and pfp, and I can always create new ones but you’re right. I don’t think I will. Delete the comments and move on. And a lot of people liked the fic, cause there was Shidou and Kaiser as well; but then again- I know I’ll have bad memories of this. So I’m waiting for tomorrow or the next couple hours to see how everyone responds to this and maybe see then how it turns out.

I’m gonna be optimistic abt this cause there are a lot of wips and this was one of them.

(And secondly, you have no idea about how I cried a lil cause I thought my anons were gonna be disappointed in me and not wanna come back because of this chaos so I’m really happy to see you)

*koala hugs*

[tarnishedhalo]

W - Witness - What do they consider the best thing they have ever seen? What would they most like to see in their life?

Word Association || - Tabs sure knows how to blindside him and in a lot of ways maybe he should have seen it coming, though in all the years they’ve known each other, this is the one question she’s never asked him. She’s always taking other people on their word. Didn’t seem to want to pry into his own memories. The residual trauma that clings to him like frost on a winter morning, tainting everything he sees, everything he touches. He pauses what he’s doing, the little wandy-brush thing of her nail polish impossibly small between his fingertips. Puts it back in the bottle before closing it. To do so means he has to rest the sole of her foot on his chest and once he’s done he takes it back up in his hands. Blows across the salmon pink colour still wet on her nails. This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this and with the sheer amount of women in his life, it won’t be the last either. He doesn’t allow his gaze to trek past her delicate little ankle. “Once upon a time, I would have told you that the most beautiful thing I ever saw was Beth, the minute they’d pulled her out and dried her off, made her all clean and swaddled in this tiny soft pink blanket. Sure her face was red and a little wrinkled, this dark wisp of hair sticking up off the top of her head right before they put that little warming beanie on it. I remembered looking at her and she was so very small. Barely five pounds if she was an ounce. And everyone I know would say it’s fucking impossible, but I remember she opened her little eyes and looked me dead in the face. They were so green. And then she smiled. Now, I know babies can’t see more’n a few inches in front of their face, and they can’t really smile until about six or eight weeks, but I swear on my soul she did. And she did it for me. “But that changed a few years ago. It’s kind of hazy now ~yeah I know, you’re gonna call bullshit on that, too but I’m being as real as I can~ now I can’t actually tell you the where and the when; those are classified information and both me and my dad would lose our collective shit if my security clearance ever got revoked but let’s just say it was hot as fuck, sand everywhere, and just absolutely miserable. It’d been four days since I’d had any water, don’t remember when I ate last and I’ve got to admit, I’d collapsed somewhere in what passed for shade; the lee of a rock outcropping. I didn’t have anything left in me, not between the pain and the sepsis and the fuckin’ flies…” He shields her from the worst of it. The smell of his own flesh putrefying, the delirium, the whole fucking mess he was, waiting to die but unable to make himself give up. Or the fact that every time he closed his eyes he could hear his sister screaming. “But somewhere on the dimmest edge of awareness, I could hear the unmistakable sound of the chopper blades. I can hear them in my sleep, I know the vibration in my bones. I cracked one eye open, and above me, I saw the distant glimpse of stripes. Red and white. The blue field. All fifty stars. And I recognized the silhouette of one of the rescue wing  Sikorsky HH-60ws. They’d come to find me. I reached for one of my signal flares…and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in a tent in Bagram, getting ready for medevac out to Walter Reed.” He shrugs casually, his thumbs rubbing circles just below the bridge of her toes. “I’m sure Beth will forgive me for replacing her birth with my rebirth.” There’s a lull for a long moment. “As for what I wanna see? I’d love to go to Ireland for a while. Restore the old family castle, while staying in the current one. Whaddya think, Tabs. Wanna go with me? Pick out the new wall paper?”   

[vaingloriosa]

Ok yes. I saw a random tweet that led me down a rabbit hole and now I’m here. I’ve been looking for a sane part of the internet of Dechartgames that isn’t shrouded in worship. I just went through some of your old posts and omg. Also a woc who didn’t feel QUITE comfortable in the fandom by the time late 2018 rolled around. Ugh I really wanted to dive into all of those links about the negative impact B + A’s community has had in the fandom but they’re gone now :-( Also I wanted to point out how Neil seems to be a better ally and who has also moved on from DBH even though he also streams on twitch.

Someone else pointed out how B+A only care about subs and money which yes. Twitch subs and their merch appears to be their bread and butter at the moment, BUT there’s this one particular fan of theirs that seems to go overboard with the donations and gift subs, sometimes dropping more than a half a grand worth of gift subs and stickers in one stream. I think to date they’ve gifted 4000 subs (which Twitch weirdly announced). If it were me I would be a bit concerned because of the signs of para social relationships and not wanting someone to go broke over a free to watch platform. But nope they smile and move on lol.

So curious as to what off camera interactions you’ve witnessed because as we know social media and what is essentially their weekly tv show is not 100% real. Again comforting to see some of this shared suspicion and feelings. This has turned into a long rant but yes also their constant praise of DBH even during all of the bad PR David Cage was getting back in 2018-2019 is gross. They don’t have to burn bridges, but these anniversary streams and such omg let it go. Idk how you can be an ally to the LGBTQ+ community and still speak positively about a guy who allegedly did a nude composite of Elliot Page and displayed it at a party.

omg hiiiiii i would luvvv to know what tweet u saw that led your way to me......... also, yeah i've changed urls on this acct waaay teww many times that most links to my lectures don't work </3 though i appreciate that you were interested in them! most are real long rambles that are an endless stream of consciousness. it's always the same stuff i say so dw you're not missing out on much loll. neil <333 nothing but love and respect to neil. most of the cast came out of that game unscathed pero alas we have causalities SAD! well, there are better actors out there.

idk how twitch works however damnnnn that sounds like a lot of money being blown on people that do not deserve it. like yeah, you can spend your money as you like though whenever i think how people can use that money in more meaningful ways, it just upsets me. i remember years ago, i had reached out to somebody on twt who had some really terrible experiences in the dechartgames community and let me in on some insight and it's sooooooo bizarre how more ppl haven't spoken out about it then again, it isn't THAT weird given the cult-like environment they've cultivated.

not me personally but again, the ppl that have messaged me in the past during the height of the dechartgamism where i was talking extensively about them. yeah, idk how these ppl who obviously own a laptop and computer who could easily search up david cage online and find out the gross and vile shit he has done and still advocate for him and his games. respect but i do think they should really move on from dbh like everyone else and explore the world around them. to me, you cannot be an ally and associate yourself with bigots and bigoted media. it really goes hand in hand and if they cared, they would close up the dbh shop for good

[waywarddreamer133]

Revenge

How long ago was it now? 3 years? I genuinely don't remember. The days, weeks and months all blur together. An isolated room locked in neverending, looping monotony.

You've ruined me you know. It hurt back then and it still hurts now.

Maybe I was never destined for companionship, I've thought this before and I still think this now.

Maybe I was born as a sick joke by the universe, making the most deviant social mind possible, who'd still barely keep within the bounds of human acceptability.

Or maybe an experiment to see how much mental suffering a person can experience while leaving their physical body completely untouched.

I like to believe I've done well though.

Despite all that life has thrown at me, somehow I haven't commited suicide.

Though thinking about you makes me remember something.

My desire for revenge.

I want this pain to be inflicted on others, I want to see if they could handle what I had to go through. I want to see how many of them would come crawling to me after they go through that, begging for forgiveness once they realized how much their actions have hurt me.

But I will forgive them.

I want to give them mercy, so that they will live forever thinking I'm the better person. An oxymoronic statement, but the truth nonetheless.

I want people to go through the same things I've been through at their hands, but not by my own, by somebody else's and I want to help them stand up again, after I do for them what nobody's ever done for me.

Take their side.

After everything they go through, I'll still stay by their side at the end. I'll make it clear that as long as help is required, I'm available.

And they'll despise themself because they didn't extend theirs to me when I needed it most, yet I'd do it for them even after they've ruined me.

I'll make it clear how much it hurts me to help them. I'll force myself to not take anything in return. I'll keep them forever guilty, forever in my debt, forever thinking that their actions were ridiculously selfish in the face of my saintlike kindness.

Then, I want someone important to them to see it all, someone they look up to, respect, love and admire, stare them dead in the eye after they ask this person for something important.

It could be their potential crush, their bosses, their family, their friends.

Anyone.

And I want them to reject them. Harshly. I want the actions of the past to cause everyone around them to hate them like everyone hated me.

And yet still I'll take their side, I'll argue for them, that it's fine, I've forgiven them, and that it was all in the past.

And spiral the rejection. The kinder I am to someone so horrible to me, the more harshly the opinion of their peers will weigh in.

How the hell could you be so cruel to such an angel?

And then finally, I'll have my revenge. They'll hate themself for a mistake years and years past, while I'll have their friends, family and close associates on my side.

How does it feel having everyone you know turn against you for your wrongdoings, while they admire the one they believe is in the right?

How does it feel being hurt, but not being able to defend yourself because your aggressor got "hurt more"

How does it feel, being told that you're completely in the wrong and your feelings are invalid because I'm in the right?

It sucks, doesn't it? It's cruel, its awful, and its horrible.

These are the feelings I've had to live through the last 3 years of my life after you ruined it.

Hell, these are the feelings I've carried for the entire 18 years of my existence.

Always in the wrong, always alone, always shunned, always told that my emotions did not matter.

Nobody would ever take my side. And I want others to know how that feels.

I want those who stood opposite me to know what they've sentenced me to, how that feels.

I dream about this happening every night of my life, and it's the only thing that could ever truly close that gaping wound in my heart.

...

He'd agree with me, he'd help me, he'd take my side though.

Because we agreed to be wrong together. My one and only love.

[xavieryaa]

deal // chapter 10: not-such-a-blast to the past

word count: 4.5k

content warning: depiction of PTSD/a flashback

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯-

Following Wang’s car to a building in Gangnam in Namjoon’s own expensive vehicle, clad in a similarly snazzy outfit to him, Jimin may look the part in this sort of investigation, but he sure as hell doesn’t feel the part. Inside, he’s both still annoyed that he’s involved in this and still anxious that he’s way over his head. 

Tracing their subject’s path isn’t the first detour of the day, but it was certainly the most important. The moment they had arrived in Seoul, Namjoon insisted on them eating lunch at a restaurant much fancier than any place Jimin had found himself at before. Jimin had argued at first, but after seeing that Namjoon wouldn’t budge on that, he resigned to just enjoying the good food while he had the opportunity. 

Now, after a meal of surprisingly semi-enjoyable conversation, Wang’s just pulled up to a place that Jimin’s sure isn’t associated with Sejoo or his firm at all. It seems mildly suspicious - at least, until Jimin stops to think about it. Isn’t it only concerning because of what they already know about him? It’s not particularly incriminating to just not be at work for a small amount of time. Still, though, it’s unusual, Jimin’s able to deduce that much. The problem is, he’s not sure what to do after that part. Not that he’s going to let Namjoon know that, but it’s the truth: he still doesn’t know what he’s doing here. 

He knows why they’re right here, right now, in the parking lot of some random office building, yes. But in all of this, he’s not sure if he’s cut out to be looking into a murder, to be working with Namjoon in this case that clearly only one of them is qualified for. He’s not sure if Namjoon thinks the same thing now, since he definitely had at the beginning, and he’s not exactly getting any insight from that from Namjoon’s frowning stare out the window of the car at the boring grey building they’ve pulled up at. 

“So, Namjoon,” Jimin finally breaks the silence that’s been plaguing them, “What’s the plan? Now that we’re here, what do we do?”

“We split up,” 

Jimin’s sure he looks like some sort of owl, eyes widening at Namjoon as he blurts in confusion and shock, “What?”

“We split up. Have you forgotten the meaning of a basic phrase, Park? Do you need that explained to you?” Namjoon snorts, arms crossing over his chest. Jimin just scoffs back at him. 

“No, I understand what it means, you jerk. But why?”

“It would be more efficient if we were to get two things done at the same time. We don’t need two people here in a car observing where Wang goes, one is enough. I’ll work on the cipher, while you follow him and take note of any strange destinations,” Namjoon shrugs. 

“You keep going on about how I’m incompetent, and now you suddenly trust me to do something alone?”

“You’re…mildly capable. And I’m not making you assemble a rocket, this isn’t very difficult,” Namjoon looks away from Jimin, gaze on the windshield instead - which strikes Jimin as a little peculiar, since there doesn’t seem to be anything interesting outside of it, but Namjoon is a weird man, so he doesn’t mentally question it much further. 

“How are you going to get back to your house, then? If you take the car, either I’d have to follow Wang by foot or subway, or I might come back to find he’s not here anymore and our chance is gone,”

Namjoon turns back to him with a slight, tight-lipped frown - for all his smarts, he doesn’t seem to have actually thought of how he would do this. 

“I suppose I could…” Namjoon’s nose wrinkles in disgust, “take the bus. It’s not my preferred method, but I won’t die.”

Judging from the expression on Namjoon’s face, he doesn’t entirely believe that last part. Instinctually, Jimin hits Namjoon’s arm playfully. 

“The rich guy can’t imagine getting around like a normal person, huh?” The words slip out of his mouth before he can think them through. It’s not like he’s said anything horrible or regrettable, but he’s just joked around with Kim Namjoon. He hates him. Doesn’t he hate him? Don’t they hate each other? They’re not friends. They don’t joke around.

But Namjoon laughs, and Jimin isn’t annoyed at the moment, he isn’t hating every moment of his existence, he doesn’t feel anything like he did when he met with Namjoon for the first few times. And he realizes, Namjoon has been sort of joking around with him too, hasn’t he? And they’ve interacted with each other in a less hostile way. Sometimes, he’s even found himself slightly enjoying the man’s company. 

Something has changed, and up until now he’s been too distracted to notice that. 

Hmm. 

“So,” Jimin clears his throat, choosing to go back to a more neutral-toned conversation rather than actually confronting the part of his mind that he’s only just now realized is there, “do you need me to show you where the nearest bus stop is, then?” 

Namjoon shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Just because I haven’t taken one before doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed where the buses are, Jimin. I’ll manage just fine.”

And that’s how Jimin ends up alone, in Kim Namjoon’s car, and waiting outside a building hoping that Wang will do something noteworthy so this all doesn’t feel like a complete waste. He’s moved to the driver’s side of the car, which makes it feel unreal in a sort of way. Jimin’s not the world’s most experienced driver – he’s driven a decent amount, but most of the time he just hasn’t had any need to. Public transportation was usually enough to get him around. 

That means he has two main responsibilities – keeping an eye on their main suspect, and making sure he doesn’t crash Namjoon’s car into anything, because failing either of those would have consequences Jimin sure as hell doesn’t want to face. 

Reaching inside the pocket of his suit – or rather, Namjoon’s suit that he just happens to be wearing – he feels relief as his fingers touch a thick piece of paper, which he quickly pulls out. He had taken the letter with him before they had left, and though he had reassured himself multiple times throughout the car ride that it was still there, nothing would ever be enough to permanently soothe his anxiety. 

Nothing would ever be enough to soothe the guilt that immediately rushes over him, either. Namjoon had told him about the cipher the moment he had found it. Why hadn’t Jimin done the same? Why hasn’t he come clean in all this time? 

He’s not sure he knows the answer to that anymore. Namjoon wasn’t as skeptical about his abilities anymore, not as hostile towards his every move – but still, Jimin finds that something is stopping him from telling Namjoon. Something continues to make him hesitate and he doesn’t know what. 

The letter, unlike his thoughts, is just the same as before. He’s able to make out just as much of it, which is admittedly not much other than the gist of what it’s saying and a few key words. Much of the rest is either completely gone, partially burnt and difficult to make out, or cut off in the middle of syllable blocks so that it might as well be ash with how useful it is right now. 

Just looking at the thing is frustrating. It seems impenetrable, mysterious, so tantalizing in what it promises but keeps secret behind the veil of its own destruction.

But Jimin’s still just as determined as ever to prove he can do well in all this despite how Namjoon had thought of him at the start, so he flattens out the letter on top of the center console and leans his head down towards it, squinting his eyes so that the only thing he can see is the paper. He’s going to keep going at this until he understands it, and he can’t put it off any longer if it’s going to actually help them solve things. 

The burnt parts aren’t the only problem in his way, now that he’s observing it more – whoever wrote this distinguished little between ㅎ and ㅇ and ㅈ and ㅊ, so that the only way to really tell which was supposed to be which was through context, which was something the letter gives little of, considering he can’t even see quite a bit of it. Their handwriting is generally neat, but those little quirks make it just that bit harder to figure out what’s being said. 

Making sure to look up every few minutes to check that Wang’s car is still there, and making sure the door of the building is in his peripheral vision so he’ll be able to tell if anyone goes in or out, for about two hours Jimin fully dedicates himself to demystifying the letter. It’s sort of like a crossword puzzle, in that figuring out what one thing is helps him a bit with the words around, except it’s difficult as hell, there’s no hints designed to help him, and if he doesn’t complete this thing there’s actual stakes involved. 

He spends most of the time with one of his hands buried in his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration while he stares at the letter and tries to take in every part of it in an attempt to get something out of it, which leads to the small percentage of time where he’s scribbling his findings down on a separate piece of paper with a sense of victory. 

The problem is, the more he figures out, the less there seems to be left that he would actually be able to solve. He feels like at this point he’s already expended all of the easier words to make out, and at this point he has to strategically analyze every single letter of a half-gone word or a sentence cut off to figure out what could have been said.

It’s during one of the longer stretches between small successes that Wang steps out of the building, and though Jimin can only see him from afar it looks like his suit isn’t quite as perfect and unwrinkled as it had been when he walked in, and his eyes flick around the parking lot as he walks towards his car, head turning slightly to give him a full view. 

Certainly, it’s suspicious that he’s immediately cautious while exiting a place, especially a place where theoretically no one knows he is. But when Jimin waits a minute or so after Wang gets in his car and drives out of the lot before following after him, making sure to stay a good distance away from his car so that he’s not noticed, Wang doesn’t appear to do anything else worth noting – he drives to the office building where he does the majority of his work, and…that’s it. As Jimin stays in the car for a while longer, trying and mostly failing to piece together more of the letter, Wang doesn’t come out, no one suspicious-looking goes in. 

Of course, Jimin knows expecting someone who might have committed a murder to be constantly engaging in obviously dodgy behavior, but still, it’s a bit disappointing that things have just dropped off here. Sighing and carefully hiding the letter and his notes back into his suit pocket, Jimin starts his way back to Namjoon’s house, hoping that at least the other man had made some progress in the cipher. 

•

Jimin now has two side projects on top of this god damned investigation: the first is the letter, the second is attempting to help Namjoon improve as a person. Solving the letter’s mystery is pretty straightforward - difficult, yes, but it’s not the world’s most complicated process, especially not when compared to what he now has to do with Namjoon. 

He’s never been a goody-two-shoes, the type to drop everything to help someone, he’s always had a bit too much of a self-protection instinct for that. For whatever reason, though, he feels some sort of compulsion to help Namjoon, something that might even be more than just a need for his partner to act decently towards him. That’s why he’s essentially acting as Namjoon’s therapist at the moment.

Namjoon had insisted that they do this in his room, citing the fact that he would be more inclined to talk there, though he still seemed somewhat nervous at the start, hesitating to start speaking. Once he did start, though, he hasn’t stopped. Not once. He’s been continuously ranting to Jimin for the past hour at this point, and Jimin’s starting to reconsider whether this was actually a good idea. 

Sure, Namjoon trusting Jimin to not betray what he’s confiding and being able to get out the emotions he’s been holding in for years are good things considering it’s major progress, but the main feeling he’s expressing seems to be anger. A whole lot of anger. Not directed at Jimin, thankfully, but scary anger nonetheless. 

“I know I’ve iterated this before, but it’s all so fucked, you know? Those people, they don’t care about anything except getting more money so they can reach their neverending goals of buying whatever expensive, useless thing they fancy at the moment. And those were the people I spent half my life around,” Namjoon’s hands clench around the sheets of the bed he sits on as Jimin nods, the only thing he’s able to do to contribute with how Namjoon continues going on and on. 

This is the fifth time Namjoon’s managed to land at this point in his loop of vague details about what’s been going on in his life, and though Jimin knows he’s just trying to process things and express how much it’s affected him, this repeating cycle is starting to annoy him. At the same time, he can’t quite bring himself to interrupt the sequence to actually dig for more specific information, not when Namjoon is still so obviously distressed. In this moment, Namjoon is trusting him with something he hasn’t told anyone else before, and there’s no way Jimin’s going to risk ruining this opportunity.

Not that he particularly cares about Namjoon. He’s simply curious, that’s all. That’s what he assures himself. 

“And shit – I was like them, because I didn’t have any other choice. But…I was worse. I was worse than a lot of them,” 

Jimin perks up at the new information; Namjoon hasn’t mentioned this before. He’s never spoken with this much regret dripping off his every word. This, Jimin knows, is the perfect time to go deeper, to ask Namjoon something. But then he changes the subject. 

“I had the same ‘values’ as them, and by that I mean the only value they seemed to have was fucking everyone over regardless of morality. They’d screw someone over just for being a minor roadblock in a plan. They’d kill someone just because they didn’t want any competition in their endless quest for more and more and more. And I,” Namjoon’s voice drops to practically a mumble as his head drops in shame, “I helped them. I participated. I should have…”

Namjoon’s voice trails off, and this is the perfect time to go deeper, to help him more. But Jimin can’t focus on that. He can’t control his staggered breathing or the panic coursing through his veins like a million tiny bullet trains or the fact that everything is fading. 

“We don’t want competition,” Soo’s voice booms through his ears, antagonistic smile seeming closer to Jimin’s face than he had ever remembered before. 

Jimin feels small, looking up at him, at the other men who seem so much bigger and stronger than himself. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he can tell it’s bad, that’s clear enough. Cautiously, he steps closer, gasping in breaths as fear rises in his chest, raising his arms in front of his chest in preparation to defend himself if needed.

“Jimin?”

All he can see is Namjoon standing by the door, smirking at him. A smirk that knows what’s going to happen. A smirk that paralyzes Jimin where stands. 

Everything is too slow and too fast. Everything is too muddy and too confusing. 

One moment his parents are there, the next they’re halfway out the door, and then they’re gone. Jimin screams for them to stop, screams for some sort of help, but nothing comes. 

“Jimin!”

Strong hands grab at Jimin’s wrists as he attempts to get up and run after them, keeping him down. 

One of them has come back. One of them is coming for him now. Jimin feels weak in this moment, a helpless kid who can’t do anything to fix this situation. 

All he can do is struggle against their grip, smacking their arms away, trying to convince them to stop even though he knows it won’t work. 

“Let go of me!”

He’s back all those years ago, but something has changed. He knows that, but he can’t stop himself from thrashing around to get the hell away from all this. 

“Jimin!”

He needs to escape this at any cost. He needs to get away and he doesn’t know what will happen if he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what would happen to him and his parents and he doesn’t want to find out either. 

The hands that hold him this time are more gentle, comforting even, juxtaposing Jimin’s absolute panic. 

“Jimin, shit, what’s going on?”

Jimin freezes, suddenly aware that a few tears are pricking at his eyes, he’s trembling, and…he’s not a teenager. He’s not in that night. He’s with Namjoon, who’s keeping him still, voice laced with concern and confusion. 

“I…I’m sorry,” Jimin tries to speak, but it comes out as more of a whisper, voice hoarse from his hurried breaths and frightened yells. 

“The hell was going on there? You looked…scared. Why?” Namjoon says, always one to get straight to the point of what he wants to say. Except for a few minutes earlier, though that’s an exception Jimin easily understands. 

“Flashback,” Jimin mumbles, heart rate calming ever so slowly. “They just happen sometimes. I think…I think it was triggered, or something, when you were talking. Because you said something similar to Soo. The night my parents…”

Jimin lets his voice trail off, determined to not show Namjoon that he’s starting to choke up. He doesn’t like to talk about them, the flashbacks, what happened, and he doesn’t really understand them either. He struggles to discuss them with Taehyung, the one man he trusts most – Namjoon is an entirely different story. 

Hesitating for a moment, Namjoon pats Jimin’s arm awkwardly, which Jimin takes as an attempt to comfort him. Jimin can’t explain why, but it does sort of help. Just a little bit. 

“What am I supposed to do if you do that again? When I tried helping you at first, it just got worse. How do I…fix it?” Namjoon says the words as if it physically pains him to show any sort of overt concern for another human being, pausing a couple of times and struggling to construct the sentences.

“I’m not sure, really. They usually just stop on their own, after a while. I haven’t tried much to stop them while they’re going on,”

Namjoon sighs at him, releasing his grip on Jimin to rest his head on his right hand instead. “Really, Park? And you act like I’m the only one with issues here.”

“At least I don’t take it out on other people,”

“Don’t just deflect your issue to me, we’re both fucked up in our own special ways,” Namjoon waves his hand as if to dismiss Jimin’s comment, “both of us need to fix things if we want to be able to stop working together eventually.”

“Fine then. I help you like I have been, and if I have another flashback you help me then,” Jimin holds out his hand, which Namjoon shakes. 

“We’ve made quite a few deals at this point, haven’t we? I’m starting to think you just like shaking my hand,” Namjoon jokes with a chuckle. Jimin wrinkles his nose, pulling away his hand. 

“You wish, you dolt,” Jimin shoots back, and even though it’s an insult he thinks he might see Namjoon nod a bit. 

Must just be the wind coming through the open window obscuring his view or something. 

•

Jimin’s not the type to always have his phone on silent – it makes him anxious, to not know whether someone could be trying to contact him about some sort of emergency. Even if most of the notifications he gets are spam calls or promotional emails, he figures it’s best to keep it on, even at night, for the small chance that something important happens and he needs to be there. 

When Namjoon finally trusts him enough to give him back his phone, it’s obvious Namjoon doesn’t have the same philosophy, most likely due to the frequent and annoying stream of notification tones. A barrage of unchecked notification bubbles hit him immediately upon opening it, but one group of them sticks out. 

In the past two weeks, the time he’s been with Namjoon so far, he’s missed 15 calls, 26 messages, and 4 voicemails from Taehyung. Taehyung, who’s always cared for him and his safety. Taehyung, who’s always been his best friend. 

Taehyung, who has no idea where he is and hasn’t heard from him all this time. Immediately, guilt rises in Jimin’s chest, a heavy weight on his heart. He knew from the start that Taehyung wouldn’t believe the excuse that Jimin was with his aunt, because Jimin doesn’t have any aunts and Taehyung knows that since both of Jimin’s parents had been only children just like him. And now, it’s been half a month without any contact. If this had happened to Taehyung, Jimin would have been freaking out, too. 

He navigates to Taehyung’s contact, finger resting above the call button. His instinct is to call Taehyung, to explain what’s been going on, but he knows he can’t do that, at least not the second part. If Namjoon heard he’d lose his contact with Taehyung, and he’d end up worse off than he is now. Biting his bottom lip as he thinks, Jimin paces around the room, considering what he should do. The letter he had been working on before Namjoon had barged in and  suddenly returned his phone rests on the bed, abandoned and at this point mostly gone from his mind. 

After a few minutes, despite the fact that he still doesn’t have any real plan Jimin presses the button. It’s been two weeks, he can’t avoid this any longer even if prior to now it hadn’t been his will to do so. 

It takes only two rings for Taehyung to pick up, and he doesn’t waste a single second before he starts talking. 

“Jimin! Thank fuck, I thought you were dead or something! Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jimin can barely understand Taehyung for how fast he’s speaking, but he can still get the gist. He still knows that he doesn’t actually know how to respond. 

“Taehyung, shit, I’m so sorry that it’s been so long. I just…got caught up in family matters, and I was too busy and stressed with that to answer,” Jimin says, holding his breath lest Taehyung realize how nervous he is at the moment. Taehyung knows him too well – if he hears Jimin’s panic, he’ll know that he’s lying, if he doesn’t suspect that already. 

Which, it turns out, he does suspect that already. Not that Taehyung would outright say that, but Jimin can tell easily from the way he speaks. He’s trying to be subtle and to hide it, but Jimin knows him too well, too. 

“A…family emergency? Our boss did mention something like that…”

Jimin nods, though he knows Taehyung can’t see it; he’s hoping that it’ll somehow pass the message to Taehyung that he’s telling the truth, even though it’s likely clear that he’s not. 

“Jimin?” Taehyung says, voice softer and less panicked now, though there’s something in it that Jimin can’t quite place. “Would you be able to meet me, anytime soon? I miss you, you know.”

Fuck.

Jimin knows that he probably shouldn’t go out of his way to meet Taehyung soon just like he knew that he shouldn’t hide the letter from Namjoon. But the sadness layered over Taehyung’s voice, and the guilt he feels…he can’t say no, his conscience won’t let him. It overpowers the logical part of him that says this isn’t really a good idea. 

“Of course, Tae,” Jimin says, trying to make his voice as bright as possible. Unusually bright, if he’s being honest to himself about his lack of acting skills, but he hopes it slips past Taehyung considering what his friend thinks is going on. “I’ll plan something with you really soon. I promise.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,”

“Long-distance pinky-promise?”

Jimin can hear the smile in Taehyung’s voice just like he’s sure Taehyung can hear the amusement in his. He knows Taehyung can see, but he holds out his pinky, waving it up and down just like he would if he was with Taehyung in person. It’s what they’ve always done to seal something important, ever since they were small children, and he’s sure they’ll never stop. 

“Consider it sealed,”

“Good. I’ll see you in a few days, Jimin,” 

The something is still there in Taehyung’s voice, but Jimin doesn’t feel like it’s the right time to question further – he can’t force Taehyung to be 100% honest now when he’s not doing it himself. As he says goodbye and the call ends, Jimin flops down on the bed, the letter jumping a bit next to him. 

He picks it up again, fidgeting a bit with the pen he’s been using by tapping its top against the bed. It’s underwhelming, compared to a conversation with his best friend after too long, but it’s necessary and he knows it. But still, he can’t ignore the feeling in his chest. It feels like some sort of weight has been lightened a bit, still there but less intense. 

He’s been lonely, he realizes, without his only friend and with Namjoon, who for most of the time he’s hardly been able to talk to. Really lonely, and it took talking to Taehyung again to remember that it’s not just how things have always been for him. 

Now that he’s figured that out, Jimin tries working on the letter more, hoping that he’d be able to focus more – but in fact, the opposite has happened. A million thoughts that are in no way relevant to this letter swirl around his mind, and it takes what feels like a million attempts to begin again for Jimin to sigh, finally accepting the fact that right now he’s not in the right state of mind for that and retreating back into his mind.

[jonathankatwhatever]

I was casting about looking for a way to get into what I need to say when I began to think about Spielberg. I don’t remember why his films came up. I was able to focus on two examples of what I don’t like in his films. One is in Close Encounters when the out-of-shape, middle-aged people are escaping the military base and there’s a shot of a soldier almost directly behind, pointing like in a comic book illustration, ‘There they are!’, then a a cut to the out-of-shape, middle-aged people running up the side of a mountain at altitude with a pile of soldiers about a quarter mile behind. That’s absurd. It’s not physically possible.

Another is in Pvt Ryan when, in the midst of battle, we see a group of American soldiers climbing on and banging on a German armored car. They are then killed. We’ve never seen these soldiers before and we’ve seen everyone in the unit as they’ve gone on their odyssey across Normandy. And what group of soldiers, who have been in combat, would ever climb on an armored car like that? They are trying not to get killed, but the movie treats them as objects who are shifted into place because what ….?

And that’s when I realized that is exactly what most people want, not consistency at the tObject level, but consistency at the Thing level. So what happens here is we bypass the physical rules and simply insert material that would not otherwise reduce to tObjects, meaning not actual things and thus not what would appear on screen. We’ve gone over this a million times over the years, haven’t we? The way I knew you really got it was not the kitchen but the car approaching: that angle really the entire capture creates a Triangular between your character and the character entering the space where you tell your tales.

And, yes, I see a lot in Fellini, but you know the scene that sticks in my brain is Nosferatu rising at the camera, rigid, arm out-stretched, from his coffin, embodying the propulsion, the energy of that which never dies because it feeds off the lives of others, cutting yours, adding that to its own, a version of the ancient God which not only requires sacrifice but sacrifice of what you hold dear, which renders in the Torah as the first-born or choice of animals, but which also then renders to humans as animals and thus the God that demands blood.

Anyway, way off track but I love thinking through melodies. Thoughts and melodies are the same. You don’t write a melody: you think it.

So, people love these glitches. Did I get that correct? They truly love the glitches because it’s exciting to have a chase, and part of the enjoyment of watching a show comes as you surrender to the experience. Like you know Pat Sajak is going to be the gentlest, most convivial host on Wheel of Fortune. He’s extremely skilled at it, the best I’ve ever seen, along with Alex Trebek. That was the real genius of Merv Griffin: he could cast. I remember him saying Vanna walked in the first day of auditions and he knew instantly. It’s been 40 years. Those casting decisions are possibly the two best in entertainment financial history: look at how much those shows have generated and how much they’re worth, especially now that they’ve shown you can replace these guys when you must. It can be done.

BTW, it’s 31 Jan 2023.

I had a rough morning. Had a cloud over my head. Thought about you, and got into the space but the thoughts wouldn’t settle. I’d catch glimpses, like reading technical questions and seeing that the answers not only made sense, but in some cases I was thinking past them. I’ve isolated the math learning issue to the concept of glyph, which is a glitch, as you know. That is, there is a bunch of learning in a symbolic expression, and thus you can either take the expression apart and translate it or you can look it, and process the meaning you’ve learned that associates with that expression. It’s the same idea I saw in Chinese education as Jordan described it to me: that doing will teach understanding, so repetition of the glyph tells you what it does, which is exactly how Chinese characters work. I don’t know many Westerners who understand that embedded in Chinese language and thus Chinese thinking is that characters are constructed ideas, that a character thus carries with it a context, and that a context has within it certain states but also the processes which link those states. So inside the language itself is a commitment to the process which, for example, makes a home. To compare, look at the word home. It doesn’t look anything like a shelter which you literally draw in your mind and with your hand when you write home.

I noticed a connection deep back in childhood relating to internal compression and contraction of the bladder assemblage. The link is that I noticed that as I master contraction while peeing, the process of putting on socks, etc., while standing suddenly felt like it did when I was 8. I don’t mean the feeling ended after 8, but that I can hold an image of that experience from around that age. I can date it to Roeper, and before 4th grade. My 3rd grade memories are mixed up because we had 3 teachers and I didn’t enjoy that. Seriously, having Susie’s mom as teacher made social interactions weird, and I didn’t like the last one. So all year long I was reminded of Miss Fleet, who I only knew for 3 days before she died. She was my ideal teacher, so warm and encouraging and interested in our learning.

Then I noticed while in the shower that my left groin has no pain. For the last few weeks, I’ve been pushing extensions and stresses into that area, though it scares me because that was the bad hernia side and that is where I pinched that nerve, and that was perhaps the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, which means it hurt a heck of a lot. I relaxed myself through the fears, concentrated on getting into left-handed positions. There were a number of scary moments, but I trust the process. And now, more functionality, less pain.

So there are these glitches in Spielberg movies. They tend to drive me nuts, but they’re the way in which he constructs an artificial space in which he can make people feel exciting chase, drama where you know when you see those soldiers that something will happen to them, story that includes predictable clichés. In Close Encounters, if they’d had the chase unfold more logically, like they’re spotted from below after they get away, then you’d expect a less syrupy ending than all the missing people from UFO’s walking out.

My perspective on Martin McDonagh, btw, is that his plays reached near-Greek levels throught the specificity of their self-destructive urges. His movies don’t and the play about hangmen was like a movie. Is it the medium? I bring this up because he’s able to render a concrete mess. He’s in some ways like a violent version of Harold Pinter, who could make remoteness feel concrete. The rendering of those characters is the line of iObjects becoming tObjects as you see them, as they enact on stage or on film. So concrete can be like Italian realism or it can be lines between characters spoken in an artificial Mamet world. Movies want endings that don’t end. Does that makes sense? When you see or imagine characters on stage, the play ends and the actors typically come out and take a bow. When a movie ends, you don’t have that closure in which the characters switch off and the people switch on. Much of the rise of celebrity culture seems to rest on that notion, that these are characters which ‘switch on’. I like to think of Jesus coming on a talk show with the actor who plays Jesus in a movie, and all the questions are for the actor because we can identify more easily with one who plays Jesus than with actual Jesus.

Need a break. Need to do some math here.

[leonbloder]

Learning To Follow Jesus

We're all enduring another election here in these United States, and I'm tired of it.  I'm guessing you are, too.  

The thing that has ground my gears more than anything this election season is the number of candidates who claim to be all about "family values" and "Christian principles" and are utterly devoid of either. 

Listen, I'm the last person on the earth who ought to judge someone for what they've done in the past.  But don't act as you've never done anything wrong and then deny that you have when it comes out that you did. 

And another thing (since I'm on my soapbox)... 

When did it become okay to pretend that you can speak for Jesus when everything you say doesn't sound like anything that Jesus would say?  

Then again, who am I to judge anyone?  Like most Jesus-followers, I'm following Jesus at a safe distance and doing it as imperfectly as possible.  

Most days, I'm guessing that Jesus looks out over the motley crew of people who have assembled in his name, slowly shakes his head, and mutters to no one in particular, "I honestly can't believe these people are on my team." 

Despite our best efforts as Christians to completely mess up Jesus' message, his image, and his entire purpose for everything that he did, Jesus still somehow manages to transcend all of that and finds his way into the public discourse over religion, politics, and all the rest of the things that tend to divide us.  

Maybe you've seen the numerous ads on TV lately that end with the words "He Gets Us," which is a direct reference to Jesus himself.  Multiple people reached out to me, asking what I thought of them.  

The ads are part of a $100 million ad purchase by an enormous charitable trust and are designed to offer a different kind of Christian image that isn't mired in divisive issues. 

But when I did some research, I discovered three of the leading organizations behind the ads (National Association of Evangelicals, Luis Palau Association, and Christianity Today) are very conservative Christian organizations whose constituencies tend to support the kinds of politicians that I mentioned earlier in this piece. 

I was forced to reflect that when I'd first seen the ads, I was excited about them and thought they were brilliant, but after I discovered who commissioned them, I wasn't.  

I began to realize that in my myopic way, I thought I could control Jesus, too.  

Pastor and author Brian Zahnd once wrote something about this that convicted me when I read it and convicts me still: 

Christianity does not create or control Christ.  And the radical freedom of Christ is such that he can show up in unexpected places and surprising ways--even among those who are attempting to control him for their own purposes.

I love this, and I also find myself troubled by it.  On the one hand, it speaks directly to the angst I felt over the TV commercials and the groups who created them.  

On the other hand, it also speaks to my desire to control Jesus and his message, which I am learning is something that none of us can do. 

May each of us discover what it means to follow Jesus---to be surprised by him, transformed by him, and to stumble after him as best we can.  May each of us learn what it means to be Christ's disciple and to be made over in Christ's image--not the other way around.  

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always. Amen.  

[sobsicles]

claire's not expecting them to be at the door. she blinks at the sight of four men all huddled on the stoop with flowers and what appears to be bags of food flowing from their arms. jack is peeking above a bouquet, beaming at her.

"who's at the door?!" jody calls from the kitchen, her voice muffled by the sound of grease popping and the clanking of pans and spatulas meeting over and over.

"god," claire calls back, because she likes to think she's funny.

there's a beat of silence, and then jody's sticking her head out the kitchen. the moment she sees them, she breaks out into a grin and saunters over, shoving the spatula in claire's hand as she chatters away.

"what's going on out there?" donna asks as claire escapes back to the kitchen to poke at food jody is apparently willing to burn just because the winchesters decided to show their faces today of all days.

"judgement day," claire says dryly.

donna shares a look with patience. "haven't we dealt with that already a few times?"

"only by association," claire admits, "but i wouldn't put it past them to bring it along with 'em now. the boys are here."

"oh, isn't that nice?" donna chirps, already popping up from her chair. "i didn't know they were stopping by today."

"wonder how sam's doing," patience agrees, wandering out the kitchen right along with donna. claire can hear everyone cracking up and talking in the living room.

trust the winchesters to shake things up just by showing up. can't have one goddamn day, can they? well, that's not true. in their case, as far as claire is concerned, they're shitty for showing up and shitty for not. someone has to knock 'em all down a peg or two, so she might as well be the one.

"what did that chicken ever do to you?" kaia asks teasingly as she sidles into the kitchen and stops by the stove, hip-checking claire out of the way to take over.

"the boys are here," claire informs her.

kaia raises her eyebrows. "like, the boys as in the winchesters, or is this a milkshake pun?"

"i can only be so gay, sweetheart," claire says, shooting her a flat look.

"raise the bar a little. could be gayer. you can always be gayer," kaia teases, reaching out to sneak her hand around claire's hip, her eyes bright with amusement.

"you know what? you're right," claire agrees and immediately tries to cop a feel while kaia laughs and dances out of range.

jack appears in the doorway. "hello," he says, whispering for some reason. "claire, i need your help."

"no," claire says, not even glancing at him. she continues to try and put her hand up kaia's shirt, just to see her laugh.

"can i borrow twenty dollars?" jack asks.

"no. aren't you god?"

"yes, but i don't get paid to be."

"well, sucks for you. borrow money from cas," claire mutters, settling in behind kaia as she focuses on the food on the stove, swatting lazily at claire's roaming hands.

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from sam."

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from—wait, why does it matter if it's from dean? just borrow from him."

jack huffs. "i can't. i need the money for dean. i have a card, and i read online it's customary to give money with a card. also, will you sign it?"

"you got dean a card?" claire asks, craning her head around to stare at jack skeptically.

"yes."

"don't tell me it's for what i think it is."

"mother's day," jack confirms unironically.

claire wheezes out a laugh. "oh my god."

"there's a pen in the catty on the fridge," kaia says, clearly amused.

"yeah. yeah, this is—yeah." claire chokes on more laughter and stumbles towards the group of pens in the magnet container on the fridge. she waggles her fingers at jack, clearing her throat, lips twitching. "hand it over, beanstalk. you're a fucking genius."

"oh! thank you," jack declares cheerfully, passing over the card. "so, can i borrow twenty dollars?"

"hell no," claire says. she braces the card against the fridge and swallows down a laugh. sam has already signed it. this just gets better and better. happy mother's day, old man, aka the secondary source of my mommy and daddy issues. you're going for gold with this double-whammy, she writes.

"but i need it," jack insists, staring at her with wide eyes.

claire shrugs. "tough break, kid. what, cas doesn't give you an allowance? is it just me, or are dads getting stricter these days?"

"i didn't think about it in advance," jack admits sadly. "i want to do it right for the holiday. it's mother's day, claire."

"i'm well aware. sorry to break it to you, kid, but last I checked, your mom's as dead as mine," claire tells him, her voice flat. he frowns and she forces herself not to feel bad. everything that sucks for him sucked for her first, so her sympathy levels are a little drained. "father's day will roll around eventually, and you've got a long line of those, so wait your turn."

"i've already done something for my mother today," jack says slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. "i visited her in heaven."

claire snorts derisively and passes the card back over. "must be nice."

"it was," jack agrees, completely missing the point. "i really can't borrow twenty dollars? i'll pay you back."

"nah," claire says. "who cares anyway? wait, why is dean the mom?"

"well, castiel is my father."

"ah, so it's about them having the hots for each other, then? really, kid, you coulda just made dean your step-dad."

jack blinks. "they have the...hots for each other? you mean sex. they have sex?"

"you know what?" claire points at him with her free hand. "i'm not gonna burst your bubble on that one. you've got enough issues on your own without wondering if mommy and daddy still have a spark, so I'm gonna leave that alone. i've got five dollars. take it or leave it."

"deal," jack says immediately.

money is exchanged, and jack looks like he's on cloud nine. claire's just stoked to see the expression on dean's face when he gets the card. it's a homemade card and everything, nothing like the two claire, kaia, patience, and alex got for jody and donna.

claire helps kaia finish up the chicken, which promptly gets set aside to wait on the rest of the food in the oven. sam wanders in at some point to drop off the food they brought. dessert, by the looks of it. pies and cakes that go in the fridge. it's kind of them, but claire would shoot herself in the foot before she ever admits it.

she lets kaia tug her into the living room where everyone is already at, rolling her eyes at how cheered everyone seems just because the winchesters happened to grace their doorstep. really, they all suck.

but also—and claire will never admit this, not even to save her own life—it's nice to see 'em again. it's nice that they've come to celebrate the day in jody and donna's name, giving them flowers and such. it's nice that they hang around for a bit and don't bring the world crashing down on everyone for the duration of their stay.

and, well, it's nice to see cas, too.

he perches up next to the couch that claire is squeezed on with alex, donna, kaia, and jack. kaia is practically in her lap, but claire is secretly glad for the excuse. while everyone talks and has conversations across one another, cas focuses entirely on her.

another thing claire will never admit is how reluctantly pleased by that she is. it warms her. stupidly, it turns soft and gooey in her chest that he automatically gives her his undivided attention over everyone else, even jack. but, then again, it's not cas' day, so she doesn't have to look too close to that feeling. it's mother's day, so it's not about him.

when the food is ready, they reconvene in the kitchen, and that's when they crack out the cards and gifts. claire is practically vibrating with laughter before jack has even brought his card out. before that, though, she smiles softly and strokes kaia's thigh under the table as jody and donna read their cards and chuckle at the messages, their gazes warm and their smiles sweet. they look happy. they deserve to be.

"okay, last one," claire announces, grinning at jack. she's starting to think she likes this kid if he's an agent of chaos like this.

and okay, maybe she hates him a little in abstract, but in detail, she finds that she does actually like him. you kinda just wanna put him in your pocket without meaning to, she's learned. there's too much to explore with the whole psuedo sibling thing and parents that aren't parents, as well as parents that are but didn't choose to be, only he did choose one of them, and it wasn't her. it's complicated, but underneath it all, there's a vibrant love there that she can't look directly at. sometimes, she despises that she's included in it; yet, just the same, she's thankful that she is.

"oh hell," dean mutters, swinging his gaze between alex and patience. "one of you...ya know? did we miss something?"

claire snorts.

"what? no," alex replies, grimacing. "i have no idea what claire's talking about. claire, what the hell are you talking about?"

"jack?" claire prompts in a wheeze.

"here you go," jack chirps, holding out the card to dean, beaming. "happy mother's day."

the expression on dean's face is somehow even better than claire imagined. she howls with laughter while sam buries his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. cas squints at jack, and jody's eyebrows fly up at the same exact time that donna grins.

"is this a joke?" dean sputters.

"no, no, nope," claire chokes out, nearly fucking crying with laughter. "happy mother's day, dean."

"you gotta take it, man," sam agrees, clearing his throat and biting back a smile as he bobs his head dutifully towards the card.

dean fixes sam with a flat look and snatches the card. "you're all so fucking—sam, you signed it?!"

"happy mother's day," sam says, his mouth pinched, visibly trying not to laugh.

"do you like it?" jack asks earnestly. "i made the card, sam signed it first, and claire provided the money."

"i—" dean stares down at the card, then heaves a sigh and looks up at jack. it's clear to him that—out of everyone—jack is clearly taking this very seriously. he offers him a weak smile, then swallows. "yeah, s'great, kid. thank you. sam, you are dead to me. claire, i will be spending this on something you hate. cas, this is somehow your fault."

"yup, sounds like a mother to me," jody declares, holding up her beer with a smile.

"welcome to the club," donna agrees, holding hers up as well. "everyone else annoys the shit out of you, but you love 'em anyway."

dean sighs and clinks his beer to theirs.

[silky-stories]

If you can or want to of course, could you do pico, ruv and garcello reacting to you having scars? From anything (s$lfh@rm, surgery , fights, etc) thank you!❤️

Sure thing! I ended up having the scars be from fights, hope you like it! :D

———————————————————————

S/O With Scars Headcanons {Pico, Ruv & Garcello}

Genre: Fluff

Words: 1313

Disclaimer/s: Mentions and descriptions of scars, mentions of fighting, swearing, hints at talk about trauma

Notes: This was yet another reminder that I’m not very good at writing for Ruv—

———————————————————————

Pico

Pico’s probably one of the most understanding and relatable people in the world when it comes to having scars

As someone who’s earned quite a few scars of his own, he definitely fits that criteria

(Seriously, with all the things this man has been through he’s practically collecting them like pokemon cards)

However, that didn’t dissuade his immediate concern when he saw your scars for the first time

He saw them for the first time when you were getting changed and he was in the room

(Nothing nasty, he didn’t see anything ya weirdos-)

When you took off your shirt, his usual reaction to say something playfully flirty was stamped out quickly when he noticed the long strips of paled and sunken skin that ran up your arms, crossed over your abdomen

He went so quiet that you actually got worried for a minute

He hastily reassured you when you asked if they were grossing him out

“Nononono! ‘s just, ah... hope that ya didn’t... didn’t go through too much gettin’ those...”

You knew about his past at that point, and the reasoning behind his statement and silence became apparent instantly

Once you told him that you were actually just a badass and used to get in fights a lot (or still do-) he feels much better

Maybe a little irked that someone would do that much damage to you that it would leave permanent marks, but much better nonetheless

After that he’s always jumping at the opportunity to see them

If you two are cuddling he’ll run his fingertips across them and trace them as he rants about how cool he thinks you are

Please tell him the stories of how you got them if you’re comfortable with that, he wants to marvel over how awesome you are

“Damn, he cut ya that bad an’ ya still beat his ass? That’s metal as fuck.”

Later into your relationship he might share as well, but it’ll be a lot less of a badass story-time session and more of a “I haven’t been able to open up this intensely to someone in years but I love and trust you so I want you to know” kind of thing

He’s pleased that he can show his scars around you, both physical and mental, and not feel judged

Ruv

Ruv has got a couple scars from the job he used to have, but they’re all quite minor and he doesn’t really care about them

To him they’re just a byproduct of his past, that’s it

Just a reminder of what he used to do that only he gets to see, all of his scars usually being covered by his clothing

It was odd when he saw your scars for the first time though

His initial reaction was... pretty much nothing actually

Your shirt had gotten dirty while the two of you were hanging out alone and you had pulled it off to change without thinking

He stared at your back and the pale lines that littered it with the same monotone stare he usually carried

That is until you looked back to stare back at him, he quickly looked away after that, muttering a concise apology

You didn’t even realize that he had thought anything of it until he brought it up ten or so minutes later

“What are they from?”

Your tilted head and puzzled expression told him that you didn’t understand, so he took your arm and ran a finger along a visible scar, now out in the open with the t-shirt you were wearing

“Did someone... try to..?”

You were quick to tell him that it was fine and explain what they were actually from when you noticed the dark gaze his eyes held

He was surprised to hear that you had received them by kicking people’s asses in fights, but he found himself actually kind of amused

You were weird, of course you got them from something weird like that

(...the good kind of weird though, the kind of weird-good that would make somebody want to date someone as intimidating as him)

He’d probably want to hear about the stories as well, but there wouldn’t really be any hyping you up, mostly just silent listening as he allows his hands to wander, tracing scars as he goes

Eventually he’d get more used to it though, just like everything in your relationship

“...what about this one..?”

He wouldn’t show you his scars on purpose because he wouldn’t feel any need to, they are what they are, but he wouldn’t try to hide them

He never mentions it but he kind of hopes that you get his help if you’re ever in another fight

He trusts your capability and he (secretly) does think that the scars look cool, but he’d prefer that you don’t have to go through pain to get them

Garcello

He doesn’t really have many scars, just a couple that he’s acquired from the standard *insert dumb thing done during childhood* kind of scars

He honestly thinks that scars are pretty cool as long as they’re not associated with anything traumatic

They’re proof of strength and overcoming hardship, and that’s rad

He saw your scars for the first time when you two decided to go for a swim together in a small lake he knew

It was summer, it was hot, and he knew that the lake was secluded and not too many people knew about it, making it perfect for a little getaway together to beat the heat

When he noticed the ribbons of lighter skin that indented your arms and legs, he wasn’t sure what to think at first

Like Pico, he was immediately kind of concerned, wanting to subtly make sure that they weren’t because of any sort of traumatic or dangerous experience that you had to go through

“Hey, feel free to tell me if it’s none of my business, but...”

He doesn’t want to pry into something that’s none of his business, but if there’s something that he needs to be concerned about mentioning for your sake, he wants to know

Once you tell him about the fights that you would partake in (and usually win) though, he’s definitely interested in hearing all he can

He wants to hear about all the people that had their asses handed to them whenever you decided to walk onto the scene

He wants to hear about your triumphs and losses, tracing around each scar as you go into detail about how you got it and how long it took to heal and what it felt like

“He snuck a knife in? Geez, I’m kinda glad that you roughed him up as much as you did.”

He’s intrigued and, as someone who just loves hearing you talk (especially about things you’re passionate about), he can’t get enough

He always asking if it hurts before he makes contact with one, knowing from research that scars can sometimes hurt even after they’ve healed

Actually, he asks before touching any of them at all times, he never wants to make you feel uncomfortable

He’s perfectly fine with you seeing his scars, he makes it more of a joke whenever you see them though since he doesn’t really have a sick story to tell

“You see this? Seesaw, 1999.”

It’s his mental scars that he opens up to you about

He’s got some baggage, and he’d never dump it all on you if you weren’t open to it, but he really appreciates having someone that’s willing to listen, and will repay that tenfold

That aside though, expect him to flaunt you if you’re comfortable with it

He’ll totally brag to people about having a badass partner that could beat them up if they wanted to

(He’s only half-joking)

In summary, you’re super cool and he makes sure to remind you of it regularly

[danielxricciardo]

for the song prompt list #38 with max please 🥺

Summary: One sided love with Max Verstappen

Warnings: angst, swearing

Word count: 2.7k

38. “You wouldn’t know love if it crushed your fucking chest.”

One-sided love is like waiting for something that is never going to happen. It is like looking into those eyes that will never look back into yours. It is like having someone in your heart but not in your arms. It is suffocating. It starts eating you from inside.

It starts from the moment you meet them. The eye contact that chills your spine, the butterflies somersaulting in your stomach, just the mere thought of them sends goosebumps all over your skin. Your eyes wander and you can't concentrate whenever they're around; despite feeling a little embarrassed for approaching them, you do so anyway and exchange numbers in the hope that at least a friendship will develop. I mean, they're cool, you're cool, you should hang out or something. Or whatever.

It becomes harder to remain nonchalant. Your moderate interest in this person turns into the non-stop checking of your phone to see if they've contacted you... absolute elation when they do, and utter, utter despair when they don't. But you keep telling yourself that it's cool, you don't even know them that well, and they probably don't even want to know you (otherwise they would be making an effort by now, right?).

They text you something vague and impersonal every once in a while, and this is enough to send your heart soaring into the sky. You respond straight away, and they don't. And as this continues, your self-esteem begins to drop, and you question everything.

Why aren't they contacting me? I expect they're just busy. Or is it me? Are three texts in a row too much? I don't wanna seem stalkerish... but I don't want to look like I don't care about them. Am I too fat? Would they prefer me if I lost weight, or had a car, or my own place? Probably. Why am I thinking about them? They'd never think about me like this.

It hurts, from the pit of your stomach to the backs of your eyes. You can't concentrate on anything. You forego activities with friends and family, to keep yourself available for this person just in case they want to meet up with you. You feel sick every day, your appetite drops, your enthusiasm for everything decreases, and you are left with the most bitter, raging emptiness you've ever felt in your whole life. And it's all your fault.

Despite the pain it causes you, you carry on quietly pursuing this person. You silently scream to yourself 'THEY'RE OUT OF MY LEAGUE! THEY WILL NEVER EVER WANT TO BE WITH ME! DON'T THINK ABOUT THEM!' but it's so overwhelming to hear yourself saying it that you try and ignore the voice of reason inside your head. Because right now, your heart is taking control, and there's nothing you can do about it.

You wish they were a part of you, that they could give you a chance, to let you be the best partner that you could possibly be. You wish you could hold them, and talk to them, and kiss them, and sleep beside them, and protect them... but you can't.

The reason you put yourself through all this pain, is a simple fact that you love this person so, so much. And even though the rational side of you is telling you to give up, a small, pathetic part of you says 'They might care about you one day...'

It hurts. Hurts real bad.

True Love doesn’t hurt. Expectations, possessiveness, insecurity, jealousy, and emotions do.

Memories don't hurt. Love doesn't hurt. It is the attachment that hurts. It is the expectation that hurts. It is the imagined future that is now broken that hurts.

Unrequited love hurts the most. You will love someone no matter what they have done to you and that someone may not love you back no matter what you do. That hurts. Those expectations hurt.

To love is always selfless and that feeling is always unconditional. Love is always unconditional. It may sting seeing him with someone else, but you will be happy for him for their happiness is more important to you when you truly love them.

When we lose someone that we love so truly and they walk out of your life for some reason, it hurts. This doesn't mean memories will haunt us. It is the collapsed future that hurts us. Living in the past with the ones we love brings us tears, not because that is lost, but because there was something that could have been forever, but it isn't now. That hurts. That stings and we tend to associate it with good memories. Sometimes we love people more than the memories they gave us. We fall for the person, not just for the memories. We love, we live life to create beautiful memories for us and the loved ones around us.

Expectations hurt in proportion to the emotional investment. Whenever we are too much attached to someone or something, we grow attachment and that attachment leads to expectations. These expectations when fulfilled are an awesome experience. But when we are too much emotionally invested and when those dreams aren't coming true, it stings and hurts and kills from within.

Getting over it is by forgiving and moving on with life accepting that you will never get over that true love. Forgiveness is your trait. It solely depends on you and not on the other person. You want to forgive them because you want peace of mind and don't want to hold grudges against anyone in your life.

Feelings and emotions are real. If you truly love a person, you will love them forever, even though they can't see you that way. That's why love is always unconditional. You love that person because you want to, not because you have that hope that someday he will love you back. If you just hope for being loved back, that's not love, to begin with, it is just some business deal. You love him because your feelings for him are real, deep, and true.

You met Max a long time ago. You were both in Formula 3 in 2014 and got along really well. You started to see each other outside of racing and after a while, you could call yourself friends. But you had feelings for him. Even before you get to know each other properly. You tried so hard to show him that you were interested in him, but nothing. Either he was oblivious or he was not interested in you. Either way, you were hurt, and that was seen in the way you competed. You lost your ambition, there were some days when you cried before the race because you didn't feel able to compete, and Max had no idea you were feeling that way because you wouldn't let him see you when you were at your lowest point.

You gave up racing and Max ended up competing in Formula 1. You weren't jealous of him, you knew you never had a chance to get there, but he deserved it, and all the hard work he put in helped him. You were with him, you encouraged him every time, on the phone, if you could not travel, or in person when he asked you to be with him.

'I need my best friend, Y/N, please. Can you come to the race on the weekend?'

And no matter how much it hurt you to hear that he considered you just his best friend, you wouldn't let your tears fall on your cheeks and tell him you'd be there for the weekend. Every time. It doesn't matter that you had something else planned, you never refused him.

"Oh my God, thank you so much for coming!" you heard Max. You look up and see your best friend coming towards you, ready to hug you. You instantly smiled. No matter how you would feel when you see him you can't help but smile.

"Of course I came. I wouldn't be anywhere else," you say and you are taken by surprise by the sincerity with which you uttered those words.

He takes you to meet some people and you were happy because he seemed well, he seemed delighted with his place there.

"Do you miss it?" you heard Daniel asking you, but you had no idea what he was talking about. "The racing," he continued as if he had read your thoughts and knew you had no idea what he was talking about.

"Oh," you shrug nonchalantly. "I mean, yeah, sometimes, but it's fine."

"Is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Clearly your mind is somewhere else. I thought it was because you were here and that brought back some racing memories, but it's different, isn't it?"

"Okay, Daniel, I appreciate the free therapy session, but I'm fine, seriously. I'm just happy to be here to encourage Max."

"Talking about me? Man, I'm feeling like a superstar," your best friend says coming between you. "I don't know about you guys but I want to get drunk."

"Are you even allowed to get drunk? It's Wednesday, don't you have press conferences tomorrow?"

"I'm in!" Daniel says and you roll your eyes. Of course he is.

Getting drunk with two boys you swear have ADHD was not a good idea.

Technically speaking, you weren't drunk, you drank a bottle of beer all night so you could take care of the two boys. Drunk Daniel was ok. He was not very agitated, he was even calmer than usual. He was sitting on the couch, laughing louder than usual, but it wasn't a cause of concern for you. Max on the other hand was a different story. Being drunk, he seemed very attracted to the balcony and that stressed you a lot. You tried to explain to him that it is dangerous on the balcony and that it is much more fun inside. You hardly convinced him.

"You're not funny at all, Y/N!"

"I'd rather know you're alive, Max."

Daniel went to bed at about 11:30 PM, but Max showed no signs of being tired. No matter how much you told him about tomorrow's busy schedule, he didn't seem to care.

You were lying on the couch, staring at the TV, and Max was on the floor, quietly for once. You wanted to ask him if he was feeling well, but he spoke before you could say something.

"Do you believe in love?"

Those five words knocked the air out of your lungs. Love? What made him ask you about love?

"Yes, I do," you answer and hope that he'll be satisfied with what you said.

"What is love anyway?"

"That depends, Max. Love is different for everybody."

"Well," he said and turns to look at you. "What is love for you?"

You sighed. What was love for you? Max. But you can't say that.

"Love is a broad term, Max. It can have different meanings for different people and can vary according to the context. At times love is synonymous with respect. At others, it is all about caring and sharing. At still others, it is a trail of concern, affection, and connection."

You didn't know you started to cry until Max kindly wiped off the tears on your face. Who would have thought that talking about love in front of the person you loved the most in this world would have made you cry? You whisper a 'thank you' to Max and get up to take a napkin from the kitchen.

"We're best friends, right?" you hear him coming towards you and he sits down on the kitchen chair.

"Sure," you answer, wiping away your tears.

"What you described. About love... I think I feel that for someone."

You heard something break and you were sure it was your heart. What you felt in that moment was what? Jealousy? This is human behavior. We, people, have the tendency to imagine ourselves with the person on whom we develop our crush. And this is totally normal, everyone does that.

Initially, it's all roses and unicorns. We start to imagine how our life would be with the other person, how we would treat them, what gifts we would give them, how we will take their pain away and how we will happily live after.

But life doesn’t work how we want it to work, does it? Then comes the second phase where we start to realize the differences between you and your crush, but still we hold on to it because in our minds that person is just too perfect to be wrong.

And then comes the thirds phase where we see our crush getting into a relationship with someone else. We even think that our crush doesn’t deserve that person, my crush deserves me! I’m better than that person. But that’s how it works, things fall apart. They break. That’s life. And at that moment, it broke your heart and you knew you want to know nothing about that other person. But you were hurt. He was drunk, yes, but you still had a crush on him, even if your feelings for him couldn't be reciprocal.

"That's... That's great, Max," you bit your lip to stop your tears from falling. "Let's go to bed."

"I think I always loved this girl but I never told her. Maybe I should," he giggles and you feel your blood boiling in your veins.

“You wouldn’t know love if it crushed your fucking chest,” you yell at him and you were sure Daniel was now wide awake. Max was watching you with wide eyes. "Stop talking about things you have no idea about," you shoot a glance at the clock. 12:25 AM. Looks like a lovely time to go for a walk in a foreign country you've never been to before. You collect your phone and wallet and march to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I need fresh air. Go to bed."

"I'm coming with you, Y/N!"

You opened the door and left, not letting Max come after you. You started to run and in front of the hotel, you stopped. Where to now? You have no idea where you are or what is near the hotel, and you desperately needed to put some distance between you and Max.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Running like that? Are you crazy?" you hear a pissed Max behind you. You tried to wipe the tears in a desperate attempt to look like you haven't been bawling your eyes out. "What happened inside?"

"Nothing, Max."

"Let's talk about it. Please."

"Talk about it? Fine. Let's do it! What should I start with? The fact that I've had a crush on you for three years or should I give you some love advice for the girl you like?"

"Say that one more time," Max said, walking towards you.

"Say what one more time?"

"You liked me for the past three years?" he was now in front of you, feeling his hot breaths on your face, and you could smell the alcohol.

"That is not relevant."

"Why not? I should know if someone has feelings for me, no? At least that's what I deserve, I think."

"Stop being so fucking cocky, Verstappen. This is not a joke," you puffed. "Forget I said a damn thing," you started to walk back into the hotel.

"Well, if I have to forget what you said that means I'm not allowed to tell you that I've liked you too for the past three years, right?"

You stoped. He said what? You were dreaming. Maybe you were the one that drank a lot. You were drunk, that's the reason why you just heard Max confessing his feelings for you. Or maybe you were both drunk.

"Max, let's go to bed. You've had a lot to drink, maybe we'll talk in the morning if you remember anything."

He came to you and hugged you from behind.

"I know what I said. Sure, I've had a few beers to drink, but I know that what I'm telling you now it's the truth."

[pale-silver-comb]

So I know absolutely nothing about Leverage except what I've been seeing you post lately and I have to admit you're making it look tempting to watch! Can I ask what are some of your favorite things about the show/reasons you would suggest people watch it? And is there really a poly relationship that is canon?

Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. I am going to do my best not to just “asdfghkjl” at you and answer coherently.

In a nutshell, Leverage is about 5 people. 4 are criminals (Parker, Hardison, Eliot and Sophie) with different and unique skill-sets and 1 is an ex-insurance investigator (Nate) who, at one point or another in his career, has tracked down (or at least attempted to) the other 4. The whole show is essentially: man reluctantly reforms 4 criminals to use their criminal powers for good and 4 criminals move into man’s life and stubbornly refuse to leave because, goddammit, now they have morals. 

I’ve got a lot of favourite things about the show but the main ones are as follows:

1. Found family. And I’m not talking about loners who come together to fight crime and happen to co-exist to the point where they realise they happen to have found themselves a family. I mean, Nate and Sophie are the Drunk Uncle and Wine Aunt who somehow become Mom and Dad to 3 beautiful criminal children. Mom and Dad love their criminal babies and the kids love them (as well as each other, but we’ll come to that in a moment). You get amazing family moments such as: Mom and Dad packing the kids lunch before sending them out to kick corporate greed’s ass; Mom and Dad giving the kids ridiculously expensive and personal Christmas presents causing their most Grumpy Kid to go very very quiet and soft as he runs off to gleefully play with his new murder toy; the kids interrupting Mom and Dad’s big Movie Style Kiss to ask if they can please keep their new underground layer and huffing and puffing when Dad tells them no.

2. Found family: the OT3 edition. To answer your question, the OT3 is indeed canon, confirmed by the creator. Now, usually, “confirmed by the creator” infuriates me because most of the time it’s a way for a creator to be seen as “progressive” without doing anything to actually be progressive. That isn’t the case here. The OT3 are built up carefully and while it is obvious the creators didn’t originally intend for all 3 of them to become a relationship in the romantic sense, by mid-season 5 we are given a very clear picture of where Parker, Hardison and Eliot are heading in their relationship. There aren’t any kisses at the end to signal this but there are solid marriage vows in not only one but two episodes. (And by marriage vows I mean literal equivalents of marriage vows: “for better or worse” and “’til death do us part”. I’m not even exaggerating). The OT3 also doesn’t need explicit romantic narratives to convey how much they love each other. Their love is laced through the whole show, from the way they teach each other things to the way they respond to each other and work as a unit. The way they fiercely protect and admire each other. Like someone once said, if you need characters to kiss or say I love you to let the audience know they love each other, you are writing them wrong. 

Aside from that, each of the parings in the OT3 are just. Gah. They are so well done, with friendship being the solid basis for them all. The creators never expect the audience to assume anything about them or fill in the gaps. They give us their relationships on screen and reference many things off-screen to show us how these relationships continue to build in between episodes.

Hardison and Parker are a canon couple and date in the show: it’s approached slowly and they are so goddamned sweet. They are basically every fluffy slow-burn trope with a healthy dash of mutual pining in the mix. They are basically that quote “love is patient, love is kind”. (I would like to add their romance never becomes the focus of the show or overrides the importance of any other relationship they have with the other characters, especially Eliot.)

Hardison and Eliot are the Old Married Couple and from day one are already bickering and looking at each other/making comments that are found in every UST fic ever (not to mention Hardison has a very good knack for making Eliot grin like a little kid, when usually he’s basically an Angry Little Chef Man). They argue, they play, and love each other plain as day. 

Parker and Eliot are more subtle but every bit as wonderful. They have an unspoken connection and understand each other on a level no-one else can. Parker and Eliot are not good with giving themselves over to affection for different reasons (and Hardison plays a central role in helping them realise it’s okay to want it and have it- that boy has endless patience) but there is something so beautiful in the way the two of them come together on their own and develop their own special bond that works for them. Parker and Eliot are that trope where the characters don’t need to speak to understand each other perfectly. They just do. Their love language is a lot of the time non-verbal but speaks volumes. (Parker also likes to annoy the hell out of Eliot and Eliot....just.....lets...her. Because he’s soft. The softest, grumpiest boy.) 

I could go into so much depth for each pairing and their dynamics as a 3 but that's for another post.

3. Subverting stereotypes. There is the occasional hiccup in the show regarding stereotypes but ultimately, Leverage gets an A+ when it comes to writing characters and making them 3 dimensional people who are not defined by certain characteristics or events. Nate could so easily fall into the White Man Pain trope where he uses the trauma of losing his kid as a reason as to why he is entitled to act like a dick. Nate is a dick but he doesn’t use his pain to excuse it and I appreciate that. Hardison is a black man who is soft and nurturing. Easily the most empathetic and patient of the group. He’s nerdy, an actual genius, and has the biggest heart of all the characters. Nate is maybe the glue but Hardison is definitely the heart. Media’s usual aggressive, amongst other, racist stereotypes can fuck right off. Parker is canonically autistic (I am sure this was confirmed by one of the creators) and she is not defined by it. It’s not written as some kind of singular personality trait. It’s part of what makes up Parker but it’s only one facet of who she is and not once is her actions, thoughts or feelings treated like a joke. Sometimes people don’t understand why she does and says the things she does but it’s met with patience and fondness over the course of the show. Equally, it’s not met with over-caution. Parker is just Parker. No-one tries to change her. The other nice thing is Hardison, who always makes sure Parker knows she’s amazing because of who she is and not in spite of it. Finally, Sophie is in her 40s. She’s not treated like she’s past her prime. Ever. She’s sexy, smart and never is she pitted against or compared to Parker (who is younger) for anything. Sophie is amazing and there’s never even a conversation of “I may be older but I am still *insert adjective typically associated with younger women here*”. Sophie is possibly the first female character I’ve ever seen who isn’t just unapologetic about her age but has never had to apologise for her age. It’s a non-issue and that’s that. The women on the show are written so well, right down to secondary characters and it’s beyond refreshing.  

4.) It’s just fun. The show has a “monster of the week” type format. Except instead of a ghoul or a ghost, the monster is some corrupt wealthy and powerful individual or organisation. The show draws on real-life individuals to do this and therefore closely parallels real-life people and events. It addresses important political, economical, social and environmental issues while at the same time remaining fun and light-hearted. The characters constantly get the chance to play dress up and by GOD do they have fun with it. You get to watch Eliot beat up bad guys in the most delightful of ways, usually after a witty non-sequitur and with a weapon you’d never think could be a weapon. The dialogue and back and forth between the characters is everything. And finally - my favourite thing- the team can never resist striking a dramatic pose after they’ve taken down the bad guy, making sure the bad guy sees them. I mean, they COULD just walk away, satisfied they’ve taken the person down, but nope. They gotta be dramatic bitches 24/7 and pose like they are models for every single month of this year’s Criminal Calendar.  

5.) Competence Porn. So. Much. Competence Porn.  

Honestly, I could list a thousand reasons for why Leverage is amazing but to list them would to be spoiling so many amazing moments you’d get to discover for the first time on your own if you do choose to watch it. It’s the kind of show you can watch with an eagle-eye and sink your teeth into. But it’s also the kind of show if, you would prefer, put on in the background for something entertaining while you do something else. Each episode is about the job at hand but it’s made up of so many moments between the characters that show how much the creators and writers care about them. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll do whatever it is you do when something Soft and Wonderful happens that makes your heart melt. I am so beyond grateful for Leverage. It’s everything I always wanted in a show. Nearly every show I’ve watched in the past 10 years has disappointed me in some way, usually either because the writers run out of steam or characters who I love are treated poorly or given some kind of unnecessary “shock value” arc. Leverage doesn’t do that. Leverage is what it says on the bottle. Fandom isn’t something I joined because I needed canon fix-its. Fandom only enhances and celebrates an already excellent canon.